‘I have all the time in the world,’ I smiled, realising I did.
‘You must know where you have come from to see where you are going, Erizo. As long as you have the energy to concentrate, I will begin.’ Angelina reached to me and took my pulse. She nodded. ‘Okay. Is better.’
‘Good,’ I replied, thinking that I did feel better. My heart had stopped racing and I felt unusually calm.
‘Well then, you know Lucía was with her papá, dancing in Barcelona, after her mother left to return to Sacromonte?’
‘Yes.’
‘Lucía stay away from Sacromonte for over ten years, learning her craft. She dance in many places, but always she and José go back to Barcelona. So I will begin from when Lucía is twenty-one. It would have been, let me see . . . 1933 . . .’
Lucía
Barcelona, Spain
August 1933
Flamenco fan (abanico)
Used in flamenco dancing as well as the secret language of flirtation.
22
‘Come, Lucía. It is time to go and dance.’
‘I am tired, Papá. Maybe someone else can take my place tonight.’
José looked at his daughter lying on her old mattress in her tiny room, smoking.
‘We are all tired, chiquita, but the money has to be earned.’
‘That is what you have said to me every day of my life. Maybe today is a different day, one where I will not work.’ Lucía tapped her cigarette and ash fell to the floor. ‘Where has it got me, eh, Papá? I have travelled to Cadiz, Seville, on tours right across the provinces, and I have even danced with the great Raquel Meller in Paris, yet still we live in this shitty dump!’
‘Now we have our own kitchen,’ José reminded her.
‘As we never cook anything, what use is it?’ Lucía stood up, wandered to the open window and tossed out the cigarette stub.
‘I thought you lived to dance, Lucía.’
‘I do, Papá, but the bar-owners work me like a common dockhand – sometimes three shows a night to put more money into their pockets! Besides, the crowd gets smaller every day because they do not want me any more. I am twenty-one years old – no longer a child – just a woman stuck in a child’s body.’ Lucía swept her hands down her body to emphasise the point. With her tiny waist, flat chest and slender limbs, she stood at little more than four feet tall.
‘That is not true, Lucía. Your public adores you.’
‘Papá, the men who come to the café want breasts and hips. I could be taken for a boy.’
‘That is part of your charm, what makes La Candela unique! People don’t flock to see you for your breasts, but for your footwork and your passion. Now, stop your self-indulgence, get dressed and come to the bar. There is someone I want you to meet.’
‘Who? Another impresario who will claim to make me famous?’
‘No, Lucía, a famous singer who has recently recorded a record album. I will see you at the bar.’
The door slammed behind José, and Lucía thumped the wall with her fist. She turned back to the open window and gazed out onto the busy, burning streets beneath her. Eleven long years she’d spent here, dancing her heart out . . .
‘No family, no life . . .’
She looked down and saw a young couple kissing beneath her window. ‘And no boyfriend,’ she added as she lit another cigarette. ‘Papá wouldn’t like that, now would he? You are my boyfriends,’ she told her feet – so small that she had to wear children’s shoes.
Lucía stripped off her nightdress and donned her white and red flamenco gown, which stank of the sweat that poured off her when she danced. The ruffled white sleeves barely managed to hide the yellow stains, and the train was tattered and filthy, but there was only enough money to take it to the laundry once a week on a Monday, and today was a Saturday. She hated the weekends – her own stench made her feel no better than a common prostitute.
‘If only Mamá was here,’ she sighed as she stood in front of the cracked mirror, gathered her long raven mane and twirled it up into a coil. She remembered how her mother had once sat here on the mattress beside her, gently combing her hair.
‘I miss you, Mamá,’ she said, as she rimmed her eyes with kohl and added rouge to her cheeks and lips. ‘Perhaps I will tell Papá again that we must return to Granada, because I need a rest, but he will say as always that we do not have the money for such a journey.’
She pouted at her reflection, then shook out her train and struck a pose. ‘I look like one of those dolls they sell in souvenir shops! Maybe a rich payo would like to adopt me and play with me!’
