Duende

by Jason Webster

  ‘No, no. For God’s sake! Keep in time!’ he shouted over his shoulder.

  We tried again, and got slightly further.

  ‘Compás! Compás! Come on, Jason, do me a favour and keep time, will you.’ His lips turned down in a sulky frown of indignation.

  I tapped my foot on the floor like a metronome to make sure of the rhythm. It wasn’t gelling, but I couldn’t feel where I was losing it either.

  ‘Jason!’ He stopped again. ‘Look, I’m sure you can do better than this. I’m quite sure. Carlos wouldn’t have asked you to come along otherwise. You must keep the compás.’

  I snarled as he turned his back on me to start once more.

  ‘Now let’s take it from the solo de pie again, then come in with the Bulería at the end.’ I placed my hands ready to play. There was a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I saw Juanito at my side, a big smile on his face. He motioned for me to pass him the guitar. I handed it over quickly and he began to accompany Javier’s dancing behind his back. He kept it simple, even throwing in a couple of dud notes for authenticity’s sake. But it only lasted a few moments. Once again Javier came to a halt.

  ‘Me cago en la leche. I told . . .’ He turned, and with a look of horror saw Juanito there with the guitar in his hands.

  ‘B-but . . .’ He stood motionless, crestfallen for a moment, with a look of sheer disbelief. Then, with a rush, the blood and anger flooded his face. ‘Hijos de puta!’ he cried and stormed off.

  Juanito and I just couldn’t stop laughing after that. For weeks all we had to say was ‘hijos de puta’ in a fake Javier voice and we’d be on the floor.

  Javier hardly ever spoke to me after that.

  What surprised me most about the tour was the speed at which it all happened. It was like our life in Madrid, but wound up like a spring and set off to run at three times the usual pace. We played two, usually three gigs a night, starting at ten in the evening and not finishing until four or five in the morning. Sound check, playing, packing up, dashing somewhere else, unpacking, playing, packing up . . . Most of the time, I had no idea where the venues were.

  The first night was a shock. By the end of it, my hands were shaking from so much exposure in such a short period. I felt wrecked. But it simply carried on. This was work. Most of the time we were at small places: low-key brothels, bars, cafés, with the occasional concert hall, local festival, or wedding. The gigs themselves were fairly mechanical affairs. I had been expecting something else: real tension, of the kind I thought preceded all creative endeavours. But after the first couple of nights, I began to calm down, and understood that this was just a job, what they did for a living. You couldn’t worry about how well you were playing, or how much feeling there was. We weren’t artists, more like craftsmen, making ends meet. And once you had played and mastered a piece more than a certain number of times, it was difficult not to start switching off while on stage and going into autopilot. Antonio suffered the worst. He played with a look of utter boredom on his face.

  At the end of the night we would return to the villa, change out of our black and white costumes – simple shirt and trousers – and stay up till at least ten or eleven in the morning, drinking, playing and singing. This was when the real music was made: a time for new pieces or the palos only we liked; the ones the audiences wouldn’t appreciate. Then we’d sleep till about four in the afternoon, have a shower, practise some more, eat, and it was time to go once again. It was hectic, pressured, non-stop. And what made it possible, I realised, was the constant supply of cocaine – always there, keeping me going like some sort of magic fuel. Jesús would provide the supply, and we would take it in his room or on the patio. I had thought that we were all on it, but was surprised when I later discovered that it was only really Jesús, Antonio, Javier and me – the younger ones. Juanito never touched it, and Carlos always stuck to brandy. As for La Andonda, she didn’t need it; she was manic enough. I felt foolish, in a way. Perhaps I’d only imagined the group pressure to take it. But I was hooked now, and life on tour dragged me deeper and deeper under the drug’s self-aggrandising influence.

  Meanwhile, we all ate together, played together, woke up together, slept the same hours, turning ourselves into some sort of collective creature, a unit in which all individuality was lost. The thinking was done for us. We simply obeyed and fell into line. Back into the bus again, another hour’s drive to the next gig, unpacking, playing, packing up, and then moving on once again.

