As they sat in the cave, sheltered from the rain, the gypsy looked at the man she'd come to love, a foreign man she hardly knew; only that he had saved her life. He rarely spoke to her and even then it was in often in a quiet, shortened mumble. Only twice had he said more than two sentences to her in the five years she'd known him.
She was thirteen, then, a beautiful young girl from a traveling family; entertainers for hire. They were in Caracas making the folks laugh, clap, cheer and the money was good. One night her uncle was caught in bed with an affluent man's wife and the family was attacked and driven out of town in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, in the turmoil and confusion, the girl was left behind.
She had depended on her parents all her life for what she had and knew few skills aside from dancing and singing. She did what she could, but in those days, a young singer and dancer was a dime a dozen and she took to stealing food where she could. The only problem was, she was a horrible thief and almost always was caught. So, for two years she traveled the streets, tried different towns looking for her parents, but to no avail. Eventually she ended up in Bolivar City, destitute, starving, and wearing nothing but frayed, burgundy-colored satin wraps, the only thing she had left of her family.
One night, she sat at the entrance of an alleyway and watched as a man effortlessly stole an entire bag of food from a street vendor. As he turned to flee, he noticed her watching and aware she might turn him in, walked over and said, "Say nothing and you can have some," and handed her an apple. That was how they met.
Over the next year they became traveling companions. The gypsy entertained the man, who often smiled, but spoke little, and in exchange he provided her with the food she needed to carry on. She found him to be good company, even under the circumstances, and looked on him with admiration and desire, a newfound emotion for her. He was very attractive, with sandy brown hair, large brown eyes, wide shoulders and a perpetual smile always ready to form on his lips. From the lightness of his skin he was obviously a foreign man, but spoke Spanish flawlessly and aside from his rag-tag clothing, could be mistaken for a well-off businessman.
And so they traveled around the city and parts beyond, but always ending up in the city where they first met. As these years moved on, the gypsy became older and her body more defined. No longer could she convincingly pass herself off as a boy for the cons she would pull as a younger girl. When she would walk the street, she could feel the eyes of men follow her down the block and she knew they were undressing her with their eyes. The thought both excited and scared her because she felt the longing for a man's touch, but knew not how to get it. She wanted the vagabond to look on her the same way, but if he did, she never saw it. He always seemed preoccupied with other thoughts that were his own.
Over the five years of their friendship, it was common for the two to take a trip to Angel Falls, where they would swim in the pounding surf near the waterfall's base. Always they had to do this at night, lest they get arrested. Since this was a popular destination for foreign tourists, security was tighter than in the grocery stores they often stole from and they always needed to be on guard.
This time, however, when they arrived there was a much larger crowd than normal, and instead of the usual tour groups clumped together, there were men and women walking arm in arm, sometimes gazing at the falls, sometimes kissing. Never before had she seen so many couples in one place and acting so in love. Most were watching with rapt attention the cascade of the highest waterfall in the world, awestruck with the lush tranquility surrounding so tumultuous a creation of nature. Gradually the shadows lengthened as the gypsy and the vagabond walked round the park, ever watchful of the foreign couples.
Finally, her curiosity got the better of her, and she asked one of the women nearby the only English question she knew, "You speak Spanish?" The woman turned, surprised, and said, "A little." Encouraged, the gypsy came right out with her question, "Why are there so many men and women here together today? Normally this is a place for groups of tourists."
The woman replied in stilted Spanish, "Today is Valentine's Day; the day for lovers. Men give women flowers and presents and the women remember why they fell in love with the men. It is very romantic if you have someone on this day." She looked back at the falls and said in a dreamy air, "And that waterfall is the most sexy, romantic thing to share," as she leaned over and kissed her husband. The gypsy looked around admiringly at all the couples and young lovers wishing she could be one of them, held tight while the mystic falls pounded down and the sun set from behind the cliff. The vagabond, as usual, said nothing, but only looked on.
That night, the two swam in the river, acutely aware of the rapidly cooling night. The vagabond left the water and dressed first. "We need food," he said. "I'll be back shortly," and with that, he disappeared through the brush. The gypsy swam to the other side of the river again and back before getting out. When she waded out of the river, she saw atop her clothing a single red rose. Quickly she ran over, held it in two hands and inhaled its alluring fragrance. She loved roses, so this holiday was, in her mind, perfect. She couldn't believe this country didn't celebrate it like these tourists, who seemed to have a much better idea of what romance was. Her heart pounded thinking of who could have watched her swim and what he could have done to her while her protector was away. She dressed quickly and waited for the vagabond to return.