She left the apartment and walked down the narrow passage and onto the main thoroughfare of the Barrio Chino. Shopkeepers, bartenders and their patrons waved and whistled at her in recognition.
Which isn’t surprising really, as I must have danced in every bar in the place, she thought.
Still, the attention she drew and the raised glasses from the bars accompanied by voices shouting ‘La Candela! La Reina!’ cheered her up. She was certainly not short of a free drink or company round here.
‘Hola, chiquita,’ she heard someone call from behind her and turned to see Chilly weaving his way through the throng. He was already wearing his black trousers and waistcoat, ready for the performance tonight, his ruffled white shirt partially unbuttoned in the sweltering August heat.
In the past few years, Chilly had become a close friend. He and Lucía were part of José’s cuadro – her father’s troupe of flamenco artists who performed together in the numerous bars of the Barrio Chino. Whilst Chilly and José played the guitar and sang, Juana la Faraona, her father’s cousin, danced with Lucía, the older woman’s maturity and curves providing a contrast to Lucía’s youth and fire. It was Juana who had suggested they brought in another female dancer to their little troupe over a year ago now.
‘We do not need another dancer,’ Lucía had immediately protested at the suggestion. ‘Am I not enough? Do I not bring in many pesetas for you all?’
Despite his daughter’s irritation, José had agreed with Juana that another younger and more voluptuous dancer would make them more bookable. Rosalba Ximénez, with her auburn hair and green eyes, was no match for Lucía’s passionate bulerías, but danced the alegrías with sensuality and elegance. Already aware of Lucía’s fiery reputation, she had gravitated towards the calmer Chilly, and Lucía’s initial jealousy had only grown as she had perceived that Rosalba was slowly taking her childhood friend away from her.
Yet now, Chilly was a grown man, and, ignoring Lucía’s sulks, he had married Rosalba a month ago in a weekend-long wedding that had the entire Barrio Chino celebrating their nuptials.
‘You look better than yesterday, Lucía,’ he said as he caught up with her. ‘Did you take the tonic I prepared for you?’
Chilly was the cuadro’s resident brujo, forever concocting herbal remedies for its members, and Lucía trusted in his skills and his gift for seeing implicitly.
‘Yes, Chilly, I did. I think it helped, I feel a little more energy today.’
‘Then that is all to the good, although the most basic cure is to stop pushing yourself so hard.’ He stared at her in the way that made her feel he was scanning her soul. She averted her eyes and did not answer, so he continued. ‘You are on your way to the Bar de Manquet?’
‘Yes, I’m meeting Papá there.’
‘Then I will accompany you.’
Chilly walked along beside her in the sweltering sunshine. Being a weekend, the bars were already packed with dockworkers and labourers spending their wages on beer and brandy.
‘What is wrong, Lucía?’ he asked her quietly.
‘Nothing,’ she said immediately, not wishing her woes to travel back to Rosalba’s ears.
‘I know there is – I can see your heart is empty.’
‘Sí, Chilly. You are right,’ she capitulated. ‘My heart is . . . bored, but most of all lonely.’
‘I understand, but . . .’ Chilly halted a
nd grasped her hands in his. He looked upwards and Lucía knew he was seeing. ‘Someone is coming, oh yes . . . very soon.’
‘Pah! You have told me this before.’
‘I have, yes, but I swear, Lucía, the moment is upon you. So,’ he kissed her on both cheeks as they reached the Bar de Manquet, ‘good luck, chiquita. You will need it.’ He winked at her and strolled off along the street.
The Bar de Manquet was humming as always and Lucía pushed her way through the crowd to a roar of applause, heading for the cuadro’s table at the back near the stage. Her father was already seated, his head bent in concentration as he spoke with a man whose back was facing her.
‘The usual, Lucía?’ asked Jaime, the bartender.
‘Sí, gracias. Hola, Papá, I have dragged myself here as you can see. ¡Salud!’ She raised the small glass of anise brandy that Jaime handed to her and knocked it back in one.
‘Ah, the queen has arrived,’ José responded. ‘And look who has come to worship at your throne.’
