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Christmas of the Gypsies
Montefrio has a large gypsy community, and over the years, not without joys and tragedies, the local gitanos have come to think of me as their friend. One reason that they attract me is that I have always been fascinated by gypsies, and even thought of myself as one at heart, having lived in a footloose way.
The history of their travels is, as you will see, even more fantastic than that of the Jews, although being unwritten, much more obscure. Thanks to the work of anthropologists, we know that the gypsies were a lower caste of Indians who originated in the Punjab, in today's Pakistan. A thousand years ago, they fled the sub-continent during the clashes between Arab and Mongolian invaders. On their long westward odyssey, they travelled through, and settled in, the countries of the Middle East and the Mediterranean.
Those who had been in Egypt cultivated the legend that they were descendants of the Pharaohs, a belief to which some of their songs still refer. They also settled in Turkey, then known as Egypt Minor, and it was either because of their association with Egypt itself or this "other" Egypt (the latter seems more likely) that they finally became known as Gyptians. In old Spanish, in any case, egiptano was simply a way of saying Egyptian, abbreviated to gitano, or gypsy in English. Those who had been in Greece were, in like manner, called grecianos or Greecians.
But because they had no writing, they had forgotten where they really came from, often believing in their own fantasies. They reached Spain in the early 15th century, and hoodwinked the border guards by telling them that they were Oriental Princes. Since they were laden with necklaces of jewels and gold, they were believed, and allowed to spread over the country. By the time the Spaniards realized that they were beggars and brigands they were everywhere, and it was too late to catch them.
True, the Monarchs had a plan to exterminate them in a "Catholic" way by forcing the men and women to live apart so that they could not procreate, but, fortunately for Spanish music, this method of natural sterilization proved to be too time-consuming to enforce. But they were eventually forced to give up their Sanskrit-derived language, Romaní, as well as their nomadic ways, with similar harshness. For example, in order to enforce the law that obliged them to settle down in permanent homes, the Monarchs authorized any Spaniard catching a gypsy on the move to cut off one of his ears. That helps explain why Spanish gypsies today speak to one another in Castilian and live in wheel-less homes.
They made their living as tinkers (smithies or pot-makers), horse traders and broom-makers, re-weaving the seats of old chairs, as wandering musicians, fortune-tellers, and, of course, begging and stealing. This earned them a bad reputation which, sadly, clings to them until today, even though most gypsies - at least, most of the ones I know in Montefrio - are hard-working people.
The gypsies were so feared that until the end of the 18th century they were forced to live at least one league from the nearest town. In Montefrio, the place where they once built their huts is still known as "The Cliffs of the Gypsies", Las Peñas de los Gitanos, even if, of all the peoples who lived there, they are the only ones who left no trace, apart from the name.
Although the gypsies of Montefrio are no longer forced to live in huts far from the town, almost all of them today have their modest homes in the high, less accessible barrios. Relations with the payos or non-gypsies are peaceful but cold. Basically, the gypsies stay in their places, and the others just try to forget they exist.
Although the obvious comparison with Faulkner-style racism in the Deep South sometimes seems justified, the similarity between the two situations ends there, that is, with the non-gypsies' rejection of the gypsies. For one thing, unlike Afro-Americans, there are very few gypsies in Spain - about half a million, or 1% of the population - which means that they have very little political representation and virtually no economic importance. For another, they were not deliberately imported to perform an indispensable and status-giving economic activity, as were the slaves. Rather, they wandered in from France or sailed over from North Africa, mixed up with Berber tribesmen. Once here, they simply got lost in the great ethnic shuffle of medieval Spain, becoming an uninvited and unwanted lumpen. Spain is a big country, and, even today, there tends to be room for everyone.
This is why the gypsies have never taken part in the mainstream of Spanish life, literally living in a world of their own. The payos often accuse them of not wanting to "integrate", by which they mean "act like us". But why should they knock on the door if no one ever opens? And why, really, do the modern-day Spanish so dislike them?
