The Moon Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  Lucía dug her small feet into the earth and executed a quick zapateado, her tiny feet beating fast against the ground. ‘Papá says there will be thousands watching me and I will be discovered and taken off to Madrid or Barcelona to be a star!’

  ‘I have heard, yes, and it is very exciting news.’

  ‘Will you be dancing, Mamá? Papá is entering and says I must sneak onto the stage when he starts to play, because I am too young to enter properly. It is a good plan, sí?’

  ‘Yes, but, Lucía,’ María put her finger to her lips, ‘it must be a secret. If anyone finds out what your father is planning, they will try and stop you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Sí, Mamá. I say nothing,’ she whispered. ‘Now, I must go and practise.’

  Two days later, María took the scissors to her beautiful flamenco dress. It was a deep red, with black and white ruffles – each one of which she had sewn on herself. She remembered the joy with which she had worn it in her younger years, how her body had felt transformed as it was hugged by the corset, the delicate cotton sleeves dusting her shoulders. It was as if she was cutting out her heart, saying goodbye to all the dreams she’d once had in her youth: of a happy loving marriage, contented children, and dancing into a gilded future with her handsome husband.

  Snip, snip, snip went the scissors as row after row of ruffles on the train fluttered to the ground until only a short length of them – specified by José – was left.

  When she had finished, María gathered the entrails of her dress together. And despite knowing that each intricately sewn band could be reused on a future dress, or to liven up the hem or waistband of one of her skirts, María took the scissors to them again and snipped away until nothing remained but a pile of fragments. She swept them into her basket, then took them over to the fire and threw them onto the flames.

  *

  By the boiling June morning of the first Concurso de Cante Jondo – the Contest of the Deep Song – the village of Sacromonte had increased its population by twenty-fold and more. Those gitanos who had arrived from all over Spain and could not fit into their friends’ and relatives’ caves were camping out along the narrow paths that wound through the maze of caves on the hillside, and in the olive groves beneath it.

  Some of José’s Barcelona cousins had come to stay, their Catalan accents as strong as their appetites; María had made a large vat of her famous puchero a la gitanilla – a thick stew of meat, vegetables and garbanzo beans – for which she had reluctantly snapped the neck of her oldest chicken.

  The Barcelona cousins left early in the afternoon with Felipe in tow, eager to take the long walk down the valley across the River Darro and up the steep mountainside to the Alhambra.

  ‘Felipe, you must take care of yourself and not come home too late,’ María had said as she had helped him tie his bright blue sash around his waist. He twitched out of her reach as she tried to brush dirt from his vest.

  ‘Enough, Mamá,’ he’d muttered, his thin face reddening in embarrassment as two young girl cousins looked on in amusement.

  María watched them saunter down the path with several other young men and women from the village, all dressed in their finest, their boots polished to a shine, their dark hair gleaming with oil.

  ‘Our village has never been so popular,’ José commented as he manoeuvred round a family of six who were making camp on the dusty path just outside their cave. ‘And to think most of them left here, vowing never to return. They spat on us then, but now they all clamour to come back,’ he said with satisfaction as he passed her to step inside.

  You left once and came back too . . .

  Still, this was indeed a moment to be savoured: this week Sacromonte would be the centre of the flamenco universe. And because flamenco was the gitanos’ universe, it seemed every member of their clan had travelled here from far and wide to be part of it. Smoke continually billowed out of every cave as the women tried to cook enough food to keep their guests’ stomachs full. The air was filled with the smell of unwashed bodies and the stench of the dozens of extra mules that stood in the shade of the olive groves, their eyelids drooping in the heat, their large ears flicking away the flies. On each of her many trips to fetch more water, María was hailed by a raft of faces she hadn’t seen for years. The question they asked her was always the same: ‘When can we see you dance?’

  When she told them she had not entered the competition, they were aghast.

  ‘But you must enter, María. You are one of the best!’

