The next morning, she boarded another train as the sun began to rise above the mountains. Even though her backside ached from the hard seat, and the invented widow’s weeds made her skin damp, she felt strangely free. Out of the windows she saw occasional glimpses of the ocean behind the small villages they passed, and she thought she smelt the fresh scent of sea and salt.
As the day wore on, she realised they must be approaching Barcelona, because at each stop, the train became more and more crowded with people speaking Catalan; some words were familiar to her, some not. Late in the afternoon, María finally saw the city skyline emerging on the horizon.
‘¡Dios mío, it’s enormous!’ she breathed. ‘How will I ever find you both here?’
To her right, she could see the sea wrapping around a peninsula like a sparkling blue apron, and the inhabitants of this great city had dwellings which stretched out across the plain, protected by a mountain range on one side. On the skyline, church spires soared upwards like daggers to the heavens.
She stepped off the train at the busy station and made her way outside, where the wide road was bustling with trams and automobiles, constantly beeping their horns. María felt like the peasant she was as she saw payo women wearing skirts that revealed their ankles and part of their shins, their hair cut short like a boy’s, their lips scarlet as though they had used a bright red crayon to colour them in. There were shops built into the lower half of the buildings, which had glass doors and windows displaying life-sized dolls wearing women’s clothes.
‘What is this place?’ she said under her breath as a number of cars behind her hooted.
‘!Oye! Move out of the way! You’re causing a traffic jam!’
The noise and the shouting made her break out into a cold sweat, and feeling faint, she darted to stand in the shade of an impossibly tall building. She asked a passing older man with dark skin, whom she took for one of her own, where she could find the Barrio Chino. The man spoke Catalan, but at least he waved in the direction of the sea, which was where María decided she should head.
A good while later, she was about to give up hope, lost in the endless cobbled backstreets, when she emerged out onto an esplanade, opposite which was the sea. By now, she was panting with thirst – she’d used up all her water some time ago – but was comforted by the sight of some shacks on the beach. She crossed the road and walked onto the white sand, and as she drew closer, heard the low strumming of a flamenco guitar.
She bent down to scoop up a handful of the sand and chuckled as the grains tickled her palm. Further along the beach, she noticed payo families having picnics and laughing as their children splashed in the waves. ‘How I wish I could do that,’ murmured María, realising there was a good chance she would drown if she tried, for she had never learnt to swim.
She turned away from the happy scene and headed for the more familiar shacks and the sound of the music – many of them were little more than sheets of tin and lengths of wood hammered together. Each one had a lopsided chimney poking out of the top, billowing with smoke. As she drew closer, she could smell a strong scent of rotting vegetables and overflowing drains.
She stumbled along the narrow, sandy walkway between the shacks, for the first time in her life feeling privileged to live in her cave. The shacks themselves were barely the size of her kitchen, and as she peered surreptitiously through the open entrances, she saw entire families crouched inside, eating or playing cards on the floor.
Eventually, panting and dizzy with thirst, she sat down where she was and rested her aching head on her knees.
‘Hola, señora.’
Maria looked up and saw a small, filthy child eyeing her from the entrance to a shack. ‘Are you sick?’ he said in Catalan.
‘No, but do you have some water?’ María asked desperately, indicating her tongue and panting to convey what she meant.
‘Sí, señora, I understand.’
The child disappeared inside and brought out a coffee cup the size of a doll’s. María’s heart sank but she gulped down the cool liquid, which tasted like ambrosia on her tongue.
‘Gracias,’ she said, ‘do you have some more?’
The boy ran back inside and refilled the tiny cup, which María returned to him again after draining it. He giggled and, as if they were playing a game, proceeded to refill the cup for her several times.
‘Where is your family?’ María asked, finally feeling revived.
‘They are not here, they go to work.’ The boy pointed to the great city behind them. ‘There is no one here but me. Play chapas?’
