‘Bernardo says he has had enough and can drive no further. We will rest here for the night.’
‘Is he sick?’ Meñique asked in concern.
‘No, he tells me he is too old for all this excitement,’ replied Fernanda.
‘Where is this?’ Lucía sat up and looked around her, slightly dazed.
‘The home of our cousin,’ confirmed Fernanda.
Everyone climbed off the bus as a sleepy middle-aged man and his wife and children appeared at the front door and stared in surprise at the women, still in their flamenco dresses. Bernardo explained the situation to his cousin, and even though it was now almost one in the morning, soon the entire company was sitting down at the back of the farm to a meal of fresh bread, cheese, and olives recently harvested from the trees.
‘It feels like a party, but I know it isn’t,’ Lucía mumbled to no one in particular. She lit a cigarette as the rest of the company finished eating. José too was quiet, no doubt still struggling to come to terms with the loss of his precious pesetas.
Eventually, the cuadro settled onto blankets in an open field around a small fire, Lucía lying in Meñique’s arms and gazing up at the bright stars in the black sky above her.
‘Out here you can believe that what happened in Madrid last night was just a bad dream,’ Lucía sighed. ‘Everything is exactly the same.’
‘Well, let us pray that we will one day be able to return.’
‘If not, we shall simply live on the farm with Fernanda’s cousins and I will dance while I harvest the olives. Somehow, we made it here.’
‘We did.’ Meñique nodded.
‘All except Chilly, of course.’ Lucía bit her lip. ‘Will we see him again?’
‘That I cannot say. All we can do is keep him and Rosalba in our prayers.’
‘And what do you think will happen to Spain, Meñique?’
‘God only knows, pequeña.’
‘Will it spread through the country? If it does, I must find a way to get Mamá and my brothers out. I cannot leave them behind.’
‘Let’s just take one day at a time, shall we?’ He stroked her hair and kissed the top of it. ‘Buenas noches, Lucía.’
*
They arrived in Lisbon the following afternoon, bedraggled and exhausted from the long drive.
‘We must find somewhere to stay. I cannot go and see Señor Geraldo looking and stinking like a pig,’ Lucía pronounced. ‘What is the best hotel in Lisbon?’ she asked Bernardo, who was a fount of knowledge about everything here, due to his mother being Portuguese.
‘The Avenida Palace.’
‘Then we shall stay there,’ she said.
‘Lucía, we have no money,’ José reminded her.
‘Which is why I must get clean, then go and see the man who has hired us. He must make us a loan against our wages.’
José rolled his eyes, but ten minutes later the bus pulled up in front of a grand hotel, its imposing front doors flanked by two doormen in smart red uniforms.
‘Wait here and I will go inside.’ Lucía clambered down as Meñique hastily followed her. She marched past the doormen and through the marble-floored lobby to the reception desk.
‘I am Lucía Albaycín,’ she announced to a startled receptionist. ‘Myself and my cuadro are here to perform in the Teatro da Trindade, and we need some rooms.’
The woman took one look at the street urchin in her filthy flamenco dress, and immediately called the manager.
‘We have gypsies in reception,’ she murmured as she led the manager out to the front desk.
The manager strode towards Lucía, ready for trouble, then did a double take and immediately smiled.
‘Lucía Albaycín, I presume?’
‘Sí, señor, I am only glad that someone in this godforsaken country recognises me.’
‘It is an honour to have you here. I have seen your film three times,’ the manager explained. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’
Fifteen minutes later, the company were installed in a set of luxurious rooms. Lucía had been given a suite. She danced around it, stealing apples and oranges from the fruit bowl, along with two ashtrays and a bar of soap from the bathroom, then hiding them in a cupboard to take with her when she left.
‘We must eat,’ she declared as the rest of the company gathered in her room. ‘Order from the menu for me, if you can understand the Portuguese for sardines, and I will take a bath.’
‘I hope Geraldo is prepared to give us a loan; these rooms must cost the ransom for King Alfonso,’ muttered José as he knocked back brandy from the bottle he’d found in the bar.
