The Moon Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘So! Now we can stay here!’ Lucía clapped her hands together like a child. ‘And we can buy ourselves some new costumes. We must find some suitable fabric tomorrow, and then a dressmaker.’

  ‘Maybe we can find a cheaper hotel, perhaps an apartment for us all . . .’ murmured José.

  ‘Papá, stop your worrying. Yesterday, we could have been thrown in jail by the hotel for taking rooms we have no money to pay for. Tonight we were cheered by hundreds. And word will spread, I promise you.’ Lucía went to her father and hugged him. ‘Another brandy, Papá?’

  ‘You can celebrate, but I’m off to bed.’ Meñique walked over to Lucía and kissed her on the top of her sleek dark hair.

  *

  It seemed that Lucía’s confidence in winning a place in the hearts of the Portuguese had not been misplaced. Week after week, the crowds outside the Café Arcadio grew, with hundreds clamouring to enter and see the phenomenon that was La Candela. It was almost as if, faced with a new challenge, Lucía doubled the ferocity and passion of her performance. This, as well as the pathos of watching the very essence of the great neighbouring country being brought to its knees by civil war, only fuelled the fervour of the public for flamenco. Yet, as Lucía’s public persona reached the great heights she longed for here, her private self became more and more desolate. Every morning, as she lay in bed in the suite, she would have Meñique read out the news from Spain and make him tell her what he heard whispered in the bars of Lisbon.

  ‘They have murdered Lorca – our greatest poet – in Granada,’ Meñique said bitterly. ‘They will stop at nothing to destroy our country.’

  ‘¡Dios mío! They have reached Granada! What will become of Mamá? My brothers?! As I sit here like a queen, maybe they are starving, or even dead! Perhaps I should contact Bernardo, ask him to drive me on his bus back to Granada . . .’

  ‘Lucía, Spain is in chaos. You cannot return,’ Meñique told her for the hundredth time.

  ‘But I can’t just leave them there! My mother sacrificed everything for her children! Maybe things are different in Pamplona, but in Sacromonte, family is everything.’

  ‘Surely your mother is not your responsibility, pequeña? She is your father’s.’

  ‘You know as well as I do that Papá worships only money and the neck of a brandy bottle. He never took responsibility for Mamá, or for me or my brothers. What can we do for them?’ Lucía wrung her sensitive hands as tears appeared in her eyes. ‘You have many payo friends in high places.’

  ‘They were in high places, Lucía, but who knows how far they have fallen by now?’

  ‘Surely you could write to them? Find out how we get papers for my family to travel here? Please, I need your help. And if you won’t give it, then I must return to Spain and help them myself.’

  ‘No, it is too dangerous, pequeña. Salazar has been supporting Franco in Spain, and there are Nationalist spies everywhere here. If we were even to be caught whispering—’

  ‘Who is this Salazar? How dare he spy on us!’ Lucía cried.

  ‘He is the Prime Minister of Portugal, Lucía. Do you not listen to anything I say?’

  ‘Only if it is accompanied by your guitar, mi amor,’ she replied honestly.

  *

  The following Sunday, with no performance that evening to rush back for, and worn down by Lucía’s pleading, Meñique borrowed Manuel Matos’s car and drove back towards the Spanish border. It had been over a month since he’d arrived in Portugal, and he only hoped he could remember the location of the farmhouse where they had taken refuge on the night they had crossed from Spain. Before Bernardo and Fernanda had left Lisbon, Bernardo had told him they would not be returning to Spain. Instead, they would sit out the war with their relatives at the farm, who – from what Bernardo had intimated – were his long-time smuggling partners during the Great War.

  ‘Tell him that whatever it costs him to go and to bribe the necessary officials, we will pay,’ Lucía had told him.

  Some hours later, and after a number of aborted trips down potholed tracks, Meñique arrived in front of a small farmhouse. To his relief, he recognised it.

  ‘Now, I must pray that they are still here,’ he said to himself as he stepped out of the car and went to knock on the door. A familiar figure opened it.

  ‘Fernanda! Thank God!’ Meñique breathed.

  ‘What is wrong? Is Lucía ill?’

  ‘No, no, it’s nothing like that. Is Bernardo at home?’

