Duende

by Jason Webster

  It was an echo of the past, only today the Egyptians, or New Castillians as the Gypsies were often called in the nineteenth century, were kept on the outside not by city walls, but by a ring-road dividing them from the main city.

  Non-Gypsies, payos, said you were taking a risk just by walking into Vallecas. The change from the city centre was clear: another drab, modern suburb with lifeless architecture. But there were subtle differences, something more edgy and run-down about it. The kiosk where I bought cigarettes from a ghost-like woman and her daughter had sawdust on the floor and a red neon strip flickering around the door like a nervous twitch. Thin-trunked, blackened trees stood by the side of the road like starving refugees, unable to stand straight under their own weight. Graffiti was everywhere: ‘Pásate al la Resistencia’, or the Basque spelling of ‘Vallekas’ painted in bright colours like a standard proclaiming the ‘otherness’ of the place and its people. Most of the roadsweepers were women. You’d see them drinking in a bar and then see them again in the street a couple of hours later, transformed into dawn workers with tight green overalls and workmen’s gloves, throwing cigarette butts into the gutter they’d just brushed clean. Here there was a wearing away of strict divisions. Where normal people saw a world of lines, Vallecas was more of a blur.

  Carlos’s flat was on the fifth floor. I didn’t trust the lift, and so took the stairs, past children with dirty faces and bright, animal-like eyes. They had been there the first time, when Carlos brought me back with the other group members, playing on the steps at four in the morning. They had looked at me strangely. I was the one out of place, as far as they were concerned.

  Carlos’s threat to test my guitar-playing was never carried out: I returned the next night to Restaurante Alegrías but he wasn’t there. We met up again by pure chance after I got to know some aficionados who took me to a flamenco bar, or tablao, where Carlos was performing. It was a lucky break after almost a year of trying unsuccessfully to fall in with flamencos, particularly Gypsies. Until then my search had produced nothing, thwarted mostly by the complete unwillingness of Gypsies to have anything to do with me. At best they might offer to give me lessons for exorbitant amounts of money. That night, though, things began to turn.

  ‘Eh, churumbel!’ Carlos said when he saw me, as though he had expected me to find him in this other venue. From then on, he always used the Gypsy word for ‘kid’ when addressing me.

  We spent the night at his grubby flat, playing, singing and drinking heavily. I was drawn to a joyous spontaneity about him. When he sang, the veins on his neck stood out, his face reddened, spittle flew from his mouth and I feared he might collapse. But once it had been captured – the raw essence he was seeking – his expression reverted to calm self-assuredness and a deep relaxation, as though he had rid himself of something cathartically through the song.

  Me asomé a la muralla

  me respondió el viento:

  ‘Para qué dar esos suspiritos

  si ya no hay remedio?’

  I climbed up to the town walls

  And the wind said:

  ‘Why so many sighs

  if you can’t change anything?’

  You could tell when the moment had come as the jaleo, the flamenco cries of encouragement, increased in a sharp crescendo of ‘Ole’, ‘Eso es’, and a surge would pass around the group, as though something had happened. And all the while, the incessant clapping rhythm of the palmas pulsated in the background. Then the other singer – the younger, darker man with the pony-tail – would take up the song.

  Was this duende? There was enormous energy carrying us all along but it was different to my first experience in Alicante, when I heard the woman sing in the Plaza Mayor. There I had been captured, as though by an invisible, sentient being. Here there was an intense group emotion that vivified me. It was impossible to say. I simply sat on the sidelines, grateful that I had been allowed even this far into a closed and very hierarchical world.

  Halfway through the night, Carlos told me to join in and accompany one of the dancers on the guitar. I had drunk heavily, but still had enough sense to know that turning this down was not an option. As they passed me the instrument, I realised to my relief that two other guitarists would be playing as well, and so I kept the rhythm as best I could, following the chord changes and trying to make as little sound as possible. With the racket surrounding us, it was all I could do. It even boosted my confidence and they had to prise the guitar away from me later as I tried to accompany a piece Carlos always sang on his own.

