Duende

by Jason Webster

  I reached the main entrance hall, and walked out of the darkness into the bright street, a smell of hot tar and steam drifting from where workmen were relaying the road. Standing on the opposite side, a cigarette in her hand, was Lola. She was waiting for me.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, flicking her head to one side. ‘I’ve got the car just around the corner.’

  I followed as she turned and walked away. Even here, on the street, there was an ever-present sense of dance in the way she moved her body. Half-dazed, yet still trying to hide my surprise, I placed the guitar in the boot and climbed silently into the passenger seat. All the things I had wanted to say, all the questions, began to fade.

  Lola said nothing as we set off with a jolt and headed away from San Blas and its brick-block apartment buildings towards the wide palm-strewn avenues nearer the sea. Powering through the traffic, she swerved from lane to lane, passing through red lights, honking her horn to clear the road ahead of us. The slight haze of the morning had given way to the clear, shining air of midday that gave Alicante its name – Lucentum, the city of light – and the smell of the last batches of bread being made for the lunchtime rush flooded through the open windows in hot waves.

  We jerked our way through the crowded streets, her thin brown arms twisting over the steering wheel as she carved a path down to the harbour. For a long time I kept my gaze fixed out of the window, watching the blurred colours and shapes of people and cars flash by. I was almost laughing with excitement, even though my hands were shaking very slightly as I gripped the seat. She’d planned her visit to Juan’s. She knew I was there and had come for me. After so many days of uncertainty, the situation had changed. Now, it seemed, I was the prey.

  I sank deep into the seat as slowly a hesitant realisation dawned on me. This woman, who had so obsessed me over the previous weeks, her full brown eyes flashing in my mind like mirror-reflections of the sun, was seducing me. Surely I must have misread the signs. I started to convince myself that this couldn’t be happening; that it was pure vanity on my part.

  Down Alfonso El Sabio avenue, then on to the side-streets, past the elegant sandstone theatre and towards the Rambla. Her fierce, silent concentration seemed to forbid any conversation. I looked over at her: slender, long-fingered hands, thin gold bracelets wrapped around her wrists drawing out the tan of her skin. She refused to look at me, and as the silence persisted, the thrill began to turn into anxiety and doubt. Perhaps she was changing her mind.

  We parked by the harbour. The rigging of the yachts vibrated in the breeze, striking the masts in a chorus of thin, high-pitched chimes. She reached into her bag, pulled out a cigarette and placed it in her mouth, turning to face me for the first time as she switched off the engine.

  ‘Will you light it for me?’

  She caressed my hand as I lifted the lighter towards her. Unthinkingly I moved my face closer to hers.

  ‘Wait,’ she said, laughing. ‘We’re going to have lunch first. On Tabarca.’

  The ferry gurgled away from the coastline, leaving behind clusters of Algerians on the quay, laden with suitcases full of carpets and breakfast cereals to take home on the boat to Oran. We stood on the open top-deck, empty but for a German couple and a fisherman nursing his rods and a wooden box of live bait. Behind us Alicante grew smaller and smaller, towers and hotels dwarfed by the great medieval castle perched on the bare rocky hill overlooking the city.

  ‘I’ve never been to Tabarca,’ I said, turning and looking towards the low island on the horizon.

  ‘It’s a small place, with a lighthouse and a one-street town. Not very interesting, but they do good food.’

  I was beginning to recognise this in her: keeping face. To take me somewhere special would have been a sign of weakness.

  ‘A friend of mine told me about the island,’ I said. She looked away, hiding her face from me. It was still unclear why we were on this boat, shading our eyes from the hot spring sun, moving ever further from the city. At least, I thought, I could engage her in conversation.

  ‘He said the first inhabitants were Italians who settled there hundreds of years ago after being kidnapped by a Moorish emir and ransomed by the king of Spain. They called the island Tabarca as a blessing for their release.’

  ‘Blessing?’

  ‘Tabaraka. From the Arabic. It means God bless.’

