La Gitana is a Machiavelle, an opportunist who lives by wits, a fascinating person of immense personal charm and vibrant sexuality. She was cast out of her Gypsy tribe, “The Rom” for having a baby out of wedlock. She approaches King Carlos II of Spain and his Queen, Mari Luisa. She becomes the Queen’s paramour and political advisor. Eventually she meets Louis XIV, “The Sun King” of France and has an affair with him: she is not gay, but bi-sexual. When King Carlos dies she then moves to France becoming Louis XVI’s second wife. The King and his wife, Francoise Abigne, “Madame” soon become fast friends due to Carmen’s wit and powers of manipulation. When Louis dies, she returns to Spain, a fabulously rich woman, and takes up the life of the gypsies again. Then she finds her first love, Julio. Thus her life is an infinity sign.

–NBP does NOT demand edits, this is a lovely story…please view the excerpt below to get a feel for the writer’s style and tone in this book– 

Review: 
It took me a bit to get into it, but once I got used to her style, I really enjoyed it.

EXCERPT:
THE DEAD
The carriage is coming for me. I lie pale and dead, my hands folded over my chest in a gesture of supplication. A pious lady like I never was in life. I am La Gitana. It’s what they call me, a beggar and consort of kings. You may think that the dead know nothing. But I tell you we rage. We rage we can no longer feel the dew on the underside of a leaf, nor the touch of a lover’s hand on our ass, nor the sweetness of full red wine on our lips. We feel rage that we cannot feel the slow thud of our hearts, the red blood being forced through our veins, and we rage for all the love we have lost.
Ay, the beautiful caress of the wind through chartreuse, green leaves, the tilting of white clouds careening across a turquoise sky. We rage for the days gone by. Life is but a droplet of rain sliding down a window pane. I am much honored but I have also been reviled much in my life. One cannot be vivid without breaking some hearts. Que lastima, (What a pity) I say and winner take all. I have been what people thought I was, and I have also been just myself. It is impossible to sort.
My carriage is six black stallions and a pale driver. I asked for a rubio to ferry me across to the other side. Inside my carriage is gold and red velvet. Red is my color: blood is my legacy. They will line the streets and call my name holding long white candles. My story begins as I am sixteen. The year is 1679, and King Carlos having ascended the throne at age fourteen, has married Marie Louise, the niece of Louis XIV of France, at age eighteen. It is not enough for France to defeat Spain in war: She must also rule us on the domestic front as well. King Carlos, or El Hechisado, (The Bewitched), as he is called, is simple and in ill health. What a sin to have to lie with a fool. Don Juan of Austria, Carlos’s illegitimate brother, rules through violence and intimidation. The queen mother, Mariana, is weakened and her valido, Valenzuela, deposed.
King Carlos is not our king, and Spain is not our country. We are ruled by our own king, a Rom Baru, and to hell with Spain. Soy una gitana. (I am a gypsy).
Escuchame, querida. Tengo mas que contar.
Listen to me, dear. I have much to tell.