  Having offered the first few enquirers a feeble explanation – that she’d given up, was too busy with her family, to cries of ‘But no one is too busy to dance! It’s in your blood forever!’ – María learnt to offer none. Even her mother, as one of the wealthier residents of Sacromonte – a woman who usually turned up her nose at flamenco because she saw it as another way that gitanos sold their bodies to the payos – had looked surprised when María told her she wasn’t entering.

  ‘It is a pity you have lost your passion for dancing. Along with much else,’ she’d sniffed.

  The hubbub of guitars and stamping feet slowly subsided as the village of Sacromonte made its way down the snaking pathways. María watched the colourful, noisy line for a while, trying to capture a little of their exuberance for herself, but her soul was closed to it. Last night, José had rolled into bed at dawn, stinking of cheap perfume. She hadn’t seen Carlos since yesterday lunchtime, but at least Eduardo had been by her side to help fetch and carry this morning.

  ‘I must go too,’ said José, emerging from the cave, looking handsome in his white ruffled shirt, black trousers and sash. ‘You know what to do with Lucía. Don’t be late,’ he said as he slung his guitar over his shoulder and hurried off to join the rest.

  ‘¡Buena suerte!’ she called to him, but he did not turn back to acknowledge her.

  ‘Are you well, Mamá?’ Eduardo asked her. ‘Here, take some water, you look so tired.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled gratefully at her son, took the mug and drained it. ‘Have you seen Carlos?’

  ‘Earlier, yes. He was down at the bar with some of his friends.’

  ‘Is he coming tonight?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Eduardo shrugged his shoulders. ‘He was too drunk to talk.’

  ‘He is only fifteen,’ María sighed. ‘You should catch up with your father, Eduardo. I must stay here and help Lucía dress.’

  ‘She is waiting for you in your bedroom.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Mamá . . .’ Eduardo hesitated for a moment. ‘Do you think that this plan of Papá’s is right? My sister is barely ten years old. It is said there are to be crowds of over four thousand people there tonight. Will she not make a fool of herself? Of Papá? Of us all?’

  ‘Eduardo, there is nothing about your sister that is foolish and we must both believe your papá knows what he is doing. Now, I will see you up at the Alhambra when I have dressed Lucía.’

  ‘Sí, Mamá.’

  Eduardo left the cave and María made her way back inside – even in the bright afternoon sunlight, the kitchen was dim.

  ‘Lucía? It is time to get ready,’ she called as she opened the curtain and entered the blackness of their bedroom.

  ‘Yes, Mamá.’

  María fumbled for the matches and candle beside the bed, thinking that Lucía did not sound like herself at all.

  ‘Are you ill?’ she asked as she looked down at her little daughter curled up in a ball on her pallet.

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘Then what is wrong?’

  ‘I . . . feel frightened, Mamá. So many people . . . maybe we could stay here together instead? You could make those little cakes I like and we can eat a whole plate of them, and then when Papá comes back, we can tell him that we got lost on our way?’

  In the candlelight, Lucía’s eyes were huge and bright with fear as María pulled her up into her arms and sat her on her knee.

  ‘Querida, there is no need to be fri
ghtened,’ she said gently as she undressed her daughter. ‘It is the same, however many people you are dancing in front of. Just close your eyes and pretend that you are at home here, dancing in the kitchen for me and Papá and your brothers.’

  ‘What if the duende doesn’t come, Mamá? What if I can’t feel it?’

  María reached for the miniature dress she had fashioned for Lucía and put it over her head. ‘It will happen, querida, once you hear the beat of the cajón and your father’s guitar, you will forget everything. There.’ María put the last hook in place on Lucía’s slender back. ‘Stand up and let’s have a look at you.’

  She lifted her daughter off her knee and Lucía twirled, the train swishing behind her like a hungry shark. In the past two weeks, she had taught Lucía how to handle it, afraid of the ignominy of her daughter tripping over it in front of thousands of people. Yet, like everything else to do with dancing, Lucía had taken the train in her stride. María watched now as she flicked it expertly out of her way and turned towards her mother.

  ‘How do I look, Mamá?’

  ‘Like the princess you are. Now come, we must go. You must wear your train hitched up under your cloak so that nobody sees.’ María leant down and nuzzled her daughter’s nose with her own. ‘Ready?’ she said, as she offered her hand.