  The faux pas was ignored, though. More brandy was poured into my glass and a line of cocaine placed in front of me. I hesitated. Since arriving in Madrid, I had heard constant condemnation of Gypsies for their drug-taking. I lifted my head. Although no-one was obviously watching me, I could tell my reaction was under scrutiny. It was a test. Not to take it would mean remaining on the outside.

  I snorted.

  ‘I think the guiri’s shit-faced.’ The old Gypsy sitting next to me started prodding me.

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ I said, shaking myself.

  ‘Hey blondy, where d’you learn to speak Christian so well?’ I was amazed that someone who appeared to have no teeth could articulate so clearly. His expression was a throw-back to the past when anything Spanish, or ‘Christian’, was acceptable, and anything foreign – typically deemed ‘Chinese’ – was dismissed.

  ‘Alicante,’ I said.

  ‘Alicante?’

  ‘Yeah. You know it?’

  The old Gypsy snorted and turned his face to the side with a jerk. Grey hairs circled his ears in an otherwise black mass of curls. I took another drink.

  ‘Alicantinos taught you to play?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Gypsies?’

  I thought for a moment. Eduardo had told me that to be accepted by one group of Gypsies meant to be at least taken seriously by others. It gave you a sort of badge, a letter of introduction into a closed society. But I didn’t know any Gypsies in Alicante, and there was a risk in pretending I did. What if I was found out?

  ‘Yeah,’ I said as confidently as I could, waiting for the next, inevitable question: Who?

  But instead, he smiled and raised a rough, thick hand on the end of what looked like a partially withered arm.

  ‘Juanito,’ he said. ‘Your mother gave you a guiri name?’

  ‘Jason,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jason.’ Still no sign of comprehension. ‘Khassón.’ I pronounced it the Spanish way.

  ‘Sounds Chinese,’ he said.

  I reached the fifth floor, walked down to Carlos’s door and let myself in, stepping carefully over the ducks in the hallway, past the donkey standing mournfully in the corner. At first I had been surprised that it never seemed to move around, but it had claimed its own little stable and now refused to move, perhaps out of fear of losing this safe enclave.

  The place was a mess. Animal droppings were everywhere, the walls were smeared in grime, and black scorch-marks dotted the lino floor where people had previously lit fires. The smell was overpowering.

  Carlos was with Jesús, the other singer, on the tiny balcony that looked directly onto the blank, brick wall of the next-door block of flats. Thin blue and white metal chains hung over the door to prevent flies from entering, and were coated in a thick layer of city dust that rubbed off onto your clothes as you passed through.

  ‘Eh, churumbel! Qué tal?’ Carlos’s teeth flashed with a smile as he quickly ended the conversation. Jesús flicked his chin up casually in greeting, then turned away without a word. I watched him walk back into the flat, tall and proud, his long, curly hair shiny with brilliantine. I was still unwelcome. The others at least pretended I had my foot in the door – Juanito was even treating me like a friend after my line about the Alicantino Gypsies – but Jesús held out, never talking to me directly, hardly even looking at me or recognising I was there.

  ‘We were waiting for you.’ Carlos w
as dressed, as usual, in his brightly coloured shirt, open all the way down to his hirsute navel. Today the shirt was red, with blue and yellow anchors, the kind you could buy at the market in packs of five for 2,000 pesetas. He was a short, stout man, with thick, rock-like features. Greying black hair was swept off his forehead with grease. The powerful stench of his aftershave mingled with the animal smells to create a sickly pot pourri of perfumed shit.

  ‘Come on inside! Today I want to hear you play properly. You’ve managed to avoid it till now.’

  Approaching him the first time at Alegrías and then finding him again the following night had gone down well. Assertiveness was appreciated among Gypsies. But it had only got me so far. Now came the real test. I’d only ever joined in when everyone else was there – the dancers and the two other guitarists – and my own playing was easily hidden in the great noise they all produced. Often I couldn’t even hear my own mistakes. But I had stayed and had returned now three or four times for more dance, music, cocaine; arriving with bottles of booze as the price of admittance.

  ‘How do you expect me to play without my backing group?’