When room service arrived, they sat on the floor of the suite and ate hungrily with their fingers. Fernanda and Bernardo – who spoke fluent Portuguese – had been despatched to find Lucía something to wear for her meeting as her flamenco dress soaked in the bathtub.
‘How do I look?’ she asked Meñique an hour later, twirling in the red-spotted dress that Fernanda had found in the children’s department of a local store.
‘Lovely.’ He smiled and kissed her. ‘Shall I come with you?’
‘No, it is better I go alone,’ she said as she walked towards the door.
With Bernardo as her guard and translator if needed, Lucía found the offices of the impresario. The receptionist insisted he was out, but Lucía marched straight in.
‘Geraldo,’ she said as she walked towards the man sitting behind an elegant partners’ desk. ‘I am here!’
The heavily moustached man looked up from his paperwork and studied her. Eventually, recognition dawned, and he waved his anxious receptionist out of the room.
‘Señorita Albaycín, how delightful to meet you in person,’ he said in passable Spanish.
‘And you, señor.’
‘Please, sit down, and forgive my bad Spanish. Is this your father?’ he asked, indicating Bernardo, who was standing sentry-like next to her.
‘No. I brought him to translate, but I see there is no need.’ Lucía waved her hand imperiously towards Bernardo. ‘Thank you, you can wait outside now. So, where is the theatre I am to perform at?’
‘I . . .’ He stared at her as though she’d appeared in a dream. ‘I must admit, I am surprised to see you here.’
‘We would not let you down, señor,’ Lucía smiled, sitting in the chair opposite him. ‘Why are you surprised?’
‘Madrid of course . . . the Nationalist attack . . . I did not think that you were able to come. You were meant to open here last night.’
‘I know that, señor, but you can imagine it was a little difficult to leave the country. We are here now, and that is all that matters. We came with the clothes we stood up in. Our money was taken by the military, so I must ask you to make us a loan against our wages for accommodation.’
‘Well now’ – the impresario mopped his brow – ‘when I heard a few days ago what was happening, I, having heard nothing from you, assumed that you would not be coming. So, I have’ – he cleared his throat – ‘employed another company who were . . . available. They opened last night and were a success, so I hear.’
‘Then I am happy for them, señor, but now you will have to un-employ them, sí? We are here, as promised.’
‘Señorita, I understand, but you are late and I have . . . well, I have cancelled your contract.’
Lucía frowned at him. ‘Señor, perhaps I do not understand you fully due to the difficulty of translation. Surely you did not say that you have cancelled our contract?’
‘I am afraid that I did, Señorita Albaycín. We could not let the theatre stand empty last night. I am sorry you have come such a long way, but the contract stipulated you would arrive in time for the technical rehearsal and you did not.’ He stood and went to a filing cabinet, leafed through it, and pulled out a document. ‘Here.’ He passed it across the desk.
Lucía glanced down at it, the words meaningless on the page. She took a deep breath, as Meñique had taught her to do, before she spoke.
�
�Señor, do you know who I am?’
‘I do, señorita, and it is most unfortunate—’
‘It is not “unfortunate”! It is a disaster. Do you know what we have done to get here to Lisbon to perform in your theatre?!’
‘No, señorita, but I can only guess and salute your bravery.’
‘Señor,’ Lucía stood, put her tiny fists on the leather-topped desk and leant forward so her eyes were only centimetres away from his. ‘To fulfil our contract, we risked our lives. We had everything we owned taken by the military, and you are sitting there in your big comfortable chair, telling me that our contract is cancelled?!’
‘I am sorry, señorita. Please understand that the news from Spain was not good.’
‘And please understand, señor, that you leave us penniless, with no work in a strange country!’
He looked at her and shrugged. ‘There is nothing I can do.’
Lucía slammed her fists down on the table. ‘So be it!’ She turned from him with such speed that tendrils of her long hair whipped across his face. She walked towards the door, then paused and turned back.
‘You will be sorry for what you have done to me today.’ She pointed a finger at him. ‘I curse you, señor, I curse you!’
