Masquerade

by Hannah Fielding

  ‘And twenty-four hours will make such a difference to your work?’ Alba eyed her sceptically and laughed, hugging her back. ‘For what it’s worth, Luz, if I had a man like Andrés de Calderón in love with me, I’d grab him and never let go. He’s not my type, of course – too intense, too passionate and besides, my heart lies elsewhere. But hidalgos like him are few and far between these days.’

  CHAPTER 8

  It was only when she was back in Cádiz that Luz began to put some order into the chaos clogging her usually clear mind. For days she trotted along the beach on Zeyna’s back, lost in her own maze of conflicting emotions. Her reaction to Andrés’ lovemaking in Pamplona had shaken her to the core. She resented his desire for her as much as she was ashamed of hers for him. The man was a duplicitous snake, yet when his hands explored her so hungrily, his mouth tasting her with such heat and urgency, she could not still her body’s response; he had aroused the same passionate need as when Leandro had made love to her on the beach. The thought of it unnerved her.

  Andrés was just as attractive and compelling as his gypsy counterpart, with the added polish and charisma of the well-bred gentleman. So much about the shrewd businessman remained a mystery, apart from the fact that he was distrustful, manipulative and underhand: a cluster of attributes she did not care much for. Nevertheless, there was something more to him beneath that calm exterior. She had been aware of it in his company but she could not put a finger on it. The other night as he held her in his arms, and when he’d called after her as she left him, she had sensed it more than ever: an anguish and a vulnerability that were unexpected in a man of his station.

  What about her? In all this confusion, what was she waiting for? What did she really want, true love or simply an affair? It seemed she responded to Leandro and to Andrés with equal fire, as her body had proved to her the other night. Thus the conclusion she must draw is that she loved neither of them: it was pure unadulterated lust. After all, what did she know about sex? Leandro was her first lover. All the needs that had pulsed through her that afternoon on the beach were new. She had dated a lot, but very few of the young men made it beyond a kiss. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing!’ her friends had teased. Now she did. Still, she did not regret her previous ignorance; at least at twenty-four her senses were not jaded, unlike those of many young women of her generation. But, sadly, she would never have the chance to get to know Leandro. There was not the briefest connection between their universes.

  As for Andrés, he might be a far more suitable proposition but he was already spoken for if she was to believe Lorenzo; and even if he were not attached, she was determined not to let her relationship with him go beyond the biography project. After all, he was a client and she knew to her cost that mixing work with pleasure was never a good idea. Her father had often told her to beware of making a mess in her own backyard.

  Indeed, she had made an utter fool of herself the other night. Her behaviour had been outrageous. Firstly she had responded with undisguised pleasure to Andrés’ lovemaking, secondly she had called him Leandro by mistake, thirdly she had slapped him across the face – twice – and finally, to cap it all, she had rushed away in hysterics as if she were the injured party. Guilt and shame wrestled together as she acknowledged the magnitude of her stupidity. Andrés must be so contemptuous of her; he was probably so disgusted that he never wanted to set eyes on her again.

  He’ll pull the project, she thought. There were countless people who could do the job. It would enable him to write a new contract with terms that suited him better, with someone more biddable than her. Yes, she was sure she would soon be getting her marching orders and she could not blame him for that. Her morale sank to rock bottom.

  She daren’t get in touch with Andrés. How could she after such appalling conduct? Surely he would make contact in due course. At least if he did, she would have something decent to present to him; if not, then maybe it would be all for the best. Luz tried her best to put her nagging anxieties behind her as she continued work on the biography each morning – it became her chief solace and distraction. And though she spent a lot of time on the beach, she never went back to the cove. Her memories of the place were still vivid and despite her determination not to think of Leandro, they hurt. But it seemed that she would not be allowed to forget the gypsy that easily.

  One evening, Luz couldn’t sleep. She had gone to bed early but a couple of hours later had awoken from another dream about the gypsy and his doppelgänger that had left her skin damp with heat and flagrant desire. The night was hot, the French windows flung open, making the curtains waft gently now and then in the scant sea breeze. Luz slipped out of bed and went on to the terrace, scraping her hair back with her hands, her breathing still heavy. She was increasingly convinced that her sensual impulses were spiralling out of control.