She smiled and nodded as he took some colourful bottle caps out of his pocket, and together they flicked the caps along the sand to see who could get one the farthest. She suppressed a laugh at the ridiculousness of having arrived in Barcelona and playing chapas with a strange boy, just as she had once with her own children.
‘Stefano!’
María looked up in surprise to see a large woman dressed in black staring down at her accusingly, as though she was a child snatcher.
‘Stefano! Where have you been, I have been looking for you everywhere! Who is this?’
María explained, then begged her pardon.
‘He told me there was nobody minding him,’ she said as she stood up and brushed the sand from her skirt.
‘He is always going missing,’ the woman clucked. ‘Now get inside, shoo!’ She sent the boy packing.
‘Where are you from?’ To María’s relief, the woman spoke in the gitano dialect.
‘Sacromonte.’
‘Ah, Sacromonte!’ She pulled two stools from inside and offered one to María. ‘Where is your husband? Looking for work in the city?’
‘No, he is here already and I have come in search of him.’
‘A wandering husband! I know the problem well. I am Teresa, what is your name?’
‘María Amaya Albaycín.’
‘Amaya you say? Why, I have Amaya cousins!’ Teresa slapped her huge thigh. ‘Do you know Leonor and Pancho?’
‘Yes, they live only two streets from me in Sacromonte. Leonor has just had a baby boy. She has seven children now,’ María explained.
‘Then you and I must be blood related.’ Teresa smiled. ‘Welcome! I am sure you are hungry after your long journey. I will bring you a bowl of soup.’
Relieved at her good fortune, and thanking the Blessed Virgin for the vast gitano network of relatives that stretched across Spain, María gulped back the thin soup, which tasted strange and salty.
‘Where is your husband working?’
‘In the Barrio Chino district in the Bar de Manquet.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He is a guitarist, and my daughter is with him, dancing. Do you know where it is?’
‘Sí.’ Teresa nodded and pointed behind her. ‘The Barrio Chino begins just along there, but if you are going at night, mind yourself. The bars are full of drunken dockworkers and sailors. It is not the place for a woman alone.’
‘But my husband told me it was the centre of flamenco and very well respected.’
‘The cuadros that perform there are indeed the best in Spain. My sons go there often, but that does not mean it is a respectable part of town.’ Teresa raised her eyebrows. ‘My sons visit whenever they have the money to do so. One of them told me there is a woman who dances there who strips off her clothes in search of a flea!’
‘Surely not?’ María was aghast.
‘This is Barcelona, not Sacromonte. Here, anything goes to earn your living.’
Visions of little Lucía being forced to strip off her clothes to find an imaginary flea filled María’s head. ‘Well, I must go and find them immediately. I have some very sad news to impart.’
‘What is that?’
‘Our son died recently. I tried to send a message via travellers heading for Barcelona, but I’ve had no reply.’
Teresa crossed herself and laid a stocky brown hand on María’s slender arm. ‘I am sorry to hear that. Lis
ten, you stay here with Stefano, and I will find one of my sons to escort you tonight to the Barrio Chino.’
She heaved herself up and María was left in the claustrophobic, sandy alleyway, every bone in her body aching to be back home in the safe environs of Sacromonte.
Any fantasies she’d previously harboured about their Barcelona relatives had been laid to rest. She’d envisaged them in pretty houses, with running water and big kitchens, just like the payos in Granada. Instead, it seemed they lived more like rats swarming on a beach, the shifting sand a metaphor for the uncertain path they trod between life and death. And somewhere amongst them were her husband and daughter . . .
Teresa returned shortly with a scrawny young man who sported a neatly oiled moustache.
‘This is Joaquin, my youngest son. He has volunteered to take you to the Bar de Manquet tonight. You know the place, sí?’
‘Sí, Mamá. Hola, señora.’ Joaquin gave María a small bow, sizing up her widow’s weeds.
‘And you are welcome to stay with me tonight,’ Teresa reassured her. ‘Although I can only offer you a pallet on the floor.’