  She looked out over the sea, hands grasping the rail as she leaned over into the warm breeze, dark red hair curling around her eyes. Spray was blowing up from the hull of the boat as it pushed through the waves, coating our clothes and skin with a light, salty film. I looked over at her, trying to gauge her expression, but she moved away, hiding herself from me, her face turned back towards the city.

  ‘What do you want?’ she said.

  I leaned on the rail and looked down at the white foam churning below. Great bubbles of air rose out from below the surface like sighs. What could I say? I wanted her.

  ‘Do you know how old . . .’ She stood up and looked at me. I didn’t move. ‘No, I won’t tell you.’

  The island was growing as we moved closer. Two long, flat stretches joined at the middle by a low beach. The harbour, with its break wall and low buildings, was just becoming visible.

  I turned back towards her. Without warning she stood away from the rail and lifted her hands in the air, clicking her fingers above her head and putting on the intense expression she wore when dancing.

  ‘Ole,’ she shouted as she stamped her feet on the deck, arching her back and twisting, her face never moving from mine. ‘Ole!’

  I clapped, laughing along with her until she stopped, smiled and curtseyed like a ballerina.

  ‘A woman like me?’

  ‘Yes. A woman like you.’

  The island was yellow and dusty, with a light so intense it felt it might sear itself onto our eyes. We walked the hundred yards to the other side of the island and found a one-storey house with tables outside and naked children wearing only pink and green plastic sandals running in and out of the door.

  ‘Mari-Reme!’ A large woman with a blue apron tied around her full waist stormed out and shouted to one of them. But the little girl had already disappeared around the corner, and was busy running with her friends to the water.

  ‘She’ll be gone all afternoon now,’ the woman said, turning towards us. ‘Come in, come in.’

  The restaurant was crammed with fishermen drinking cold fino sherry and eating pieces of octopus stuck on the ends of toothpicks. Used paper tissues littered the floor and a delicious smell of fried fish floated through from the kitchens. We sat at a small table by the window overlooking the beach and the wide, open sea stretching out to the east. Lola drew on her cigarette and smiled.

  ‘There are hundreds of different rice dishes in our region,’ she said. ‘Go to any village on the mainland and they’ll have their own speciality. Black rice made with cuttlefish ink, straight paella with chicken and rabbit, crusty rice that you put in the oven. You always know the real thing because they bring it to you wrapped in newspaper. But the best thing they do here is caldero tabarquí made with fish caught off the island. I eat it straight out of the pan.’

  The woman with the apron came to take our order as a young waitress filled our glasses with water.

  ‘I caught them all myself this morning,’ she said. ‘Have to. My husband’s useless at it.’

  ‘You should see her,’ the waitress butted in. ‘They all come to her, like a magnet. She’s famous for it. Everyone else comes back empty-handed, but she can catch them just by whistling. Isn’t that right?’

  Lola ordered some wine.

  ‘Rioja. Don’t drink Valencian wine, whatever you do,’ she whispered to me over the table. I smiled conspiratorially.

  ‘It’s horrendous. They make it for tourists and guiris like you. Everyone here drinks this.’ She pointed to the bottle arriving at the table. ‘But don’t tell anyone back home.’

  ‘Are you just visiting?’ The magic fisherw
oman handed us our food.

  ‘Yes, we’re here for the afternoon,’ said Lola.

  ‘You must walk into the village, then. There’s a church at the far end of the island and then, if you come back and go over to the other side, there are some lovely walks along the cliffs and an old fort.’

  ‘Thank you. We’ll do that.’

  The rice was served with the broth it had been cooked in; heavy, saffron-flavoured chunks of fish floating in enormous white bowls. It tasted wonderful.

  ‘Saffron’s another Arabic word,’ I said.

  She looked up from her soup.

  ‘Za’faran.’

  ‘Yes, they teach us things like that at school,’ she said, uninterested. ‘How come you know so much about it?’