  Even though it was late, she was restless now and needed to shake off this feeling. Pulling on some cut-off jeans and a white camisole vest, she left the cliff house and headed down to the beach. A long walk by the sea would clear her mind.

  Light from the moon spilt on to the surface of the inky waters and dark clouds formed themselves into fantastic shapes across the indigo sky. Like the elongated figures in one of Eduardo’s paintings, Luz thought as she gazed upwards. The briny smell of the sea filled her lungs, its rhythmic roar echoing the raging of her body and the ache in her heart. She felt small and insignificant against the great dark curtain of the night and yet, at that moment, she felt her emotions were powerful enough to burst and fill its infinite stretch.

  She couldn’t bear this constant torment. Her head was plagued with images of Andrés and Leandro. One moment she was recalling that afternoon not so long ago when Leandro’s warm, hard body had pressed against hers in the cool water, his wildly intense lovemaking surging through her like a force of nature; and the next, thoughts of Andrés took hold of her as if she were possessed … the primal erotic charge between them when his hands had seized her, sending her blood burning with that passionate kiss; her own desperate hunger to surrender to his dominion … She shivered again just remembering. Both liaisons were doomed, she knew, but something about these two men compelled her to act in a way she couldn’t understand. This new libidinous, wayward streak in her was deeply disturbing. What was she hoping for? What was she supposed to do? She didn’t know.

  Surely the strange resemblance between the gypsy and his gentleman double was to blame for her wanton behaviour? Somehow she had the uncomfortable feeling that the truth was a little more disturbing. They must be twins, she pondered. It was still not inconceivable for children to be kidnapped by gypsies. Perhaps the two had been separated at birth.

  Besides, she and Leandro had never had the chance for real conversation; their bodies spoke the same language, but that was about it. They came from different worlds. What did they have in common except for an overpowering physical attraction that was almost certainly hormonal and would eventually fizzle out? Leandro had obviously come to that conclusion already; that was why he was refusing to take their brief relationship any further, she reasoned. Kind and unselfish, he had a conscience, too: a gypsy hidalgo. At least she knew that about him. Sometimes, when she was feeling weak, she allowed herself to daydream, imagining all the obstacles separating them were knocked down. Then he would come to her and lift her into his powerful arms; nothing else would matter but their love and passion for each other. A lamenting laugh tore from her throat, smothered by the hiss of the sea, as she felt the million pieces of her shattered dream blow away in the wind.

  Wrapped up in her own thoughts, she had followed the path of the beach for a long time, further than she had ever ventured on foot, before she became aware of faint strains of music wafting on the night air. She looked towards the dunes and spotted an orange glow of fire in the distance: the music was coming from there. Following its sound, she scrambled up the dunes from the beach. Was she nearing the gypsy camp? This was a different place entirely – just
a small patch of sandy hillocks, half surrounded by carob bushes and even closer to the sea.

  As she climbed further, the music became more distinct, accompanied by whooping and clapping. Two guitars thrummed furiously against each other as the clapping and hollering crescendoed to its finale and then stopped, cheers and laughter breaking out. Among the shouts of exclamation in Spanish there was another language Luz didn’t recognize, which wasn’t Caló.

  Luz reached the top of the sandbank and crouched down, slowly crawling forwards until she found a vantage point. Lying on her side against the hilly dune and propping herself on one arm, she peered out between the tufts of grass on to a large clearing where the ground had been trodden flat. Whiffs of roasting meat and tobacco mingled with the salty sea air.

  An enormous group of men and women, perhaps a hundred or so, were assembled around three or four fires. These held rudimentary spits on which rabbits and small fowl were being turned by women with jangling bracelets on their arms, who every so often poked at the embers with long sticks. Around the largest fire a semi-circle of men were staggering, shouting and clapping, squirting wine wildly over each other’s faces, while others, men and women, squatted on mats or sat on low wooden stools to the side.

