Duende

by Jason Webster

  ‘How’re you finding the lessons?’

  ‘Hard.’ She looked down again at the floor.

  ‘You enjoy it?’

  She tossed her head from side to side to show doubt. ‘Yeah.’ Then hesitated before continuing, ‘It’s a lot of work.’

  From the corridor came the sound of Juana speaking loudly to someone on the phone in the office. Her powerful voice was echoing into the bare studio. She would be finishing soon, and I wanted to make contact. There would be no other chance. Time to try again.

  ‘Juana told me you want to try for the Conservatory in Madrid.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ She lifted her head again and looked up.

  ‘Do you want to go to Madrid?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ There was a hint of a spark in the tired face.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t want to stay here. It’s dead. There’s no life. No mola aquí. Granada’s the pits.’

  ‘But where would you stay?’

  ‘Oh, my aunt lives there. Es muy maja. She’s cool. Goes out all the time. She says she’ll show me everything when I get there.’

  ‘What do you want to see?’

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual stuff. I’ve been to the Prado and the Thyssen museum and all that. But she said she’ll take me out at weekends to all the bars and stuff. She said I can get a moped as well. Then I can go everywhere on my own.’

  ‘Can’t you do that now?’

  ‘Yeah. Well . . . it’s different. There’s just nowhere to go. And then there’s homework, and things to do at home.’

  She looked back at the floor, her back arched over, face red with exertion.

  ‘I used to live in Madrid,’ I said.

  ‘Really? Where?’

  ‘Off the Gran Vía.’

  ‘Wow! You must know it all. I really can’t wait to go. I’ve got to get out of here. Granada’s a dump.’

  From the corridor, we could hear Juana’s conversation coming to an end. There was something else I wanted to say.

  ‘Granada’s not that bad,’ I said.

  ‘What? You haven’t had to live here since you were born. I tell you, it’s . . .’

  ‘No, really, listen to me.’ I could hear Juana putting down the phone and her footsteps pounding our way. ‘Listen, I found out yesterday: Paco de Lucía is giving a concert here in May.’

  Her face lit up in surprise.

  ‘Really?’

  The footsteps were getting louder. We both glanced to the door – only seconds left.

  ‘He’s coming with El Grilo. El Grilo’s going to be dancing.’

  Tall, powerful, and with a very male and very graceful style of dancing, El Grilo was a great, possibly one of the greatest, living male flamenco dancers. Along with Antonio Canales, Javier Latorre and Adrián Galía, he had been part of a group of young dancers who had dominated the flamenco scene in Madrid in the late 1980s and early 90s. Carmen’s eyes opened wide when I mentioned his name, and she laughed.

  ‘You want to come? I’ll take you,’ I said quickly, as Juana entered the studio. We returned to our places, but not before Carmen had turned to face me quickly and flashed me an enormous pink grin of excitement.

  ‘What did you do?’ Juana asked after Carmen had gone. There was a faint smile on her mouth. The lesson had continued as usual on her return, the same barrage, the same incessant criticism, but there was a small change: just a hint of defiance in the girl.

  chapter TWELVE

  * * *

  Por Seguiríya

  Escondida en su concha

  vive la perla

  y al fondo de los mares

  bajan por ella . . .

  No olvides nunca

  que lo que mucho vale

  mucho se busca.

  Hidden in its shell

  lies the pearl

  and they dive to the bottom of the sea

  in search of it . . .

  Never forget,

  things of great value

  are greatly sought after.

  GRACE PICKED ME up in a battered old Seat.

  ‘Come along!’ she sang out from the street. ‘We’ve got a wedding to go to.’

  I got dressed and hurried down. She never ceased to surprise me. Whose wedding?

  The car was no more than a tin-can on wheels, filthy inside and out, with cigarette butts and scraps of old magazines decorating the floor in the gaps between the yawning holes beneath our feet. We put-putted through town. It was amazing to think she had driven this all the way from England.

