Duende

by Jason Webster

  A sign at the side of the road, near the top of the valley, caught my eye: ‘Vistacastell 2 km’. Inwardly, I knew this was it. The road turned off, down the slope, passing meadows and tall arching trees, over a narrow bridge across a ravine, and through more olive groves and lemon orchards, down into the village. Rows of tightly packed white houses, some half-built; a mangy dog. It looked deserted.

  The main square was a small space with coloured flagstones, an old cast-iron water pump, and more dogs lying panting in the shade. Beyond lay small farmhouses, streams and copses, and in the distance the white Arab castle, framed by the deep, verdant valley. A bar stood on one side of the square. I parked, crossed over, and went in. It was large and empty, with a billiard table, plastic tablecloths and tacky maritime souvenirs hanging on the walls. I ordered a brandy from a blond, middle-aged barman. As he handed it over, I leaned across and asked were there any places to rent in the village? He looked doubtful.

  ‘Espera,’ he said. ‘I think . . . María!’ he shouted to the kitchen. ‘Doesn’t my mother have some rooms she wants to let?’

  She did. I was taken down the road to meet Amparo, an elderly woman with a grey moustache, a grumpy war-wounded husband, and a large house – the top floor of which was now empty. She showed me around.

  ‘It’s much too big for the two of us.’ She had a thick Valencian accent. ‘Don’t open that cupboard. That’s where my husband keeps his fishing rods. Of course, he hasn’t gone fishing for years.’

  The flat was dusty, and the walls were papered with dull grey and orange stripes like the brothels in cowboy films. But it was light and cheap and, most importantly of all, from the sitting-room there was a magnificent vista of the valley, the castle and the shining blue lake.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ I said.

  Vicente’s second passion in life, after the English, was hunting.

  ‘Fox-hunting. Now there’s a noble sport.’

  I was watching a group of twelve-year-olds file out of my class after another evening spent trying to make them concentrate on the lesson rather than playing on pocket computer games. It was time to go home. ‘You must have done that sort of thing all the time at Oxford?’

  I looked at him in amazement. It was a difficult one, this: whether to burst a romantic notion or let it stand. Like being asked by your seven-year-old niece if Father Christmas really does exist. The shatterer of dreams is not an easy role to play.

  ‘Mine was a very academic college,’ I told him. ‘No opportunities for much outside books.’

  ‘Have you read Sassoon? Splendid, splendid book. Those were gentlemen, real gentlemen. Not like today. So few left.’

  The reference to Sassoon was bizarre, but it felt like a cue. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘In Spain we are somewhat under-represented in certain, er, areas. Gentlemen, for example.’

  ‘What about the Spanish caballero?’

  Vicente suppressed a sneer. ‘It is true, there are similarities between the English gentleman and the Spanish caballero, but there is a fundamental difference.’ He paused, as though to give weight to what he was about to say.

  ‘Remember that for eight hundred years there were Moors here.’ He drew out the word ‘Moors’ in disgust. ‘Africa, you will recall the saying, begins at the Pyrenees. A caballero can be a great man, but he can never, never, be pure.’ He looked around the corridor to see if anyone was listening, then lowered his voice.

  ‘We are tainted.’

  Pedro had once told me that the concept of the ‘gentleman’ originated with the Arabs. It seemed unwise to bring this up now, though. There was a worrying, fanatical glare in Vicente’s eyes. His feelings on the subject were obviously strong.

  The lights went out around us as the other teachers shut up for the night. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Come for a drink some time. I would like you to meet some of my hunting colleagues. They’re a fine bunch of fellows.’

  The man was a snob and a bigot and I was having an affair with his wife, but I nodded reluctantly. To have refused Vicente’s invitation would have been unwise, I thought. It was the best way to dissimulate.

  For all his Anglophilia, however, Vicente was very Spanish. The ritual of meeting in the evening and chatting easily with friends over glasses of fino and morsels of ham and olives, standing at the bar in fine, bright clothes – this was all typical of a man of his class and age. Yet ‘Englishness’ was a label with which he had decided to clothe himself, and the accoutrements went everywhere with him like well-worn props: a pipe, a tweed jacket if it was chilly, and, as ever, the polished brogues.

