Jesús walked over and handed them some money, which they accepted grudgingly, hardly looking him in the eye. We moved on.
A beaten-up old Renault was waiting for us. We stepped inside and drove off. There was no greeting or chat. I never saw the man behind the wheel again.
This was the bohemian, flamenco life I had been looking for – not the imitation I had experienced in Alicante. Even my time with Lola began to pale through the filter of cocaine and the excitement of hanging out with real flamencos. Eduardo would be proud of me, I thought, convinced I was finally on the inside. And as I identified myself more and more with this world – regardless of whether it had accepted me – I could sense myself absorbing a new code of honour which, above all, involved a loathing of those on the ‘outside’. Non-flamencos. It became a knee-jerk, anti-establishment sentiment that existed purely on the level of ‘us’ and ‘them’.
Twenty minutes later, we were dropped off in an area of the city I didn’t know. Residential, by the look of it. Short trees were dotted along the pavement; a school with tall redbrick walls stood opposite. The Renault drove away. Jesús walked ahead and then cut into one of the side-roads. I hurried behind, careful not to lose him. The streets round here were empty. We kept on walking, cutting in and out between the cars: first on the pavement, then in the middle of the road, and back onto the pavement again. Jesús was silent and seemed to be looking for something. I started to wonder what we were doing there. He intimidated me, with his obvious mistrust, and my mind buzzed with possibilities.
We heard voices. I was thrown into a lightless doorway and pushed against the wall, his hand on my throat. For a moment, I thought he was going to kill me. But the people walked past – just a group of kids coming back home from the bars – and he relaxed his grip on my shirt.
Back on the street, he moved swiftly, like a shadow. I stayed behind, frightened now, watching him as he cruised past the cars like a hunter. Then he gave a low whistle. I walked over reluctantly.
‘Go to the top of that street and wait for me there,’ he said softly. ‘If you see anyone before I arrive, hold the cigarette in your left hand. Got it?’
I nodded.
‘Go on!’
I ran off, uncertain why I was hurrying, not knowing who or what I was supposed to be looking out for. I ignored my misgivings, driven by the desire to do well, to be accepted.
Standing at the corner, underneath the canopy of a shoe shop, I was faced by rows and rows of empty knee-length boots. There were trees on either side of the road – plenty of shelter from the streetlights. I had to think how to make myself less conspicuous. The most suspicious thing in the world would be just to stand there, at this time in the morning. I lit a cigarette, waiting to transfer it into my other hand for the signal. But if there was anyone to look out for, they would spot me instantly. And I wasn’t quite sure who ‘they’ were. The police?
There was little time to wonder. Jesús appeared from around the corner.
‘Get in!’
I jumped inside and we sped off. He was driving a black Mercedes.
* * *
Racing down deserted boulevards. Tower blocks, road signs, bus shelters, trees like semi-conscious flashes in the corner of my eye as we sped effortlessly and gracefully through a night-lit city.
‘Me cago en Dios! Me cago en Dios! I shit on God!’ Jesús screamed out of the open window as he drove at high speed through the pulsating rhythm of the streetlights crossing over us in a steady, constant beat. Un . . . dos . . . TRES . . .
‘Have you ever seen this city? La has visto? Seen it like this? I’m going to show you the city. This is going to be the best fucking tour of the city there has ever been. By the time we’ve finished – Oy! Almost, almost.’ He swerved to avoid a kerb that had loomed up from nowhere. I looked over at him: the quiet, moody Jesús was transformed; screeching in a high voice as though having five conversations at once, and shouting for the whole city to hear.
‘Me cago en Dios!’ For most people it was an expression of annoyance, but here it seemed more like a statement of faith.
