FLAMENCO BABY

by Radford, Cherry

  ‘Ay, ay, ay… what you are doing to my poor machine?’ The man in the Oxfam overcoat. He pressed the chocolate button. ‘You see? You upset her. She will not do anything for you now. Momento.’ He took a key from a nail above the doorway and opened the machine, started tinkering around inside. I wished he’d hurry up. He had baby-fine mousey hair falling onto his shoulders, what the Spaniards call blonde; if it weren’t for the sorrowful dark eyes you’d think he was English. Carlota went past and was saying something about a problem with the printer in the office; he said he’d come in a minute.

  He closed the machine and handed me a chocolate. The drink coursed through me - not just the sugar and caffeine but the memories - and I strode into the class with as much determination as I could find.

  Manuela looked more like a barrister than a dancer: mature, glasses, a frightening intensity. It looked like the teacher from the morning class had filled her in on my feebleness, because she stood in front of me and fixed me with her eyes after each demonstration; I was going to have to come up with something more dramatic than tiredness to get out of finishing this class. But something about her inspired me. Most of the arms had to go, but I tried to get the rhythm if not the steps, the feel if not the look. Like Alicia, she was a stickler for compás; for one of the trickier rhythms she made each of us do the steps on our own, to her clapping of the pulse. ‘Fuera’ she said to three of the others. Out. Out of time. A so-so flutter of her hand to Amparo. Then she tilted her chin up in my direction to indicate it was my turn. I gave it my graceless but rhythmical all. A slight nod with raised eyebrows; I was thrilled.

  Then she said something I didn’t catch and left the room. One Finnish girl adjusted her strappy top and pulled at her skirt, the other released a bob of platinum hair. Amparo put a hand to her mouth and explained that a guitarist was going to accompany us. The chair was next to us, so we persuaded the other girls to swap places. Then tried not to giggle when they slumped with disappointment as the unhandsome guitarist came in. But his playing was an incisive burst of passion in the corner of the room, letting us make believe for a moment that we were bailaoras.

  Back in the changing room I took off my shoes, the soles of my feet tingling and swollen, my calf muscles tight.

  ‘Compás class now,’ said one of the Finns. She picked up her timetable. ‘Jav-ier Benites. ’

  ‘It’s pronounced Hav-yair,’ the Scottish woman informed us.

  ‘Look - he plays tonight, with singer, dancers too - at the Boogaclub,’ said the other Finn, looking at the week’s list of recommended performances stuck to the wall. ‘I think he is other guitar man… Oh, why I not sign for this!’

  The others laughed, and we all agreed to meet outside the school at half past eight to go and see him at the club. We left the changing room and went over to El Rincón, the corner - a tiny cave room, with five little stools and a box to sit on. One of the guitar boys was telling a Czech girl from the Intermediate class about his brilliant first lesson with Javier.

  The technician who’d sorted out the drinks machine came in, sitting down and checking our names against a list. He gave the guitarist some photocopies then said he was going to introduce us to the most important element of flamenco - and he was Javi, by the way. Technician, guitar teacher, taker of the Compás class: a versatile, indispensable member of staff. Even if far from exotic - for the romantically inclined women from cooler climes - with his paleness, bally navy jumper and worn-out jeans.

  He was showing us the different kinds of palmas: open for a louder sound, closed for when the cantaor was singing. I remembered Nando clapping and tapping his foot when I showed him my marcaje, like he did on stage when not dancing. Sometimes preceded by that brief shudder of his shoulders that was somehow so erotic…

  Bang.

  I jumped and had to hold on to Amparo’s arm to stop myself falling off my stool. Everyone laughed.

  ‘Yolanda! But we call you Yoli, no?’ Javi asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Next time—’

  ‘It was the cajón - he’s sitting on an instrument, look,’ the Czech girl said. I knew what a cajón was.

  ‘Next time,’ Javi continued, ‘if you are in a dream in my class, I will ask you to tell us the story. Then we can all decide which palo is right for it.’ He was pointing to the handout showing little lines, circles and letters for the flamenco rhythms, the different styles and moods of the songs.

  ‘Oh. Er… lo siento.’