  Some of the men looked different from the Calés, as far as Luz could make out: the older ones had pointed, straggly beards and the younger men sported thin moustaches; all of them wore dark waistcoats and short brimmed hats, and many had sharper features than the other group. Similarly, there were women who looked more Eastern European or Turkish than Spanish, with red scarves tied around their heads and long plaits that fell below their waists.

  These were gypsies, sure enough, thought Luz. But what kind of tribe were they and what were they doing there?

  From where she was lying, Luz was only a few yards from the large fire and the gitanos seated around it. As she watched them talking and passing the wineskins around, she suddenly spied the black-eyed gypsy rose seller, whom she’d last encountered so memorably in the orange grove at El Pavón when she had gone looking for Leandro. Luz froze and her blood ran cold. She looked away, worried she might be discovered, even though the long seagrass provided good cover.

  Yet her curiosity was by now far too aroused to leave. She took a steadying breath and turned back. The gitana was talking to an imposing-looking man in his fifties or early sixties, with a bushy moustache and triangular beard, wearing a slightly taller peaked hat than the other men. They were sharing a pipe and nodding.

  The man then put two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. At this, the sound of the revellers died down a little. ‘Grigoras,’ he called out in thickly accented Spanish, ‘bring out your fiddle, you’ve been sitting too long. Need some brandy to whip your sluggish carcass into life!’

  A young drunken gitano waved a bottle. ‘Yes, Grigoras. Darle un palo al burro, give the mule a taste of the stick!’ he piped up to gales of laughter from the crowd.

  ‘Toñito, if you’re mean with your wineskin, I’ll conjure the Devil himself and he’ll take his own stick to you,’ answered another gitano with a thin moustache. He grinned broadly as he pulled himself up from his stool, a violin under his arm.

  Toñito laughed. ‘Hey, Grigoras, you may have only just arrived tonight, but if you Tzigane musicians aren’t as good as you say, then you’d better run straight back to Transylvania before your instruments are smashed over your heads!’

  More laughter erupted.

  ‘I’d like to see that,’ chuckled another man, who was strapping on his accordion. He nodded at the bearded man sitting next to the gypsy rose seller. ‘Nicholae, will you dance this one?’

  The bearded man, Nicholae, clearly the king of the Tzigane tribe, waved his hand dismissively. ‘Later, József,’ he grunted. ‘I will keep Marujita company for now. And then she’s promised to honour us with a dance.’

  He turned to the gypsy rose seller next to him, who nodded.

  ‘Nicholae, the honour will be mine.’ The gitana gave a rasping cough before picking up a glass and necking a shot of brandy. ‘I’ve had too much of the pipe,’ she said and then gestured with a heavily braceleted arm. ‘Now, amigo, let’s have your dancing!’

  Nicholae reached for the bottle at their feet and waved it at the musicians. ‘Grigoras, Jószef, show these sea Calés how the mountain Tziganes get a thirst.’

  At the order of his king, the gypsy Grigoras drew his bow across his fiddle and it was as if fire leapt from the strings. The melody bounced furiously along while Jószef, the accordion player, joined in, his fingers running like spiders over his instrument, tapping an impossibly fast counter-rhythm as he wailed a rousing song over the top. The whole camp broke into clapping and stomping.

  The music, like the people, was free and wild. They wore their gypsy identity like a badge of honour, showing the world that they were gitanos with a fierce, joyful arrogance. The men got up first and danced in pairs, each one dancing around the other, jumping and stamping, then slapping his chest, thighs and feet with fast and intricate movements. They snapped their fingers rapidly to the furious, syncopated rhythms of the violin and every now and then indulged in acrobatic movements, even somersaulting, as the women clapped out a rhythm off the beat, crying out in time with the song. After a while other women came to join in, clasping their full skirts, which they moved quickly about them to the rhythm, gyrating their hips and vibrating their shoulders.

  There was energy and elegance in the way they moved. They seemed to be a people who danced whether they were happy or sad, with or without an audience, to release energy or just for the pure joy of it. It was in their blood, in their bones, and was the air they breathed. They danced as if they wanted to break through the earth beneath their feet.