As she left, the impresario shuddered involuntarily and reached for the decanter of brandy that sat on his desk.
*
Back at the hotel, Sebastian the safecracker was instructed to empty his pockets of all the pesetas he had stolen, minus what they had paid to Bernardo for bringing them here.
‘How much for each room?’ Meñique asked Lucía.
‘The manager didn’t say. He believes I am a film star and so rich I do not need to know. Hah!’
Meñique was despatched to find out the prices from the tariff board behind the reception desk. He returned, shaking his head.
‘We have enough to cover the cost of one of the smaller rooms. For one night.’
‘Then we must find a way to earn the rest,’ said Lucía. ‘Meñique, will you accompany me downstairs for a drink at the bar?’
‘Lucía, we do not have the money to drink in a place like this.’
‘Don’t worry, we will not be paying. I will just renew my make-up and we shall go.’
Downstairs, the large, elegant bar was packed. Lucía’s eyes searched the room as Meñique reluctantly ordered them both a drink and, propped up on barstools, she raised her glass. ‘To us, querido, and our miraculous escape.’ She chinked her glass against his. ‘Now, try to relax and look as if you are enjoying yourself,’ she added through clenched teeth.
‘What are we doing here? We cannot afford this extravagance, Lucía, and . . .’
‘The great and good of Lisbon must come to this bar. Someone will know of me and help us.’
As if on cue, a deep male voice rang out behind her. ‘Señorita Lucía Albaycín! Is it really you?’
Lucía turned and looked into the eyes of a man who seemed vaguely familiar.
‘Sí, señor, it is.’ Lucía extended her hand to him as regally as any queen. ‘Have we met before?’
‘No, my name is Manuel Matos and my brother, Antonio Triana, is acquainted with you, I believe.’
‘Antonio! Of course, what a wonderful dancer he is. I performed with him once in Barcelona. Why, how is he?’
‘I am waiting for news of him from Spain. I believe that things are difficult there.’
‘Yes, but as you can see, not so difficult that we haven’t arrived safely here.’
‘Then your presence amongst us gives me hope for my brother’s safety. You are performing here in Lisbon?’
‘We were contracted to, yes, but we looked at the venue and found it unsuitable.’
‘Really? So, you will move on? To Paris maybe?’
‘Perhaps, but myself and the company find Lisbon so very pleasant. And of course the hotel,’ Lucía wafted her tiny hand around the bar, ‘has been wonderfully accommodating during our stay.’
‘I must introduce you to my friends at the Café Arcadio. There are many there who would love to see you perform before you leave.’
‘Well, if we have time, señor, we would love to do so.’
‘Then I will take you there tomorrow. Would seven in the evening suit?’
‘Can we fit it in?’ Her eyes fell on Meñique.
‘I am sure we can find space in our busy diary if you wish, señor,’ he replied tightly.
‘We must, Agustín,’ Lucía said firmly, making a point of using his given name, ‘as a favour to an old friend. So, we will come at seven, yes?’
‘I will let my friends know.’
‘Now, you must forgive us, but we have a dinner engagement, señor.’ Lucía drained her glass and stood up.
‘Of course. Until tomorrow, then,’ Manuel said with a bow before Meñique followed Lucía out of the bar.
‘Where are we going?’ Meñique asked her as they left the hotel and began to walk along the pavement.
‘Out for our dinner date of course.’ Lucía kept walking until she reached the end of the building, then led Meñique down the alley at the side of the hotel. ‘I’m sure there must be a staff entrance we can use to slip back inside and sneak up to our room,’ she added.
Meñique grabbed her hand, forced her to a halt, and pinned her to the stone of the wall behind them.
‘Lucía Albaycín, you are impossible!’
Then he kissed her.
25
The following evening, having used the bathtub in Lucía’s suite to wash their stinking costumes, the cuadro walked through the streets of Lisbon to the Café Arcadio. The grandeur of Lisbon rivalled that of Madrid, and the Café Arcadio, with its regal art nouveau front, immediately indicated the wealth of its clientele. Manuel was waiting for them outside, wearing an immaculate black dinner suit and bow tie.