  ‘Ready.’

  María saddled Paca, the mule, and lifted Lucía onto her back, making sure the train of the dress was hidden. They joined the stragglers at the rear of the procession that was still winding its way down the mountain, and the closer they got to the Alhambra, Paca panting from the effort of climbing the steep hill, the more elated Lucía appeared as she waved down at friends and neighbours. An elderly woman broke into song, her hoarse voice lifting into the light June breeze, and María and Lucía clapped along, joining in the chorus with the other villagers.

  Two hours after they’d set off, they arrived at the Gate of Justice, where people were streaming through the keyhole-shaped entrance to the Alhambra’s main square. María helped Lucía off Paca’s back and tied the mule beneath a cypress tree, where she happily grazed on a small patch of grass.

  Although it was almost six o’clock, the sun was still strong and illuminated the intricate ancient carvings on the walls. Everywhere people were touting their wares, selling water, oranges and roasted almonds. María held tightly onto her daughter’s hand as they followed the noise of hundreds of guitars and stamping feet. Behind the Plaza de los Aljibes, where the competition was being held, the great red walls of the Alhambra were lit up, forming a breathtaking backdrop. She pulled Lucía towards the Gate of Wine, where they were to meet José. She looked down and saw that the tiled floor had been covered in lavender buds, perhaps to mask the stench of so many sweating bodies packed closely together.

  ‘I am thirsty, Mamá, can we sit down and take a drink?’ Lucía sank to the ground as María hurriedly searched in her basket for the tin flask she’d brought with her. She crouched next to her daughter as a wave of cheering broke out, signalling that the next contestant had just walked onto the stage.

  ‘Look at him! Surely, he should be dead?!’ María heard someone comment. And indeed, as the crowd surged forward and she pulled up her daughter before she was trampled on, she could see that the small figure standing with his guitar was a very old man.

  ‘El Tío Tenazas!’ announced a disembodied voice from somewhere in front of them. A hush fell as the man tuned his guitar. Even from this distance, María could see that his hands were shaking violently.

  ‘He used to be famous,’ her neighbour whispered.

  ‘Someone said he walked for two days to get here,’ said another.

  ‘Mamá, I can’t see!’ said Lucía, tugging at her mother’s skirt. A man next to them lifted Lucía up in his arms.

  The old man on stage strummed his guitar slowly and then began to sing in a surprisingly strong voice. Those who had been whispering and giggling fell silent as he performed. It was a song that immediately took María spinning back to when she’d heard her grandfather sing – a poignant cante grande that she’d listened to many times. Like the rest of the crowd, she felt every painful word cut into her soul as El Tenazas mourned the loss of the love of his life.

  The whooping cries of ‘¡Otra! ¡Otra!’ showed that he’d been a great success amongst the most demanding crowd imaginable.

  ‘He has the duende, Mamá,’ Lucía whispered as she was lowered to the ground. Then a hand grasped María’s shoulder and she turned to see José.

  ‘Where have you been? I told you to meet me near the Gate of Wine. Come, we are on after the next cantaor.’

  ‘We got swept up in the crowd,’ María explained, struggling to keep hold of Lucía’s hand amidst the mass of people as her husband led them towards the stage.

  ‘Well, thank the gods you are here now, or all this would have been for nothing. Hide behind this cypress tree and fix her hair,’ he ordered as the crowd roared to welcome the next performer. ‘I must go. Now, my Lucía.’ José bent down and took his daughter’s small hands in his. ‘Wait until the fourth bar like we practised. When I shout “¡Olé!” you run from here straight onto the stage.’

  ‘Do I look well, Papá?’ Lucía asked him as María removed the cloak from her shoulders and unhitched the train from the back of her dress.

  But José was already heading towards the side of the stage.

  María’s heart beat in rhythm to the music as she decided that her husband must have been afflicted by some mental derangement to even think this plan could work. She gazed down at her little girl, knowing that if Lucía’s nerve failed her and she ran from the stage in fright, they would be the laughing stock not only of Sacromonte, but of the whole gitano world.