  Occasionally something would break the routine. The real reason why Antonio was so upset about sharing a room became clearer one night when he managed to impress a girl in the audience with his fancy playing; he forgot all about the rest of us and went off on some musical tour of his own. She later showed him her appreciation in private – it turned out she had a room of her own they could use – but in the process, he provoked La Andonda’s fury for making her look a fool on stage. It was something she would never forget.

  For the most part, though, there was almost no time to do anything else but play. Carlos would entertain us in the early mornings back at the villa, sitting on the balcony doing impressions of other singers: El Lebrijano, El Indio Gitano, or a high-pitched Pedro Pinto – voices from the past.

  Antonio would complain. He wanted us to launch off into a more jazzy sound, in the way that guitarists such as Tomatito were doing.

  ‘Look, guys, like, we really need to be doing more, like, modern material. You know? I mean, look, we could be like Ketama, or Karakatamba.’

  ‘Karakatamba,’ Carlos snorted mockingly. It was taken for granted that Antonio was simply looking for a vehicle for his own, more elaborate, playing style.

  ‘Hey, listen. People like that are the future, you know?’

  ‘Play your modern material in your own time. But here, we play flamenco.’

  Antonio went quiet at this point, then stormed out. We all carried on talking: this kind of thing happened every day.

  ‘It’s a shame they have to get so upset,’ Juanito said. ‘Carlos is right: Karakatamba – pfff.’ He shrugged. ‘But Ketama? Now they can play. They’re from the Carmona family. Granada Gypsies. Good flamencos.’

  The sun was already high in the sky when I knocked back the last of my drink and went to find sanctuary in the darkness of my bedroom.

  ‘This is flamenco, churumbel.’ Carlos grabbed my arm as I passed him. His breath smelt like a distillery. ‘This. This life. Not all that shit you were up to in Alicante. You want to experience real flamenco? You want to know what duende is really about? It’s about this. It’s about living on the edge – a tope. It’s about singing so hard you can’t speak any more. Or playing until your fingers bleed. It’s about taking yourself as far as you can go, and then going one step further.’

  At that point, I believed him.

  Jesús continued much as he had in Madrid. The group’s travels around the country were further grist to his mill, supplying him with opportunities to pick up ‘prizes’. He was still cautious about the others knowing about my involvement, and his behaviour towards me when we were with them hadn’t changed from the beginning. Every so often, we would return from the gigs in a different car, and such was the curtain of silence surrounding his activities, there would be no comment. It was out of bounds.

  The high-speed driving was exhilarating, and I further buried any doubts by pretending the cars weren’t stolen at all, or that Jesús would return them once we had finished. We were just joy-riding, having fun: a necessary distraction from the boredom of touring. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice questioning how I had fallen into all of this tried to make itself heard, but it stayed in the background, barely audible above all the noise.

  One Sunday night we played a gig at a home for deaf people. We didn’t realise what was wrong at first. Then La Andonda noticed their hearing aids and the penny dropped. We cranked the amplifiers up to maximum and deafened ourselves in the process. When we finished, they all sat there stony-faced, not knowing when
to clap, or even if the concert had come to an end. Javier took the initiative and stood in the middle of the stage, motioning to everyone to start the applause, and finally it came. But the rest of us were already packing up and getting ready to leave. It was our only show that night, and we wanted to enjoy an evening off.

  As we were passing outside, Jesús motioned to me to follow him. I handed my guitar to Antonio and we left, walking away into the hot, dark streets. We usually cruised the quiet residential areas, looking for the best cars, but sometimes we’d find something right where you’d least expect it – a car outside a nightclub, where the owner had just popped inside, leaving the engine running. I was on watch-duty, scanning the streets, peering round corners, pricking up my ears for the sound of a car, a police patrol, anything. At which point I would give the coded whistle and vanish into a doorway until it was safe to reappear once again and continue the hunt. If there was ever any crisis of conscience, it would emerge in these seconds spent alone waiting for Jesús to appear. For a few moments, a moral anxiety would force itself upon me, strengthened by vivid images of getting caught by the police, but then it would vanish again as soon as we were inside the car. After all, we only took cars from rich people. They were insured or could afford the loss. There was no money in it for me. This was the price of my acceptance.