  ‘Great car,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ she cried above the din of the engine. I looked down at the grey asphalt, flying past like sandpaper.

  ‘I said I suppose you and this car have been through a lot together.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Didn’t you drive this down from England?’

  ‘What, this? You must be mad!’

  I was mad? She was the one driving it.

  ‘I got rid of my old car some months ago,’ she said after a pause. ‘A Frenchman bought it off me. Said he wanted it for some tax dodge or other.’

  For a woman who lived on what she could fit into the back of a car, she had sold this key item off with surprising alacrity, I thought. But then, that was Grace all over. Nothing, not even her nomadism, was fixed. She travelled light in all senses of the word, to the extent that even the travelling itself could be jettisoned at any moment. She needed no reminding of who she was. There was only ever today. The problem was, I wasn’t sure how long today was going to last: Grace was a hopeless driver.

  I had always felt safe when Jesús was driving, despite the smashes. Grace, though, was a 70-year-old woman with dodgy eyesight.

  ‘Oh! I know him,’ she said cheerfully, looking in the rear-view mirror at the man she had just forced off his bicycle. I wondered if the last time they met she had knocked him sideways as well.

  ‘Look out!’ A schoolboy laden down with bags almost became her next victim. We swerved, banked the kerb and brought down part of a vegetable-seller’s stall. Pomegranates rolled everywhere.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said as we got back into the car having cleaned up the mess and paid off the shopkeeper. ‘I’d seen him.’

  At times she seemed to realise that her driving was less than orthodox, and let out a chuckle, like a schoolgirl caught peeping into the boys’ changing rooms. Keep calm, I had to tell myself. This woman drove all the way from England. She’s probably driven all over the world.

  ‘I’ve had much worse cars than this, of course,’ she said. ‘I once had one in Sri Lanka with no brakes.’

  ‘What! How the hell did you stop a car without brakes?’

  ‘Oh, we just used to hit the kerb and then stick our feet out the door and slow it down that way.’

  I sank further into my seat and began concentrating on the world outside to try to take my mind off such insignificant worries as life, death and emergency surgery. But Granada was relatively small, and before long the city gave way to thirsty-looking, white, wrinkled rocks and an enormous straw-coloured landscape as we headed out into the countryside. Fewer things here to collide with, I thought, as long as she can keep on the road. But as soon as we were in the country, her driving improved.

  It felt good to escape into the air and space after the closed atmosphere of the city. Yet even here, in springtime, there was a heaviness that rose up from the earth and touched everything – the rocks, the trees, even the air. The land defined all, giving a sense of place, of self, yet also acting as a prison and a cage. Why had Lorca come back here? Returning to a city which had made him, yet which would also claim him, like a sacrificial animal. There seemed an inevitability about his death. It was part of being a Granadino.

  The car pushed on up the crumbling roads, and my thoughts turned once again to Jesús.

  ‘When it’s time to go, it’s time to go,’ I muttered, half to myself.

  ‘There it is.’ We had reac
hed the top of a hill and descended to a modern, square-blockish village.

  ‘Whose wedding is this, anyway?’ I asked.

  ‘I told you already.’

  I was sure she hadn’t mentioned a thing.

  She parked at the top of a steep hill near an isolated church. Scores of cars were parked chaotically, half-blocking the roads, sticking out at awkward angles, taking up the space of two or three other vehicles. There was a familiar feel to it. I caught a glimpse of some of the number plates: Málaga, Seville, Cádiz, Madrid, Barcelona. Whoever was getting married had friends all over the country.

  We walked up to the church. People were standing outside the entrance, some passing through to get inside, others milling about chatting. There was a formality and sense of chaos about the group that I recognised. Gypsies. I felt a rush of joy. A Gypsy wedding! And it was suddenly comforting to be back amongst them. After months in Granada, away from Madrid, mourning the loss of my friend, this was where I wanted to be.