  If the effect was to make him stand out amongst his friends, it worked. They were, on the whole, an unremarkable lot: three overweight, middle-aged men, all character lost in their comfortable, sunny lives, where the most intense experience came from hangovers after a heavy night.

  We stood around for what seemed like hours, drinking, eating and chatting – mostly about hunting. We were out of the main season now, so there was plenty of reminiscing to do, and talk of next autumn. Then a question about weaponry set Vicente off on what appeared to be one of his favourite subjects.

  ‘The best guns are English, of course: Holland & Holland for example, or a Purdey – bespoke. Some prefer American models, like Remingtons, but personally I don’t rate them,’ he said.

  ‘Are you brainwashing him already, Vicente?’ A short, tubby man with handlebar whiskers interrupted with a smile. He turned to me. ‘Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know anything about guns. Only one thing interests him. Eh?!’ He turned to Vicente. ‘El Killer?’ The last word was uttered in a strong Spanish accent: ‘keelerr’.

  ‘El Killer?’ I asked. More laughter.

  ‘Only one thing interests El Killer. Killing. Doesn’t care what he’s using. Just blow the fucker away. Blam! Blam!’ The fat man mimicked the action of shooting a stationary target. ‘He’s got a lust for blood, this one.’

  Vicente looked uncomfortable.

  ‘But surely that’s what you all do when you go hunting. It’s all about killing,’ I said in an attempt to defuse the tension.

  The fat man grunted. ‘For me, it’s a sport. But this one – you put a gun in his hand and he turns into a madman.’ He tapped his forefinger against his temple. ‘Blood. That’s all he wants: blood.’ He leaned over to Vicente and lightly slapped his cheek, grinning. ‘Eh! El Killer! Wake up! You’re pissed.’ The hardened look fell and Vicente broke into a smile. Everyone laughed, but I realised I had seen a side of the man I would rather not have known. My hands were sweating, my pulse racing.

  ‘You must come out with us again,’ Vicente said, fully clad in pseudo-English sophistication and still drunk. I shuddered. The last thing I wanted was a repeat of this evening.

  ‘Next Friday?’ I said.

  ‘See you then, dear chap.’

  I took Lola to Vistacastell for the first time. She walked around on a tour of inspection in her proud, haughty way – nostrils flared, head poised – as I prepared some lunch.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked.

  ‘The decoration is horrendous. But it will do – for a guiri.’

  She walked over to a chair by the window looking down onto the valley, and sat quietly with her back to me. It was a form of approval.

  When I returned a few moments later with some food, I found her sitting in the same spot, gazing out, her clothes in a pile on the floor beside her. I kissed her freshly exposed shoulder as I put the plates on the table.

  ‘This view leaves me naked,’ she said dramatically. ‘It touches me here.’ She clasped a fist to her breast and stared beyond me at the valley. ‘How can I cover myself in the face of such beauty?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Besides,’ she said, turning to me, humour now lighting up her face, ‘it’s more fun eating like this.’

  We laughed our way through the afternoon as the colours outside slowly shifted from the sharp, white definition of midday to the gentle
r, calmer yellow of afternoon, and then the final rich orange of sunset.

  It was time to leave. We crept down the stairs, but I already knew Amparo, the landlady, would be there. Another woman in her house! She had to find out what was going on.

  She was at the door, pretending to sweep. This time Lola had taken off her ring.

  ‘Was that flamenco I heard you playing?’

  ‘Yes.’ Doubtless she had heard a lot more besides. Lola turned away.

  ‘Do you play?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And she dances,’ pointing behind me.

  ‘Good. Then you will perform at our fiesta in a fortnight’s time. We need some more music, different music.’

  Her little Chinese dog was sniffing inquisitively at my ankles, as if looking for a new territory marker. I shuffled nervously.

  ‘Every year the same folksong from Pere.’ She waved her broom at me menacingly. ‘No! This year I want flamenco,’ she said harshly. Then softening, ‘It will be nice to have some foreign stuff.’