  He gestured for me to sit down on the black fake-leather sofa, unimpressed by my weak attempt at humour. Jesús had disappeared, I was glad to see. His cold, critical gaze would make it worse.

  I sat for a moment with the guitar in my lap, trying to think of a piece that might impress without demanding too much technically. Nothing seemed right. Tangos had too many associations with Lola and a time I had painfully blocked out, if not actually recovered from. A Bulería was exciting, but complicated; I was more likely to make a mistake. Besides, I sensed that Gypsies viewed it as belonging to them. I was foreign; I still had to tread carefully. An Alegría? I didn’t know enough falsetas well enough, and, besides, the mood wasn’t right. There was something too light about them. Seguiriyas were my favourites, a slow cante jondo. They were seen as one of the ‘strong’ palos, understood only by serious flamencos. But again . . . I wasn’t sure if I could pull it off. My fingers began to sweat. From the corner of my eye I could see Carlos fidgeting.

  ‘Come on, blondy. Play!’

  The ducks in the corridor began quacking at each other and the direct sunlight on my exposed neck was burning my inappropriately white skin. A cough, and finally I began, my fingers falling into a Taranta, a sorrowful mining chant from the Murcia region. I felt relieved that somehow the decision had been taken. No rhythm to worry about, and ideal for self-expression. This’ll show him, I thought. It was a piece I prided myself on being able to play well.

  I moved my fingers over the strings trying to extract every ounce of feeling I could. Perhaps, I thought, as the question unceasingly played itself out in some part of my mind, perhaps this is duende: the emotions, the sensation the player puts into his performance. If I tried hard enough, he should be able to feel it too. I crouched even tighter over the guitar.

  ‘Yes, yes. OK. Fine,’ Carlos interrupted. I looked up, startled. ‘Come on, give me something with more life. Rhythm, rhythm!’

  I started a spluttering, haltering Bulería in my confusion, fingers slippy with sweat now and almost sliding off the strings. Something the other guitarists had played a few nights previously came to mind and I tried to copy it, but usually the singer dictated what piece he wanted, not the guitarist. I had no idea what was expected of me. The situation was absurd. Carlos clapped in time to urge me on. The chorus of ducks started again.

  ‘Venga. That’s it.’ Then he started singing:

  Me lo encontré en el camino

  y nos hicimos hermanos.

  It was a song Camarón used to sing.

  I had to count the rhythm to myself – un dos TRES cuatro cinco seis SIETE OCHO nueve DIEZ un DOS un dos TRES . . . After tapping it out in my head for a couple of years, I thought I owned it. But he was singing, I was nervous, and it was essential that I get it right.

  My lips moved as the digits raced through my mind. Straight rhythm, just straight rhythm. Keep it mechanical, like a clock. Listen to his singing. I fought to keep in time.

  Samara fue elegida por los moros reina de la morería . . .

  He stopped singing and nodded to me to play a falseta. I started on the first one I could think of, one I had learned in Alicante – an old-fashioned, very traditional tune that was inappropriate here. Its melodiousness jarred with his more anarchic, modern style.

  He took up the singing once more and we crashed into a finale.

  I stared down at my feet. Not my best performance, and I hadn’t been able to play with anyone else since the fiesta with Lola almost a year before. In the meantime, I’d got by playing along with the cheap cassettes you could pick up at petrol stations for 500 pesetas. But playing with a singer, like playing for a dancer, was completely different. The singer often accentuated off-beats while the guitar was expected to hold the compás, yet at the same time following his pace and changing as required. When a singer and guitar-player were in harmony it created a complex syncopation. But I had little idea of where the song was going.

  Someone was trying to hand me something. I looked up and saw a glass of beer thrust towards me by Jesús’s outstretched arm. I took it and tried to look at him, but I saw his disapproving face and close-set eyes and lost my nerve.

  ‘Rhythm,’ Carlos said. ‘If you want to play with us you need perfect rhythm. It’s the most important thing.’ The gas spitting up from the cold beer wet my face as I brought the glass to my lips. I thought my rhythm was pretty good.

  ‘So what’s my rhythm like?’

