Since we cannot always get what we want, let us be content with what we get—Spanish Proverb
FROM THE MINUTE she arrived in Granada, this city of her maternal ancestors, Blythe had the strange sensation of recognition.
The first morning after their arrival, as if responding to some inner call, she awakened early and stepped out onto the little balcony of their hotel room and was met by a breathtaking view. Beyond the hills rimming the city, snow-capped peaks glistened in the dazzling sunshine like jewels against a blue velvet drape.
For the next week, often leaving Jeff playing happily with the innkeeper’s grandchildren to whom language seemed no barrier, Blythe went sightseeing. On sun-warmed afternoons she walked down the cobbled streets winding narrowly through the city. A soft, clear light Blythe had never seen anywhere else bathed the ochre-colored stucco houses and red-tiled roofs in a mellow gold tint and gave brilliance to the flowers overflowing ornate black iron balconies. Buildings and centuries-old walls bore the patina of time. Blythe felt moved back into another time period.
An undeniable romantic aura permeated the very air she breathed. The quiet streets held their own secrets; the historic stones told their own stories.
Before coming, Blythe had read to Jeff everything she could find on Spain, its history, its people, its legends. They learned that the Moors had come to this country as conquerors, later merging their culture with that of the peoples they conquered. Remnants of the hundreds of years of their occupation were evident in the variety and style of architecture—arches and domes of the Moorish structures standing side by side with the spires and towers of Christian churches. When at last they were forced to surrender to the armies of Ferdinand and Isabella, they left behind them an amazing blend of the two cultures that lingered hauntingly.
Blythe had particularly looked forward to seeing the Alhambra, the magnificent palace built by Moorish caliphs. But neither pictures nor words had prepared her for the reality of its architectural perfection. Through a maze of fantasy gardens with dozens of fountains, courtyards opened out into smaller courtyards. She had read that the Moors, coming from their desert country, had attempted to recreate their vision of a paradise on earth, since in their Koran, heaven is described as “a garden flowing with streams.” The sound of splashing water must have been soothing music to the thirsty souls of the first Moorish kings who had lived here, Blythe thought, as she wandered in a dream-like state through the arched rooms exquisite with tiled mosaics and twisted marble pillars.
How the one-time conquerors must have hated leaving this beautiful place. She recalled the story of the last Moorish ruler of Granada who had paused in defeat to look back from a place called the Suspiro del Moro to mourn the loss of his kingdom. His mother, Queen Aicha, had mocked him cruelly in his grief, saying, “Cry like a woman for what you did not know how to keep like a man.”
That bridge was now called “the sigh of the Moor,” and once Blythe had seen the Alhambra and Granada for herself, she understood the name.
When it was time to leave for Seville, Blythe had mixed feelings. Her father had told her what little he had known of her Spanish mother’s background. Blythe knew only that she had been born into a gypsy family from the region of Granada. With a little research, she learned that the gypsies lived in caves in the Sierra Nevada foothills above the city, a self-contained world with its own laws, traditions, language, and customs. Children were educated according to their system, and their religion combined Christianity with superstitious beliefs and rituals handed down from one generation to the next. Thought to have been descended from nomadic tribes migrating from India, the people were a fiercely beautiful race, highly sensitive and emotional.
Carmella Montrero, Blythe’s mother, the dark-eyed dancer with whom Jed Dorman had fallen madly in love on sight, had been “sold” as a child by her gypsy stepfather to the leader of a traveling dance troupe, and it was with this band of gypsy dancers that she had come to the American West where she had met the lanky young gold miner who became her husband.
Blythe realized her own looks were a blend of the two. Her velvety brown eyes and high coloring were surely inherited from Carmella; her height and hair from the lean, red-headed Kentucky mountain boy.
What she wondered most about were her personality traits. The strong, independent part of her nature must be Jed’s legacy, while the sensitive, emotional side, her mother’s contribution. Did they battle or blend? She sometimes felt torn between the two different pulls of her character. And what an odd combination to pass on to Jeff! What strange forces from the past shaped his life.
One afternoon upon her return to the inn after a day of sightseeing, Blythe encountered her landlord in the lobby, who told her, “Senora, you asked about the gypsy dancers? They will be performing at the cantina tonight! It will be a festive occasion. You can take the nino. It is an evening for families.”
As darkness began to fall, Blythe and Jeff were seated at one of the tables in the patio of the cantina. Ornamental lanterns swung from the walls while bright flowers trailed from clay pots and circled the tiled space in the center, reserved for dancing.
Jeff had taken to Spanish food as though he were a native, Blythe observed, and was busily eating his plate of paella, a typical Andalusian meal of rice, chicken, and shellfish in a spicy sauce. This was served with vegetables—tomatoes, onions, and artichoke hearts, along with chunks of toasted bread sprinkled with cheese. Blythe sipped a cup of strong coffee and waited impatiently for the entertainment to begin.
Some deep chord of familiarity echoed within Blythe at the first strum of guitars. Then with a shout of “Ole!” the dancers swept onto the stage, feet clattering, the women swishing their bright-colored skirts like so many vivid “whirligigs,” the men in tight, black pants and balloon-sleeved white shirts.
The rhythmic sound of the tapping shoes beating out the famous “flamenco” was hypnotic. Round and round they stepped in measured movements as ritualistic and yet seemingly spontaneous as the melody. Behind the thrumming guitars was the rat-a-tat of the castenets held in the dancer’s hands, precisely snapping in tune with the exciting music. The dance increased in intensity as the music grew louder and more insistent. The dancers circled wildly, stamping their heels with the click of the castanets, until it ended suddenly in a final climactic synchronization of sound. “Ole!”
The applause that followed was deafening, and Blythe found herself clapping her hands until her palms tingled. She had been caught up in the fiery dance, imagining her mother as she was pictured on old playbills in her trunk—satin-black hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, the stylized curl at her cheek, the glint of gold hoops swinging from her ears, the flashing eyes.
One dancer had caught Blythe’s eye from the first. Watching the slim figure in her ruffled gown, the twirl of fringe on her silk shawl, the flying high heels with their silver buckles, she felt a subtle kinship. And when the dancers took their final bows, this performer did a last little flip of her scarlet skirt, and for a single moment her eyes met Blythe’s. An instant communication as fleeting as quicksilver seemed to pass between them—an invisible bond flowing from one to the other, uniting them with the child who had been bargained for and taken to a far country to become Blythe’s mother.
Blythe knew that the connection was part fantasy, part memory of the poster advertising Carmella as the “Spanish Gypsy.” But for an instant the beautiful flamenco dancer had recreated her mother in Blythe’s mind. From this time on, Carmella would remain young, beautiful, and alive, as if the daughter had actually seen the mother dance in the place from which she had come.
Later, as Blythe took a sleepy Jeff back to their rooms at the inn, she could hear the music still playing in the cantina. She knew some of the people would stay on to dine and dance long after the gypsies left. But she had seen enough. This night would linger forever in her memory, linking her with another important part of her past, and Jeff’s. She knew now what had drawn her so irresistibly to Spain.
It was in Spain that Blythe’s thoughts about Jeff and his future became both more complex and clearer. It seemed increasingly urgent that this son of hers and Malcolm’s should know the best of each separate inheritance. And wrong, somehow, to bring him up in England, with no real understanding, knowledge, or affection for the country of his parents’ birth.
It was during this time that Blythe made her decision. Jeff must be educated in Virginia. She must take him back to America.
But, first, she must give Corin his answer. …