For Mercedes, the days passed with agonising slowness until the next rehearsal. Concha noticed the dark shadows beneath her daughter’s eyes and her listless manner. She also became concerned about the uneaten food on her plate.
‘What’s the matter, querida mia?’ she asked. ‘You look so pale!’
‘It’s nothing, Mother,’ she replied. ‘I had to finish some school work last night.’
It was an explanation that satisfied Concha. She had, after all, been nagging Mercedes to take her studies more seriously.
The day for the second rehearsal arrived. Mercedes was almost overcome with nausea when she woke that morning. At five o’clock she went to La Mariposa’s house. She was not due there until six, but she wanted to be the first there this time.
Mercedes put on her shoes and warmed her wrists by rotating them round and round and back again, tapping her feet as she sat there to create a rhythm: one two, one two, one two, one two three, one two three, one two . . .
Still María had not appeared. Mercedes stood up and her feet resumed the rhythm of the seguiriya. She began to turn and her steel heelcaps hammered on the floorboards of this tiny house. There was only just enough room for her hands to stretch upwards without touching the ceiling, and the walls could scarcely contain the volume of noise that she was making. As she twirled, Javier’s playing filled her imagination.
Though Mercedes was oblivious to the racket she was making, it was audible in the street outside. For a few moments, Javier stood watching her through the window. What he could see was a young woman entirely lost in her own world, almost hypnotised by the rhythm of her own movements. What he could not see was the vision of himself that filled Mercedes’ imagination.
In her mind he sat on the low chair in that room almost shredding his fingers with the passion of his playing.
Perhaps five or six minutes went by as she performed her private, solemn dance. He was transfixed not merely by the sight of the raw emotion she expressed so openly and so unreservedly; it was a lack of inhibition that was only possible in one who was dancing unobserved. What also held his attention was this combination of technical virtuosity with something that seemed almost wild. As she spun round and round and round again, she was like a creature possessed. Javier knew that to make those disciplined, precisely practised steps appear improvised was almost impossible. This girl was achieving it and watching her thrilled him to the core of his being. Such duende was so rare. It was like an electric current passing through him.
A moment before Mercedes stopped dancing, he felt a tap on his shoulder. María Rodríguez. He had no idea how long she had been standing there and whether she had observed him spying on Mercedes. He did not ask. He felt like a voyeur.
‘Let me take that from you,’ he said, taking her basket of shopping to cover his embarrassment. ‘It looks heavy.’
‘Thank you,’ said the old woman, acknowledging his gesture.
‘I don’t know where she gets this fury from. It just rages up from inside her. And then she channels it into her dancing. You clearly recognise that this girl is exceptional.’
He nodded. Her comments were enough to indicate to Javier that María knew he had been watching her young protégée.
When María opened her door, Mercedes was still panting from the exertion of the dance. She was virtually steaming. She gave a shy smile, which for Javier seemed at odds with the overt sexuality that he had witnessed through the windowpane.
Mercedes had thought obsessively of this guitarrista in the past week, and it seemed natural that he should be back there, sitting on the low chair tuning his guitar. It was as though neither of them had moved from this very room in seven days.
They exchanged a few polite words of greeting and María Rodríguez took a seat in the corner of the room, ready to listen and observe.
‘What would you like me to play?’ asked Javier.
‘A seguiriya,’ she said firmly.
Javier bent his head low over his guitar and smiled to himself.
Mercedes picked up the rhythm from his introductory chords and soon she was dancing.
Whenever Mercedes glanced at Javier he was utterly absorbed in his playing and when he looked up to watch her, she seemed far away. They were unaware of each other’s interest.
This time, as Javier looked up to observe, he noted that her movements were crisp and her timing exact. Her zapateado, the quick toe, sole and heel movements, were as faultless as before but she held something back this time. She seemed more reserved, shy like her smile. When he glanced across to where María had been sitting, he saw that she had disappeared from the room. He stopped playing, emboldened by the absence of their chaperone.
‘Come and sit down,’ he instructed her gently, indicating the empty chair next to his.
Mercedes was surprised by the sudden cessation of his playing and his invitation.They had never sat so close to each other before. She did not hesitate for a moment. Even if she did not always do what she was told, she was used to being given instructions by adults.
Once she was sitting down, he reached out and took her hand. It trembled violently against his own. He suddenly realised that he had nothing in particular that he wanted to say and that it was purely for the opportunity to hold her hand that he had stopped her dancing.
‘You dance so beautifully, Merche.’
It was all he could think of to say.
He held her hand tightly and then, in a moment that seemed one of madness even to himself, he brought it to his lips and kissed not the back of it but the palm. Even for someone who had bedded dozens of women, it was a gesture of surprising intimacy.
