‘I want . . .’ Meñique began.
‘What do you want?’
‘An end and a beginning,’ he whispered. ‘For the journey to be over. To have a home.’
‘Sí, I understand. They say the war in Europe will be over soon. I need to know what has happened to my sons. I wish to go home too.’
María gave his hand a squeeze before walking away, leaving a solitary figure on the freezing deck.
*
‘You know it is Antonio Triana who recommended me to Señor Hurok?’ Lucía said as she readied herself for dinner at the captain’s table, clipping on heavy diamond earrings and arranging a fur stole around her shoulders.
‘No, you never mentioned it. I thought he partnered La Argentinita?’
‘He does, but I hear that her health is failing. He is looking for a new partner. And he has chosen me!’ Lucía gave a giggle of delight as she twirled her finger round the black curl that sat in the centre of her forehead.
Meñique stared at her. ‘I thought you preferred to dance alone?’
‘I do, but the last time I danced with Triana in Buenos Aires, I felt something bigger than myself, and he is already famous in America.’
‘Please tell me, Lucía, that we are not travelling all the way to New York to steal La Argentinita’s partner?’
‘Of course not, but I can learn from Triana. He is a genius.’
‘Really?’ Meñique moved to stand behind her and stared at her reflection in the mirror. ‘This from the woman who has always insisted every dance comes instinctively from her soul.’
‘I am older now, and wish to improve further. If Triana can teach me what it is that made La Argentinita so famous in America, I will listen. You know how things have changed. It is not enough just to dance on a stage with an orchestra any more. We need a spectacular show!’
‘Isn’t that what we have been giving to audiences in South America for all these years?’ Meñique said wearily. ‘Now, I am hungry. Have you finished or shall I go to the dining room alone?’
Lucía fastened a diamond bracelet on her wrist, then stood up and held out her hand to him. ‘I am ready, and hungry for sardines.’
*
Two days later, the Albaycín cuadro arrived in New York. Never had Meñique seen Lucía so full of excitement as she gazed at the impossibly tall skyscrapers that disappeared into the cloudy sky. As they approached a small island at the mouth of a huge river, they passed the very symbol of America, the lady of Liberty clad in her grey-green robes and carrying the torch of freedom.
When they reached Ellis Island, their port of disembarkation, Lucía was all ready for a hero’s welcome as she marched down the gangplank, only to be greeted by immigration officials, who insisted the company follow them to a building to fill out the necessary forms.
‘I cannot write! Neither can my mother nor my father!’ Lucía said in Spanish, looking at the officials in exasperation. ‘Surely you know who I am?’
‘No, ma’am, we don’t,’ said one man, after Meñique had reluctantly translated. ‘All we know is that you are a Spanish immigrant who needs to fill out the necessary forms before you can enter the United States of America.’
Despite Lucía’s protests, they were all refused entry. After contacting Sol Hurok to advise him of the delay, another long boat journey back down to Havana ensued. During the voyage, Meñique and the few others in the cuadro who could write spent hours teaching Lucía and the rest of the company to at least sign their names.
When they reached New York again twenty days later, Meñique was heartily glad to see the back of the sea.
This time, the formalities at Ellis Island were completed without a hitch, so the cuadro made their way to Manhattan by ferry then piled into several yellow-and-black taxi cabs. As they drove, Meñique was amazed by the huge buildings, the weak winter sunlight reflected in their hundreds of glass windows. Stepping out of the cab, his breath visible in the freezing air, Meñique did his best to hide his misery from Lucía, who was openly delighted at the lavish window displays of mannequins draped in fur and diamonds.
They were to stay at the Waldorf Astoria hotel, where Sol Hurok had booked rooms for the entire cuadro. In the lobby, Lucía signed the register with a defiant illegible squiggle. Her father and the others followed suit, as the staff and passing guests looked on in distaste at the noisy, chattering band of gypsies.
A desk clerk handed her the keys to her suite and she swept regally towards the elevators.
