Sunset over the Cherry Orchard

by Jo Thomas

  Esmeralda flashes a smile at a dumbfounded Felipe, and then looks straight at me and points.

  ‘Teach her!’ she says with a flick of her chin. ‘Teach her to flamenco like you taught me. One dance. A dance-off between the two couples.’ She holds her head up triumphantly, like a winner on the Olympic podium claiming her prize, whilst the rest of us freeze, stuck in a surreal moment. ‘Winner takes all, the farm and the restaurant. Then we’ll never have to see each other again.’

  Chapter Thirty-one

  ‘Never!’ Antonio roars, breaking the spell.

  ‘It’s a good offer.’ Esmeralda glances at her partner, who now has a smile spreading across his face.

  ‘What? No!’ Valentina shrieks. ‘That’s ridiculous! Antonio! Do something!’ She turns on him crossly.

  Esmeralda smiles wickedly again. ‘If you win, you get to keep your farm and home. If not,’ she shrugs, ‘we sell it and you will never see us – or Miguel – again.’

  Antonio turns to look at Miguel.

  ‘No, don’t, Pap—’ Miguel stops himself before the word is fully formed.

  ‘Papa?’ scoffs Esmeralda. ‘He’s never been a father to you! It’s Felipe who’s been that!’

  ‘Look, I’m the one who has caused all this trouble. I can just leave with them . . .’ Miguel trails off.

  ‘I won’t hear of it.’ Antonio bangs his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘This is your home, for as long as you want it to be, and I’m not going to be forced into selling it. You have had enough years of uncertainty.’

  ‘We have been living in cramped apartments when we should have been free to travel. This is payback for all those wasted years. If you hadn’t forgotten who you were, a dancer—’

  Antonio interrupts her. ‘If you hadn’t decided to leave me that night, here at the peña flamenca when my grandparents offered me the farm and I agreed to stop travelling, to settle down to make a home for you and our baby. And what did you do? You left me, for him.’

  ‘For someone who was a dancer through and through,’ she says with a smirk in the corner of her red-painted mouth.

  ‘He’s half the dancer I was,’ Antonio says, as if stating a fact.

  ‘At least he still wanted a life, not . . . this!’ She throws out an arm.

  ‘But you had a child. Life on the road was no life for him. Neither was years of sleeping in someone else’s living room!’

  ‘It would have been fine if he had stayed out of trouble. We couldn’t get anywhere of our own because trouble kept following us around. No one would rent to us!’

  ‘You should have brought him here, to me, sooner.’

  ‘And lose out on your maintenance payments?’

  I can feel Antonio’s pain as well as Miguel’s. Both of them victims in all of this.

  ‘That money was meant for Miguel, to provide a home . . .’ Antonio is seething.

  ‘It was payment for me to bring up the child. But now that you have stopped it, I need money. Call it compensation for the years of my career I have lost. So . . . it’s a good offer. Once dance, to take place here. One month from now.’

  ‘That’s June. That’s the harvest.’ Antonio shakes his head.

  That’s Olivia’s party, I think.

  Valentina’s head is flicking between Esmeralda and Antonio like a cat watching a ping-pong ball, back and forth.

  ‘To fit around the cherry harvest,’ Esmeralda concedes graciously. ‘No longer than six weeks from now. We win, we take the lot and sell up. You win, we will part and you will never see us again. We need to be on the road for the summer season of tourists.’

  They both turn and look at me. I glance down at my shorts and baggy T-shirt, dusty from watering the trees. I am just the restaurant washer-upper. No wonder they’re laughing at me.

  Antonio looks away from me with what appears to be resignation in his eyes. He could never teach me, he knows it. I have never felt so utterly useless and worthless.

  ‘My answer is still no,’ he says firmly.

  ‘Then you will be forced to sell by the courts. My lawyer will be in touch.’

  ‘Wait! I’ll do it! I’ll dance,’ Valentina proclaims, furious, pale and visibly shaken at the prospect of losing her restaurant.

  ‘No.’ Esmeralda smiles. ‘It has to be her.’ She flicks a hand towards me and I feel humiliated all over again.

  Valentina glares at me, then stomps off into the cortijo, her heels clacking as loudly as bullets being fired from a gun. We hear her marching up the stairs, and then the door slamming in the apartment. I look back at Antonio.

  I wish I could help him. I wish I could stop him and Miguel losing their home. I can see Olivia’s face in my mind. The years I spent feeling like I couldn’t live up to her, like I had achieved nothing. And then when I thought I was going to succeed at something at last, by coming out here, I had the rug pulled out from under me and hit the ground face first, smashing my dreams and my pride. I have even let my nan down. She left me that china cow because she had faith I would make something of my life. What would she say if she could see me now? I know exactly what she’d say. She’d never go down without a fight.

  How can Esmeralda treat Miguel like this, her own son? He is funny, kind and brilliant. I think of Uncle Paul putting me and my family down, rubbing my face in my failures . . . How dare people treat others like that! And as for Antonio, he may not be dad of the year at the moment, but it sounds like he tried to fight for his family. And he needs to fight now! I don’t care if they think I’m frumpy and lumpy. I don’t care.

  An anger is bubbling up in me that I have never known before. Anger and injustice brimming over from inside. Fury at Will, at Miguel’s mother, at always being the laughing stock who can’t pull anything off. My nan believed in me then and she would have believed in me now. You can’t go down without a fight, otherwise I wouldn’t be here washing up, watering cherry trees to get my dream bar, would I? And I wouldn’t be doing what I’m about to do. No matter how much of a fool I will probably make of myself, I have to try.

