I named the establishment and Zed nodded smugly. ‘The best there is. I imagine your French is fluent.’
‘It’s my native language, although all my sisters and I were brought up to speak English as well. What about you?’
‘German, but I too was taught English from the cradle, as well as Russian and French. Like my houses, I belong to everywhere and nowhere. In other words, I am a typical twenty-first-century citizen of a global world,’ he said as Alison walked in with a tray containing a bottle of white wine and two glasses.
‘Leave it there,’ said Zed imperiously. ‘We will pour it ourselves.’
The girl said nothing, just gave an odd movement that could have possibly been a curtsey, and scuttled out of the room.
I watched Zed check the label on the bottle, pour a little of the wine into his own glass then sniff, swirl, and drink, before nodding and filling mine.
‘Perfect for lunch. Fresh, crisp, with a good nose, but a tasty afterbite to follow. Santé.’
‘Santé.’
We chinked glasses, and whereas Zed took a serious slug, I took a tiny sip to be polite because I wasn’t used to drinking at lunchtime. As I stared into the fire, I felt his eyes on me again.
‘You do not look particularly Swiss, Tiggy.’
‘That’s because I’m adopted. As are all my sisters.’
Again, he gave me that strange knowing nod. ‘So, where are you originally from?’
‘Spain, or so I believe. My father died last year and in the letter I was given by his lawyer afterwards, that’s where he said he found me.’
‘You are a very unusual woman, Tiggy.’ His green eyes glinted in the firelight. ‘Many of the girls at your expensive Swiss boarding school must have been rich little princesses, but you . . . you are certainly not that.’
‘I don’t think any of us sisters were brought up to be so.’
‘Even though you have had the best of everything?’
‘We’ve had a very privileged lifestyle, yes, but we were taught to know the value of things, and also what really matters in life.’
‘Which is?’ he asked me as he refilled his own wine glass, then topped up mine, which didn’t really need it.
‘In essence, to be a good person. To never judge others by their position in life, because as Pa always said, life’s a lottery, and some people win and some people lose.’
‘I agree in principle of course,’ Zed nodded, his searing gaze still upon me. ‘But then again, what would either you or I know about struggling? I have had money all my life, and so have you. Whether we like it or not, we have always known the safety net is there, ready to catch us if we fall. So even though we can live like we have nothing, we can never really know the fear that real poverty brings.’
‘True, but at least we can empathise, and be grateful, and try to use our privilege to do some good in the world,’ I countered.
‘I admire your altruism. You are living it too, by working up here and caring for the animals, probably for next to nothing.’
‘Yup,’ I agreed.
‘I warn you, Tiggy, that your good intentions may get lost somewhere along the way.’
‘Never.’ I shook my head firmly.
‘So,’ he took a sip of his wine as he assessed me, ‘are you wearing a metaphorical hair shirt?’
‘Not at all! I’m doing what I love in a place that I love, and there’s no other motive, certainly not guilt. I live on what I earn, and that’s the end of the story.’ I felt he was trying to make me admit to something that simply wasn’t inside me. ‘I’m just . . .’ I shrugged, ‘who I am.’
‘Maybe that is why I find you fascinating.’
I watched him snake his hand towards mine and thank God, there was a sharp tap at the door. I stood up to open it.
‘Your luncheon,’ said Beryl as she came in carrying a tray.
‘Thank you so much,’ I said as she marched towards the low table in front of the fire and placed the tray upon it.
‘Yes, thank you, Beryl.’ Zed smiled at her. ‘You are most kind and I am very sorry if I have disrupted your day.’
‘Not at all, sir, that’s what I’m here for. Do you wish me to serve the sandwiches?’ Beryl asked.
‘No, I am sure that Tiggy and I can manage. I must compliment you – and the Laird – on your superior choice of staff,’ he said, indicating me with a nod of his head. ‘Tiggy and I have much in common.’
‘I’m happy you’re happy, sir,’ Beryl said diplomatically. ‘Enjoy your meal.’
She left the room and Zed smiled.
‘She is not what she seems either.’