‘Gracias,’ she said. ‘Do you have anywhere I can wash?’
‘At the end of the row.’ Teresa pointed.
María walked along the row of shacks and stood in the queue of women waiting to use the public latrines. Inside, it stank worse than her poor son’s decaying body, but at least there was a cracked and faded mirror hung on the wall and a barrel of water in which to wash her hands and her face. Avoiding her lips for fear of a drop of it going into her mouth, she splashed the water on her face and removed the smudges of dirt. Discarding her widow’s weeds, she shook her hair loose, took a comb to it and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
‘You made it here alone, María,’ she told herself. ‘And now you must find your family.’
*
By the time she returned to Teresa’s shack, various men and women, none of whom María recognised but who were apparently related to her, had gathered outside to welcome her. Someone had brought some anise brandy and someone else a bottle of manzanilla wine to toast the sad passing of her son. As night fell, a guitarist appeared and María realised she was attending an impromptu wake with people she’d never met before. Such was the gitano way, and tonight she was glad of it.
‘Is it not time to go?’ she whispered to Joaquin, who shook his head.
‘Nothing happens in the Barrio Chino until late.’
Eventually, he nodded at her and told the assembled party, which had grown in number as the evening wore on, that he would take María to find her husband. As they set off, it crossed María’s mind that no one here had said they had seen either José or Lucía.
Unused to alcohol, María regretted the glass of wine she’d taken to be sociable, as her feet struggled over the sand behind Joaquin. She could already hear the thrumming sound of flamenco coming from the other side of the road, and her stomach somersaulted at the thought of seeing José.
A row of lights in the distance and a constant flow of people indicated where they were headed. Joaquin didn’t say much and, unlike his mother’s, his Catalan accent was strong. After crossing the road, Joaquin led her into a rabbit warren of cobbled alleyways, each one lined with numerous bars. Chairs were set outside and women in tight-fitting dresses were advertising the food and the music on offer inside. The sound of strumming guitars was even stronger now and María followed him until they came to a small square filled with bars.
‘The Bar de Manquet is here,’ Joaquin grunted, indicating a café out of which people spilled, the sound of a cantaor singing a melancholy song emanating from within. María could see that this was not a sophisticated crowd; those around her were either gitanos or common labourers drinking cheap wine and brandy. Yet the throng outside was larger than any other café they’d seen.
‘We will go in?’ asked Joaquin.
‘Sí,’ nodded María, not wishing to lose him in the crowd.
Inside, the noise was raucous, people sitting at tables and at the bar, with not an inch of space to be had.
‘Do you know who the manager here is?’ María asked, casting her eyes to the small stage at the back of the café where the cantaor was sitting. A couple of girls in flamenco dresses were smoking at the bar and talking to payo customers.
‘Buy me a drink and I will ask,’ Joaquin suggested.
María used her dwindling supply of pesetas to buy Joaquin a brandy. He talked in fast Catalan to the bartender as a roar went up. She turned and saw that a dancer had sashayed onto the stage.
‘He says the manager will be back later,’ Joaquin shouted into her ear, handing her a glass of water.
‘Sí, gracias.’ María stood on tiptoe to peer over the heads, watching the dancer. Another roar went up as a male dancer swaggered onto the stage.
‘Señores y señoras!’ shouted a man. ‘Put your hands together for La Romerita y El Gato!’
The crowd erupted as El Gato placed a hand on his partner’s cheek. She smiled at him and they nodded at the guitarist.
A small shiver ran down María’s spine as the two of them began to move together. The woman’s feet began to tap out a beat, and her arms rose above her head as El Gato swept a hand down her back.
María remembered how she and José had danced together in their youth, and as she watched them, her eyes filled with tears for what had been. No matter that this café was ostensibly unimpressive and the audience basic, the two dancers were amongst the best she had ever seen. For a few minutes, she was transported with the rest of the audience as all their passion and brilliance played out on the stage in front of her. María raised her hands in applause as they took their bow and left the stage to make way for the next performer.