  ‘Yes, and we are eating cake. Come, señor.’

  Meñique sat and listened as Bernardo and his cousin told him of the grim news they had heard from travellers crossing into Portugal from their war-torn homeland.

  ‘It is chaos there. I have not been back since the Nationalists took the border at Badajoz. It is simply too dangerous.’

  ‘Then you may not be able to help us.’

  ‘What is it you need?’ Fernanda nudged Bernardo with her elbow. ‘Remember, it is only due to our friends from the theatre that we escaped in time.’

  ‘Lucía has said that if I cannot find a way to help her family leave Spain, she will go to find them herself. And we all know that, Lucía being Lucía, it is not an idle threat. She has offered to pay whatever it takes.’

  Bernardo looked at Ricardo, his cousin, who shook his head. ‘Even for us it is too risky at this time.’

  ‘Surely between the two of you and your connections in Spain, there must be a way?’ entreated Fernanda. ‘Think if it was our mamá, Bernardo, you would do anything to help her.’

  ‘Sometimes I think you want me dead, woman,’ retorted Bernardo.

  ‘We can get them papers,’ Ricardo said, ‘but the problem is Granada itself. Between the Civil Guard and the Black Squad, they’re murdering citizens in their hundreds. They think nothing of pulling a man out onto the street and shooting him where he stands in front of his children. The city jail is overflowing and no one is safe, señor.’

  ‘How do you know so much about the city?’ Meñique eyed him.

  ‘We have a relative who arrived here at the farm from Granada only a week ago.’

  ‘How did he escape if the border is closed?’

  ‘He hid in the backs of trucks and crossed near Faro.’

  ‘Then there is a way,’ said Meñique.

  ‘There is always a way, señor,’ Ricardo countered, ‘but, to be brutal, even if we made it to the city, there is no telling whether we would find Señorita Albaycín’s family alive. Her people – the people of Sacromonte – they have even fewer friends than normal civilians, as you know.’

  ‘I do know, señor, but equally, they are used to that. Lucía is convinced her mother is alive and her instincts are normally right. Perhaps you could look into acquiring the papers the family might need to cross the border and think about whether you are prepared to help us.’ Meñique pulled out the stack of escudos that Lucía had stolen from her father’s hiding place. ‘I will wait to hear if you are able to make the trip.’ Meñique indicated a card on top of the heap of notes. ‘Send me a telegram with your answer.’

  ‘We will do our best, señor,’ Bernardo said, eyeing the heavy sack of coins, then glancing at his sister and cousin. ‘Goodbye for now.’

  Three days later, Meñique received a telegram.

  WE WILL GO STOP VISIT US SOON BEFORE WE LEAVE STOP BERNARDO STOP

  *

  Both to the rest of the troupe and in front of her enraptured audiences, Lucía betrayed nothing of her anxiety. But alone with Meñique at night, as the days ticked by and there was no word from Bernardo, she would curl into his embrace like a child in need of protection.

  ‘When will we hear? Every day that passes, I fear the worst.’

  ‘Remember.’ Meñique tipped her chin up to him. ‘In this difficult life we lead on earth, all we have is hope.’

  ‘Yes, I know and I must believe. Te amo, my darling.’

  Meñique stroked her hair as she fell asleep in his arms, and thought that perhaps
the only current blessing was that Lucía was at her most vulnerable; for the first time since he’d met her, he felt that they shared a secret fear that could not be voiced, and which bonded them. Never before had he felt he possessed her – felt the sense of togetherness that existed now as she lay in his arms. And for that at least, he was grateful.

  *

  It was six weeks later on a stormy day in the autumn of 1936 when a porter knocked on the door of their suite.

  ‘Señor, you have . . . guests waiting for you downstairs. The manager suggests they come straight up.’ The porter swallowed, looking embarrassed.

  ‘Of course,’ Meñique replied, handing the porter a tip for his trouble. ‘We are expecting them.’

  He closed the door and went to wake Lucía, who was still asleep even though it was past two o’clock in the afternoon. Last night there had been four encores, and they had not returned home until five in the morning.

  ‘Pequeña, we have visitors.’

  Lucía came to immediately and observed Meñique’s expression.

  ‘Is it them?’