  Blessed Virgin, protect my beloved daughter . . .

  All too soon, the cantaor took his bow to a mixed reception and a few seconds later, José strode onto the stage.

  ‘I wish I had some shoes, Mamá, the beats would be so much clearer,’ Lucía sighed.

  ‘You do not need shoes, querida, you have the duende in your feet.’ As José began to play, María pushed her daughter forward. ‘Run, Lucía!’ she shouted, then watched her darting through the crowd, her train held over her small arm.

  ‘¡Olé!’ shouted José, pausing after the fourth bar.

  ‘¡Olé!’ repeated the crowd as Lucía leapt onto the stage then sashayed over to the centre of it. Immediately, there were shouts of disapproval, and ‘Get the baby off and back to her cradle!’

  In horror, María saw a large man climbing up the steps towards her daughter, who had taken up her opening position, her arms raised above her head. Then the sound of those extraordinary tiny feet began to beat the ground, Lucía holding her position as she stamped out a mesmeric pulsating rhythm. The large man attempted to walk onto the stage and grab her, but another man stopped him as Lucía turned in a circle, her feet still beating, maintaining her opening position. By the time she was back facing the audience, her hands were clapping in a palmas in tandem with her feet. Her chin was raised and her eyes looked heavenward.

  ‘¡Olé!’ she shouted as her father resumed his playing.

  ‘¡Olé!’ rejoined the audience as her feet continued to beat out the rhythm. José watched his daughter take centre stage, the turn of her head majestic as the audience quietened in awe. María looked at her daughter’s eyes, bright under the spotlight that was now trained on her, and knew she had travelled to a faraway place where she could not be reached until her dance was over.

  José’s voice – never usually his strong point – soared out from the mountain as he accompanied her.

  With a sigh of exhaustion, María looked beyond her husband and daughter to the great fortress of the Alhambra, then sank to her knees, dizziness overwhelming her.

  Tonight, she knew she had lost both of them.

  She came to minutes later, to the sound of cheering that seemed to go on and on.

  ‘Are you well, señora? Here.’ A f
lask of water was thrust at her by a neighbour. ‘Drink some, it is very hot.’

  María did so, her senses slowly returning to her. She thanked the woman and rose unsteadily to her feet.

  ‘What has happened?’ she asked, still dazed.

  ‘The little girl has caused a riot!’ the woman said. ‘They are calling her “La Candela”, for she burns so bright.’

  ‘Her name is Lucía,’ María whispered as she regained her bearings and stood on the tips of her toes to see her daughter standing on stage with a woman in an ornate white flamenco dress. The woman was on her knees in front of her daughter.

  ‘Who is that?’ María asked her neighbour.

  ‘Why, it is La Macarrona herself! She is bowing to the new little queen.’

  María saw La Macarrona rise, take Lucía’s hand in hers and kiss it. More cheering from the audience followed as woman and child took a further bow, then La Macarrona swept Lucía off the stage.

  ‘Who is she?’ was the chat amongst the crowd as María made her way towards the stage to collect her daughter.

  ‘She’s from Seville . . . Madrid . . . Barcelona . . .’

  ‘No, I have seen her dancing by the fountain here in Granada . . .’

  There was a crowd of bodies twenty deep at the side of the stage. María could not see her daughter in the centre of them, only José smiling beneficently. Just as she was about to kill to find her daughter, José bent down and hoisted Lucía onto his shoulders.

  ‘She is safe, she is safe,’ María panted as she stared with the rest of the crowd at the jubilant child.

  ‘Mamá?’

  ‘Eduardo! Gracias a Dios,’ she said, tears of relief falling down her cheeks as her eldest son embraced her.

  ‘It was a triumph!’ Eduardo murmured. ‘Everyone here is talking about Lucía. We must go and congratulate both her and Papá.’

  ‘Yes, of course we must.’ María scraped her knuckles across her wet eyes and pulled away from her son’s chest. ‘She must come home now; she will be exhausted.’

  It took another few minutes to push through the crowd surrounding José and Lucía. Even though the next performer was on stage, they had created a court of their own at the side of it.