  Luz watched, entranced, as dance led into dance, each one followed with ever-greater whoops of approval from the Spanish gypsies, who began getting up and careering about with their Tzigane counterparts. Guitars joined the violin and accordion as men leapt over bottles and pulled their women into spins.

  It was then that she saw Leandro. Her heart jumped into her throat. He was wearing a tight white T-shirt and faded loose jeans rolled above the ankles. Firelight flickered on his bronzed skin and muscled arms as he danced barefoot in a group of Tzigane men, all interlinking arms across each other’s shoulders. His long chestnut hair fell over his face in wild disarray as he moved in a way that made him look almost primitive.

  Luz felt a visceral hunger burn in her blood at the sight of him, every nerve ending in her remembering how his body had felt to touch when he had made love to her in the sand that afternoon, and how far away he was from her now. When the music came to a halt and more cheers and shouts broke out, he accepted a swig from a wineskin, drinking deeply and wiping his hand across his mouth. Although he smiled at his fellow gitanos as they patted him heartily on the back, Luz noticed his body language was pent-up and restless, like that of a caged animal, as he stepped back from the small group and went to join Nicholae and the gitana he had called Marujita.

  Luz shifted uncomfortably in the sand, watching Leandro take a seat in the ring of people that had increased around the fire. Looking down, he ran a hand through his hair. A familiar feeling of pressure formed in her chest: this was his world and she had no part in it. Did he still think of her? Could he turn off his passion so easily? A jagged pain cut through her even though she knew it was hopeless to yearn for him this way.

  The feast in the gypsy camp was now in full swing. Voices rose rhythmically, shot through with shouts and the occasional report of a revolver. The moon shone in all her silver splendour, spotlighting the lone figure now central to this kaleidoscopic whirl of colour, a dancing Tzigane girl with piercing black eyes and long jet-black hair worn in a single braid that hung down her back like a gleaming rope. She wore voluminous, flounced multicoloured skirts, an embroidered bodice and tight basque of coloured calico.

  The girl’s waist was tightly cinched by a narrow b
elt, which further emphasized the curving lines of her very full bust and hips. Her slender arms were covered with gold bracelets, bangles and chains, and in her graceful hand she held a tambourine, which she tapped in time with the music. A gauzy veil floated on her head, which she used for posturing. Her well-shaped feet and ankles were bare. From time to time there were glimpses of silver anklets and hennaed toes and heels as her feet twinkled in and out under the long skirts. For this brief interlude she was queen of all, surrounded by a circle of men and women, now four-deep, who were beating time for her dancing by clapping hands and knees rhythmically; all the while they chanted a loud call, which rose in volume until the air throbbed with it and then diminished to a lower note before swelling higher again.

  The Tzigane girl danced faster and faster, hesitating only when deciding on which man she would choose to join her in the dance. At each new round her gestures and postures became more provocative until she threw her veil over Leandro, who was seated in the first circle.

  He looked up as the veil trailed off his face. Leaping up, he instantly seized her waist and they swung together amid the olés and cries of exhilaration of the excited audience in the circle, surrendering to the repetitious, stimulating beat. There was a look of something fierce on his face as he danced: an exorcism of some passionate, angry emotion that gripped him as he spun himself and the Tzigane girl around. Though he looked at her intently, it was as if he wasn’t seeing her.

  Now Leandro signalled to Marujita to join them inside the ring. The older gitana took up her castanets and stalked into the space, twirling her hands like proud birds. Now the true queen had taken the stage for all to see. With mesmerizing nobility the gypsy danced, her head held high, hands and arms moving with a power and beauty that were breathtaking. Every movement, while exaggerated in its twists and turns, was fluidly graceful; then she dipped and twirled aggressively like an Amazon warrior, her castanets clattering like gunfire. Marujita’s black eyes shone like some terrifying goddess as her arms swooped up like wings about to take flight. Even the Tzigane girl fell to the side, leaving Leandro encircling Marujita, an expression of fire and reverence on his face and, if Luz was not mistaken, pain.