  ‘I don’t know, he did not give their names, but . . .’

  ‘Dios mío, please let it be Mamá, and not Bernardo arrived here to tell us she is dead . . .’

  Five minutes later, Lucía had thrown on a pair of trousers and a blouse. She walked into the sitting room just as there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Do you wish to answer it, or shall I?’ Meñique asked her.

  ‘You . . . no, me . . . yes.’ She nodded, her small hands clenching into fists of anxiety as she walked towards the door.

  He watched her cross herself as she took a deep breath and opened it. A few seconds later, he heard a scream of joy as Lucía led a skeletal woman and a young man holding a guitar inside and shut the door firmly behind her.

  ‘Mamá is here! She is here! And so is my brother, Pepe!’

  ‘Welcome.’ Meñique stood up and walked over to them. ‘May I get you some refreshment, Señora Albaycín?’

  Meñique saw how María’s body shook from the effort of simply remaining on her feet. The boy, who looked far healthier, gave him a shy smile.

  ‘We must order a feast! Mamá tells me she hasn’t eaten a proper meal for months,’ Lucía said as she led her mother to a chair and helped her into it. ‘What would you like to eat, Mamá? Anything you can think of, I can get for you.’ Lucía knelt down and took the bird-like hands in her own.

  Meñique saw that the woman was dazed, her eyes darting nervously round the luxurious room.

  ‘Anything’ – María cleared her throat of its hoarseness – ‘anything will do, Lucía. Bread maybe. And water.’

  ‘I will order everything on the menu!’ Lucía announced.

  ‘No really, just some bread.’

  As Lucía summoned a bellboy, then proceeded to give him a list of everything they wanted, Meñique studied Lucía’s mother, and the boy whom he presumed was Lucía’s youngest brother. There was no doubt that he was José’s son – he was the very image of his father. He clutched his guitar to him as though it were gold, as if it was all that he had left that belonged to him, which it probably was.

  María’s eyelids drooped as she sat in her chair, drawing down a blind over all the horrors they’d witnessed.

  ‘So, the food is ordered,’ said Lucía, advancing back into the room and seeing her mother asleep. ‘Pepe, was it a terrible journey?’

  ‘No,’ said the boy, ‘I have never been in a motor car before, so it was fun.’

  ‘Did you have any problems along the way?’ Meñique asked him.

  ‘We were stopped only once. Bernardo, the driver, gave the policía many pesetas and they waved us on.’ Pepe smiled. ‘They had a gun though, and were ready to shoot.’

  ‘Bernardo or the police?’

  ‘Both,’ he said, his eyes huge in his thin face.

  ‘Pepe . . .’ Lucía went and knelt by him, whispering so as not to disturb her mother. ‘Where are Eduardo and Carlos? Why did they not come with you?’

  ‘I don’t know where my brothers are. Carlos went into the city to his furniture shop a few weeks ago and never came back, then Eduardo went to try and find him and he disappeared too.’ Pepe shrugged.

  ‘But what about their wives and children? Why have they not come with you?’

  ‘None of them would leave without knowing what had happened to their husbands and fathers.’

  Lucía turned and saw María’s eyes were now open as she spoke. ‘I tried to persuade them, but they refused.’

  ‘Well, perhaps they will follow you when Eduardo and Carlos have been found.’

  ‘If they are ever found.’ María sighed deeply. ‘Hundreds of men are missing in Granada, Lucía, payos and gitanos alike.’ María put a trembling hand to her heart. ‘Three of my sons lost to that city . . .’ Her voice trailed off as if she didn’t have the energy or the courage to say the words. ‘Ramón is gone too. He went out to his orange grove, and did not return . . .’

  ‘Dios mío,’ Meñique muttered under his breath and crossed himself. Hearing of the tragedy of Spain from someone who had lost and suffered so much brought it home to him like no newspaper report ever could. Lucía was weeping openly.

  ‘Mamá.’ She walked to her mother and put her arms around her thin shoulders. ‘At least now you and Pepe are safe.’

  ‘Mamá said she wouldn’t come at first,’ Pepe said, ‘but I said I wouldn’t leave her there alone, so she came for me.’