‘La Candela! We finally meet.’ The man stood up and gave her a small bow. ‘I am Agustín Campos.’
The first thing Lucía noticed about him was that he did not tower above her like most men. His diminutive but elegant frame was attired in a crisply cut suit, his black hair neatly combed back from his forehead. His skin was paler than most gitanos’ and Lucía bet her new castanets there was payo blood in him. Although his ears stuck out rather, his mellow butterscotch eyes were warm.
‘Hola, Señor Campos. I hear your guitar recordings have become famous all over Spain.’
‘Please, call me Meñique, everyone does,’ he said.
‘Meñique . . .’ Lucía said with a smile. ‘“Little finger”?’
‘Yes, I was given the name as a child, and as it seems I have not grown much since, it is still an apt name, don’t you think?’
‘And as you can see, neither have I,’ she giggled, enchanted by his honesty and lack of arrogance. Most guitarists – especially successful ones – were insufferable. ‘What are you doing here in Barcelona?’
‘Making a new recording for the Parlophone Company. And whilst I am here, I felt that I should drop in to the Barrio Chino to see old friends, and perhaps make new ones . . .’ he said as he swept his eyes down her body. ‘I can see that La Candela burns brightly.’
‘No, her light is fading because she is exhausted by performing the same dances to the same crowds. But you, Meñique, are on every gramophone I hear.’
‘Let us find another drink.’ Meñique snapped his fingers to alert the barman. As José watched his daughter rise out of her earlier dark mood, he sent up a prayer of gratitude.
Esteban Cortes, the owner of the Bar de Manquet, came over to their table, and after greeting Lucía with kisses on both cheeks, turned to Meñique.
‘It is time for you to do your magic, hombre. Show Barcelona what we have been missing here!’
As Meñique stepped onto the stage, the audience cheered, then grew silent in anticipation. Lucía sat at her table, now nursing a manzanilla wine, and cooled herself with her fan.
She watched as Meñique tuned his guitar, then his long slim fingers struck the first chords of a guajira. Lucía smiled inwardly; it was the most showy and complicated style of flamenco song – even her father stumbled when playing it – and only the most confident guitarists took it on.
As the beat of the cajón started and Meñique began to sing in a low mellow voice, Lucía could not take her eyes off him, his fingers caressing the strings with huge speed but a light touch. He looked up suddenly and sought her out in the crowd. As their eyes met, she felt her body respond, her heart matching each beat of the music, a trickle of sweat trailing down her neck.
With a flourish, he came to a triumphant stop, a small smile playing on his lips. She found herself smiling back as a clear thought formed in her mind.
Chilly was right. I will have you, Meñique. You will be mine.
*
Later that evening, once the public in the bar had been satisfied, the flamenco artists went upstairs for an improvised juerga in a private room.
‘Dios mío,’ said Meñique, entering with Lucía and finding it packed.
‘It is payday for us here in the Barrio Chino, and we all gather together to dance and sing for each other,’ she explained.
‘Look, there is El Peluco.’ Meñique pointed to an old man sitting regally in a chair, a guitar over his lap. ‘I can hardly believe he is still upright and playing, he drinks so much brandy.’
‘I have not met him before, but perhaps he is a guest at the Villa Rosa along the street,’ Lucía said with a shrug. ‘Now, please get me some brandy.’
Already, El Peluco had taken the floor with his guitar, singing what Lucía recognised as one of the old songs her grandfather had sung when she was young.
‘I must introduce you to him, he is a legend,’ Meñique murmured in her ear as loud applause greeted the old man and another singer took up his vacant stool. ‘El Peluco!’ Meñique waved at him.
‘Ah, the protégé from Pamplona.’ El Peluco returned the wave and came to join him.
‘Brandy for you, señor.’ Meñique offered him a glass. They toasted, then he turned to Lucía. ‘And this is La Candela! Another protégée in the room.’
Lucía felt El Peluco’s hooded eyes upon her.