Instinctively, Mercedes gave him her other hand and Javier held them both in his. They sat like this for a moment, their eyes meeting for the first time, and nothing needed to be said.
When María came back into the room, Mercedes got to her feet. Javier resumed his playing and within the hour they had gone their separate ways once again. In spite of his gypsy blood, Javier knew where the boundaries lay.
Their first performance together was the following week, but in the meantime there was an important date in Mercedes’ diary.
Three days before she was due to meet Javier again, it was her sixteenth birthday. Her family celebrated and as she had been long promised, a large, soft parcel was waiting for her on the café table at breakfast time that day.
She tore the paper open and as she did so, folds of a magnificent flamenco dress billowed out. It was a classic design, black spots on a red background, exactly the one she had always dreamed of having, and she held it up to herself and twirled round. For a moment after she had come to a stop, the wired tiers seemed to have a life all of their own and continued to bounce from side to side and up and down.
‘Thank you, thank you!’ she cried in appreciation, hugging both her mother and the dress.
It was warming to see and feel her daughter’s excitement but Concha silently rued Mercedes’ passion for her dancing. She had noticed that her daughter was spending even more time than ever with María Rodríguez.
Before their first performance, Mercedes and Javier were to meet at María’s house. It was a few steps from the cueva where a crowd was already gathering. Most of them were drawn by the tocaor’s reputation but some of them were intrigued by the combination of the great man from Málaga with this local girl.
As Javier arrived, Mercedes appeared from María’s back room where she had been changing.
The dress fitted perfectly around every curve of her body, closely following the contours of breasts and hips. It was a stunning transfiguration and she was fully aware of the impression she made on Javier as she entered the room swathed in scarlet, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
‘You look . . . wonderful,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ she replied, knowing that it was true.
She came up close to him now, full of courage and eager anticipation for their performance.
Without hesitat
ing he reached out and stroked her hair, and as she took another step towards him, she felt his fingers touch her chin. Instinctively, she tilted her head upwards.
Javier’s kiss shocked her with its strength and intensity. Mercedes had been kissed only once before on the mouth, and it had been a disappointment. This was an embrace that surged through her, body, mind and soul.Whether it lasted for minutes or only seconds had no relevance. It was powerful enough to feel as though her life now divided into two: before and after the feel of his soft lips on hers.
It was time for them to go. María Rodríguez, who had known what had to happen between these two before they did, walked up towards the cueva with them.
No one was disappointed. Mercedes danced with more intensity than ever before. The guitarrista and bailaora were perfectly paired.
At a second performance, the cueva overflowed. Emilio was there to see them this time and even he, predisposed to criticise this man who had usurped his role, could see that this was a remarkable partnership. At times, the spark between Mercedes and Javier could almost have ignited a blaze. Emilio slipped away before the applause died down.The last thing he wanted was for his sister to notice he had even been there, and even less so for her to see his reaction.
While Pablo and Concha thought their daughter was in her room finally getting round to doing some school work, she was dancing with Javier Montero in the Sacromonte. It was only a matter of time before someone mentioned it to them and sure enough they did.
‘You are only just sixteen!’ shouted her father, when she returned that night. She had hoped her parents would already be in bed, but she found them sitting waiting for her. Pablo’s anger made all the more impact because it was so rare.
‘All I’m doing is dancing!’ she defended herself.
‘But how old is this man? He should know better,’ continued Pablo.
‘You’ve been very deceitful,’ reprimanded Concha.
‘You’re a disgrace!’ Ignacio, who had arrived home moments earlier, joined in. ‘Dancing with a bloody gypsy!’
Mercedes knew it was pointless trying to defend herself. She was under attack from all sides.
Emilio was the only person who understood this compulsion of hers, but he had sensed the brewing storm and withdrawn to his room. Having been displaced by an outsider, his own resentment had continued to brew. Filial love had been swept aside by the infatuation that now dominated his sister’s every waking moment.
‘Just go to your room. And don’t come out,’ ordered Pablo.
Without argument, Mercedes did exactly as she was told. Javier had travelled back to Málaga that night so there was nothing she wanted to leave it for.
For two days Mercedes stayed upstairs and Concha left meals outside her door. An hour later she would return to find them untouched.
Eating was the very last thing Mercedes felt like doing. She lay on her bed and wore herself out with weeping. In one move, her parents had taken away the two things that were at the centre of her life: dancing and Javier. If she could not dance with her gitano she was not going to dance at all. And if she could not dance, she could not bear to live.
Emilio knocked at her door late one afternoon and went in. Mercedes sat up when she saw him. Her eyes were swollen with crying.