‘Sandwich?’ I asked him, as I transferred one onto a plate and offered it to him.
‘Thank you.’
‘So, what is it that you do?’ I asked him.
‘I run a large communications company.’
‘Right, I have no idea what that actually means.’
‘Sometimes, neither do I,’ Zed chuckled. ‘Just think of it as an umbrella under which television, the internet, mobile phones and satellites, i.e., anything that allows the human race to communicate, sit.’
‘You’re a businessman?’
‘I am.’ He took a large bite of his open prawn sandwich and nodded in approval. ‘I must admit, being up here for the last couple of days has made me realise how much I needed a break. I spend most of my life in transit, racing across the world to meetings.’
‘That sounds very glamorous.’
‘Anything can look glamorous from the outside until you are living in it. Fast cars, first-class travel, the best hotels, wine and food . . . but it all becomes normal after a while. Being up here in this . . .’ Zed gestured towards the view of the mountains, ‘puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?’
‘Nature tends to do that, yes. Living here all the time, I have quite a lot of perspective.’ I smiled. ‘I take the day for what it is, try to live in the moment and enjoy it.’
‘Mindfulness,’ Zed muttered. ‘A life coach once gave me a book to read on the subject. It is definitely not something that comes naturally to me. But then, how can it, when I am always leaving on a plane one day and arriving in a different country the next? I have to prepare for it, look to the future, not just drift along in a haze of good intentions.’
‘Your lifestyle’s your choice though, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is.’ He looked at me as though I had suddenly given him the key to life itself. ‘I mean, I have enough money – I could sell the business and just . . . stop.’
‘You could. Now.’ I looked at my watch. ‘I’m really going to have to leave you. I have work to do.’
‘Really? You have hardly touched your wine.’
‘I don’t want to fall asleep at the wheel. I hope the tour this morning wasn’t too disappointing for you.’
‘Oh no, it was not disappointing in the slightest.’ He eyed me as I stood up and walked towards the door.
‘Tiggy?’
‘Yes?’
‘I am leaving tomorrow, but may I say, it has been a pleasure to meet you.’
‘And you,’ I said. ‘Goodbye then.’
‘Goodbye.’
*
‘You have been busy, little Hotchiwitchi. I smell a man,’ said Chilly later that day as I doled out his lunch into his tin bowl.
‘There you are,’ I said, ignoring his comment and placing the bowl on the small table next to him.
‘You take care. He ain’t what he seems.’ Chilly paused then, with his head cocked on one side, scrutinising me. ‘Or maybe he is!’ he cackled. ‘You smell danger, Hotchiwitchi? You should.’
‘Really? I’m not sure I smell anything at all. I hardly know him,’ I said. I was getting used to Chilly’s dramatic sweeping statements, but I was interested that he’d picked up on a man being around. And also, if I was truthful, the sense of discomfort I felt around Zed.
‘Now, sit down there and tell me what your daddy say ’bout where you did come f
rom,’ he said as I placed a cup of the revoltingly strong coffee he liked to drink next to him.
‘Well, he said that I had to go to a city called Granada, and that opposite the Alhambra was a place called Sacromonte. I have to knock on a blue door and ask for someone called Angelina.’
At first I thought that Chilly was having some kind of fit, because he was doubled up and making strange guttural sounds. But when he lifted his head, his expression showed he was either laughing or crying, because there were tears streaming down his cheeks.
‘What? What is it?’
He mumbled under his breath in Spanish, and fiercely wiped his cheeks with his fists.
‘What? What is it?’
‘The wind did blow you here to me. After all these years, you came as was told.’
‘What was “told”?’ I frowned.
‘That you would come and I do guide you home. Yes, you were born in a cave in Sacromonte, little Hotchiwitchi, and I did already know it,’ he nodded vehemently. ‘The seven caves of Sacromonte . . . Sacromonte . . .’
He then repeated the word over and over, continuing to cradle his emaciated frame, arms clasped around his chest. I felt strange and shivery as I suddenly remembered those visions I’d had of being lifted towards the roof of a cave . . .
