María could see her daughter’s eyes narrowing and her expression darkening, so she hurried on. ‘Well, perhaps they were lost on the long journey. Your father did what he thought was right. He did it for you.’
‘And for him,’ Lucía hissed. ‘What really happened, Mamá? I only remember a few things about that time, like after the Concurso . . . and Papá was shouting at Carlos – he was crying on the floor, right here.’ She pointed at the spot. ‘Then we left for Barcelona and many weeks later you came. You told me that my brother Felipe was up in heaven with the angels.’
María shut her eyes, as the memories flooded back to her. Haltingly, she told Lucía the tragic circumstances of Felipe’s death.
‘It was the payo jail that killed him, Lucía. He died the day after he was released. So I came to Barcelona to tell you and your father.’
Lucía reached out and took her mother’s hands in hers, the deeply tanned skin rough with hard work. Then she bent her head over them and cried. Back here, the loss of her childhood, and her brother, hit her fully.
‘Mamá?’ came a voice.
Lucía looked up in surprise, wiping the tears from her face. Pepe had come back into the kitchen, clutching his guitar.
‘Why are you both crying?’ he asked, as he walked forwards.
Lucía looked more closely at Pepe’s face, and registered the large dark eyes, the strong planes of his cheekbones and the mass of black hair.
‘Is this . . . is h-he . . . ?’ she stuttered.
‘Yes, Lucía.’ María nodded solemnly and brushed her own tears away. ‘This is your brother. Pepe, say hello to your hermana.’
‘Hola,’ he said shyly, and gave her a grin. Without a doubt, he was the image of José.
‘It is nice to meet you, Pepe.’ Lucía managed a smile.
‘You’re smaller than Mamá told me you were. I thought you were my big sister, but I’m taller than you!’
‘Yes, you are right, and cheeky too.’ Lucía found herself unable to prevent a chuckle.
‘If you are here, is Papá with you? Mamá says that he plays the guitar, just like I do,’ Pepe said. ‘I want to play him a new song I learnt.’
‘I . . .’ Lucía glanced at her mother. ‘I am afraid Papá could not come.’
‘Pepe, go feed the chickens, and then we will eat,’ María instructed. As Pepe reluctantly went out again, Lucía watched him in wonder.
‘How . . . ?’ she began.
‘After I left you with your father in Barcelona all those years ago, I returned to Granada. It was two months before I realised the sickness wasn’t just grief, but a parting gift from your father. Yet Pepe has been my salvation, truly, Lucía. You should hear him play the guitar; one day he will be better than José.’
‘Does Papá know?’
‘No. I understood when I left Barcelona that I was setting him free.’
‘Yes, free to put his picha wherever he wanted,’ Lucía muttered, feeling a fresh surge of anger at her father.
‘Some men can’t help themselves, it is as simple as that.’
‘Well, he hasn’t learnt his lesson yet, Mamá.’
And then they both laughed, because there was little else to do.
‘He is not altogether a bad man, Lucía; you above everyone will know that. Is he happy?’
‘I don’t know. He plays his guitar, he drinks, he—’
‘Well.’ María cut her daughter short. ‘He is who he is, as we all are. And a part of me will always love him.’
Lucía watched her mother sigh, and believed her.
‘Don’t hate him, please,’ María entreated. ‘He wanted to give you your chance.’
‘And his,’ Lucía mumbled, ‘but I will try not to hate him. For you.’
‘I have some fresh soup ready for lunch. Would you like some?’
‘Yes, Mamá.’
Lucía devoured the whole bowl and asked for more, pronouncing it the best food she’d eaten since she’d left her mother’s kitchen eleven years ago. María glowed with pleasure as she watched Pepe and Lucía sitting at the table, eating together like a family. Afterwards, the two women went to sit outside.
‘Do you remember when you used to try to get me to help you with the baskets?’ Lucía asked.
‘Yes, and you would always find an excuse after a few minutes and be gone.’
‘It’s so peaceful here, so beautiful,’ Lucía said as she cast her eyes across the valley. ‘I’d forgotten. Perhaps I didn’t realise what I had.’