  We joined the crowd, greeted by a few suspicious looks. As two blonds, we stood out. But the bride – no more than seventeen – quickly appeared, draped in white chiffon, and clinging to her father’s arm. She lowered her head modestly and the crowd gathered round her like bees, while her father grinned, his gold teeth shining from behind thin, cracked lips and a weather-worn face. From his waistcoat hung a gold watchchain, while more gold adorned his wrists. On his forearm was a primitive-looking tattoo: Nací para sufrir – Born to suffer.

  Father and daughter pushed their way through, stopping to talk briefly with uncles, cousins, grandmothers and nephews. Everyone shouted and sang at once, a great wave of energy and enthusiasm. I looked for Grace – we had been separated in the scrum. She was near the bride, talking to a Gypsy man who was treating her as an important guest, leaning his face towards hers to hear what she was saying above the spiralling din. She smiled and turned away, clapping her hands with the rhythm now pulsating around the bride and her father as they slowly edged their way towards the church doors.

  The little building was overflowing, people cramming in the door, and jumping up and down to see above the other heads in front. Grace had disappeared again. I copied some of the young boys and climbed up the pillars in the doorway, hanging on with one hand and leaning out over the crowd to catch a glimpse of the altar. Grace was at the front, being given one of the best positions by the father of the groom. Both mothers were standing on either side, waiting for the ceremony to finish. But the singing started before they had even got halfway through. It was only a religious formality anyway.

  The priest braved it out, straining to make his voice heard. Meanwhile the congregation shouted, slapped one another on the back, and swapped stories. The guitars began playing Alboreás – the special Gypsy wedding palo with a droning, Alegría-style rhythm – the clapping began, and the whole church exploded into an impromptu flamenco concert. The poor priest began to look disturbed, sweating heavily, blood pressure rising dangerously under the strain of his collar and heavy robes as the cries of ‘Ole! Ole! Ole!’ drowned him out. But moments later the ceremony had ended, the couple left under a hail of rice, and a white dove was released into the air. It flew frantically up above the trees to get away from the madness.

  ‘For her purity,’ one of the boys said, pointing up at the bird and grinning. Virginity was all important.

  The mass headed down the hill into the village, where a local restaurant was waiting with cold prawns in mayonnaise and jamón Serrano. The patio had been covered over with a white awning, and long tables laden with wine, beer and bread waited underneath. Everyone made straight for the drinks before sitting down on benches to nibble at the food, still shouting and singing. There was no seating plan as far as I could tell, but the natural Gypsy hierarchy asserted itself. The families of the couple, the elders, the strongmen – they could all be made out by the way they were treated, how the others behaved towards them. It was there in the posture, the tilt of the head, the shape of the shoulders.

  But as I listened to the violent din of voices all talking at once, I noticed people were beginning to scream: the women first, then the men. We all turned to see what was going on. Some at the back stood up on the tables to get a better look and the young boys rushed forward. A mountain goat was standing by the main table, bleating loudly and chewing the tablecloth. The bride screamed and threw herself into the arms of her husband, but he was as frightened as she was. For a moment everyone was still, before the goat, tiring of the tablecloth and doubtless noticing the huge amount of food on the tables, jumped up and started tucking into the three-tiered wedding cake. Everyone fell back in shock, and when one of the braver types tried to shoo it away, he was met with a threatening show of teeth and a kick from the animal’s powerful hind legs.

  ‘Fetch a stick!’ came the cry. The restaurant owner came out from the kitchen with a broom.

  ‘A broom! A broom! Come on Pedro. Charge!’ The cries of encouragement came from all sides. A small, overweight man stood at the side, nostrils flaring, the broom in both hands like a Roman infantryman, pointing it at the goat, which was quickly ruining the biggest event in the village all year. He thrust his weapon forward tentatively, but to little effect. The animal was moving on from the cake to the ham and prawns.

  ‘Venga, Pedro!’