‘They were wonderful.’ She turned to Joaquin in excitement, but found he was no longer next to her. Panicking, she looked around her and saw him smoking at the bar, chatting to an acquaintance. Her eyes fell on La Romerita, who was enjoying the attentions of admiring male customers, then travelled back to the stage, where another beautiful woman with huge flashing eyes was performing a zambra. Like La Romerita before her, María knew the woman was a dancer of brilliance. Then she looked closer, because there was something about her she recognised . . .
‘Juana la Faraona!’ María muttered. She was a cousin of José’s who had left for Barcelona years ago, and had arranged José’s first contract at a bar here. If anyone would know where her husband and daughter were, it was this woman. She was family after all.
After Juana had walked off stage to rapturous applause, María took a deep breath and pushed through the crowd to speak to her.
‘Perdón, Juana, my name is María Amaya Albaycín. I am the wife of José and the mother of Lucía.’
Juana’s lovely eyes turned towards her and surveyed her. María had never felt so bedraggled and dowdy as she did next to this exotic creature. In her flamenco heels, Juana towered over her, and despite the sheen of sweat on her smooth skin, a black curl of hair was still placed perfectly in the middle of her forehead.
‘Hola, María,’ she said. ‘Drink?’ She proffered the bottle of manzanilla that sat on the bar in the dancers’ corner.
‘No, gracias. I have come to find José and Lucía; I have some news for them. José said this was the bar where they were working.’
‘They were here, yes, but they left.’
‘Do you know where they have gone?’
‘To the Villa Rosa. They were offered more money by the manager, Miguel Borrul.’
‘How far is it?’ María said, feeling her legs go weak with relief.
‘Not far, but’ – Juana glanced at the clock on the wall – ‘I doubt you will find them still there. The child dances earlier in the evening to avoid being caught in a late night police raid.’
‘Do you know where they live?’
‘Sí, three doors away from me.’
María listened as the woman explained where she should go to fi
nd them.
‘Gracias.’ María turned and made to leave.
‘Why not go tomorrow?’ Juana’s eyes seemed to signal a warning. ‘It is late now and perhaps they’re asleep.’
‘No, I have come a long way to find them.’
Juana shrugged and offered her a cigarette, which she refused. ‘Your daughter is very talented, María; she will go far as long as the fire is not sucked out of her by her father while she is still so young. Good luck,’ she called out to her as María made her way towards the door. She looked around for Joaquin, but he had disappeared, so she left the bar.
Even though it was after midnight, the streets were crowded with drunken men who leered at her and shouted filthy expletives. She did her best to follow Juana’s instructions – she’d said it was no more than a five-minute walk away – but ended up taking a wrong turn and finding herself down a narrow passageway that led to a dead end. Turning round, a hulking figure of a man walked towards her, blocking her path.
‘Hola, señorita. How much for follar?’ He made to grab her, but she ducked out of his way and he fell heavily against the wall.
‘¡Dios mío! ¡Dios mío! How can José have brought our daughter to live in such a place?!’
The building she was looking for was on the other side of the road, down another narrow passage. Breathing heavily, María rapped on the front door, only to be met with someone shouting at her from another window.
‘Go away! We are sleeping in here!’
María tried the door, desperate to get inside, and found it was open.
In the dim flame of the single oil lamp that lit the space, she saw she was standing in a hallway. There was a steep wooden staircase rising up in front of her.
‘Juana said the first floor, second door on the left,’ María panted, mounting the stairs as quietly as she could. The light from the lamp downstairs barely lit the floor above but she located the right door then knocked timidly. There was no response. Knocking once more, but afraid of waking up the other residents, she turned the handle, which opened easily.
A streetlamp lit the tiny room through the uncurtained windows. And there, on a mattress on the floor, lay the beloved and familiar shape of her sleeping daughter.
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