‘None of us do, querida, until it’s gone. I’ve learnt that the secret of happiness is to try to live in the moment.’
‘It’s a lesson I might find quite difficult to learn, Mamá. I’m always thinking of the future!’
‘We are different, you and I: you were always ambitious for your talent in a way I never was. I wanted a home, a family and a husband. Well.’ She smiled. ‘I managed to get two of those things, at least.’
‘Do you still dance? You used to be so good, Mamá.’
‘For pleasure, yes, but I am getting old. I am an abuela with two grandchildren.’
‘Mamá, you can be little older than forty! Many of the dancers in Barcelona are in their fifties and sixties. So you’re happy here?’ Lucía probed.
‘Yes, I believe I am.’
An hour later, as Lucía sat listening to Pepe playing his guitar in the sitting room that María told her had been fashioned out of the old stable, she heard a male voice from the kitchen.
‘Hola, mi amor, I brought us a treat for our dessert after the stew tonight.’
Lucía heard her mother hush the guest as she walked into the kitchen and saw Ramón, their next-door neighbour, standing with an arm around her mother’s shoulder. María blushed and stepped away from him.
‘Hola, señor, how are you?’ Lucía asked.
‘I am well, thank you,’ Ramón answered stiffly, the colour rising to his cheeks. Lucía wanted to giggle.
‘How are your daughters, Ramón?’
‘They are well, yes, very well.’
‘Two of them are married and we celebrated Magdalena’s engagement only a week ago, didn’t we, Ramón?’ María encouraged him.
‘Yes, yes, we did,’ Ramón agreed with a nod.
‘How are your oranges?’
‘They are well, thank you, Lucía.’
‘Ramón now owns a small grove of his own.’ María continued to speak for him. ‘His parents died within a few months of each other and after their funeral, Ramón found some coins hidden in their chimney. Who knew how long they had been there, but the fact they had never melted after all those years made Ramón believe they were a gift from the Blessed Virgin. So, he bought his orange grove with them.’
‘I did.’ Ramón looked nervously at Lucía, waiting for her reaction.
‘Gracias, Ramón, for taking care of my mother while I have been gone. I’m sure you have been a great comfort to her.’ Lucía put a placatory hand on his.
‘It has been my pleasure, señorita.’ Ramón smiled in relief.
When he left, María turned to her daughter, her flapping hands trying to cool the embarrassment flooding her cheeks. ‘What must you think of me?’
‘I have learnt that life is hard, Mamá. And you have taken solace when it has been offered. There is nothing wrong in that.’
‘I . . . we, Ramón and I do not advertise our . . . friendship. Believe me, I would never disrespect your father in public.’
‘Mamá, I have seen everything in the Barrio Chino. Nothing – least of all a need for comfort – can shock me.’
‘Gracias, Lucía.’ María took her daughter’s hands and squeezed them. ‘You have become a lovely young woman.’
‘Mamá, I hope I have your sense and Papá’s passion. It is a good mixture, sí? Now.’ She looked at the sun beginning to dip its nightly curtsey below the Alhambra. ‘I must begin the walk back to the city. We leave tonight for Cadiz.’
‘Can you not stay a little longer,
querida?’
‘I cannot, Mamá, but now we are reunited, I swear I will visit more often. Perhaps even come and stay for a holiday.’
‘Next time, give me notice and I will arrange a party for you to meet all your family. My door is always open and I am always here.’
‘Mamá, what do you wish me to tell Papá about . . . his son?’
‘If you can bear it, I think it is best if you say nothing for now. One day, I must tell him in person.’
‘Of course. Adiós, Mamá.’ As she hugged her mother, Lucía felt the prickling of tears. Before they could hatch, she left the cave and walked back along the dusty path of her childhood.
23
‘I have news for you,’ said Carcellés as they sat together outside his favourite bar in the Barrio Chino. Lucía looked at the impresario who had organised their tour of the provinces. Carcellés’ face was red from too much brandy, and his stomach strained over his tightly belted trousers. The smoke from their cigarettes curled up into the darkening sky.
