Only in Spain

by Nellie Bennett

  The shop that Enrique sent me to, Compás Sur, was a little CD store in the center of Seville dedicated to flamenco. My eyes wandered over the racks: the CDs were alphabetized by the artist’s name. Some of the more famous names I recognized, but the vast majority were unknown to me. I smiled, remembering the way I used to pore over the dozen flamenco albums in the dusty back corner of the CD store I went to in Sydney. Now I’d found the shop of my dreams.

  The sales assistant came out from behind the counter and asked if I needed help. “Sólo Compás?” I asked, and he indicated with a wave of his hand a large section of the store. That’s right, section. I’d thought that Sólo Compás was a disc, but it was in fact the name of a brand that produced CDs that were, as they say, sólo compás, or “only rhythm.”

  I looked around at all the different styles to choose from. Some of them I’d heard of, like bulería, soleá, alegrías, tangos, and sevillanas. But there was a whole heap more I’d never encountered before, with names like tarantos, siguiriyas, tientos, fandango, granaína, farruca, malagueña, toná, caña, and zambra, to name just a few. As my eyes scanned the titles, all I could think was, “How on earth am I ever going to learn all this?”

  When I got back to the apartment, I chose one of the half dozen Sólo Compás CDs I’d bought and put it in the stereo in the lounge room. The first sound was a man saying “Ay!” Then a guitar started to strum with the chords muted, followed by a percussion instrument and someone clapping.

  I turned up the volume so I could hear it while I made lunch. One, two, three, open the fridge. I drummed my nails on the door to seven, eight, nine, and ten. One, two, three, take out the rice, seven, eight, and a bag of green beans. Carry it to the bench, two, three, close the fridge with a kick, seven, eight, turn on the gas, click click click, light the flame. Put the pot on the stove. Rinse the beans and shake off the water, two, three. Take a knife, chop chop chop. Throw the beans in the pot. Put on the lid, turn down the flame.

  Lunch in compás. Olé, olé.

  • • •

  I listened to my Sólo Compás CDs at every possible moment of the day and night, just like Enrique had told me to. I listened to the different rhythms on my headphones as I walked to and from class, in the market while I did my shopping, even in the café. The simplicity of the recordings let the sounds around me filter through, and rather than taking me away from my surroundings, the music gave form to the noise of daily life.

  In the café the whir of the coffee machine blended into the rhythm pattern on my headphones. The sounds of spoons clicking against cups and cups clattering against saucers merged in with the beat. One, two, three…I stirred my café con leche. And seven, eight, nine, and ten.

  I also played the CDs when I practiced alone in the studio, and having to stay in compás changed the way that I danced. I started to see the reasons behind Enrique’s choreography. Every twirl of the wrist and flick of the hips had its place in the compás, and each must be on their beat for maximum impact and drama.

  At the end of the week, Enrique’s guitarist was joined by a singer, and they both accompanied Enrique as he choreographed a new section for the dance. Then his eyes caught mine, and he beckoned me to come to the front of the class.

  Me? What did he want me for? I walked nervously to the front of the room. Enrique told me to clap compás as he demonstrated the new footwork, and I got that flushed, nervous, dry-mouthed feeling that is usually felt by people who are about to throw themselves down a water slide that didn’t look so scary from the bottom. It’s easy, I told myself. You know how to clap, don’t you? Just put your hands together and…

  All eyes were on me as I began to clap. The guitarist picked up the rhythm and started to play. Enrique stepped forward, his arms raised, his eyes on the floor in front of him; he seemed to be waiting for inspiration. Then it hit him and he attacked the floor with rapid footwork. I had to keep all my focus on the beat so I didn’t lose the compás. Enrique spun around, clicking the heel of his boot against the floor on the offbeats as he turned, then he landed and continued to dance as the singer started his verse.

  By the end of the section, I could no longer tell if I was in time, but Enrique nodded and said, “Muy bien.” I did it! I did palmas for soleá, and I didn’t mess it up. I didn’t clap on the wrong beat, or go too slow or too fast or pass out from the pressure. I did it!