  Jesús beckoned me over and I climbed into a BMW.

  The streets were narrow here and too choked with other cars to drive fast. We headed away and out into the hilly countryside. Jesús accelerated along the empty, blackened roads, headlights streaming ahead as we reached up to 70, 80 miles an hour, bulleting down what were little more than windy, unmanageable tracks. Even in a car like this, it was a bumpy ride. He pushed the accelerator closer to the floor, throwing my head back. Through the window, I could see the full moon.

  ‘Dad died – a night like this, just like this, cold, the fucker, left us, my mother, me, two sisters, no money, spent it all on drink, fucker, had to go out and work, only thirteen, needed parné, always needing money, can’t get by in this puto mundo – this fucking world – without money, it’s what you need, to keep you going, you want some money, I can lend you 50,000 if you want, got it in my pocket, ha, ha, you’re not going to get me, you fuckers, I bet the fucker who had this car was a real fucker, bet he cheated on his wife, bet he had his mistress right there on the back seat, giving it to her, one-two, one-two, taking her por el culo, up the arse in the back of his BMW, ha, ha, gilipollas.’

  ‘Perhaps he was gay.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right, you’re absolutely right, he might have been gay – gay fucker, ha ha. Ugh! I’m driving a gay car! Ha ha. Joder! Fuck, this thing can move, look at the acceleration on that. Joder.’

  We scraped a tree that was leaning partly over the edge of the road. Jesús looked round to the side it had hit.

  ‘Have to get that fixed up quick. Can’t sell the fucker with chipped paintwork.’

  We drove on, speeding in the empty, white light of the moon.

  Something appeared up ahead: lights, vehicles. It was a roadblock.

  ‘Slow down,’ I called.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ve already seen it.’ His voice was calm and professional again. We stopped several yards short, the headlights on full beam.

  ‘Quick. Change seats,’ he said. We crossed over clumsily, catching ourselves on the gear-stick. I could see someone approaching the car. It was the Guardia Civil; gorillas with machine-guns.

  ‘Talk guiri to him,’ Jesús ordered.

  I felt a thudding in my throat as a heavily armed man in green uniform tapped on the window. My greatest fear was finally coming true.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  ‘Buenas noches,’ I said in my thickest English accent, looking up with a smile. He would want to ask questions, want to know why I was driving at this time of night, why I was in a Spanish registered car, would want to see my documents, had probably heard us scraping the tree up the road, and would probably want to know who my travelling companion was. But I also knew from my time at the Costa Gazette that they were probably on the lookout for ETA suspects. Not stupid Englishmen. I had to get in there quickly, it was our only chance.

  ‘We’re trying to find the Valencia road,’ I said before he could say anything. ‘I’ve been driving around for some time now and I can’t find it. Could you possibly point me in the right direction. My wife’s just had a baby.’

  For a moment, I thought I might have given the game away. It was a stupid thing to say, but fear had made me blurt it out. The guard hesitated for a minute, as though it were the last thing he had expected to hear, then snapped to attention in honour of my new role in life as a father, and barked out the directions. I was going the wrong way, he said, would have to turn back in the opposite direction.

  I spun the car around and set off, leaving just the slightest trace of rubber behind on the tarmac. The roadblock receded in the rear-view mirror. I could barely breathe for shock.

  ‘Nice work, Dad,’ Jesús said. ‘Good job they didn’t get me. Fine time they’d have with me. Driving for fifteen years and never had a licence. Ha! Fuckers . . .’

  We drove up to an ordinary modern block of flats in a bland neighbourhood on the outskirts of Valencia. The flat was small and dim; there were no lights anywhere. Every room was lit with plain, white candles, with the odd red, blue, or twisted translucent one to break the monotony. The smoke made the air thick and heavy, and the walls looked grey and greasy in the haze.