‘It is . . . your home,’ he whispered. ‘Why be afraid? Kin knows kin, you were sent here to me. I do help you, Hotchiwitchi.’
‘This place . . . Sacromonte, why is it so special?’
‘Because it is ours. A place that do belong to us. And also because . . .’ his finger pointed to the brass bed, ‘of that.’
I looked at the bed but could see nothing, except a brightly crocheted blanket.
‘That, girl.’ Chilly realigned his finger, and I saw he was now pointing to a guitar that stood against the wall. ‘Bring it here,’ he ordered me. ‘I show you.’
I stood up, took the instrument across to him and laid it into his outstretched hands. I watched as he caressed it, almost like a mother would her child. It was an old guitar, with different proportions to ones I’d seen before, the dark wood polished to a high shine, the area around the sound hole inlaid with gleaming mother-of-pearl.
Chilly’s gnarled fingers clasped the guitar’s neck and pulled it across his chest. He swiped his fingers downwards and a hollow, discordant sound filled the smoky room. He swiped again, then I watched as he fiddled with each string, one hand testing the sound, as the other struggled to manipulate the tension.
‘¡Ahora!’ he said, having given one last strum. His booted foot began to beat time on the floor in a steady rhythm and his fingers moved across the strings as his foot pounded faster and faster. Then his fingers – that seemed as if they were released from their arthritic state simply by the joyous sound they were making – strummed at speed until the little cabin was filled with the pulsating cadences of what could only be associated with one unique sound:
Flamenco.
Then Chilly began to sing, his voice breaking at first, as tired and worn as the strings his fingers were manipulating so deftly. Slowly, the growl of years of phlegm collected from his pipe smoking dissipated and a deep resonant sound replaced it.
I closed my eyes, my feet pounding too, the entire cabin vibrating with the pulse of the music. I knew this rhythm as I knew myself, the incessant beat of the music making me desperate simply to get up and dance . . .
My arms rose above my head of their own accord, and I stood up, my body and soul responding naturally to the incredible music Chilly was playing. And I danced – by some alchemy, my feet and hands knowing exactly what to do . . .
One last strum of the strings, an ‘¡Olé!’ from Chilly, then there was silence.
I opened my eyes, feeling breathless from exertion, and saw Chilly was collapsed over the guitar, panting heavily.
‘Chilly, are you okay?’
I went to him, feeling for his pulse, and there it was, beating fast but steadily.
‘Can I get you some water?’
Eventually, he raised his head a little and turned it towards me, his eyes bright.
‘No, Hotchiwitchi, but you can get me some whisky.’ He grinned.
9
I woke up the following morning and thought what an extraordinary day yesterday had been. With Chilly, it felt that every time I went to visit him, the entire experience had a dreamlike quality. As for Zed, I’d never had a man pay me that amount of attention or compliments and I didn’t really know how to react. Yes, he was physically attractive, but there was also something about him – about his strange . . . familiarity with me, that I couldn’t work out.
‘As if he knows me,’ I whispered to myself. One of my big problems was that I was pretty innocent when it came to men. I’d had very few relationships and I’d taken each one at face value and trusted them. I’d been burnt more than once because of that, and these days, I felt I must give any prospective suitor a number of in-depth interviews before we even reached the holding hands stage. I’d been called ‘frigid’ for my refusal to jump into bed two seconds after I’d met someone, but I didn’t care – rather that than end up loathing myself the next morning. Me and my psyche just weren’t built for one-night stands; we were more ‘forever’ love, and that was just the way it was.
I walked down to the cats and entered the enclosure, enjoying the warmth on my face as I looked up at three of them sitting outside in the sun. I chatted to them for a while as I threw in their breakfast, then walked back up the slope towards the house, opened the back door of the Lodge and went inside.
‘Beryl?’ I called as I walked along the corridor.