  It was an important moment for me, because it showed me that I was able to keep the rhythm for a singer, guitarist, and dancer. For the girl who a week before had only a vague idea of what compás meant, it was a big step forward, and I had Seville to thank for it, because in Seville compás is everywhere and I never lacked opportunities to practice.

  Sevillians grow up with flamenco and know compás intuitively. The street sweeper who sang outside the church didn’t have to count to know where he was in compás. When I passed him I listened carefully, trying to pick up what style he was singing. And I noticed that when the sun was shining brightly he sang alegrías, which I guessed was because alegrías means happiness.

  The next day as I was walking to the café to meet Zahra, I saw the street sweeper again. He was singing a slow song and I stopped to listen to him. What style was that? It sounded like a sevillanas, but it was much too slow. Maybe it was a fandango?

  “Hola,” he said, seeing me standing there.

  “Fandango?” I asked, and he nodded. “Gracias!” I said, and continued on my way. And as I walked on I heard his voice ring out again.

  He doesn’t know it, I thought to myself, but he’s made my day.

  THE SEVILLANAS

  Or

  Pasa…Gira…Pasa!

  Spain was seducing me, and I was such a willing seductee. Every day she stripped off another piece of my armor, and she did it in a way that was so delightful that the staunch vegan who had been proudly starving herself was now drinking red wine at midday and ordering tapas without even checking the ingredients.

  Only in Spain.

  Only in Spain could it feel so normal to be so indulgent. Just a glance over your shoulder was enough to tell you that everyone else was doing it. And it wasn’t just the wine or the tapas or the sugar in my coffee. Every day I was being seduced by the dark eyes that watched me from the front of the classroom.

  That’s right, I was falling for Enrique. Falling like an apple off a tree. Plummeting through the air without a thought to the bump I’d get when I hit the ground. I knew I couldn’t call it love. How could it possibly be love? I didn’t even know him outside of the classroom. I didn’t know what he was like at home, though I had a pretty clear mental picture of his über-glamorous dancer lifestyle.

  I could imagine him weaving through the traffic on his sleek black motorcycle, ducking under bowers of orange blossoms to arrive at his elegantly Mediterranean loft with its terra-cotta-tiled terrace littered with random sculptures, and succulents growing out of empty wine bottles. And he’d let himself in to his bohemian dancer’s apartment—all polished floorboards with mismatched chairs—and he’d light a cigarette and lean on the windowsill, looking out over the rooftops of Seville, and think to himself, I wonder what she’s doing now?

  Yes, that was my dream. And through his eyes I saw a world covered in polka dots. Because a life with him would be one of wild, flamenco madness, like the day we did a sevillanas in class. We’d finished early, and seeing there were still ten minutes on the clock, Enrique decided to take us through a sevillanas. One small problem: I’d never danced a sevillanas and had no idea what the steps were.

  As soon as the guitarist strummed the opening chords, the girls divided up into pairs. There was an odd number of students in the class, and I was the one left without a partner. Enrique came quickly to the back of the room and stood opposite me. I copied the girls around me and lifted my arms above my head.

  No doubt Enrique couldn’t have imagined that a girl could get into an adva
nced flamenco class without having learned sevillanas. In Seville the kids are dancing sevillanas before they can walk. Everyone dances sevillanas, whether at the Feria de Abril, or in a corner bar with a glass of wine after work. But as soon as we started to dance he realized. Around us the girls were stepping forward and back, their skirts swishing and their arms circling elegantly around their heads, but I just stood there helplessly.

  Then the girls started spinning around each other, their arms twirling. “Pasa!” Enrique said, instructing me to step forward and swap places with him. “Pasa!” he repeated, and we switched places again. “Gira!” he said, and we both spun around.