  ‘I could not have Pepe’s death on my conscience too,’ María sighed. ‘He would have perished in Sacromonte. There was no food . . . nothing, Lucía.’

  ‘Well, there is now, Mamá, and it’s coming very soon, as much as you can eat.’

  ‘Gracias, Lucía, but perhaps there is a bed I could rest on first?’

  ‘You must take mine. Come, I will help you.’

  Meñique watched Lucía half carry her mother to the bedroom. He eyed Pepe. ‘I could do with a brandy. What about you?’

  ‘No, señor, Mamá forbids alcohol in our house. And I am only thirteen.’

  ‘Forgive me, I guessed older.’ Meñique gave Pepe a smile as he poured a shot from the decanter. ‘It sounds as if you’ve been very brave,’ he said as he knocked back the brandy.

  ‘Not me, señor. When the Civil Guard came up our street, looking to take young men by force, Mamá hid me in the stable, under the straw. They didn’t find me, so they took the mule instead.’

  ‘I see.’

  Meñique found himself smiling again. He liked this boy; even though he was so young, his calm demeanour and dry sense of humour had clearly not deserted him during the past few devastating and dangerous months. ‘Then you were lucky.’

  ‘Mamá said it was the one good thing about being a gitano; the officials had no record of my birth.’

  ‘True, true,’ Meñique agreed. ‘Do you play a little?’ He indicated the guitar the boy was still clutching.

  ‘Yes, señor, but nothing like you – I have heard your recordings. Or Papá. Mamá has told me that he is the best. Is he here? I have never met him, you see, and I would like to.’

  ‘I believe he is in the hotel somewhere, yes, but last night we were playing until very late. He is probably still sleeping,’ Meñique replied, desperate to buy some time until he’d spoken to Lucía. Despite José’s desertion of his family, it was obvious that María had brought her youngest son up to love and respect his father. The pathos of this alone was enough to bring tears to his eyes. He stood up and poured himself another brandy as there was a knock on the door and room service arrived.

  ‘¡Dios mío!’ Pepe’s eyes widened at the sight of the two trolleys laden with food. ‘It is a banquet for the King of Spain!’

  Lucía entered the room, her nostrils quivering at the smell of food.

  ‘Mamá is sleeping, so we shall save her something for later. I will go and wake up the rest of the cuadro and tell them the wonderful news.’

 
; ‘Yes, and you must tell your father that his precious son Pepe is here and excited to meet him for the first time.’ Meñique’s eyes flashed a warning to Lucía, and she read it.

  ‘Of course. I am sure he will be excited to meet you too, Pepe.’

  Lucía left the suite and walked along the softly carpeted corridors to her father’s room. She did not bother to knock and walked straight in. The room stank of cigarette smoke and alcohol. José was fast asleep, snoring like a snuffling pig.

  ‘Wake up, Papá, I have a surprise for you,’ she shouted in his ear. ‘Papá!’ Lucía shook him, but he only groaned, so she went to the washbasin, filled a mug with water, then splashed it on his face.

  José swore, but came to quickly.

  ‘What is it?’ he said as he struggled upright.

  ‘Papá, I need to tell you something.’ Lucía sat down on the side of his mattress and took his hands. ‘I sent Bernardo with his cousin to rescue Mamá from Granada. And she has arrived! She is right here in my suite! She’s sleeping now, but she brings bad news—’

  ‘Stop!’ José raised a hand to halt her. ‘You say your mother is here in Lisbon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?!’

  ‘Because if she had stayed in Spain, she would be dead! One of us had to do something to save her – Eduardo and Carlos are both missing, along with thousands of others in Granada. I am sorry, Papá, but I used the money that you hide under the floorboards to pay for their rescue.’

  José stared at her, doing his best to rid himself of his hangover and begin to take in what his daughter was saying.

  ‘Eduardo and Carlos are dead?’

  ‘We must hope not, but Mamá says they have not been seen for the past few weeks. Listen, Papá, there is something else you must know before I take you to see her.’

  ‘Lucía!’ José put his hand up to stop her words. ‘Don’t you understand that she hates me? I deserted her to go to Barcelona with you. She is likely to attack me with her bare fists if she sees me. Perhaps it is best I stay here.’ José pulled the sheet protectively up to his chin.