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The scenario would have been more amusing if Aisha didn’t care, but because she did, it was daunting. The one person who had mattered to Aisha, her mama had never questioned her about, because Esme had been one of them, and the natural conclusion was always that a gitana only had eyes for a gitano.
Thinking about Gabi made her nervous in front of Mama, but if she was evasive, her mama’s natural nosiness would flip to suspicion, and then she would watch Aisha more closely. “She’s visiting from England with her nana. Her nana was born here and lived with her family until she escaped the war. Her Nana’s parents were killed by Franco. She has come back to give her respects to them at the cemetery. She probably knows some of the elders here. Gabi is her escort, to make sure no harm comes to her.” She reeled off the information Gabi had said in as laid back a tone as she could and added a little detail to help direct Mama’s thinking. “Gabi—”
“Gabi?”
“The woman I took to see Matías’s workshop. We met at the market at his stall. She makes jewellery, and she wanted to see some authentic work. His is the best, and he’s going to teach her.”
Mama lifted her eyebrows and said, “Really?” in a tone that captured either disbelief or intrigue, or some combination of both. Aisha couldn’t decide. She’d intentionally left out important details like Gabi watching their performances, tipping them a large amount of money, taking coffee with her, and going to the bookshop, because those things were not for sharing with anyone. Those things were hers alone. If word got back to her mama, she would answer the questions as they arose, but until that time, saying less was the best approach.
“And her nana was born and raised here, you say?”
“Yes.”
Mama scratched her head. “Hm. Perhaps we should invite them here. Maybe Abuela knows this Nana.”
Aisha widened her eyes. Relief gave way to a whisper of elation, which then became obscured by something resembling abject fear. She wiped away the beads of sweat from her forehead. The ladle was coarse against her palm, and she put it down carefully. The smell of the wax became nauseous. “Yes.” She poured a glass of water and sipped until it was empty, but still felt queasy. Her mama would notice Gabi’s short hair and the way she dressed, and she wouldn’t like it. “I can ask them,” she said.
“Excellent. Ask if they would like to join us for the Fiesta de Santiago celebrations in July when everyone will be here. Now, how are the candles coming along? We will need three hundred to line the street for the celebrations.”
Aisha was working as fast as she could. She released a long breath. The fiesta was weeks away. It would give her time for these feelings to abate. She stirred the wax and filled a second mould. The anxiety lifted as Mama chatted excitedly about Conchita’s wedding arrangements, including a carriage and six horses for the bride.
Aisha only had thoughts of Gabi. What would she make of Aisha’s home? She winced at the smallness of it that could either appear as cramped or cosy. The darkness was relaxing to tired eyes or depressing to the unsettled mind. The cool climate, a welcome relief from the summer’s heat or a chill that revealed Aisha’s concealed fears.
She watched her mama wash the vegetables. It must be easy being her, and Abuela, and the other elders. They lived without expectation of the world changing, and around them, it didn’t. Their contentment was assured by maintaining the status quo. No yearning tainted their blood and drove them insane. Change wasn’t just frightening to them. It was terrifying, and it wasn’t welcomed, because life worked as it should the way things were. Except for Old María, who they’d all assumed had lost her mind because she hadn’t had children. The inability of a woman to become a mother infected the soul, the elders said as they’d made a cross at their chest, as they always did. Everything that wasn’t accounted for by Gypsy laws rested in the hands of God, and both were to be feared.
She eased another batch of candles from the moulds and set them aside to continue to harden and reset the mould with wicks and fresh wax. She threw another block of wax into the pot and stirred until it softened.
“It pleases me to see you enjoying yourself,” Mama said. She folded a cloth and put it in the drawer. She came to Aisha and put her arm around her waist and kissed her temple. “How are things with Nicolás?”
Aisha stirred more vigorously. “Mama, I don’t want to get married.”
“Don’t be so dismissive, Aisha. Of course you do. You must.” She stroked a loose strand of hair from Aisha’s face. “No quieres ser solterona, Aisha.”
Aisha would rather be a spinster than married, given the choice. Mama’s smile thinned her lips. Her insistence was about necessity, not passion, not love. It didn’t matter that Aisha’s heart would break. What was important was that the act of Aisha’s marriage would bring great relief to the family. Surely, her mama could see that.
“He’s a good man, and you could do a lot worse. Pedro has approached your papa to ask about your intentions. He is keen to date you.”
Aisha shuddered. “Pedro hit his last wife.”
Mama pursed her lips. “You are making this impossible, Aisha. When people imagine there is a problem, it attracts those with a history, and we only want the best for you and the best is running out. Pedro works hard and has a house of his own. There are worse men.”
“He has two children, and he will want more.”
“There is nothing more beautiful than children, Aisha.”
Would she shame her family by not having children and not getting married? She knew the answer was yes. On every count, she was guilty. But love shouldn’t come with guilt like this. She moved into the centre of the room to create space between them, defeated by her mama’s insistence. She ran her fingers through her hair. In her mind, the screaming tugged at the bars of the cage that trapped her, but she needed to remain calm and give herself more time to adjust. She shook her head. There would never be enough time to adjust to marrying a man. “I will think more seriously about Nicolás,” she said.
“I will tell your father to talk to Pedro and explain that you soon plan to get engaged.” Mama grinned. “I am so excited for you, Aisha. You will be so happy.”
Aisha went back to the stove and stirred the wax vigorously, rage increasing the pressure inside her head as the wax yielded to the heat.
She would make the candles until there was no more wax to cast. She would go to her room and sketch, and she’d think about Gabi and the green, wet landscape of her home and the English elms. The colour of life is green. “Don’t you see the wound I have from my chest up to my throat?” One line alone summed up how she felt. One day, she would claim her life and find release from the pain she suffered. One day, she would be free.
15.
MONDAY MORNING HADN’T COME around quickly enough. Gabi had spent most of her time since visiting the bookshop worrying whether Aisha was okay, whether they were okay, and what Aisha was doing. She had worked hard trying to curb her irritation with not being able to see Aisha and failed miserably. She’d walked miles around the city and still couldn’t shake off the uneasy feeling. It was ridiculous because they weren’t they. Though Gabi felt there was something between them, and she’d sensed the shift in Aisha’s mood like lead closing around her heart. She’d done a lot of rationalising with all that walking and decided she would let Aisha go if she had to. So the weekend had passed like when she was the kid watching the grandfather clock again. Tick, not knowing, and tock, waiting to find out. A sick feeling about her decision to let Aisha go had given way to secretly hoping that when they next met, Aisha would be back to how Gabi thought of her, and then perhaps Gabi could stop trying to protect her heart with false declarations of being able to walk away.
She’d read a few of Lorca’s Gypsy poems, over and over again, about love and the moon. She didn’t grasp it all, but she’d been captivated by the pictures he created with his words and learned how the gypsies had lived and died at the hands of the Guards. It hadn’t been a fun or a light read, but she’d felt the power in poetry that Aisha had described. Lorca had been murdered by the Civil Guard for being a homosexual. It was hideous, and the uneasy feeling set deep in her gut as she’d wondered whether this kind of persecution was still being perpetuated within Aisha’s culture, by her own people, against Aisha. It had been hard to sleep after that.
