The Poet's Wife Read Online Free

shocked to suddenly find myself in a warm, dry place. It is quite dark inside and I blink as my eyes grow accustomed to the dim glow of the room. The first thing I observe is a stove in the corner and a crackling wood fire. There are a few children seated around it, staring up at me with black eyes as wide as Conchi’s copper pots. I then turn to look at the owner of the huge hand that still holds my wrist in a strong grasp. I stare into a pair of dark eyes framed by thick, black eyebrows. Around the eyes are dozens of tiny wrinkles, leading down to a small, but full mouth. The ancient lips part and I am astonished to see a row of dazzling white teeth within her weathered face.
    ‘ Bienvenida ,’ rasps a husky voice.
    ‘ G…gracias . I am sorry to intrude but it began to rain heavily outside and I feared…’
    The old lady waves a wrinkled hand full of rings through the air disdainfully and tilts her head up to gaze at my daughter. And Isabel, I know, is gazing back at her for what feels like an eternity. I suddenly feel uncomfortable at this power the old lady, with her full green skirt and long silver hair twisted into a plait, seems to have over my daughter. I bring Isabel down from my back.
    ‘Hungry?’ the old gitana asks, but before waiting for a reply, she has muttered something to one of the children who scampers off and soon returns with a large pan of half-eaten tomates y pimientos , struggling under the weight of it. The child then brings me a hunk of bread and the gypsy nods at me. Tentatively, I tear off a piece and dip it into the pan, allowing it to soak up the olive oil and herbs before placing it in Isabel’s mouth. Ravenously, she gobbles it up and opens her mouth for more like a little bird and the old gypsy throws back her head and lets out a shrill laugh. The smell is so divine it makes my stomach turn with longing and after Isabel has eaten a few mouthfuls, I can contain myself no longer and scoop a dripping red pepper into the fold of my bread and place it in my mouth. I close my eyes in pleasure; never has food tasted so good. When I open them again, I see that the old woman is staring at me, one thick eyebrow raised. Isabel and I continue eating under her gaze and, when we have finished, she silently hands me a tumbler of red wine. It is delicious, heavily spiced with cloves and nutmeg, and the gypsy watches me as I sip at it whilst the children clamour round, marvelling at the fairness and smoothness of Isabel’s skin.
    The old woman pushes the remains of the pan towards me. I protest, but she merely grunts.
    ‘You’ve been traipsing all over the countryside,’ she growls. ‘You need to eat well, for you and your child.’ Isabel’s eyes are starting to droop and the old lady picks her up and, with surprising strength and agility, carries her over to the far side of the cave where she lays her onto a pile of blankets. Returning to me, she points her chin towards the pan, motioning once again that I should eat. She is silent for a long time and just as I think I shall hear nothing more from her, she says ‘ Me llamo Aurelia .’
    ‘Aurelia,’ I repeat. ‘ Encantada . My name is Luisa. I am terribly grateful to you.’
    ‘These little ones are my grandchildren,’ she continues. ‘Each and every one of them.’ She has a peculiar expression of pride and sadness in her eyes that I cannot quite fathom. ‘Their mother’s gone on a trip,’ she adds. As she says this, Aurelia fixes me with an intense stare, almost as though she is searching my face for a reaction of some kind. Remembering the effect the old gitana ’s gaze had on Isabel, I stare defiantly back. I soon realise, however, that I am in the presence of a greater obstinacy of spirit than my own and feel myself blushing under Aurelia’s scrutiny.
    The children flit around us like moths, sweeping the floor, clearing away the dishes and laying out blankets, and as I watch their slight figures, entranced, Aurelia walks over