Oh, this girl!
This Rosa—
dark!
Dark as a
Moor. She
wore
rags for clothes.
Hair a
mat
of knots alive
with lice.
Hands
blackened by cinders
from her
father’s
forge. Feet mirroring
the dirt
that
formed the floor
of her
family’s
home, the sorriest
of all
caves.
Sternly, the duke
forbade Clementina
from
speaking to Rosa.
For everyone
knew
Gypsies are thieves
and cutthroats.
Everyone
knew Gypsies steal
babies, that
they
conspire with the
Devil. Worst—
worst
of all was
their music:
flamenco,
the music of
drunkards and
prostitutes.
But little Clementina
was so
lonely
she disobeyed her
father. In
secret,
she fed Rosa
in an
outdoor
patio, baiting her
with a
plate
of mantecaditos.
Rosa, always
starving,
gorged herself, helpless
against the
little
cookies of almonds
and olive
oil.
Her hunger forced
her to
seek
the young mistress.
Clementina, barely
older
than Rosa, took
the wild
Gypsy
child under her
wing. She
bathed
Rosa until brown
revealed itself
beneath
the black. Washed
her until
water
ran clear in
the tub,
until
Rosa’s black Gypsy
hair glinted
blue
under the sun.
Clementina fed
Rosa
candied chestnuts in
a brandy
syrup,
perfectly grilled sardines,
tender, marinated
octopus.
From her own
closet, Clementina
gave
Rosa a pink
silk party
frock
embroidered with rosebuds,
a delicate
gown
of English lawn
trimmed with
Belgian
lace, velvet slippers,
and a
mantilla
blessed by the
Pope. Rosa,
overwhelmed,
possessed only one
thing to
give
in return. Secretly,
she with
“blood
from four sides”
shared her
history
with an outsider.
To their
mutual
astonishment, from the
first clap
Rosa
released to unveil
the flamenco,
Clementina
felt the rhythms
intimate-ly, discovered
parallels
pulsing within her
veins, en
compas.
Clementina had heard
those rhythms
before.
They often echoed
past midnight
through
her family’s lonely
house. They
echoed
behind her father’s
locked rooms,
bewitching
rhythms accompanied by
other sounds
she
was forbidden to
investigate: men’s
hoarse
voices, furious heels
stamping on
heraldic
granite, laughter from
dusk-eyed women
never
introduced to her.
Clementina didn’t
know
what clashed or
mated behind
forbidding
doors, but their
sounds lanced
her
heart, made her
open palms
toward
the black sky.
Perhaps we
are
here only to
pour milk
over
white marble, pour
gathered pollen
over
gold statues living
in gardens
visible
only to third
eyes. A
child’s
flamenco pierced her
to flame!
and
when she danced
for the
first
time with Rosa,
Clementina lost
her
innocence to feel
her spirit
surface.
She felt milk
and pollen
mate
to release blood’s
torrential flow.
Finally,
Clementina could identify
herself, could
feel
the premonition of
how someone
like
her, someday, could
claw her
cheeks!
Could rip a
silk blouse
to
bare breasts for
a stranger’s
teeth!
With a flick
of her
wrists
and stamp of
her feet,
Clementina
laughed back at
Rosa, laughed
at
her Father’s black
brooding windows,
laughed
at the purpling
sky as
Clementina—
oh that girl!
dark golden
girl!—
freed herself. She
laughed at
her
bruises, both then
and those
yet
to come. She
laughed at
her
emerging scars and,
en compas,
she
set herself free.
