The Gypsy Madonna by Santa Montefiore

Author:Santa Montefiore [Montefiore, Santa]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
ISBN: 1416539131
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2007-03-27T07:00:00+00:00

20

It all began in the autumn of 1951. I guess it was symbolic that that decisive moment was on the evening of my tenth birthday — in effect, the end of my childhood. Looking back, I can pinpoint that evening and say: That night changed me for the rest of my life. The events of 1944 had had a monumental effect on my psyche, but I had managed to overcome it. With the help of Coyote I had broken the mold that could have constrained me. However, this time, when I needed him most, Coyote wasn’t there.

My mother was excited. Maria Elena had invited us for supper at her house and had insisted on baking the cake. My mother had been active in the store and hadn’t had time to think about a party. The summer had been busy. The boardwalk had been crowded with vacationers, the beach awash with bodies soaking up the sun, and they had all wanted to shop in the afternoon. I had been on vacation from school and had helped out in the store. But now it was quieter. The vacation was over, the beaches empty; there were just the locals and the old folks who didn’t have jobs to rush back to. By now I knew all the goods in the warehouse and had become a competent salesman. I enjoyed it. I exchanged banter with Matias and we laughed behind the customers’ backs. I felt like a member of the team, not like a little boy loitering on the border of the adult world, and they treated me as such. In the evenings, when we closed, Coyote picked up his guitar and we sat outside on the grass, in the shade of a maple tree, and sang old cowboy songs. Sometimes, if we’d done well, he’d open a bottle of wine and I’d be given a small glass. If I was lucky he’d tell me more stories of the Old Man of Virginia.

I had always loved my birthday. It was my special day. If I think hard enough, squint my eyes, rummage through my oldest memories, I can remember my third birthday at the château. My father wasn’t there. I don’t remember minding. I don’t recall my mother being unhappy. I was too small to notice anything except the cake my mother had managed to bake for me, in the shape of an airplane, and the expectant faces as I blew out the three candles. However, I do remember the sense of importance the festivity gave me and the smell of comfort in the vanilla.

The stone walls of the château were the walls of my security, my mother’s embrace the inner sanctum where I fled when the outer walls were penetrated by the enemy. But on my third birthday, as on my tenth, I had no sense of the enemy lurking in the shadows.

Matias loved to barbecue. He said a barbecue was called an asado in Chile and claimed that the meat was much better there.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.