  The music sped up and I skipped forward, spinning around, and then skipped back, spinning as I went, then forward again, and back. I was getting dizzier and dizzier, and on the next step forward I crashed into Enrique. He steadied me, then pushed me into position. Was it just me, or was the music getting faster? Enrique clapped the rhythm, and looking at him, I wished that we were in one of those smoky little sevillanas bars, pressed close together by the crowd…

  As we lifted up our arms to begin the final set, Enrique gave me a look that said, “I hope you’re ready.” He told me to look into his eyes, and then we went straight into the turns.

  “Pasa.” We spun around each other, then our eyes met and he repeated, “Pasa,” and we spun around again. “Gira…pasa…gira…pasa…” Turn, pass, turn, pass… We circled around each other, our eyes meeting each time we passed, and the faster we went, the more unsteady I was on my feet. Enrique put his hands on my shoulders to steady me, then spun me around again: “Gira!” Again I landed, and we locked eyes and circled each other again.

  When the guitarist strummed the final chords, my head was spinning, but I threw my arm up in the air and we all cried out, “Olé!”

  • • •

  That evening Zahra and I met for a glass of wine in our favorite little bar, just around the corner from the dance school. Zahra was quite possibly the only person alive who was more obsessed with flamenco than I was. She was the only one of my friends I didn’t have to explain my passion to. It didn’t matter that all our conversations were about flamenco, and I didn’t feel like a weirdo when I went on and on about things like compás and how much I hated turns. For us the weirdos were the people who didn’t like flamenco.

  The only difference between us was that she was more into the flamenco outfits, the colors, the different looks and accessories. And maybe that was because it all looked so good on her, with her sleek black hair and almond-shaped eyes, and the hourglass figure that made her look like one of the dancers on the posters in the tourist shops she was always dragging me into.

  So of course when I told her about my first sevillanas experience, she said, “Chica, that is so cool! We have to go find one of those bars where the people dance. Then you can teach me. Or, better, we find some ojos to teach us!” Ojos means “eyes,” but Zahra used it to describe Spanish eyes, which are like dark lagoons of mystery and seduction framed with luscious fronds of flirtation. It had become our code word for handsome Spanish men.

  Our only problem was that we didn’t know where these sevillanas bars were. So when the waiter came over with the bottle of rioja to fill up our glasses, we asked him if he knew of a place.

  “Claro!” Of course! He pulled out a pen and wrote down a name on a serviette. With a wink of one dark eye, he told us he’d be there that night.

  Zahra waited until he was a few steps away before saying, “Muchos ojos!”

  We found Bar Andaluz underneath a stone bridge in the old part of town. It was the kind of place you would never find unless someone told you about it, yet even on a Thursday night the bar was so packed that we had to squeeze through a throng of perfumed and cologned bodies just to get in the door.

  “Chica,” said Zahra, as we pushed through the crowd, ducking under glasses and lit cigarettes, “look at all these ojos!” We were surrounded by gorgeous Spanish men, all clapping to the rumbas played by the flamenco group on the stage. Then the band played the introduction to sevillanas, and everyone divided up into pairs and got ready to dance.

  Looking at the people dancing, I could barely recognize this as the same dance we’d done in class. Some of the couples circled their arms around their heads the way my classmates had, but others kept their arms low or just twirled their free arm and held a drink in the other. The steps were adapted for a crowded dance floor, and looking around, we could see that there weren’t two people who danced it the same way. It seemed everyone had their own personal sevillanas style.

  I felt a hand on my arm, and a man spun me around to face him. He was tanned and smooth-cheeked, and looked suave as only a Spanish man can in a crisply ironed pink button-down shirt. I looked around for Zahra and saw her standing opposite her own partner, lifting her arms above her head and twirling her wrists like a born-and-bred sevillana.

  “Olé!” my partner said as the dance began, then, “Pasa…Gira…Pasa!” as he gestured to help me with the movements. At the end everyone in the bar threw up one arm and shouted, “Olé!”

  Zahra and I danced for hours, and with each set we got better. Each new partner taught us a different variation or a little flourish to add to the steps, and we didn’t stop laughing all night.