  ‘I studied it at university.’

  ‘Is that all?’ She laughed to herself.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She hesitated for a moment. ‘I mean, guiri, that there’s still much for you to learn.’ She continued eating. I said nothing. It was all part of the verbal fencing.

  ‘The word ole comes from Arabic too,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ Her spoon clanged against the bowl as she laughed in surprise. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Ole. It comes from Allah.’

  I could see her mouthing the two words to herself, unconvinced.

  ‘They sound nothing like each other. What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Even the Real Academia Española says so. Wallah – by God. Ole. You even hear “Allah!” called out at some recitals of the Koran. It’s just like a flamenco concert when people shout ole.’

  ‘Flamenco’s not about books, Jason.’

  I remembered the endless hours I’d spent studying medieval Arabic poetry in Oxford libraries, all beauty in the descriptions of dancing girls and women with gazelle-like eyes lost in the stress over essay deadlines and exams. Now I was on a hot Mediterranean island being seduced by a flamenco dancer.

  ‘Yes, I know. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Hope we see you two love-birds back here soon!’ the landlady cried as we left. I smiled; Lola didn’t react.

  A fisherman was sitting outside in the sun on a tall wooden stool, repairing his nets with a knife and pieces of rope tied around his wrists. He nodded as we walked past.

  ‘The village is over there,’ Lola said, pointing. ‘But I want to go up here. We can look at all that later if you like.’

  She headed away from the half-empty beach to the scrubland that marked the other half of the island, holding her hand out behind her as encouragement. I followed, waiting till we had moved away from the restaurant and up the slope before gently allowing my own hand to fall into hers. She clung on to it tightly.

  We followed the narrow pathway through the thick brown grass, bright blue sea surrounding us on three sides. Ahead of us, the old stone watchtower of San José squatted on the hill, rising up like a fist to the cloudless sky. Lola led the way, silent now as our feet fell into line, shoulders almost touching, our palms pushing against one another. I caught the smell of her skin on the breeze, hints of jasmine and rose. She looked forward, never stopping or turning towards me, as though the contact we already had was enough. Perhaps too much.

  The rest of the island slowly receded into the distance as we headed to the far tip of the deserted grassy plain. Stepping over the last of the gorse bushes, we reached the end and started climbing down a stony slope to the water below, hands still pressed together, hanging on for fear of falling as we skidded on the loose pebbles. The beach was empty save for some gulls resting on rocks visible above the waves. The sun, still high in the sky, seemed to bleach everything: no shade anywhere. We walked down to the shore. Lola kicked off her shoes and skipped away as our hands finally parted.

  ‘It’s time for a swim,’ she said.

  I watched as she began taking off her blouse and then her trousers, throwing them on the sand by my feet until she stood naked in front of me. I looked around. There was nobody.

  ‘Come on,’ she called, running into the sea. ‘Time to live!’

  The light had changed to a thicker, richer yellow as we walked back over the grassland, arms curled into one another. From time to time she rested her head on my shoulder, pressing her mouth against my drying salt-caked skin. Long grey shadows streamed from our feet over the shrubs and out beyond the island. The last ferry would be leaving soon and we had to head back.

  I felt warmth fluctuating between us as our bodies moved closer then pulled apart. A sense of her returning reluctance to be involved with me came in waves, while I was caught between willingness and disbelief. She was married, after all, yet she’d suggested her relationship with Vicente was near, or at, an end. But a middle-aged woman with a young man – that was uncommon; there was a sense of taboo about it that thrilled me.

  The first powerful surge of a passionate affair and the sense it gave me of being alive rose up inside me as we paced slowly back to the harbour. The redness of her hair, the arch of her small, open ears, the slight flair in her straight-sharp nose all imprinted themselves on me with a sense of harmony. I cared little if it continued or simply ended once we returned to the mainland. I wanted nothing more than to be with her at that moment, and the sex we’d had felt more real than anything I had ever done before in my life.

