tarps made a bright patchwork across
the grounds around the dance area, where families lounged and ate sandwiches of chorizo and thinly sliced beef tongue. Some
dozed beneath trees after too much wine. Others played mus or whist at small tables, or just enjoyed the spectacle of the spinning dancers.
The erromeria served as an outdoor crucible for the selecting and melding of future mates. It was Sunday; all had been to mass, taken communion,
and been freshly absolved, guaranteeing this to be a wholesome family-oriented environment where the inquisitive and bored
could scrutinize the courting pairs.
Miren Ansotegui rarely stood still long enough for young men to attach themselves. She joined the choreographed folk dances
with her group of friends and then broke off to share dances with a random succession of males and females, whoever happened
to orbit her sphere at the moment. But she did rest on occasion, now that she was old enough to refresh herself with the wine
kept near the tables under the canopy shade.
Mendiola urged Miguel to attend the function as a way to meet the villagers who were their customers. Mendiola accompanied
the musicians on the slow waltzes with an old crosscut saw that quivered with his mournful bow strokes. Miguel enjoyed the
music and the flowing current of the dancers but found his attention quickly fixed on a young woman with a thick braid that
extended past the vee of her white scarf and whipped behind her as she spun. She was elegant and moved with a grace that caused
him to stare without realizing it.
After several dances in the encroaching twilight, Miren retreated toward the café canopies where Miguel sat. At the moment
she passed his table, a lamp on a nearby post was lit, and to Miguel, it seemed to illuminate only her face. Miguel moved
involuntarily. Without offering his name or asking hers, Miguel waved to the girl to catch her attention.
“Can you come here?” he said, surprising himself with how much he sounded like his brother Dodo. “Sit down.”
He fell in love several times each day without making an effort, but the sight of her unsettled him like mornings at sea.
When the warm-honey lamp glow fell across her face, he was stunned.
She turned, paused, and took quick inventory. She saw the typical Basque face, varnished by work in the sun; the typical teeth,
made to seem whiter in contrast to the burnt-olive face; the typical hair, black and fiercely independent; the typical body,
powerful but lean, with ropy muscles knotted by the hauling of nets or the wrestling of stubborn rams. He did not wear a beret,
but yes, he was acceptable.
“Why not?” she answered—agreeable, but without any eagerness that could be misinterpreted. Her posture on the edge of the
chair signaled that the length of her stay would depend on his powers to charm.
Miguel read the signs and sensed the pressure.
“You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen,” he said without prologue.
She squinted skeptically, then opened her eyes wide and sarcastically fluttered her lashes like frightened butterflies. “Oh?”
“You have . . . the eyes . . . of a Gypsy fortune-teller.”
She groaned. “And what do you know of Gypsy fortunetellers?”
“Are you sure you are ready to hear of such things?” he asked, buying time for a story to come together in his mind. He was
distracted from the task by Miren’s wide, dark eyes under her raven-wing brows, and also her delicious scent.
“Yes, tell me now or I leave.” Miren slipped further toward the edge of the chair.
“Fine, then,” he said, turning his chair around so he could fold his forearms across the back. “I was a fisherman in Lekeitio
when I met her.”
“A Gypsy?”
“Yes, her name was . . . Vanka . . . and she worked in a taberna at the harbor.”
Miren’s face softened but did not surrender a smile. “Vanka?”
“I visited her every night after the boats came in and the catch was
the grounds around the dance area, where families lounged and ate sandwiches of chorizo and thinly sliced beef tongue. Some
dozed beneath trees after too much wine. Others played mus or whist at small tables, or just enjoyed the spectacle of the spinning dancers.
The erromeria served as an outdoor crucible for the selecting and melding of future mates. It was Sunday; all had been to mass, taken communion,
and been freshly absolved, guaranteeing this to be a wholesome family-oriented environment where the inquisitive and bored
could scrutinize the courting pairs.
Miren Ansotegui rarely stood still long enough for young men to attach themselves. She joined the choreographed folk dances
with her group of friends and then broke off to share dances with a random succession of males and females, whoever happened
to orbit her sphere at the moment. But she did rest on occasion, now that she was old enough to refresh herself with the wine
kept near the tables under the canopy shade.
Mendiola urged Miguel to attend the function as a way to meet the villagers who were their customers. Mendiola accompanied
the musicians on the slow waltzes with an old crosscut saw that quivered with his mournful bow strokes. Miguel enjoyed the
music and the flowing current of the dancers but found his attention quickly fixed on a young woman with a thick braid that
extended past the vee of her white scarf and whipped behind her as she spun. She was elegant and moved with a grace that caused
him to stare without realizing it.
After several dances in the encroaching twilight, Miren retreated toward the café canopies where Miguel sat. At the moment
she passed his table, a lamp on a nearby post was lit, and to Miguel, it seemed to illuminate only her face. Miguel moved
involuntarily. Without offering his name or asking hers, Miguel waved to the girl to catch her attention.
“Can you come here?” he said, surprising himself with how much he sounded like his brother Dodo. “Sit down.”
He fell in love several times each day without making an effort, but the sight of her unsettled him like mornings at sea.
When the warm-honey lamp glow fell across her face, he was stunned.
She turned, paused, and took quick inventory. She saw the typical Basque face, varnished by work in the sun; the typical teeth,
made to seem whiter in contrast to the burnt-olive face; the typical hair, black and fiercely independent; the typical body,
powerful but lean, with ropy muscles knotted by the hauling of nets or the wrestling of stubborn rams. He did not wear a beret,
but yes, he was acceptable.
“Why not?” she answered—agreeable, but without any eagerness that could be misinterpreted. Her posture on the edge of the
chair signaled that the length of her stay would depend on his powers to charm.
Miguel read the signs and sensed the pressure.
“You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen,” he said without prologue.
She squinted skeptically, then opened her eyes wide and sarcastically fluttered her lashes like frightened butterflies. “Oh?”
“You have . . . the eyes . . . of a Gypsy fortune-teller.”
She groaned. “And what do you know of Gypsy fortunetellers?”
“Are you sure you are ready to hear of such things?” he asked, buying time for a story to come together in his mind. He was
distracted from the task by Miren’s wide, dark eyes under her raven-wing brows, and also her delicious scent.
“Yes, tell me now or I leave.” Miren slipped further toward the edge of the chair.
“Fine, then,” he said, turning his chair around so he could fold his forearms across the back. “I was a fisherman in Lekeitio
when I met her.”
“A Gypsy?”
“Yes, her name was . . . Vanka . . . and she worked in a taberna at the harbor.”
Miren’s face softened but did not surrender a smile. “Vanka?”
“I visited her every night after the boats came in and the catch was
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