‘So, it is you that I hear so much about. Yet, there is hardly anything of you,’ El Peluco laughed before he gulped back his brandy, then leant in to Meñique. ‘Certainly nothing of a woman. And it takes a woman to dance flamenco. Perhaps she is just a little fraud,’ he whispered loudly, before letting out an enormous belch.
Lucía heard him as she’d been meant to. Anger welled up inside her and there was only one way she knew to rid herself of it. Standing where she was, her feet still bare following her performance earlier, they began to beat against the floor. Her arms raised slowly above her head, the backs of her hands touching and forming the shape of a rose, as her mamá had taught her. And all the time she stared into the eyes of the man who had called her a fraud.
As the crowd realised what was happening, a circle opened around Lucía and the cantaor was hushed to silence. Meñique and José took up the beat and began to hum some ancient verses of a soleá as Lucía’s feet pounded the floor. Still staring at the man who had insulted her, she summoned the duende and danced only for him.
Finally, Lucía sank to the floor, spent. Then she nodded to her audience, who roared in approval, rose and pulled up the nearest chair so that it was right next to El Peluco. She climbed upon it so she could look him in the eye.
‘Never call me a fraud again,’ she said, jabbing a finger towards his bulbous nose. ‘Okay, señor?’
‘Señorita, I swear on my life I never will. You are . . . magnifica!’
‘What am I?’ Lucía jabbed her finger at him again.
El Peluco looked for heavenly guidance before he bowed – ‘The queen!’
The room cheered at his reply, then Lucía put out her hand for him to kiss it.
‘Now,’ she said to Meñique as he helped her down from the chair, ‘I can relax.’
*
Lucía woke the next morning with her habitual headache, caused by too little sleep and far too much brandy. Her fingers searched on the floor beside her mattress for her cigarettes. She lit one and watched the smoke rings rise to the ceiling.
Something is different . . . she thought, because even in the fug of her hangover she did not feel the usual depression that another day in this world had dawned.
Meñique!
Lucía stretched luxuriously, her cigarette held behind her head, and wondered what it would be like to have those sensitive, famous fingers touch her.
Then she sat upright, common sense prevailing. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she told herself. ‘Meñique is a star, a heartthrob. He is famous in Spain and can have any woman he wishes with a click of those fingers.’
But maybe he would hav
e had her last night, and she’d have surrendered willingly, had it not been for her father hanging around like a protective mother hen at the end of the evening.
‘Will I see you tomorrow, Lucía?’ he’d asked, as her father had made it clear it was time for them to go home.
‘She must dance at three cafés tomorrow night, Meñique,’ José had reminded him.
‘Then maybe I can come and play for her at the Villa Rosa?’
Meñique’s request had hung in the air as José led his daughter away.
*
That evening, Lucía went to the Villa Rosa where she was due to perform, but there was no sign of Meñique.
‘Perhaps it’s for the best,’ she muttered, disappointment flooding through her as she took the stage. ‘My dress smells even more tonight than it did yesterday.’
Later, she and her father trudged along the street to the Bar de Manquet with her usual clutch of ardent admirers following on behind her. There, waiting outside the café, was Meñique.
‘Buenas noches, señorita, señor. I’m afraid I was delayed earlier, but as I mentioned, I would like to play for Lucía tonight,’ he said as the three of them walked inside. ‘I have asked the manager and he has agreed, if you are both happy.’
‘Sí, Papá, I would like it very much,’ Lucía urged her father.
‘I . . . of course if the management, and my daughter, wish it,’ José agreed, but Lucía could see the thunderclouds gathering in his eyes.
That night, Meñique tested her to her limits. Starting deceptively slowly, suddenly he stamped his foot, shouted ‘Olé!’ and moved into a series of arpeggios that were almost impossible for even Lucía’s feet to keep up with. The audience clapped, cheered and stamped as the two protégés – one of the fingers and one of the feet – tried to win the battle to outshine each other. Lucía transformed into a whirling dervish of heat and passion until Meñique gave a final strum, shook his head, and stood up to bow to Lucía. The crowd erupted as they moved off stage together to drink brandy washed down with plenty of water.
The Moon Sister Page 31