As the bellboy pressed the button, Lucía turned round to face the lobby.
‘Hola, New York! Soon, everyone here will know my name!’
*
‘So, you are to make your American debut at the Beachcomber!’ Antonio Triana announced.
‘And what is that place?’ Lucía looked suspiciously at the slender, dark-eyed man sitting opposite her in the suite. His trousers and waistcoat were clearly expensively tailored and his black hair had been perfectly oiled.
‘It is a club – very sophisticated – with many Hollywood film stars often in the audience. I have danced there myself with La Argentinita,’ Antonio reassured her.
‘So, it is not some shack on a beach?’
‘I assure you, Señorita Albaycín, it is not. The tickets to your opening are selling at twenty dollars each! Now, I must leave you but from tomorrow, we will rehearse. Nine a.m. sharp.’
Lucía looked aghast. ‘Señor Triana, we never rise until noon!’
‘You are in New York, Señorita Albaycín. Here, the rules are different. So, I will see you and the cuadro in the foyer at nine tomorrow and take you to our rehearsal room.’ With an elegant bow, Antonio left the room.
‘Nine o’clock?’ Lucía turned to Meñique. ‘Why, that is the middle of the night!’
‘We must do as he asks. He knows the rules here, Lucía.’
‘You are right,’ she sighed. ‘But tonight, we feast and drink wine!’ Lucía declared.
*
‘Are you ready for your New York debut?’ Antonio Triana whispered in Lucía’s ear as they stood together on the side of the stage two weeks later. She could see the coloured lights flickering through the crack in the curtains, hear the murmur of voices from the exclusive supper club that lay beyond them. The Beachcomber was vibrant at night, and on her way to the stage door earlier she had felt gratified to see a large throng of people vying to get in.
‘After all those early morning rehearsals, I have never been more ready,’ she declared to Antonio.
‘Good, for I must tell you that in the audience tonight are Frank Sinatra, Boris Karloff and Dorothy Lamour.’
‘Boris Karloff? The monster man? Why is he here? To frighten me?’
‘To see you dance, Lucía,’ Antonio smiled. ‘I assure you that in real life, he is no monster. He just plays them on the screen very well. Now.’ He took her hand. ‘Let us give these rich American celebrities a taste of Spain. Good luck, La Candela.’ He kissed her fingertips lightly. ‘Here we go.’
Meñique watched from his chair at one side of the stage as Lucía appeared, guided to the centre by Antonio. As with all of her debut performances, Lucía was dressed in impeccably cut black satin trousers, a corset that hugged her slim hips and a sharp-shouldered bolero jacket. Antonio bowed to her then left the stage, blowing a kiss towards her. Meñique felt tendrils of jealousy creep up his spine but shrugged them off lest they entered his fingers.
He nodded at Pepe and the three guitarists began to play as Lucía struck the opening pose of a farruca, her arms high above her head, her fingers splayed.
‘Good luck, my love,’ he whispered, knowing Lucía had never had a more sophisticated and demanding audience to enchant.
An hour later, his fingers aching, Meñique played the final chord and watched Lucía finish her bulerías, now dressed in a sumptuous violet flamenco gown. He smiled to himself, knowing that despite Antonio’s careful training, Lucía had largely ignored his set routine, and had improvised as she
always did.
That is your magic, mi amor. You are completely unpredictable, and I must try to love you for it.
Meñique stood with José and Pepe to receive rousing applause. He saw that Frank Sinatra himself was on his feet, and even though Meñique had been so negative about coming to New York, he felt tears welling in his eyes as Lucía took bow after bow.
How far you have come, he thought. And I can only pray it will finally be enough.
*
Following rapturous reviews in the press for Lucía’s debut, a performance at Carnegie Hall beckoned. She was up at eight o’clock every morning, and never had Meñique seen her so energised. The cuadro attended rehearsals all day, Antonio directing them with skill and patience. Meñique was surprised that Lucía took his criticism like a lamb.