He stood at the end of her bed, his arms folded. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I understand how you feel.’
Mercedes blinked at him. ‘Do you?’ she asked quietly.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And I am going to talk to our parents. I’ve seen you dancing with Javier and that sort of performance doesn’t happen every day.’ ‘What do you mean?’
‘It was . . . um . . .’ Emilio struggled. He suddenly felt awkward in front of his sister.
‘It was what?’
‘It was . . . perfection. Or something close to it. Between you and . . . him.’
Mercedes did not know how to react to her brother’s clumsy compliment. She could see how much it had cost him to say it.
Emilio was true to his word. He took his father to one side, knowing that, of the two of them, Pablo was less vehemently against Mercedes’ dancing than Concha.
‘You can’t just put a stop to something like this,’ he said to his father. ‘Nothing can stand in its way.’
Emilio’s representations on Mercedes’ behalf made Pablo reconsider. Even his description of the way Mercedes danced made her father proud and, within a few days, Concha, albeit reluctantly, had agreed to meet Javier.
Chapter Fourteen
DURING THE FEW weeks while these negotiations were going on, Mercedes’ obsession with dance had increased.There was nothing else in life that she wanted to do.
Letters were exchanged, and one day Javier arrived at El Barril. For an hour he talked with Pablo.
In spite of himself, Señor Ramírez warmed to this young man. There was no doubt that he was a serious member of the flamenco scene and Pablo’s view of the situation began to shift. Javier Montero had played not just in Granada and Málaga, but in Córdoba, Sevilla and Madrid. He even had forthcoming engagements in Bilbao, the home of his celebrated guitarrista uncle.
Eventually Concha appeared and introductions were made. She was not predisposed to liking Javier, but it was impossible to do otherwise. There was a sincerity in his manner that shone out and, sometime later, when she eventually heard him performing, she knew that it was this same quality that gave his playing such power.
Mercedes was not allowed to leave her room while Javier was there. Maternal fury was not so easily dispelled.
Javier was bold. He made it clear that he wished to continue playing for Mercedes in Granada but he wanted more than that. He wanted to take her to other cities. He did not tell Mercedes’ parents as much, but he felt his whole life was held in limbo. As far as he was concerned, his future was in their hands, dependent on whether or not Mercedes could continue to dance for him, and he to play for her.
After an hour or so, their meeting came to an end. Pablo spoke for himself and his wife, in agreeing to consider Montero’s request.
Concha was very concerned. Having Mercedes dancing with Emilio was safe but this was another matter altogether.
‘How do we know where all this will lead?’ she said to Pablo. ‘She’s only just sixteen and he’s almost five years older!’
Having met Javier, Pablo’s views had changed. He smiled.
‘And what is the age difference between us?’ he enquired wryly.
Concha did not reply. It was at least a decade.
‘What is the subject of this conversation?’ asked Pablo. ‘Are we just talking about dance? Or do you think there is something more?’
Concha thought of her daughter’s hollow eyes and uneaten meals. Hard as she tried, she found it difficult to attribute these things to a ban on dancing. She was not a heartless woman and had once known that same intense, all-consuming love herself, even if it had grown quieter with the years.
‘What is it that worries you more?’ asked Pablo.‘Our daughter’s love of dancing or the possibility of her falling for this man?’
‘Well, we can’t ask her that,’ said Concha flatly.
‘And anyway, the two things might be bound up together,’ mused Pablo.
‘You know I wanted her to expand her horizons,’ lamented Concha, ‘but not quite in this way.’
‘Is there really a choice? If we don’t let her dance with Javier, what else do you think she is going to do? Sit in her room like a good student?’
Antonio had come in.
‘What do you think?’ Concha asked him.
‘Are you sure you want my opinion, Mother?’
His mother nodded. He hesitated to take sides in a dispute between his parents, but clearly a casting vote was needed.
‘My view is this. One of the reasons her dancing affects people is that they witness this extraordinary determination,’ he said.‘And that same determination will never allow anyone to get between her and this flamenco.You’re fighting a
losing battle if you try to stop her.’
Her mother was silent for a while as she reflected on what Antonio had just said.
‘Well, as long as you chaperon her, Pablo, I suppose I shall have to put up with it.’
A while later, Mercedes came downstairs. The girl was pale. She knew her future had been discussed that afternoon.
Her parents were both in the bar.
‘We met Javier today,’ said Pablo, telling her something she already knew. ‘And we liked him.’
‘But can I dance with him again?’ she asked impatiently. It was all she wanted to know.
Mercedes was overjoyed when she heard of her parents’ decision.
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