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250 DAYS IN THE SUN
The alley becomes narrower, finally disappearing
under the horseshoe curves of the old Moorish gate of
Elvira. Beyond lies the market-place of the gypsies,
a long patch of sandy soil, tapering into a point that
collides with the gateway of the arena for bullfights.
On one side there are numerous wine-shops; on the
other rises the mountain with the city of weaving
women, Albaicin, and beyond are the caves of the
gypsies.
There are intimidated peasants standing all over
the square, sunken, frozen until they are blue, a drop
suspended from the tips of their noses, holding by
their heads the animals which they must sell at any
price. Their consciousness of their hard lot, combined
with the cold which has not yet been banished from
the air, gives them a pitiful appearance. Watery-eyed
gypsies stroll from group to group, noting the weak
points of the animals and estimating the poverty of
their owners, later to utilize both factors for their
own advantage.
Middlemen also go their rounds, naive Spaniards in
long cloaks. ‘They have arrived from the seaport
towns by the morning train and seek to give them-
selves the appearance of skilled tradesmen. The peas-
ants cast longing glances at them and signal to them
to come and buy. “Buy something, from me, little
friend,” says a little peasant to a tall go-between, “so
that none of us may be stung by one of these fellows.”
But his wretched long-eared animals that have lived
all winter on maize straw and dried mountain thistles
do not easily captivate a purchaser, for at the other
end there are the gypsies with their neat little donkeys
clipped in delicate patterns, and enchanting little mules
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