‘I told you before, I want to improve. I have to learn what they want here in America.’
One night, Meñique found María still sewing costumes in the sitting room of their suite as he wandered from the bedroom to fill up his water glass.
‘It is two in the morning, María. Why are you still awake?’
‘Why are you?’
‘I can’t sleep.’
‘Neither can I.’ María stilled her fingers. ‘José is not yet back.’
‘Okay. I understand.’
‘I don’t think you do. I know that he is straying again. For the past week, he has not returned here until the early hours, many hours after the rest of you have come back from rehearsals.’
‘He told me he is staying behind to practise the new numbers in the show,’ Meñique replied truthfully.
‘With who?’
‘Some of the younger dancers who have joined the cuadro here.’
‘Exactly. Lola Montes in particular.’ María lowered her eyes. ‘And Martina. They are very pretty, yes?’
‘María, I understand your worry, but you need not fret about Lola. Anyone can see she is in love with Antonio.’
‘So that leaves Martina.’
‘I really don’t think that—’
‘I do,’ María said firmly. ‘Trust me, I know the signs. And I just can’t, can’t go through this again. He promised me, Meñique, when I agreed to take him back. He swore an oath to me on our children’s lives. If it is true, I would have to leave, perhaps go home to Spain.’
‘You cannot return home, María, all of Europe is still in chaos. And I wonder if your experience of the past is making you oversensitive.’
‘I can only hope that you’re right, but I am here all day and I cannot see what he does when he is away. Would you be my eyes and ears? You are the only one I can trust.’
‘You want me to spy on José?’
‘I’m afraid I do. Now, it is time I left for some sleep in my empty bed. Goodnight, Meñique.’
As he watched María’s proud, elegant body leave the room, he shook his head in despair.
Love makes fools of all of us, he thought.
*
‘They didn’t like me!’ Lucía threw herself onto the sofa and began to sob loudly, as Meñique kicked himself for not scanning through the New York Times review before Lucía had insisted he read it out to her. Yet, the ovations she and their company had received at Carnegie Hall last night had been so enthusiastic, there had not been a doubt in his mind that the review would be positive.
‘That is not true,’ Meñique insisted as he searched the article to find the positive quotes, of which there were many.
‘“A wonderfully lithe and supple body, keyed to a high nervous pitch but always in control.”
‘“Speedy, intense and brimming with physical excitement, she makes use of her dynamics entirely legitimately and with admirable artistry.”
‘“In the alegrías, which she dances superbly, every fibre of her body was sentient of line, mass and dynamics,”’ Meñique translated.
‘Yes! But they called it a “mediocre” dance evening, and said that I should not dance to the Córdoba. I hated that white lace dress! I know I looked ridiculous.’
‘Pequeña, all they had to say that was negative was that your style of dance suits a more intimate atmosphere than the Carnegie Hall, so the audience can see you, connect with your passion.’
‘So now they insult my size, because I am a tiny dot to the eyes at the top of the theatre! Lola Montes was not insulted over her bulerías. Even Papá congratulated her more times than he did me,’ she wept.
‘The audience loved you, Lucía,’ Meñique said wearily. ‘And that is all that matters.’
‘When we go on tour next week, I will insist that I open the show with the soleares. That was Antonio’s mistake; I cannot be shaped into anything. I am just me, and I must dance what I feel.’ Lucía was upright now and pacing the floor.
‘I know, Lucía.’ He reached for her. ‘You are who you are. And the public loves you for it.’
‘You wait and see, when we go on our American tour and play to a real audience! No one will fail to see me and what I bring to their town. Detroit, Chicago, Seattle . . . I will conquer them all!’ Lucía shook herself out of his embrace and paced the suite once more. ‘I swear, I will put a curse on that newspaper! Now, I am going to see Mamá.’
The door of the suite slammed shut behind her and the whole room shuddered.