‘Qué te parece este coche, eh? What do you think of this car? You want the car? You can’t have it. It’s mine. Of course, we could go for a long drive. You need some money? All the way to Córdoba, Seville, Jerez. Wherever you want. Ah, las tías, the girls in Andalusia. Not like the tarts here. Zorras, they’re all tarts. Carlos, he’s mad. You take my advice, steer clear of the girls in Madrid. They’re all tarts, tarts. Good Andalusian girl, that’s what you— Look how fast this fucker can go. I can beat them all, hijos de puta. Look at that. See that? That’s the old Post Office. See it? There on the left. He’s taking it too far. They’ve been cleaning that fucking place for years. Fucking pigeons shat on it so much the place began to fall down. Ha, ha. What a bunch of fuckers. Gilipollas. Guiris like you. They can’t even build a building that’s pigeon-shit-proof. Fuckers. That’s where Juan Antonio used to live – Andonda’s husband – before she cut his bollocks off. Poor bastard. No more bollocks for Juan Antonio. What a fucker. Of course, I told her “You should have used a blunt knife, not that razor-sharp thing, then the fucker’s prick would have fallen off by now as well”. Ha! Fuckers.’
The lights racing past my window were beginning to merge with one another, the speed pinning me back into the leather seat. Down the long, straight avenue of the Paseo de la Castellana, past the Torre Picasso which looked less like a symbol of modern Spain than a toaster placed on its side. Then on down the Paseo de Recoletos, past the classical columns of the National Library and the Torres de Jerez – black and grey twin towers from the Seventies that looked like firemen’s practice buildings – and on to the Plaza de Cibeles. I put my feet up on the dashboard and listened to the one-man rant sitting next to me.
‘Hey. Get your fucking feet off my dashboard.’
I lifted them off instinctively, but he grabbed them and placed them back.
‘Ha! Only joking. Do what you like. Only don’t make a mess.’
I stuck my head out of the window, eyes rolling back, watching the tops of the trees and the towers pass by, as though in an alternative, upside-down world that existed in the sky. We swerved sharply and I felt a shadow pass near my head.
‘Watch out kid. Don’t lose your head. Ha! Don’t lose your head. Fucker.’
I sat bolt upright and looked back: we had almost smashed into a road sign. Jesús grinned over at me.
‘Here. Your turn.’ We skidded to a halt in the middle of the Paseo del Prado. ‘Come on! Your turn to drive. You don’t think I’m going to do all the fucking driving, do you. Come on. Let’s see if a guiri can drive.’
The car was in the middle of a broad tree-lined avenue opposite one of the most famous museums in the world, but all I could think about was not getting run over and killed. I got out and jumped in the other side. Jesús leapt into the passenger seat.
‘OK. Let’s see what you’re made of. Or just another Juan Antonio. Eh? Come on, kid.’
I pressed on the accelerator and, with a start, we set off, our heads jerked back against the rests with the force of it. ‘Christ, this thing is powerful.’
‘Powerful? This is a pile of shit. I’ll show you something really powerful.’
We sped on. At the traffic lights I stopped.
‘What the fuck are you doing? Drive, drive. We haven’t got time to sit here for the fucking lights. Keep driving. Go! Vamos!’
We took off again. Even if it was dawn, this was Madrid, and there were still plenty of other cars around to make passing through red lights a hazardous hobby.
Down towards Atocha, up, and round the back of the Retiro. It was quieter here. Jesús leaned half of his body out of the window, waving his fist at the trees like a great hammer about to strike each one down.
‘Fuckers! Fuckers! Fuckers!’
But then came a flashing light – blue – and another car pulled out sharply behind us and headed our way.
‘Put your foot do
wn. And listen to my directions carefully.’ His voice was suddenly calm. I glanced across: the manic, screaming fool was poised and self-possessed, watching the road ahead like a fighter pilot.
The police car was still some distance away. I felt a sharp surge passing through my brain, shortened breath. I had total confidence – not in myself, but in Jesús.
‘Kill the lights. There’s a turning on the right coming up. Get ready to turn, but don’t brake. Slow down, slow down. It’s coming up. There, whatever you do, don’t brake.’