She wasn’t at her usual station in the kitchen, but I could tell a fried breakfast had been on the go by the pans in the sink and the smell of bacon. I went to the fridge and took out Chilly’s lunch to take to him later, then went back out to the corridor. Beryl was probably upstairs changing the beds, and I decided I’d come back this afternoon to beg access to the computer in her office so I could look up the seven caves of Sacromonte in Granada.
‘Tiggy,’ said a voice behind me just as I made to leave.
‘Hi, Beryl.’ I turned round and smiled at her. ‘I bet you’re relieved everyone’s gone and peace is restored?’
‘Well, that was how things were last night, but,’ she lowered her voice, ‘then I woke up to an email from the Laird this morning, telling me that Zed has apparently decided to stay on here for the foreseeable future. The other guests have left, but he’s still here and currently hogging my office. This huge Lodge just to accommodate one person!’
‘Zed’s decided to stay on?’ I repeated dully.
‘Yes, it seems he wishes to take a sabbatical, get away from it all for a little longer, so the Laird said.’
‘Oh God,’ I whispered more to myself than Beryl. ‘Well then, I’ll come back and beg the internet another time.’
‘By the way,’ Beryl said as I headed for the door, ‘he told me this morning that his decision to extend his stay was to do with something you’d said to him yesterday.’
‘Really? Well, I can’t think what. I’m off to see Chilly, Beryl. Bye.’
As I drove towards Chilly’s cabin, I pondered how I felt about Zed’s continuing presence, and felt a tingle of trepidation in my stomach.
‘You early,’ Chilly muttered when I knocked and let myself in. Although how he knew I was, given there wasn’t a clock in the place, I didn’t know.
‘I was worried about you after yesterday, so I came to check you were okay.’
‘No need to worry, girl. Yesterday the best time I did have in years.’
‘Chilly, this Sacromonte place, the caves . . . is that where you were born too?’
‘No, I’m a Catalan, born on the beach in Barcelona, under a wagon.’
‘So how come you know about Sacromonte?’
‘My great-grandmother was born there. She was a powerful bruja. Cousins, aunties, uncles . . . many family were from there.’
&n
bsp; ‘What’s a bruja?’
‘A wise woman, someone who see things. Micaela, she deliver your grandmother into the world. She was one who tell me you would come. And that I would send you home. I was itty-bitty boy, an’ I did play guitar for your grandmother. She become very famous.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Dancing, of course! Flamenco!’ Chilly put his hands together and beat out a rhythm. ‘It be in our blood.’ He picked up his pipe and relit it. ‘We were in Sacromonte at the great festival held at the Alhambra. She a kid like me.’ Chilly chuckled in delight. ‘I think after eighty-five years of waitin’, Micaela make mistake, that you would not come, but here you be.’
‘How do you know it is . . . me?’
‘Even if your papá not leave you letter, I would know.’
‘How?’
‘Ha ha ha!’ Chilly clapped his hands together, then slammed his fist down on the side of his chair. He reminded me of Rumpelstiltskin, and if he was upright I was sure that he would be doing a strange dance and chanting around a cooking pot.
‘What?’
‘You have her eyes, her grace, though you be pretty! She was ugly, until she dance. Then she beautiful.’ He pointed to the old brass bed. ‘Underneath, please. You get the tin and I be showing you your grandmother.’
I stood up to do as he asked, wondering at the ridiculousness of being in an icy Scottish wilderness with a crazy ancient gypsy, who was telling me that my arrival here had already been foretold. I knelt down and drew out a rusting shortbread tin.
‘I show you.’
I placed the tin on his lap and his arthritic fingers struggled to open it. When he did, black and white photos spilled onto his knees and the floor. I picked up the ones that had fallen and handed them to him.
‘Now, this be me. I did play at La Estampa in Barcelona . . . I was handsome, sí?’
I studied the black and white photo and saw a Chilly of perhaps seventy years ago; dark-haired and lithe-limbed beneath the traditional ruffled shirt, his guitar clutched to his chest. His eyes were on a woman who stood in front of him, arms held above her head, wearing a flamenco gown and a large flower in her gleaming hair.
‘Goodness, she’s beautiful. Is that my grandmother?’
The Moon Sister Page 11