  I realised as soon as I had spoken that it was the wrong thing to say. Carlos laughed. Jesús turned away again and stepped silently out onto the balcony, tying his hair into a bunch at the back of his head with an elastic band. Carlos went out to join him, while I strummed a quiet Soleá – the palo of solitude – to console myself. I could hear their voices but could make out little of what was being said. Jesús, I could sense, was reluctant to bring me on board. A payo, a guiri: it just made him suspicious. But I also knew, from my little experience with them, that Carlos was the boss, and what he said went. Age seemed to count for a lot in the rigid pecking order.

  The tone of disagreement filtered back through into the main room. I shifted my hot, uncomfortable body away from the intense light pouring through the open window. It felt odd, knowing my future was being decided out there. I had flattered myself that I had made it in through the back door without anyone noticing, but this was feeling more and more like an audition. The donkey caught my eye. His sad, tearful face betrayed a broken, self-pitying spirit. The rope around his neck was superfluous: this animal wouldn’t make a break for it if you left him a trail of carrots and whipped him down the stairs. He seemed to be suffering from some sort of donkey institutionalisation. I could only feel pity for the pathetic creature. As I watched, he defecated on the floor where he stood, and a fresh wave of manure-smell passed through the flat like a cloud of mustard gas.

  Carlos beckoned me to join him on the balcony. Jesús had walked off.

  ‘Well, churumbel.’ I could tell it wasn’t going to be straightforward. ‘Listen, we haven’t got anything lined up, so you can’t play with us for now. But you keep playing, and we’ll see. We might take you along with us. In the meantime, you listen, you watch and you learn. Vale?’ He passed a thick finger from his ear to his eye and then mimed the action of playing the guitar. It was his way of reassuring me.

  I turned back to the window, disappointed, yet relieved I was still ‘in’. There was nothing I could say anyway. Not to Carlos. He didn’t discuss things.

  Music started from somewhere inside the flat. I looked in, and passed back into the main room. My eyes adjusted. Jesús was standing with one leg on a chair, my guitar resting on his thigh, playing a Soleá por Bulerías. Pure, hard notes like crystal.

  He finished with a long, smooth rasgueo, fingers striking the strings one after another like a machine-gun, then looked at me with defi
ance and pride. I didn’t care that he was using my guitar, but somehow it was important.

  ‘I haven’t played for five years,’ he said. Then he placed the guitar on the floor and left, with every air of a man with something important to do.

  Carlota, my landlady, was in a foul mood again. The electricity bill had just arrived and was far higher than expected. We had useless old Franco-era wiring that only provided 125 volts, so the flat was littered with rusty transformers boosting the power to 220.

  ‘I shall have to put your rent up,’ she said. ‘It’s all that time you sit in your room with the light on. And you play cassettes all night. You think that doesn’t use it up?’

  This was true, but I doubted it was the explanation for the big bill. There was only one transformer in my dusty room and I had to listen to music in the dark.

  I snarled.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

  She couldn’t see how I was looking at her; thirty years as a virtual troglodyte had left her yellow-skinned and half-blind, eyes pale and dull from reading in the gloom. The ash fell from her cigarette onto the cat sitting in her lap. It leapt up, scratching her as it darted into the dark, dirty safety of the corridor.

  ‘Damn you! Me cago en la leche!’ she cried, and tottered off to get some antiseptic: a necessary household item in this place. I had only taken the room because it was probably the cheapest place in central Madrid. She could hardly charge any more for such a dump. All her income came from lodgers. There was absolutely nothing in the bank, no reserves, no relatives, nothing. Which was why the place had slowly deteriorated over the years to reach its present shoddy state. There was only ever enough money to eat badly and pay the odd bill. Nothing for repairs or redecorating. The house was slowly crumbling around her and the cats like a tomb.

  There had been the odd lucky break. One room had been unrentable as it had no window and only a small wooden bed. But then a man arrived who wanted to use it occasionally for illicit rendezvous with his mistress. The rest of us were under strict orders not to talk to him and to disappear when he came round. There was the rumour that he was someone important and well known . . . I only ever came across him once, but the corridors were so dark I couldn’t get a good look at him.