  ‘Yes of course we will play.’ I could hardly refuse. The broom was now across the doorway and we were trapped.

  ‘Good,’ she said, letting us pass. We stepped out into the light and said goodbye. ‘A fortnight, eh!’ she called to us as we headed up the square. I squeezed Lola’s stiff, reluctant hand. I expected a head-on assault as soon as we got in the car, but instead there was silence and resignation.

  ‘We’ll be seen. I know we’ll be seen,’ was all she said.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’re miles from anywhere. The only people here are peasants and donkeys.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  Juan was delighted when I told him about the fiesta.

  ‘Hombre, your first concert. Wonderful!’

  He didn’t ask for any details, assumed I would be accompanying a dancer, and began teaching me the essentials.

  ‘This is not like playing on your own, boy. Completely different. Compás is everything. Forget the fancy falsetas and just stick to the rhythm.’

  We went over an Alegría and a Tango. ‘These are always popular. Everyone always asks for them.’ He seemed to know exactly what I was up to. ‘But don’t do Soleá. People around here don’t like it, can’t understand it. Besides, it’s not a party kind of thing.’

  I nodded. He was more worked up about it than I was. I watched him now as he explained it all to me, sweat soaking through the armpits of his red shirt. One day, I thought, he’ll wear red trousers and shoes as well, and then I’ll know he’s really lost it.

  ‘Accompanying is all about following the dancer: giving her the rhythm, but also covering up for her mistakes,’ he said. ‘Remember, if she messes up, it’s your fault. Now listen, there’s a whole other world you’ve got to learn about here. We’ll start with the llamada and go on from there.’

  I was nervous. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. How on earth had I persuaded myself that I was good enough to play on stage? The whole thing was ludicrous. Jasón ‘El Inglés’ – the greatest flamenco disaster in history. I felt like a man with a note ordering his own execution.

  ‘You have to love the dancer, to feel her, intuit her. One flamenco on their own can rarely produce duende. But when there are others, if it clicks . . . Jo!’

  But I was too busy worrying.

  ‘Hey, concentrate!’ Juan snapped me out of my daydream. ‘Listen, you’ll have to practise a lot between now and then. But don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Just stick to the simple things.’

  My hands were shaking when I left.

  I was with Vicente and the hunters, back in the barrio; the throbbing waves of dance music spilling out onto the narrow paved alleyways, the stale smells, and the little posters stuck up on crumbling walls pleading for the noise to be kept down.

  The local government was trying to clean up the area – grants were being offered to restore the old buildings and paint them in bright, sensual colours, but it wouldn’t take long for all the life to be beaten out of them if Alicantinos merely treated the area as their weekend playground.

  We went to another new bar. More of the same: ultraviolet lights, very loud music, mirrors on the walls. Only this one was narrower and smaller. Most of the people around us were teenagers or people in their twenties, but there were plenty of small groups of middle-aged men and women – like Vicente’s – intent on getting their weekend fix of fun. For the post-Franco generation, the need to party knew no age limits.

  Some sort of conversation was taking place, but I couldn’t hear what anyone was saying. The fat one with the moustache was lifting his hands into the air and waving, pretending to shoot a flying bird. When people sharing a common obsession get together, you can hardly expect them to talk about anything else, I thought.

  I took the chance to watch Vicente closely, trying to work out what it was that Lola had seen in him. There was something heavy and brutish about him behind the elegant English façade he tried to cultivate. And what if he knew about us? I pushed the thought aside, as the adrenaline kicked in.

  The heavy thud of the loud, incessant music was beginning to have an effect. I stood drinking, rocking rhythmically with the beat. There was nothing else to do.

  Many large gin and tonics later, we tripped our way into the square outside, now filled with people of all ages enjoying the regular street party that was the weekend here. Joking, laughing, back-slapping, we edged through the throng to an outdoor bar where the air was clearer. In the semi-drunken haze, Vicente’s pipe had seemed to fill the room.