Since almost all of them work and bathe, the old clichés have lost much of their force. The real reason is that the gypsies have kept their own customs, their own way of living, their own - as the payos see it - retrograde values. They live by their own law, only seeking the approval of their own fellows, oblivious to what the payos are doing or thinking, except when they're hauled into court.
The payos sneer with contempt, for example, at their sexual customs. While the word "virgin" today in an Andalucian village can only be safely applied to pre-adolescents and the Madre de Dios whose effigy is paraded through the streets in Holy Week, the gypsies still consider the innocence of their girls to be a sine qua non for marriage, and they make a public ritual of certifying it, in their legendary bodas - some of which still end in sangre, just as in Lorca's famous drama.
Not long ago, for example, a fight broke out in a wedding in nearby Pinos Puente, because the two families did not agree on the result of the ritual examination of the bride's hymen. As is customary, the girl was angrily rejected by her fiancé and enjoined to take her case to "he who did the damage", which is the set phrase for such occasions - ¡Que lo pague quien lo hizo!. Thereupon, the negative verdict of the supposedly impartial female judge was contested by the bride's family, long knives were flicked open, there were several stabbings and, in the general stampede to get out of the sala de bodas, one woman was run over by a passing truck.
But the first gypsy wedding I ever saw was all rejoicing and beauty - albeit of a rather pagan kind, which made it all the more exciting. The lovely 17 year old bride, our neighbour Paqui, walked down from the gypsy quarter, where I was living at the time, in a cloud of white chiffon on the arm of her father and between two rows of admiring by-standers. Even the payos came out to gape.
In the great round church, the mothers of bride and groom stood by the altar until the priest had finished his sermon and then, with great feeling, sang flamenco marriage chants into the microphone, one of which spoke of the union of "gitano con gitana". As they left the church, a white dove was released into the air, a symbol of the bride's purity, soon to fly away.
But the most romantic thing of all was the place in which the reception was held. Most of the village's salas de fiesta refuse to cater to the gypsies because the raucous singing and dancing go on so long, and the owner of the one restaurant that usually takes them, on the outskirts of town, also refused because his wife was in poor health and didn't feel up to it. So the gypsies went to the Mayor, always ready to accommodate his voters, who gave them the key to our disused 16th century church on the cliff overlooking the town, known as La Villa. It was in the month of December, 1990.
There must have been 500 people there, of whom my family, with the exception of the village photographer, immortalizing it all on video, were the only non-gypsies - for some strange reason, I am unable to think of an Anglo-Saxon and two Afro-Brazilians as being payos. As we ate the usual wedding fare of cold prawns, mayonnaise, jamón serrano and what-not, a long line formed before the bride and groom who sat in state near the church door, receiving their gifts. I took my place and contributed the standard amount one is supposed to give, about twice what our meals cost them. As I did so, I leaned over towards the groom to say, "How lucky you are!". For an instant he snapped out of his solemn pose and with a huge grin exclaimed, "¡A que sí!" which translates rather neatly as "Isn't it so!".
Paqui was then taken away to a house in the village by the two mothers and an old gypsy woman with a great mane of white hair, who, it was explained to me, was a maidenhead inspector. This witch-like creature was what is called a sacaora, and her task is to sacar la honra, or "display the bride's honour".
This one had been brought all the way from Cadiz, at great expense: 100,000 pesetas for the night's work, which is more than the minimum monthly wage. The reason why she has to come from so far away is, they said, to ensure her impartiality.An hour later the three women and Paqui, who looked sheepishly proud, as if she had just been awarded her high school diploma, were back. The "judge" entered the church screaming and holding up a large white handkerchief embroidered in each corner with three red roses. The people were beside themselves with joy, and they lifted the fathers of the bride and groom on their shoulders and carried them about the nave of the church triumphantly, as both of them ritually threw off their jackets and proceeded to tear their shirts into shreds. Soon they were totally bare from the waist up, waving their arms and yelling - all this in near-freezing temperature, since it was a particularly cold winter.