They had been in New York for four months now, and while Lucía embraced the electric energy, Meñique felt as if this frenetic city was slowly sapping him of any at all. He suffered from constant colds, the freezing weather making it a rare day when he could escape to wander through the greenery of Central Park, a tame and artificial version of his beloved Mendoza.
Picking up the newspaper again, he read over a line in the last paragraph of the New York Times review: five words, but they were words that heartened and uplifted him.
‘Meñique was a definite success . . .’ he mouthed the words to himself.
Just now, he had never needed them more.
*
A month later, they set off on their tour. Meñique lost track of the days, weeks and months that they spent on trains criss-crossing the country, where the food, the people, the language were all so bland. True to her promise and inspired by the negative review, Lucía danced for her life.
Pepe, too, had blossomed, becoming far more confident in his playing. The two of them often spent late nights poring over payo newspapers together, reading news of the war, Meñique helping the young man with his English.
After another successful performance in San Francisco, where Meñique felt as if the interminable fog there was seeping into his very bones, the company took over the majority of the booths in a late-night diner.
‘The Soviets are moving closer to Berlin,’ Meñique said, skimming the front of a newspaper that had been left on the scarred table.
Pepe sat down beside him and craned his neck to read the article.
‘Does that mean the war will soon be over?’ he asked. ‘I met a sailor at the bar tonight who is preparing to go to Okinawa. Apparently the fighting is fierce in Japan.’
‘We can only pray,’ Meñique shrugged as they both ordered yet another tasteless hamburger. Meñique glanced at Pepe reading the articles, and thought how genetics had weaved their trickery by giving Pepe the temperament of his mother and the looks of his father. Despite the amount of admiring glances from the female members of the audience, Pepe seemed not to notice. Which was more than Meñique could say about José . . .
María came over to their table. ‘Pepe, querido, Juana wishes to talk through how many bars you play for the introduction to her bulerías.’
‘Sí, Mamá.’ Pepe stood up and left, while María slipped into the booth opposite Meñique.
‘Your playing tonight was beautiful.’ María smiled. ‘You had a longer solo than usual.’
‘I had to beg for it,’ Meñique replied, lighting a cigarette.
‘I didn’t know you smoked.’
‘I normally don’t, it’s just another bad habit I’ve picked
up from Lucía. She is smoking two packs a day at least.’
He watched María lean over the back of the red plastic banquette, her eyes searching the diner for her husband. Meñique could see he was sitting next to Martina in a neighbouring booth, an arm resting carelessly on the seat behind her.
‘Really, María, since we came on this tour, I swear I have seen nothing beyond talk and drink.’
‘Maybe.’ María smiled grimly. ‘But you do not see everything; there is a catch. Many nights on this long tour I fall asleep alone. José is a rich man now. Famous too, and talented.’
‘And you, María, are still a very beautiful woman. José loves you, I’m sure.’
‘Not as I love him. Don’t try to be kind, Meñique. Can you not see how this tortures me? Being with him, but knowing now for certain I can never be enough.’
‘I can, and this tour has felt interminable. It was exciting when we were in South America. There was so much to see, wonderful food to eat and wines to drink. They spoke our language, they understood us – but here –’ Meñique gazed miserably out of the window into blackness – ‘the best they can offer us is a hotdog.’
‘Yes, I miss South America too, but Lucía is happy. She has conquered America. She has beaten La Argentinita at her own game. Maybe now she can slow down and relax a little.’
‘No, María.’ Meñique shook his head. ‘We both know that will never happen. There will be another La Argentinita, another country to conquer . . . Can I tell you a secret?’
‘Of course, yes.’
‘I have been asked to perform in Mexico as a solo artist at a well-known flamenco café. They saw the reviews in the New York Times and the other newspapers.’
‘I see. What will you do?’
‘I’m not sure. We only have another few weeks of the tour, then who knows what is next? Perhaps I will ask Lucía if she will come with me.’
‘What about everyone else in the cuadro?’
‘They are not invited.’ Meñique picked up his glass of beer and took a swig.
The Moon Sister Page 45