  The dealer was a skinny payo with a forked, scraggly beard and trembling hands. His black hair fell from a central parting down to his shoulders, making him look like a sort of walking pyramid. He and Jesús greeted each other in the twilight warmly, and we moved into the kitchen. A candelabra emitted a gloomy glow over a wooden table and chairs.

  We sat at the table and snorted a line of cocaine each. I watched as the puddles of wax on the floor slowly grew with each drip from the candles, reflecting a distorted image of the candelabra.

  The dealer brought out a plastic bag from another room.

  ‘It’s good,’ he said.

  His trembling hands shook nervously as he passed it over. Jesús took it and laid it on the table, opening it as carefully as he could. He reached for a knife from his pocket, then flicked it open to fish out some of the white crystals. The dealer looked away, stood up suddenly, and walked over to the cupboard, fiddling with the cups and plates.

  ‘Hard to keep everything straight when you live on your own,’ he said unnecessarily.

  Wax was now falling onto Jesús’s black hair, but he didn’t seem to notice. His attention was totally fixed on the little pile lying on the end of the blade. He lifted it up, brought it to his nose, then sniffed it lightly.

  There was a smash. Three plates had fallen out of the dealer’s hands and were lying in pieces around the kitchen floor.

  ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ Jesús screamed.

  ‘Sorry, Jesús, sorry.’

  ‘This is crap! You trying to fob me off with rubbish or something? Me cago en tus muertos, I shit on your ancestors . . .’ He leapt out of his chair, knife in hand, and began to lunge towards the dealer, who was cowering in the corner.

  ‘Jesús!’ I cried. In an instant I saw what was about to happen and had managed to hurdle the chair and grab his wrists from behind as the blade sliced forward.

  The dealer collapsed into the corner. Jesús lunged again, his body taut, muscles like cords. I hauled him back, and he struggled to free himself from my grip, thrashing from side to side. I was taller than him, though, and the drugs had given me a nervous strength. I was more worried about the knife, about not getting caught on the end of it myself.

  The dealer sat up and began crying.

  ‘Jesús, it’s me. For God’s sake, Jesús. It’s me.’ He quivered, white-faced, shaking with fear. ‘Jesús. You can’t do this to me. You don’t know what it’s like . . .’

  ‘You son of
a whore! Me cago en tus muertos.’ Jesús bellowed the Gypsy curse, still wriggling to get free.

  ‘Come on Jesús. You can sell that on. Please, I really need the money.’

  Jesús began shouting again and the dealer slid back into the corner, making himself small and sobbing violently.

  Jesús seemed about to lunge again. With a final effort, I steered him out through the kitchen door and into the corridor, then threw him into the stairwell, shutting the door as he stumbled backwards, dizzy with rage.

  I ran back inside. The dealer was still in the corner, crying.

  ‘You OK?’

  He said nothing.

  I checked around for blood to see if the knife had touched him. He was fine. I made to leave.

  ‘T-tell Jesús, please, tell him. I love him. He’s my best friend.’

  I left some money on the table as I went out.

  Jesús was outside in the street, waiting for me. He seemed calmer now, not the bloodthirsty lunatic of only a few moments ago.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘I did what I had to do.’ I was surprised at myself. I had never answered him like that.

  We walked off, neither of us saying a word. Then, as we reached the car, I felt his hand on my shoulder. I turned and unexpectedly he put his arms around me and embraced me. I stood awkwardly for a moment – an Englishman once more, stiff with embarrassment, caught off my guard by a foreigner – until my arms relented and I returned the embrace. This was Jesús, who never seemed to need anyone. An independent Gypsy, weaving his way slyly through a strange, adverse world where he didn’t really belong – a world he rejected, and which, in its turn, rejected him. But all he wanted now was this.

  We stood together, patting each other gently on the back, until at length, he pulled away.

  ‘You drive,’ he said. ‘I need to sleep.’

  chapter EIGHT

  * * *

  Por Soleá Por Bulería

  Compañera de mi alma,