‘What is that?’
Carcellés poured some more brandy into their glasses. ‘The Fontalba Theatre in Madrid is organising a tribute to the actress Luisita Esteso. I am putting you on between two other acts. It is time your talent was showcased in the capital.’
Lucía – by now used to Carcellés’ extravagant promises, designed to spur her on but which usually amounted to nothing – stared at him in disbelief.
‘You are taking me to Madrid?’
‘Sí, Lucía. You will fit perfectly on the bill. The great Meñique has even offered to play for you. How about that?’
‘¡Dios mío!’ Lucía stood up to embrace Carcellés, knocking the trestle table and spilling their brandy everywhere. ‘Why, this is wonderful news!’
‘I am glad you are happy, Lucía. It is just one night, and you will only have five minutes on the programme, but they are your five minutes and you must show the people who matter in Madrid what you can do.’
‘I will, I promise I will. Gracias, señor.’
‘Did you hear, Papá?’ Lucía burst into José’s bedroom. He was alone, lying on his bed, smoking.
‘About Madrid? Yes, I have heard. Of course, you will not be paid. You realise that, don’t you?’
‘Who cares about the money?! I am to perform in front of over a thousand people. Isn’t this wonderful news?’
‘I hear Meñique is to accompany you.’
‘Yes, so there is no need for you to come. Carcellés will be on the train with me and Meñique will take care of me once I am there.’
‘That is what I am worried about,’ José mumbled morosely as he stubbed his cigarette out into a half-full bottle of beer.
‘I’m a big girl now, Papá; remember I am now twenty-one years old. I will be back before you know it.’
Lucía returned to her own room, refusing to let her father’s sulk spoil her joy. Removing her flamenco dress, she sank stark naked onto the mattress and lay there with her arms and legs splayed, thinking. Eventually, an idea started to form in her mind.
‘Yes!’ Lucía jumped off the bed and went to the corner where she piled up her clothes, and began to search through them, knowing exactly what she would wear to make this performance – and her – unforgettable.
‘Madrid . . .’ she breathed, finding what she was looking for. ‘And Meñique!’
*
‘Are you all right, pequeña?’ Meñique whispered in her ear as, two weeks later, they stood in the wings together at the side of the enormous stage, listening to the rapturous applause for El Botato, who was dancing his famous farruca with comedic acrobatic leaps.
‘Sí, but I am nervous, Meñique. I’m never nervous before I dance.’
‘All to the good; the adrenaline will give more depth to your performance.’
‘No one has ever heard of me here.’ Lucía bit her lip. ‘What if they boo me off the stage?’
‘Everyone will know your name after this. Now’ – he gave her shoulder a gentle push – ‘go.’
Lucía walked onto the stage to muted applause, the bright spotlights burning her eyes. She felt hot and itchy underneath the heavy cloak she was wearing. Meñique followed her on seconds later and the audience cheered and clapped.
‘Mamá,’ she whispered as she took up her opening position, ‘I dance this for you.’
Sitting to one side, Meñique watched the tiny figure draw herself up in the centre of the enormous stage. As he began to play the opening bars in preparation to sing, he saw Lucía’s chin tip up and her nostrils flare. As the beat increased, she swept off her cloak in one fluid movement and threw it across the stage. The audience gasped in shock when they saw that this tiny woman was wearing high-waisted black trousers and the starched white shirt of a male dancer. Her hair had been pulled back, parted down the middle and slicked down, and her kohl-rimmed eyes issued a challenge to the audience.
Then she began to dance. Any dissenters’ whisperings ceased after a few seconds as the fourteen-hundred-strong audience was held spellbound by the child-woman whose miraculous feet managed to somehow tap out so many beats, it was impossible for even experienced hands to keep up. When they realised that Lucía was performing the same farruca as El Botato – a dance reserved for men – the audience went wild, whooping and whistling at the strange sight. Meñique was so entranced as she became a whirling dervish of sheer energy, that he almost forgot to come in for the next verse of his song.
She is so pure . . . the essence of flamenco, he thought.