CHAPTER ONE
I am Tekla. Soy una gitana. The lower part of my body is mahrime, or unclean, two parts pressed together like a dusky rose. My upper body is pure like a virgin’s shoulders. So it is with all the woman of the Romani clan. We are pure and impure, and can pollute by our actions. We must never expose our lower half to anyone but our husbands and even then we must take care not to pollute them. We must stay away from our men and male stallions when we have the time of blood and when we are in child birth. There is a special red tent for these times. One who is mahrime by action or by nature cannot walk amongst us. The worst punishment for a gypsy is to be cast out, or judged mahrime, for he can never live the gypsy life or be with other gypsies. It is a fate worse than death for it is death to the spirit. Family is the most important thing for a gypsy, not possessions, as it is for the gadje.
When I was a girl I used to wander bare breasted through the camps free as a flower, my high little girl’s breasts catching the light like burnt calla lilies in the morning sun. The little, ragged boys would run by and try to touch them but I always avoided their greedy, curious fingers. As I have said my gypsy name is Tekla. My gaje name is Carmen, and my secret name you will never know. My sister, Rupa, at fourteen is much more beautiful than I. Yet, I do not shed a tear: my heart is a stone. I am a mere thistle at her feet. Rupa! Rupa! Rupa! Even the birds sing her name. Who sings mine? The thistles and the thorns. But under her surface is but sugar and air.
Sometimes I think she will never truly love another. She cares only for her reflection in the circle of a man’s eye. Only then does she feel she exists. I exist whether I am pretty or not. I am like mud, plain, common, and fertile. Mama says that I will surpass Rupa and that I am made of a finer cloth. Only mama thinks this.
I find it hard to believe as I see Rupa dancing by the fire light, her bracelets flashing like sparks in the night air. She wears black polish on her nails and they look like puma claws. Her perfume wafts through the air like an evil breeze and they throw sovereigns at her feet. Her lips are bright red like blood from a cut, and her teeth are white like pearls. Here eyes are bright and wide set, the color of summer mint.
But unlike Rupa, I am dark and sturdy and mama says I will make any man a fine wife. I read fortunes, the tarot, and tea leaves, and of course, I dance. Mama says people trust a plain face more than a pretty one and that is why I’m the top earner in the camp. Para ganar es para vivir. To earn is to survive. The old gadje women pour out the contents of their lives like the inside of an overflowing purse, and I always tell them they will prosper. Yes, you will prosper, you will find health, you will find love. Your husband will never leave you or for a widow, as man is coming with a promise carried on the wind. Someone will love your sunken breasts, and twisted purple lips. I never tell them the last thing. Your lover, Death, will come to you, old woman, and blow your life out like a tiny candle and his cock is made of ice! These old gadjes with their fancy tea cups and their houses full of fine beds, and piles of money. To have everything and still want love too. It’s enough, one or the other! To live one day as a gypsy would kill them. It is my duty to separate them from their money. It is all our duties, we, women, of the Rom.
Sometimes I do the boojoo. I tell them someone is jealous of them and put a curse on their money and that I must cleanse it. I send them home with a bag of shredded paper and tell them not to open it for a week. When they discover the trick I have moved to another location. Do not judge me. It is our way. I will make someone a fine wife as I am a good earner. I only hope my father will not choose someone old with rotting teeth or someone who will beat me. My sister will have the pick of the camp. They say if doesn’t matter if a gypsy woman is beautiful but I say beauty is the true coinage of the world. Men always go for the perfect rose. Me, I am a thorn. I will wait like a cut daisy in a vase for he who will have me. I, who, am not beautiful. ,br> Today, I will make rabbit stew with carrots, leeks, potatoes, and wild mushrooms. I will season it with garlic, three different kinds of chilies, and cumin seeds. Cooking is life. Cooking is love. I enjoy to watch my family eat, and do most of the cooking since mama is not well. Wild things have so much more sabor (flavor) than domesticated beasts. I keep traps for rabbits, and other small animals and, on occasion, I take papa’s rifle and shoot a deer or an antelope. Papa says it is not proper for a gypsy woman to handle rifles but still, he eats with gusto. Papa says I am part man and calls me his “son with breasts.” Rupa faints at the sight of blood unless it’s already butchered. I can just imagine her on the child bed! Leave her to her silks, and ribbons: I get things done. When one is beautiful: one does not have to be strong.
The gypsy’s lot is one of constant struggle. “Come and dance for us, gypsy,” or “Leave this place before we kill you!”. Always moving. Always driven away. This is the longest we’ve ever been anywhere. I have my favorite rocks and clouds. One would think clouds are the same everywhere but this is not so. I see horse’s heads and dragons in the sky. I would miss them should they drive us out. I have nothing but contempt for these pale, moon faced, soft people. They skim the fat from the land and leave us just the scraps. What gypsy ever starts a war? We settle our disputes by a council called the kris: wise men and sometimes very old woman may sit on it. Wars are about land and property. Why does one need more than one house and why live in a palace? It’s good to be near the land. What good are jewels and fine furs? One can only sleep in one bed at a time, no? Why must they always want what their neighbor has? We gypsies share amongst ourselves. A good gypsy has an “open hand.” They do not share: they hoard.
A gypsy’s soul is a free soul. We do not envy. We do not hate it when a man does well. We respect it. These gadjes don’t even work their own estates. They live in town, Granada, and whore, and drink, and gamble, wasting their time on earth. Some just live on Mercedes or credit issued from the Crown coming from taxes on poor, working farmers and clergy. It is rotten at the top and the rot comes from that fool, King Carlos.
I must stop this talk of hate. Hatred is a poison that destroys, eating the heart from inside out. I will talk of other things. I, in addition to doing the cooking for my family, work the wheel, spinning, ever spinning like a mad spider. I use reds, greens, blues, gold, and purples for the woman’s flounced skirts and black, tan, grays, and brown wool for the men’s formal clothes. Sometimes, I even make wedding clothes, scarlet shirts for the men, and long gowns for the women. Some would say I’m skilled: others would say nothing. Lo que es. That’s how it goes.
I care for Julio, Rupa’s intended. It is unusual for the youngest to be betrothed first, but Julio insists on Rupa, and he can pay a large bride price. He is dark and quick, and cruel in his looks. His eyes are very alive, and the color artist’s call burnt sienna. I love the way his upper lip curls like he is about to say something unkind. His bottom lip if full and red. I can almost smell the hair growing on his chest like a forest of sage. I have looked lower, I confess.
Still Rupa has him clutched in her greedy, white hands. So fair is she that she looks like a gadje. He will never be mine. But what is life without a dream. I do dream as I spin at my wheel. Perhaps you wish to know where we live. We live in the caves of Sacro Monte outside of Granada in the winter. In the summer, we are in the meadows below. We make our fires there, cook, dance, and sing for we are a joyous people. We tell tales of the old ones who lived before.
One tale in particular comes to mind. Juan, a gypsy of good means, took a gadje woman for his wife and brought her to live with us. She was blond, a rubia of white hair, spun like golden flax, and very beautiful. She was as crude and cheap as a tattered camisole, and had a wandering eye. Although it was mahrime, all the men wanted to go between her legs. Unable to conceive and bored with our gypsy ways, she began to look beyond the marital bed for her pleasure. One day, Juan found her in the arms of his younger brother, Carlito. In a rage, he disemboweled them both with a machete, and cut his own throat with a hunting knife. Sometimes in the winter we hear her moaning in the act of love as the winds blow.
Gypsy and gadje must never mix. It is mahrime and against our law. One can go blind or crazy for such violation of our laws, or even death results. I will always stick to my own kind. Still one can do strange things for love. I know I love Julio as if he were my own. I can see him in my mind’s eye, standing in the rain, the water puddling on his beautiful face, his dark hair glistening like midnight birds. He has high cheekbones like a Mongol, and he looks on the world hard like a man. His eyes are made of steel and his mouth is like a purple rose. How I long to run my hands over his body to the root of him. This man who can never be mine.
I touch myself below as I think of him, and there comes a wetness and a burning, and then like mountains crashing together I reach my peek, and am calm. I know I am not a proper gypsy girl. I am mahrime, but this I keep to myself and hope St. Sara will forgive me. St. Sara controls destiny and prophesy and is our own special saint.
Then I think most surely he will tire of Rupa’s constant demands for proof of love.
How much satin, how many ribbons, how much jewelry will do it, you little fool? Is the proof not in his heart and his cojones (balls) and why do you never look there?
Surely one day it will be me. Surely.