  The bride was beginning to cry. The restaurant-owner gathered himself, then with a shout dropped the broom, ran at the beast and, with a great swing, punched it as hard as he could on the chin. The goat stumbled sideways, gave a startled yelp and leapt nimbly from the table and onto the ground. With a couple of bounds, it was out of the restaurant and running indignantly down the hill, shaking the remaining crumbs of food from its beard. Pedro, however, was not so nimble, and before he could stop himself, he had landed face down in the garlic mushrooms. Everyone was too shocked to say anything for a second. Then a cry of ‘Olé! Pedro!’ rang out from the back, and the poor man, realising it was his moment, stood up to take a bow before the cheering crowd.

  ‘Drinks are free!’ he spluttered above the cries of congratulations, and with the grin of the all-conquering warrior, he headed back into the kitchen.

  ‘What about the other one?’ the girl next to me said under her breath as we all sat down again. ‘There’s more than one with horns at that table.’

  Her friend sucked her teeth and one of the women started handing out food noisily, trying to drown out talk of the bride’s alleged infidelity.

  A queue was now forming: the couple were sitting on a dais, like kings, and each person was passing by, congratulating them, and handing over amounts of money. Grace and I joined the back of the line.

  ‘Best day of your life,’ I said to the groom as we reached him, and I looked in the direction of his new wife. He looked solemn for a minute, then laughed.

  ‘A que sí! Too right!’

  The money-giving ceremony lasted an hour and a half. Everyone wanted to make sure their contribution was the one the couple would remember. And with the cash came promises of favours, best wishes for their future children, gifts, embraces, anecdotes, offers of work. When it was all over, the bride was approached by an elderly woman I had noticed earlier. There was something striking about her, an air of importance, accentuated by the vast number of gold and beaded necklaces resting on her chest. But she had remained in the background, and didn’t seem to be a member of either of the families.

  ‘That woman there,’ Grace said. ‘That woman is brought especially to examine the purity of the bride. They call her an ajuntaora.’

  The bride looked ill, and was quickly led out of sight into a private room. A few glances were exchanged but everything continued as normal.

  Barely five minutes had passed, though, when a woman on the other side of the table began tutting.

  ‘Shouldn’t take this long,’ she said. Her neighbours agreed.

  ‘They should be out by now.’

  ‘Never takes this long.’

&nb
sp; The women looked concerned; the men, serious.

  The anxiety appeared to have reached the main table, where the groom was sitting, pale-lipped, eyes tight like a fist. The bride’s family were beginning to flap like birds.

  ‘Too long, too long now. I always said it.’

  Someone was sent to find out what was going on. The groom stood up sharply, chair flying out from beneath his legs. His brother ran round and grabbed him by the shoulders.

  ‘Wait!’ he shouted. ‘Wait!’

  But the bride’s family were also beginning to stand up, arms hanging by their sides, breathing quickly. Then that smell. I recognised it from the bullfight. The portentous smell of blood, the smell that tells you it will soon be spilled here.

  We were all on our feet, the pitch of voices rising higher and higher. The bride’s father was trying to calm things down. He smiled and made steadying gestures with his hands, but sweat dripped from his temples, and his hands were shaking. Just now, I thought, the flick of a knife, and all would be lost. Hands began to reach round, behind backs, into pockets. Something had to be done, but I felt a hand on my arm pressing down. I looked and saw the thick silver ring on Grace’s finger. Don’t do anything, it said. Just watch, observe.

  At that moment the old woman came running out of the restaurant clutching a white handkerchief and raised it high for everyone to see, screaming at the top of her lungs. We leaned forward: the cloth was embroidered with a red rose in each corner and in the middle there was a dark, yellowy stain. The groom’s family stared hard for a second, and then an almighty cheer went up, more out of relief than joy. The two fathers embraced each other like brothers and people sat back into their seats, smiles and grins replacing the angry scowls of a moment earlier. The bride was brought forward looking paler than when she had gone inside, and was swamped with well-wishers, lifting her up in the air and dancing with her, parading triumphantly out into the street. Car horns sounded, the men threw off their jackets, tearing at their shirts in ecstasy, until they stood naked from the waist up, waving their arms and shouting like lunatics.