  ‘De nada. Is okay. Now first, very easy, I show you palmas for the tangos…’ In four time, three different versions. We clapped while he tapped, knocked and fluttered his fingers on the cajón. Easy enough, except I kept forgetting the foot that had to go with it.

  ‘Muy bien. Very good everybody. But now we try soleá. Is very slow, profound. You know, songs about death, woman going with other man, these kind of things. We count in twelve but with once-doce as un-dos. Look at first one, see the accents: un dos TRES cuatro cinco seis SIETE OCHO nueve DIEZ un DOS un dos TRES… Yoli, you can count in English.’

  As could the other three non-Spaniards; I’d obviously been spotted as a struggler. But it was similar to the one I’d learnt with Alicia, so I managed.

  ‘You are all so good I can go on and show you remate. It is when there is a sudden crescendo in the rhythm, and it is a signal for the palmas to stop. But it has to be in the right place, all at the same time - for tangos on the third beat, but for soleá on count ten. We try.’

  I knew what a crescendo was, but I was so intrigued by the opening and curling of Javi’s fingers, the complexity and variety of his counter-rhythms, the way he could be so in time without apparently giving a thought to what he was doing, that I was always caught out.

  ‘Yoli, you are dreaming again?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Tienes que concentrarte, you must concentrate. Try it on your own.’

  He went through several bars at a slow tempo, then teased me with little bursts of crescendo but carried on; the others started to giggle. Eventually there was a growing thunder of excitement from the cajón that seemed to reach me through the floor as well as my ears; I was swept along, clapping louder and louder, but managed to stop on count ten with him.

  ‘Eso es, Yoli!’ he exclaimed, to laughter and applause.

  The others were sharing apartments down the hill; my ‘charming’ apartamento con encanto was in the other direction, mercifully also downhill but to the other side, into the Gitano alley area. I plodded along on weary legs, the cobbles hurting the sore soles of my feet through my boots. Three breed-less dogs took a worrying interest. Then I took the left fork into an even narrower alley, this one colonised by a number of multicoloured cats, eating dried food thrown out for them by the doorsteps - no bothering with paw-print design earthenware bowls here.

  I stopped and looked at the map again, wondering about the second left turn I was supposed to take.

  A loud bark right by my hand.

  For the second time that afternoon, I jumped and nearly fell over.

  ‘No te inquietes. Solo juega.’

  The dog had a nasty snarl; he didn’t look like he ever only played.

  ‘Are you okay? You not find your house?’ I recognised the black shoes, the slim black jeans. Looked up at him. He’d tied back the long black hair, emphasising his high cheekbones.

  ‘Oh… you teach at the school,’ I said in Spanish.

  ‘Yes, guitar,’ he said, somewhat unnecessarily given there was one on his back.

  He’d taken my map and was pointing a long finger with a perfectly manicured nail at it. ‘You go too far. Is back over there,’ he said, then bounded off down the uneven cobbled steps as easily as a mountain goat.

  I stood there for a moment gazing at the map, irritated by the fluttering in my chest; I wasn’t there to break my heart over another dark mysterious flamenco. I suddenly felt exhausted and needed to get to this place, unpack my suitcase - which was supposed to have been picked up f
rom the previous night’s hotel and brought there - and put my feet up with a cup of tea.

  I’d missed a tiny path. It took me up the side of a hill, and despite the crazy numbering I eventually found the big wooden gate mentioned on the map.

  I put the key in. I needed to get this right quickly; I was desperate for a pee. Round and round one way. Round and round the other. I leant against the gate and tried again. Took it out and reinserted it, but then it wouldn’t budge at all. It looked like I was going to have to run all the way down and up the cobbled steps, through the leg-winding cats and scarily nosey dogs, to the school toilet.

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’ I heard my ugly English ring out towards the Alhambra across the valley.

  ‘Yoli, Yoli, I have told you before, cálmate, concentrate, or nothing work for you.’

  Javi. These flamenco guitarists seemed to have a way of appearing out of nowhere.

  ‘This key doesn’t work.’

  ‘Yes it works.’ He motioned to me to stand back. ‘Mira, pull the door and…’ He turned the key.

