Ricardo said, “I have an idea. Wait here, Sister. I’ll be right back.”
He entered the store and walked up to a young clerk standing behind the counter.
“Buenos días. May I help you?”
“Yes. I would like to buy two guitars.”
The clerk smiled. “Ah, you are in luck. We just got in some Ramirezes. They are the best.”
“Perhaps something of not such a high quality. My friend and I are only amateurs.”
“As you wish, señor. What about these?” The clerk walked over to a section of the store where a dozen guitars were on display. “I can let you have two Konos for five thousand pesetas apiece.”
“I think not.” Ricardo selected two inexpensive guitars. “These will do nicely,” he said.
A few moments later Ricardo walked back out to the street, carrying the two guitars. He had half hoped Sister Graciela would be gone, but she was standing there, patiently waiting.
Ricardo opened the strap on one of the guitars and held out the instrument to her. “Here, Sister. Put this over your shoulder.”
She stared at him.
“It isn’t necessary for you to play it,” Ricardo said patiently. “It is only for effect.”
He shoved the guitar at her, and she reluctantly took it. They walked along the winding streets of Segovia under the enormous viaduct built by the Romans centuries earlier.
Ricardo decided to try again. “You see this viaduct, Sister? There is no cement between the stones. Legend has it that it was built by the devil two thousand years ago, stone piled on stone, with nothing but the devil’s magic to hold it together.” He looked at her for some reaction.
Nothing.
To hell with her, Ricardo Mellado thought. I give up.
The members of the Guardia Civil were everywhere, and whenever they passed them, Ricardo would pretend to be in earnest conversation with Graciela, always careful to avoid body contact.
The numbers of police and soldiers seemed to be increasing, but Ricardo felt reasonably safe. They would be looking for a nun in robes and a group of Jaime Miró’s men, and they would have no reason to suspect two young tourists carrying guitars.
Ricardo was feeling hungry, and even though Sister Graciela had said nothing, he was sure that she must be hungry also. They came to a small café.
“We’ll stop in here and have a bite to eat, Sister.”
She stood there, watching him.
He sighed. “Right. Suit yourself.”
He walked inside the café. A moment later Graciela followed him.
When they were seated, Ricardo asked, “What would you like to order, Sister?”
There was no response. She was infuriating.
Ricardo said to the waitress, “Two gazpachos and two orders of chorizos.”
When the soup and sausages came, Graciela ate what was put in front of her. He noticed that she ate automatically, without enjoyment, as though fulfilling some duty. The men seated at other tables were staring at her, and Ricardo could not blame them. It would take the young Goya to capture her beauty, he thought.
In spite of Graciela’s sullen behavior, Ricardo felt a lump in his throat every time he looked at her, and he cursed himself for a romantic fool. She was an enigma, buried behind some kind of impenetrable wall. Ricardo Mellado had known dozens of beautiful women, but none of them had ever affected him this way. There was something almost mystical about her beauty. The irony was that he had absolutely no idea what lay behind the breathtaking façade. Was she intelligent or stupid? Interesting or dull? Cold-blooded or passionate? I hope she’s stupid, dull, and cold-blooded, Ricardo thought, or I won’t be able to stand losing her. As though I could ever have her. She belongs to God He looked away, afraid that she might sense what he was thinking.
When it was time to leave, Ricardo paid the check and they rose. During the journey he had noticed that Sister Graciela was limping slightly. I’ll have to get us some kind of transportation, he thought. We still have a long way to go.
They started down the street, and at the far end of town, on the Manzanares el Real, they came upon a gypsy caravan. There were four colorfully decorated wagons in the caravan, pulled by horses. In the backs of the wagons were women and children, all dressed in gypsy costumes.