  Our lips met for the last time before we returned to the main beach, as though in recognition that some line was about to be crossed beyond which our intimacy would have to lessen. Letting go of me, she ran down the slope and back onto the sand. Groups of old men were sitting around tables drinking wine. The large woman with the apron was leaning over them and telling a joke. They all laughed as she thumped the table with her fist at the punchline. She waved to us as we walked towards her.

  ‘Hey! Your bag!’

  ‘What?’

  Lola’s hand moved automatically to her side where her handbag would normally have hung from her shoulder.

  ‘Ostias! I forgot all this time. Jesus!’

  The bag had been there all afternoon. She glanced at me reproachfully as though I bore the blame, then ran over to the restaurant. The woman was walking inside to fetch it. I stood and looked back over the sea as Lola disappeared behind her. As long as she had it now and hadn’t missed it, I couldn’t see the problem, but the tone between us had quickly changed. The evening breeze was beginning to blow and the temperature dipped as the sun started its descent. I crossed my arms and rubbed myself for warmth, still sensing the cold of the waves pulling against my body from our earlier swim. Our return was inevitable, but while we were still here on the island, I wanted the moment to last.

  I looked round but there was no sign of Lola. She must be talking to the restaurant-owner, I thought. We had to be aboard the ferry soon. I walked up the beach to the doorway. The little naked girl with the plastic sandals had returned and was sitting on the step wearing a light cotton dress, reading.

  Before I could step inside Lola came rushing out, handbag gripped tight and a white look of anger on her face.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  The fat woman came bustling behind and stood over her daughter.

  ‘Goodbye, young man.’

  I smiled.

  ‘Goodbye, madam.’

  Lola was already on the quay when I caught up with her, pulling hard on the ring on her left hand.

  ‘Bitch!’

  We had almost reached the city before she spoke again.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  We disembarked and I walked her to the car. She drove away, speeding down the boulevard. I watched her disappear, then headed home.

  It was the last thing I expected her to say.

  The phone rang in my flat. A call from England. I hadn’t been in touch for months.

  ‘How are you? What are you up to?’

  I struggled to respond. Since the afternoon on the island, I had barely stopped playing the guitar, the skin peeling and
hardening on my fingertips as I sat on my plastic chair every moment I could spare, the metronome on the table ticking relentlessly as I forced myself to practise all the things Juan had ever taught me. Everything had clicked and for the first time in my life, I told myself, I was experiencing something real: real passion, real life; learning a real skill. Duende, Juan said, was about being in love. And now I knew.

  ‘I’m fine. How’re things there?’

  Stories from the village, new tiles on the roof, my niece’s first day at school. I half-listened as I was brought up to date on a world to which I still belonged, but which I was trying hard to move away from. For a moment, as familiar voices and phrases buzzed down the line, I could feel myself slipping back into old thoughts and expectations like a kind of mental skin: memories of home, university and the girl with whom I had been planning on spending the rest of my life. But I was on my own now, trying to develop my new, nascent flamenco personality. I thought of Lola’s hand on my skin and our afternoon on the island. The passion and affection I had always wanted, and never found, was here.

  The voices on the other end continued. A letter had arrived from my tutor at Oxford. He wanted me to take part in a symposium, to give a paper based on my research on iconographical art in twelfth-century Sicily.

  ‘Isn’t that good news? We’re so pleased for you.’

  I felt nothing, no joy, no excitement. Nothing. And in that moment, I realised I was free. Once it would have meant so much: the beginning of academic recognition, the chance to get funding. It had been a great ambition; now it seemed almost laughable. I was a thousand miles away, involved with a woman who had two children only a few years younger than I was; a woman married to my boss, a flamenco dancer, a recognisable face in a city where she had given a number of performances. It was a situation I would previously have had nothing to do with, tucked against the cold in English libraries and living-rooms, with only daydreams enlivening my stunted existence. Had that really been me? Surely the person I was now was me, the real me. Not that repressed embryonic don.