  The door opened on to a courtyard with a plastic table and chairs on a roughly paved heap of earth at one side. Ahead was a rail-free break-neck flight of steps to a door.

  ‘Muchas gracias,’ I said, putting my hand out for the keys; I needed him to leave so I could hare up the steps and find that toilet.

  ‘This one is a cabrón, if they have not fix it. Come, I will show you.’

  I followed him and watched, trying not to wish it was the Joaquín-like guitarist helping me. I wondered how Javi knew about the apartment; surely he hadn’t had an affair with one of the students renting it? No way, he almost certainly had a slightly chubby sweetie of an esposa to wash his jumpers for him.

  The door opened and let out an overpowering smell of cold damp walls, but I could worry about that later.

  ‘Thanks so much. Sorry, need to…’ I dashed past him in to a little bedroom - hell - and then out again and in to a narrow bathroom. Relief. The door hadn’t closed properly - perhaps couldn’t - and swung open. No matter, I’d heard the front door close; I was alone. I looked around. A tiny basin: I’d have to wash my hair in the bath. Where was the bath? I pulled back a curtain and found a small trough. Ah. Perhaps I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t so damn cold.

  Check out the heating, put the kettle on, look at the bed and possibly get into it to warm up. Grotty place really, but exciting to be living like a…

  He was still there. Bending over in his black coat and plugging in the heater.

  ‘Have these at eight all the time - not ten or it stops. Very cold in here, I think nobody here since me. And Yoli, you must lock this door when you are here, not say oh-for-fuck’s-sake and leave it. Somebody could get in the garden. Okay?’

  I blushed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You want that I show you again?’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘Oh, and one thing more. The hervidor is terrible, use a cacerola for coffee.’ He put the kettle under the sink, then opened a cupboard and pulled out a saucepan, putting it on a cooker ring.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Cold, but the bed is good and…’ He opened the shutters on a postcard view of the faded pink walls of the Alhambra and its hillside of dark green cypress trees, all set against the distant snowy mountains.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘You can see this from the garden too. The sun will come, maybe tomorrow or the next day.’

  ‘That would be nice, haven’t seen much of it recently. Thanks for your help.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Better get on with my homework.’

  ‘Oh yes. For Compás too, don’t forget.’

  ‘Of course. Hasta mañana.’

  ‘Hasta mañana.’

  The place to myself. I filled the cacerola. Then thought, how awful, he probably wanted a coffee. A jar of it, packets of tea and sugar and a box of biscuits were sitting there on the work surface; milk and all the other promised welcome pack stuff in the fridge. He’d put the saucepan on the ring, for God’s sake. Oh well.

  I got out my Spanish homework and school folder. Made my coffee, sat by the heater. But I wasn’t thawing out; I was going to have to get into bed and do my homework there.

  I went through to the bedroom: a surprisingly soft wooden double bed, a cupboard set in to the wall, a tiny desk with the same view. He’d kindly put the heater on in here too.

  I got under the covers and started writing my story-showing-good-use-of-past-tenses in one of the Alhambra-tile exercise books. The past: what did I want to say about that? Most of it I didn’t even want to think about. Other than Jeremy.

  Jeremy. Better at least send him a text. ‘Exhausted, crap at everything except maybe Spanish.’ No, that sounded very ungrateful. ‘Exhausted, but having a fascinating time in Gitano land. How’s the word count?’

  ‘29,998! Will have a break now as Ginny is here for a few days. I want a dance demo when you get back. Have fun but take care Yol xx’

  Ginny. I’d met her once, a few years ago, but since then she’d had an uncanny knack of turning up when I wasn’t there. They were probably going to the Bath Festival together. Like a couple. Having slept together.

  Okay, in separate bedrooms, but I’d only ever slept in his flat twice in ten years. She’d been an aspiring novelist for one heck of a time; when was she going to give up? Like others he’d taken under his wing, she blatantly had a massive author-awe crush on him, but what made her different is that he seemed to get a lot out of seeing her too.

  My phone buzzed again. ‘Stop sulking you silly girl, I love you xxxx.’