‘What are you talking about? How can I not brake?’
We turned. I braked.
‘Ostias. I shit on your father. I told you not to brake! I told you—’
‘How the fuck! Why?’
‘Because they see your brake lights and they know where you’ve gone.’ He was gentle, reassuring. ‘Right, just keep going straight. Keep straight.’
‘But the streetlights. They’ll see us anyway.’
‘Keep straight.’
The street was narrower, cars parked on either side. We were doing sixty, with barely a foot between us and disaster. There was no space for panic. It was a question of not thinking about it. Letting go. The individual cars disappeared in my mind and we entered a smooth-sided tunnel, with only one possible path for us to follow, like a ready-laid track. I pressed the pedal even harder. Jesús looked round through the windscreen, just a brief check, and then back, staring out through the rear window.
‘Keep it going, kid. Keep it going.’
We were coming to the end of the street. The police had dropped behind.
‘Where do we go?’
‘Left, left.’ We swerved off. I didn’t use the brakes. Jesús lifted the handbrake gently. My God, I thought, we’re going to spin this thing right off the road. The car tilted to one side, we skidded, but somehow managed to stay on course.
‘Straight, straight. Then left at the bottom. Use the gears more.’ Smoother this time, but the engine sounded like it was about to explode. ‘That’s it. Go, go!’
Back onto the boulevard. No need to say which way. I knew the plan by now. But the police car was still there. Faster, we had to go faster, and find a better way to lose them.
We raced down the hill, away from the centre, moving inevitably towards the south, and Vallecas. It might be dangerous to lure them there, but it was probably our only chance. I saw Jesús feeling around for something.
‘A phone, a phone. This bastard must have— Watch it, this junction’s a tough one.’ We flew over the crossroads, narrowly avoiding a moped. The police car slowed up to avoid a collision. A few precious yards gained. But they were fast, probably faster than us. We couldn’t lose them on the straights. We had to shake them off some other way. My heart was beating overtime, blood pulsing violently in my hands as they gripped the steering wheel. I felt locked in this position, as though after the crash they would find me still clinging on, a wild, staring look of horror in my eyes.
Jesús was dialling. ‘Keep it going kid. Come on, come on, answer the bloody— Roberto!’
Blue lights still flashing in the mirror, like a fly that refused to die. Jesús was talking rapidly to the man on the other end. Short, fast instructions. I didn’t hear what was said, too busy watching the road – behind and in front.
He switched the phone off. ‘Just keep going. It’s sorted. Head towards Carlos’s place.’
There were more cars down here. People setting off early to put up their market stalls. We had to weave madly between three vans that were driving slowly in convoy, turning out onto the main road and taking up half the lanes. They were lucky not to be hit. But I realised I didn’t care. We were moving forward and nothing was going to stop us.
We crossed under the ring-road and headed up the hill into Vallecas, careering past early-morning buses and swerving to avoid old women walking out to buy bread. The grey, concrete football stadium sped past almost unnoticed.
‘Take the second right, towards Carlos’s place, then the first right again. We can do it, they’re falling back.’
I drove as instructed, trying not to brake, no lights, relying entirely on the streetlamps.
‘Here, on the left. That garage.’
I swerved in, braking for a final time, with a great screech of tyres on tarmac. The car entered a small opening in the wall, the door was closed, and we were in total darkness.
‘They might have heard us.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Come on, this way.’ We got out of the car, my knees trembling, and headed out of the garage, and into a shop at the back. Someone was locking the doors. I could barely take in what was happening. We could hear the sirens circling around the area. There seemed to be more than one of them now, but it was difficult to say. We stood, poised, ready to run if we had to, unsure how safe we were here. The police car came down the road and passed by the garage door without stopping. Then a second one. Then nothing.
We breathed a sigh of relief. Jesús put his arm around my shoulder.