  We settled down in our newly claimed piece of territory and began drinking again under a ceiling of matted reeds. The other three were engrossed in another hunting tale, while Vicente and I stood to one side.

  ‘You’re friendly with my wife,’ he said.

  I had never felt so cold, as if with those simple words he had drained my blood away.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, just managing to force the word out without stammering. ‘We both like flamenco.’ There, that was it. Just a friendship based on a common interest. Like this lot and hunting.

  Vicente had an incredulous look on his face, thick eyebrows meeting above his deep-set eyes. I began looking for a way to change the subject. He leaned forward. I tried to step back, but there was no room. His face was now almost touching mine.

  ‘But you’re English,’ he blurted out. ‘How can you like flamenco? Flamenco is for Gypsies and criminals. It’s shit.’

  He was angry, spittle forming at the side of his mouth, but all at once I realised that he still knew nothing.

  ‘Flamenco is about passion,’ I said, parroting my guitar teacher.

  ‘Passion?’ he said. ‘Drugs, you mean. They’re injecting themselves all the time. Drug addicts. Look at that Camarón fellow. Why do you think he died so young?’

  I looked away.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Jason. You’re from Oxford, why on earth do you like that . . . rubbish?’

  I said nothing. It was clear his anger was not directed at me. And it seemed there was more to come.

  ‘I don’t know why Lola insists on seeing these people. I don’t like her going. I’ve told her a hundred times. It’s affecting her work.’

  I screwed up my eyes. I knew this to be untrue. Lola was just as hard, humourless and efficient as ever.

  ‘We have nothing in common,’ Vicente continued. ‘She has no interest in hunting. Or the English. I only gave her that job because she wanted the money.’ He choked for a moment, then recovered. ‘Her mother was half-Moor.’

  He surprised me. There was little contact between ordinary Spaniards and the Arab world even now, let alone at the time her mother was born. The absurdity of Lola and Vicente’s marriage was even clearer now: Vicente, the racist Anglophile, married to a truly ‘tainted’ flamenca.

  ‘I tell you, if it weren’t for the kids . . .’ he snorted. ‘I only married her because she got pregnant.’ Then quietly under his breath, ‘The whore.’

  He looked up. ‘
Still, it saved her from becoming a complete Gypsy, I suppose.’ He took another mouthful of his whisky and Coke – there were some things he just didn’t get right.

  ‘She begged me, absolutely begged me to marry her. And of course once the babies came, the dancing stopped. For good, I thought.’ He leaned forward and placed his mouth close to my ear. ‘You know, I think it’s only the physical side that keeps us together.’

  The other hunters called us over. Vicente turned away sharply as though suddenly aware of what he had just told me.

  Pushing through the crowds, we headed up the hill to the back of the barrio, where the ordinary party-goers still wouldn’t go. The streets narrowed even more here; the graffiti thicker on the walls. I lagged behind a little. The man revolted me and I wanted nothing more than to slip away and head home. But I was trapped by a desire not to draw attention to myself.

  Vicente took me by the elbow. ‘Come along,’ he said. ‘We’re going to see some friends.’ The others laughed.

  ‘Friends?’ I was doubtful.

  ‘Yes. Some very dear . . . and close friends.’ The others laughed again.

  ‘No, come on, seriously.’

  ‘I am serious. Very serious. We’re going to introduce you to some of the loveliest ladies in the province. You’ll see.’

  I stopped. ‘Putas?’

  ‘We prefer not to use that word. Come on!’ He grabbed my arm again, but I pulled it free.

  ‘Listen, Vicente. I can’t.’

  ‘What? Why not? Relax, my dear fellow. They’re really quite lovely.’

  I had to do something. It wasn’t the idea of going with the prostitutes so much as who I was with.

  ‘No, Vicente.’ He looked at me with complete incomprehension.

  ‘It’s just not English, you know,’ I said. His face fell. ‘An Englishman thinks he should never have to pay for it.’

  For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him as he stood there deflated. But it had worked.

  ‘I see,’ he said. The others were calling for us to catch up. ‘I have to go. Perhaps . . . lunch next weekend? I have some things at home I would like to show you.’