  I wrote about how we first met. Started to warm up, get sleepy. Dozed for a while. Then woke up and had to turn the lights on. I needed to check a verb in the handout, but out fell the Recomendaciones Culturales sheet.

  Shit: I’d completely forgotten about the concert. It was already gone eight, I hadn’t eaten and there was all the dodgy unlocking and locking of doors to do, cobbles to go down and up, cats and dogs to trip over; I’d never make it to the school in time to meet the others.

  Javi. Just because he was pale and a bit pudgy I’d not thanked him at the drinks machine, daydreamed in his class, not apologised for saying fuck on his hillside, peed without shutting the door, failed to give him a coffee for his introduction to my temperamental apartamento and not bothered to go to his concert. I got out his handout, swung my aching legs onto the floor. Practised the rhythms until both hands and foot were perfect. Had a go at the Bulerías and Seguiriyas to give myself a head start on the next lesson. Somehow I’d make it up to him.

  Chapter 8

  reparar vt to mend

  ‘How was dance today?’ Liz asked as we came out of Spanish. She shook her short-haired head and folded her arms as if she’d just been asked to join in. ‘I don’t how you can stand it.’

  ‘Awful. And it didn’t help that I had to run to it. My shower’s possessed - squirted all over the place and then fell off the wall, just missed my head.’

  ‘Gord! Look, here’s the office - I’m sure they’ll sort it out.’

  The women behind the desk were discussing something with serious faces; I caught it couldn’t be much longer until she… poor Javi. It sounded like he was losing a parent; I imagined him looking after a widowed mother, popping in to see her every day, fixing her heating and locks, and now she was dying.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  I told her about the shower. She turned to her friend behind her and then came back to me with a broad smile. ‘Someone can do this for you this afternoon.’

  I thanked her and went off to find the shop Liz had told me about. I trudged painfully down the dog alley, the cat alley and then straight on down to the road. It was a little cave place, giving off a pungent smell of jamón and old vegetables. I didn’t have long - and it didn’t look like I’d need long - but where the hell was the bread? I was about to look down the second aisle when I saw Javi there, looking at his mobile, his
face almost unrecognizable with concern. I didn’t want him to see me and feel he had to say hello, so I quietly picked up a dusty packet of Ryvita.

  ‘Señora, qué quiere?’ The deep, guttural voice of the shopkeeper, looking my way.

  ‘Er… estoy buscando el pan.’

  A chuckle from the other side of the aisle. Javi came round the corner, his face back to normal. ‘You don’t look for bread, you ask for it. Integral?’

  ‘If that’s brown, yes please.’

  The shopkeeper disappeared and returned with a warm baguette. I thanked them and went off to my apartment, imagining Javi sitting in a similar one with his bread and jamón, hopefully being comforted by his esposa.

  I was still underestimating the time it took to get back to the school. No clacking flamenco shoes and wafts of perfume in the reception area; they’d all gone in. I put my shoes on then remembered I hadn’t closed the door to the courtyard. Pushing it, I saw Javi out there - this time with his mobile pressed to his ear, his face angry at what he was hearing. Or perhaps just unbelieving. Poor chap, they should let him have the afternoon off.

  But later, there he was in Compás class. Teasing Amparo about the way she bit her lip to concentrate. Tolerating some mobile-filming of him playing the cajón. Then getting out his guitar and letting us do some palmas while he filled the tiny room with exotic chords and intricate twanging melodies. I couldn’t tell him I was sorry about his mother or whoever was ill, so I thanked him profusely and told him I loved his class.

  Afterwards I hung around the drinks machine comparing foot discomforts with Amparo, she in English and me in Spanish, with lots of cómo-se-dices and how-you-says. I liked her gentle humour, soft brown eyes and luscious mahogany ponytail; as I’d said to Jeremy, I could be gay from the neck up. I was also waiting for Javi to leave before me; I’d been a bit too gushy with my thanks after the lesson, and thought it might look a bit too keen if I walked home with him too. But the Czech girl had him trapped against the wall with her rapid Spanish and limited sense of personal space; we heard him call out to the dark guitarist as if in desperation and started giggling. Then Amparo was off to put her feet up at her aunt’s, and I was going to do the same in my hopefully now warming up and drying out flat.