‘Here,’ he said, placing some dope in my hand as I collapsed into a chair. ‘Take this. You need it.’
chapter SEVEN
* * *
Por Bulerías
En esta vía maldita,
siempre le faltan las cosas
al que más las necesita.
In this damned life,
the people who need the most
are the ones who go without.
TWO GYPSY SISTERS aged six and eight are taking turns to swing their little brother by the arms in a circle. Their clothes are cheap and dirty from rolling around in the dust. They laugh enthusiastically at their game, swinging the child, then changing places and swinging him once again. Their skin is dark – like Indians’ – and their ruffled, unwashed hair hangs about their eyes like overgrown ivy. They break from their playing to beg at the nearby bar. An old man with dyed black hair, streaked over a scalp dotted with liver spots, attracts most of their attention thanks to the yellow Labrador lying lazily under his table. The dog and the Gypsy kids get on well, but the man is uncomfortable and tries unsuccessfully to shoo them away. Eventually a barman emerges from inside and moves them on. They stare back at him in a playfully defiant way, denying him moral victory while obeying his order to leave.
They go back to the entrance of the ugly modern church, where a woman in a brightly coloured floral dress stands with a pram, holding out her hand expectantly to the exiting parishioners. She looks old enough to be a grandmother. The sisters start clapping a Bulería rhythm as the congregation, in their fine blouses and shirts, anxiously side-steps them. The lesson has ended. No charity today.
‘We’ve got a tour next month. I want you to join us.’
Carlos knocked back his brandy and indicated to the barman to bring another. The cigarette smoke caught in my throat.
‘You’ll be famous,’ he laughed. ‘El Niño Rubio – the Blond Kid. Great for the guiris.’
I was in.
‘Two, three gigs a night,’ Carlos continued. But I wasn’t listening. My mind had returned to the night with Jesús. I wondered if he had had a hand in this, if I’d passed the test. I was pleased, a great chance had finally come. But at what price? Even then, half-stupid as I was with my desire to be accepted, a voice of conscience could still be heard. ‘Car thief,’ it said. And a wave of guilt and fear would flood through me. ‘What if you get caught?’
The group wasn’t just about flamenco for me, though. It could give me something far more important. I had made virtually no friends in Madrid, insulated as I was against the world by my unhappiness, and I desperately needed the company of other people and a social life. With Carlos I thought I had found that. And so, I reasoned to myself that I hadn’t actually stolen the car: it was Jesús. I’d helped him drive, true, but I had no idea how he’d got it, or what he’d done with it afterwards. Didn’t that clear me?
Carlos continued speaking as my educated brain drew on years of intellectual training to ju
stify what I’d done.
‘We’re hiring a villa near Valencia.’
Valencia. Just up the coast from Benidorm and Alicante. Not around Madrid. Not in Andalusia. I’d half-expected a tour to head down into the flamenco heartlands. No. Back to the coast. Back to the tourists. And worryingly close to a past I now wanted nothing to do with.
‘Oh, and there’ll be something in it for you.’
Nothing specific, but I was relieved. My money had almost run out, and I was only just managing to survive by starving and doing odd jobs for Carlota in lieu of rent. I’d lost almost a stone since coming to Madrid, and my clothes were beginning to hang loosely on my body.
‘There’s just one thing,’ Carlos added. ‘You need a new guitar – a proper one. We can’t have you on stage with that plank of wood you carry around.’
I needed at least 100,000 pesetas to buy a decent guitar. I couldn’t ask Carlos for an advance; I had no idea how much he was going to pay me. Besides, I was still definitely a payo, an outsider, even if I was on the fringes of the group now. It was clear from the body language.
I thought of Jesús. His attitude towards me had changed, but this would be too much. An important part of the code seemed to involve not being indebted to anyone, which meant not making requests of others. If I had asked, he would almost certainly have helped, but it would not have been right: the relationship would have changed.
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