‘You made it!’ he said, embracing Lucía.
‘Sí, señor, but we cannot stay for long, as we have been asked to dance elsewhere later. May we come inside?’
‘Of course, but . . .’
‘Is there a problem, señor?’ Meñique had picked up on the man’s reticence.
‘The manager, well, it seems he is not a fan of . . . flamenco.’
‘You mean, he doesn’t like gitanos?’ Lucía rounded on him. ‘Then I will speak to him.’
Lucía pushed past Manuel and opened the door to the café. Inside, the air was filled with smoke and chatter, which ceased as Lucía made her way through the tables to the bar at the back.
‘Where is the manager?’ she demanded of a waiter pouring drinks behind it.
‘I . . .’ The waiter looked on nervously as the rest of the gitanos crowded around Lucía. ‘I will go and find him.’
‘Lucía, don’t, there are other places you can dance!’ Meñique warned her. ‘We will not perform where we are not wanted.’
‘Look around, Meñique,’ Lucía whispered under her breath, indicating the guests at the tables behind him with a small nod of her head. ‘These are rich payos, and we need their money.’
The manager emerged, crossing his arms defensively, as if he was ready for a fight.
‘Señor, I am Lucía Albaycín, and I have come with my cuadro to dance in your café. Señor Matos’ – Lucía indicated Manuel – ‘tells me you have many customers who are educated in the creative arts and would be appreciative of our craft.’
‘That may well be, but no gypsies have ever performed in my café. Besides, I have no money to pay you.’
‘You mean, señor, that you do not wish to pay us, for it is obvious from the suit you wear and the way that your customers are dressed that you live well.’
‘Señorita Albaycín, the answer is no. Now please, I would ask you and your troupe to leave the café peacefully before I call the police.’
‘Señor, by your perfect Spanish I know you are one of us, sí?’
‘I am from Madrid, yes.’
‘And do you know what has happened in our country? A
nd what we have done to be here in Lisbon to perform for you?’
‘I have heard about the problems of course, but I did not ask you to come—’
‘Then I shall ask the customers themselves whether they wish to see me dance. And tell them how we have been forced into exile from our home country, only to be thrown out by one of our own!’ Lucía turned from him and grabbed a chair from a nearby table. Using Meñique’s shoulder, she hauled herself up onto it and clapped her hands together in a loud palmas. As her feet began to drum on the chair, and her clapping continued, the room fell silent as Lucía stepped onto the table, its occupants quickly swiping their glasses from it before the continual beating of her feet sent them flying.
‘¡Olé!’ she shouted.
‘¡Olé!’ repeated her cuadro and the odd member of the audience.
‘Now, señores y señoras, the manager does not wish us to dance for you. Yet we have come from Spain, risking our lives on the way to escape from our beloved homeland with nothing more than what we stand up in.’
Manuel translated Lucía’s words into Portuguese.
‘So, will you have me and my friends dance for you?’
She surveyed the audience.
‘Sim!’ came a response from one of the tables.
‘Sim!’ shouted another table, until the whole bar was with her.
‘Gracias. Then we shall.’
As tables were cleared to make a space for the cuadro, the manager pulled Lucía aside.
‘I will not pay you, señorita.’
‘Tonight we dance for free, señor, but tomorrow’ – Lucía prodded him between his scrawny ribs – ‘you will be begging to pay me.’
*
Meñique watched Lucía devour the bread and meat – the only sustenance the hotel had been able to rustle up at three in the morning. While he was dropping from fatigue, not only after tonight’s performance, but from the trauma of the past few days, Lucía seemed unaffected, sitting on the floor and regaling the assembled company with their triumph of tonight.
How does she do it? he asked himself. She looked so fragile, yet her body seemed to be able to withstand the punishment she gave it, and her mind and emotions were like a steel trap that closed around anything unfortunate that had happened, allowing her to wake afresh to embrace each new day.
The Moon Sister Page 36