By now, the audience were on their feet, clapping along as Lucía’s feet beat relentlessly, until Meñique wondered if she might simply fall to the floor and collapse. Where her little body found the energy to keep up the incredible pace for as long as it did, he simply didn’t know.
‘¡Olé!’ she shouted as, finally, she gave one last stamp and fell forward into a low bow.
The audience erupted as Lucía took bow after bow. Meñique walked forward to take his own applause next to her.
‘You did it, pequeña, you did it,’ he whispered as he ushered her forward again and again.
‘Did I . . . ?’ Lucía asked him, as Meñique eventually led her off stage and into the wings, where there was already a crowd ready to greet her.
‘You made your perfect Madrid debut.’
‘I cannot remember anything.’
Meñique could see she looked dazed as she hung on to his arm for support. He steered her through the crowds towards his dressing room, shutting the door behind them firmly.
‘Take some time to steady yourself.’ He sat her down in a chair and handed her a measure of brandy.
‘Gracias.’ Lucía swallowed the drink down in one. ‘I never remember what I danced afterwards. Was I good?’
Meñique could see that it was a genuine question and that she was not fishing for compliments.
‘You were not simply “good”, Lucía, you were . . . miraculous!’ He gave her a salute.
There was a loud banging on the door, and the sound of voices behind it.
‘Is La Candela ready to receive the acclaim of her adoring public?’
‘I am.’
She stood up, turning to the mirror and taking a tissue to pat down her sweat-drenched face.
‘But just before you do . . .’
Meñique took her in his arms and kissed her.
*
‘What do you mean, Papá is arriving today?’ Lucía sat up next to Meñique in his comfortable bed a few days later. ‘He is not meant to come until next week! I am doing perfectly well here in Madrid by myself.’
‘Lucía, your father has managed your career since you were a little girl. Surely you will not deny him his moment of triumph? Besides, he is your guitarist. He alone knows how to play for you best.’
‘No!’ Lucía grabbed Meñique’s fingers and kissed them. ‘These know how to play for me best. And not just on the guitar . . .’
Meñique felt a stirring as Lucía wriggled her
naked body next to him.
‘Yes, pequeña, but I am already contracted elsewhere for the next two months, as you know.’
‘Then cancel,’ she said as her hand crept under the sheet. ‘I need you to play for me at the Coliseum.’
‘Now, now.’ Meñique caught her elbows. ‘Your star may be rising, but you are not a fully fledged diva yet, so don’t act like one. Your father will bring your cuadro with him. It is far better you have your own guitarists and singers to support you – those who you know and can trust – rather than having them chosen for you.’
‘It has been so good to be free of him,’ Lucía complained. ‘Being here with you . . . I have felt like a woman, and not a child, which is how Papá treats me.’
‘You’ve certainly been a woman, Lucía.’ Meñique reached for her breasts and caressed them, but now it was she who pushed him away.
‘Even when Papá comes, can I stay here?’
‘When I’m here in Madrid, of course you can, but now you are finally earning some good money with your contract at the Coliseum, you will be able to get an apartment with the rest of the cuadro.’ Meñique climbed out of bed and began to dress.
‘Don’t you want me here any longer?’
‘I do, but I cannot always be here for you.’
‘Your career is more important than me?’
‘My career is as important as you,’ Meñique chided her. ‘Now, I must go, I have a meeting about the new recording. I will see you later.’
Lucía threw herself back on the pillows, furious that both her lover and her father were thwarting her plans. Since her triumph at the Teatro de Fontalba, she’d experienced her first taste of freedom, and she was not inclined to give it up without a fight. Especially considering the new delights she had discovered in the bedroom with Meñique.
‘I love him!’ she shouted at the empty apartment, slapping her hand down on the mattress. ‘Why is he leaving me here alone!’
She clambered out of bed, took her cigarettes and sat on the windowsill to light one. Below her was a wide tree-lined avenue swarming with people and cars. Four floors up, she could only hear the noise if she opened up the window, which she did, to let a plume of smoke filter gently out into the morning sunlight.
The Moon Sister Page 33