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Aisha’s stomach dropped. She stirred slowly, deliberately, to control the tremor developing in her fingers and give the quaver in her voice that would be sure to show if she spoke too soon the time to still. “What about, Mama?”
“You were at Matías’s workshop on Tuesday.”
There was never any doubt that her mama would find out about the visit, and she was glad she hadn’t lied about that. Nothing was sacred in the village. Aisha bent closer to the moulds and tried to give the wax her full concentration, but it was impossible with her stomach churning and knowing what was coming next. She went back to stirring the pot with her back to her mama. “Yes.”
“Who was the woman you were with?”
“A friend.”
“No one recognised her. She’s not from the village.”
“No.” Aisha turned from the stove. She had to be strong and stand her ground without coming across as defensive or guilty. She had nothing to feel ashamed of, and no one was going to stop her seeing Gabi again. She was a friend, and Aisha wanted to get to know her. It had been a long time since she’d felt this happy, and she wasn’t ready to give it up, even though she knew she probably should. She was drawn to Gabi in the way she’d been drawn to Esme, and that was a fact she absolutely needed to keep from Mama. She gulped down her breaths and stood taller, clasping the ladle tightly in her hand. Wax dripped onto the floor. Mama looked as if a bee had flown up her nose.
“Is she from Granada?”
“No.”
Mama twitched her nose. “Spanish?”
“Yes.”
Her expression softened as if she was about to smile. She didn’t. “Where in Spain?”
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.