Then a large circle was formed, with the guitarist and several singers to one side, in which each of the women, one by one, went into the lists to dance, exultantly. Each of them was literally putting her best foot forward to celebrate the occasion, in that impossible "kitschy" finery which the gitanas favour, with dresses that look like tasselled velvet curtains and outlandish hair-dos and jewellery to match.
The significance of the red roses embroidered on the pañuelo comes from the fact that, generations ago, three corners of a handkerchief were twisted together to form a lancet which actually deflowered the girl, and came out stained in blood. The current, more "civilized" procedure is for the judge to cover her forefinger with the handkerchief and introduce it into the vagina to feel, rather than break the hymen. Not knowing all this, I drew closer to get a better look, but all I could see was a yellowish stain in the middle of the handkerchief, which showed signs of having been creased, but, disappointingly, no blood.
I was once, at another gypsy wedding, able to ask a sacaora about her work. She looked less fearsome than the others I had seen so I sat down at the table where she was having a drink with her driver before going home to Cordoba. I asked her what she did when the examination turned out to be negative, given that it was performed when the wedding was already in progress.
Like a real professional, her eyes narrowed as she confided in me a trick of the trade which she had learned over many years of experience. She went to the girl's home the day before to make sure that all was intact, thus making the wedding night inspection a mere formality. I asked her, also, if she thought that, what with things becoming more modern and permissive, even for the gypsies, the time-honoured practice would not die out.
That really touched a nerve. She bent forward with smouldering eyes and said that it would be a sad thing indeed if the tradition disappeared, "because there is nothing finer in the world than displaying the honour of a gypsy girl - porque sacar la honra de las gitanillas es la cosa más bonita que hay".
Gypsy weddings take place not only in Montefrio but all over Spain, and the good lady from Cordoba herself told me that she often went as far as the Canary Islands to certify maidenheads, although in that case the parents of the bride had to pay the airfare out of their own pocket. But there is one gypsy celebration which only takes place in our town and which, being public, can be enjoyed by anyone visiting Montefrio, as long as they are here on the 25th of December.
It is really not so much a fiesta as a counter-fiesta. Traditionally, Christmas is celebrated on the night of the 24th, and nothing happens at all on Christmas Day except family visits and so on. But in Montefrio, after the Christmas Eve supper en familia, the gypsy men exercise their sacred right to go on a binge. The women dutifully wait up for them until dawn, and after pulling off their shoes and rolling them into bed, go off on their own little spree, which I can only describe, at the risk of sounding pseudo-intellectual, as a totally inconsequential manifestation of proto-feminist rebelliousness.
The jolly parade is always led by a handful of swarthy crones waving bottles of Anis del Mono, followed by a bevy of younger things in mini-skirts and platform shoes, clapping their hands as the villancicos _ flamenco style carols - ring out in a nasal dirge.
The noisy throng, as if drawn by the force of gravity, ends up at the bottom of the town in front of Montefrio's great round church, at about 10 o'clock. The ladies swing their broad beams as, one by one, they stamp their way into the circle of singers, whose voices and hand-clapping crackle up into the chilly air like a burst of uncontrollable electricity. If you listen closely and can understand their Spanish, you may notice that some of the lyrics are quite risqué, referring to the sexual act and the male genitals, and drawing chuckles from the village men who are not in bed sleeping off their hangovers.
But even the preposterous boots and synthetic-leather mini-skirts cannot dispel my feeling that this is the same sound which was heard around the camp fires, amid the caravans, sleeping dogs and wailing babies of the gypsies' nomadic forefathers. And I always take my guests at the Casas de Lorenzo down to the Plaza early on Christmas Day, so that they can see something which they are unlikely to find anywhere else in Europe, that is, people dancing, spontaneously and in the street _ and, of course, beautifully - to the music of their own voices.
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