  As I twirled from partner to partner, I realized that I just love Spanish men. I love the way they wear pink and spray-starch their shirts, and that “going out with the boys” means dancing flamenco until the bars reopen for breakfast. I love the way they flirt, still believing that a song will win a fair lady, and I love the way they make a girl feel like she’s the star of her very own Broadway musical.

  “Watch this!” Zahra said, her dark eyes sparkling. She cried out, “Toma que toma!” The crowd cried back, “Que toma, toma! Que toma que toma, que toma!” as they danced. I still didn’t know what toma que toma meant, if it meant anything at all. But it was just so much fun to say, and the Sevillians couldn’t seem to resist it.

  “You try it,” Zahra insisted, so I called out, “Toma que toma!” and around us the people called back, “Que toma, que toma, que toma!” clapping their hands like they were cheering each other on. Go, go, take it, take it!

  “Chica!” she said, grabbing my arm as her partner pulled her away to dance. “Let’s come here every night!”

  THE DANCING JESUS

  Or

  You dip the fried stuff in the chocolate stuff

  I don’t know what time the drumming started. I woke up in the early hours of the morning and heard it through my window, then went back to sleep and the drum merged with my dreams. It was a slow and steady beat: dum…dum…dum…

  When I woke up again later in the morning, I could still hear the distant drumbeat coming in my open window. At first I didn’t pay much attention to it; by now I’d gotten used to the unusual sounds from the streets. There was the man who would walk past my window playing panpipes; when the local people heard him coming, they all went down to the street with their knives for him to sharpen. Then there was the butanero, who came past calling out, “Butano!” He sold the big orange gas canisters that powered the houses of Seville.

  The sounds of the knife man and the butanero had become part of the soundscape of Seville that I loved. Music seemed to be in the air, and even the cry of the butanero reminded me of the voice of a flamenco singer. So now I didn’t think twice about the drums; I knew it would be another Spanish ritual that I had yet to discover.

  I was meeting Zahra for coffee that morning, and as I left the apartment, I heard the sound of wailing music. It sounded like a marching band tune being played backward. I turned a corner to find that the road was blocked by hundreds of people. They all stood watching as a procession made its way down the street, a crowd of hooded men carrying a statue of Jesus. Leading the procession were two men in white robes swinging incense burners, followed by another two robed men bea
ting big drums, and a brass band playing the slow, mournful music.

  This was Semana Santa, Holy Week, the Spanish Easter celebrations that go on for seven days and finish with Easter Sunday. The crowd surged toward the statue of Jesus, crying out prayers and reaching out to touch it. Then the drumming stopped and the procession halted in the middle of the road. The crowd fell silent; everyone seemed to be holding their breath. When the Jesus statue started to move, slowly, from side to side, the crowd erupted into rapturous cheers: “Olé, Olé! Jesús, olé, Olé!” What was going on? I couldn’t understand it. Why were they shaking the statue, and why did this make the crowd go wild?

  I asked an old man next to me and he said, “Jesús está bailando!”

  “Jesus is dancing?” I repeated it back to him, thinking I’d heard him wrong, but he confirmed with a radiant smile, “Sí, sí! Jesús está bailando!” I looked up at the Jesus statue. He wasn’t looking so good. His face was contorted in agony and streaked with blood from the crown of thorns on his head. His body was wasted and his bones were protruding…and they were making him dance? I guess in Seville there’s no excuse not to toma que toma.

  This was certainly going to be more colorful than Easter back home, which consisted of Sunday lunch with the family (me picking the goat’s cheese out of the goat’s cheese salad and eating some of the roast veggies that hadn’t touched the lamb) and coming up with ingenious reasons why I should break my diet to eat chocolate.

  The Spanish certainly seemed to take Easter seriously. The street was completely blocked, and every attempt I made to move through the crowd was met with angry shouts and hisses from the people around me. How on earth was I going to get to the café?

  At the rate the procession was going I figured it would take me at least an hour to cross the road, so I turned around to see if I could find a way through the backstreets. But as I walked back toward the apartment, I heard the sound of another brass band playing a funeral march.