  ‘I’ll do it!’ I suddenly say loudly, and everyone freezes. I look round at each of their stunned faces.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Antonio finally says.

  ‘Ridiculous maybe,’ I say, realising I’m shaking with anger ‘But if you don’t agree, you will have to sell up and give half to her anyway. This way, at least you get to try and keep what is yours . . . yours and Miguel’s.’

  ‘So, it is a deal! Olé!’ Esmeralda throws a triumphant hand up in the air.

  ‘Bravo!’ She and Felipe both cheer and laugh, making me feel sick.

  ‘No, no deal!’ Antonio shouts and waves his hands in protest.

  ‘Yes, deal!’ I stand with my hands on my hips, my heart banging so loudly it can’t hear my head saying, You fool! This is ridiculous. Back out now!

  Antonio looks straight at me and I can’t read his face.

  ‘Do it!’ Miguel finally says. ‘Please . . .’

  ‘One dance. If you win, we divorce and you keep everything. You lose . . .’ Esmeralda shrugs tantalisingly.

  Antonio looks at Miguel as if he’s being thrown a lifeline for all the years that he’s missed out on. Guilt and pain are written all over his face. Then, as if there was any doubt as to whether or not he wants to be a real parent, like a wounded lion cornered, defending his pride, his pack, he erupts like an volcano.

  ‘A deal!’ he roars to the sky. ‘OK, a deal!’ His head is shaking, fury and anger coursing through every vein. I too feel a rush of something – adrenaline, injustice, who knows, but it sets every nerve ending alight and fans the raging flames in my belly even higher.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  We are still standing on the veranda. The battered old car has left in a plume of sand-coloured dust. What have I done?

  Antonio marches into the
cortijo. Miguel and I stare at each other. I see the fear in his eyes and I know that I must look like a rabbit caught in headlights.

  ‘This is madness. You have no idea what you have let yourself in for . . . It is impossible.’ Antonio comes stalking out of the front door, holding a large glass in his hand. He throws the dark drink down his throat. I stay silent. ‘You know nothing of this world. Nothing of flamenco. Only someone who has been studying it for years can pull this off,’ he continues.

  I sit down at a table. I feel like someone has thrown a bucket of water over me and the flames that were raging there only minutes ago are now spitting and hissing. Miguel goes inside and returns with a glass of brandy, and I take it with shaking hand. He hands another one to Antonio, who drinks it down like the first.

  ‘This is not her farm. It was my family’s. Now I am likely to lose everything because of—’

  ‘Me,’ I say flatly. I have made everything worse. It seems to be my unique skill in life. I try to grab on to life’s opportunities and seize the day, and end up choking the life out of them.

  ‘I’ll go and do the trees,’ Miguel says, with a look that seems to say he thinks this is all his fault.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ I say, putting down the brandy.

  ‘No, stay. I’ll do it. It’s the least I can do.’ He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘And thank you, Beti.’

  ‘What for? All I seem to have done is make things worse.’

  ‘For trying. For standing up to her,’ Miguel says, and suddenly all the emotion of the morning catches in my throat and tears sting my eyes. I gaze up at the ceiling of the tiled veranda, until my eyes stop filling up.

  Miguel puts his hand out and touches his father’s shoulder. Antonio places his hand on top of Miguel’s and they stand motionless like that for a moment. Then Antonio steps forward clumsily, accidentally knocking over a chair, which lands with a crash on the floor, and throws his arms around Miguel, pulling him into a huge bear hug. For a moment Miguel is stunned, and then, as if giving in to years of feeling rejected, he wraps his arms around his father and hugs him back. Tears once again fill my eyes and blur my vision.

  Finally both father and son pat each other on the back and slowly release each other. No words necessary. Everything that needed to be said was in that hug. For Antonio, all the guilt about not being there for Miguel, the pain of knowing that his son had to grow up in a loveless home, and the promise that although he might not be able to offer him the world on a plate, he was trying. And for Miguel, the years of feeling pushed out and unwanted, finally letting down his guard and allowing Antonio the chance to be trusted.

  ‘I’ll do the watering now,’ Miguel says hoarsely and steps quickly off the veranda, heading back towards the abandoned bowser.

  ‘And more nets!’ Antonio shouts after him, as if trying to bring some normality to the situation. Only his wavering voice says that this is far from normal. ‘Keep those thieving opportunists from taking what is ours!’ He points to the starlings on the wire, but I know he’s not talking about the birds.

  Miguel raises a hand in acknowledgement.

  Antonio crosses his arms across his chest, hunches in on himself and begins to pace up and down the veranda. At that moment, Ana the cat weaves her way towards us, clearly thinking it’s safe to come out now the shouting has died down. She rubs her head comfortingly against my legs. I feel grateful for her in that moment.

  ‘Look, Antonio,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry, but I couldn’t just—’

  ‘You have no idea what you’ve let yourself in for, what you’ve let me in for!’ He releases his arms and throws them up in the air, then crosses them again even tighter and resumes his pacing. His eyebrows are practically knitted together. ‘Now I just have to work out how to get us out of it.’

  ‘Get us out of it? But we can’t—’

  ‘This cannot happen! Flamenco is banned here! My whole livelihood is at stake. Not just my home, but the cherry orchard and the horses. Where will they go if I have to leave?’ He looks in the direction of the paddock, and I can see the worry in his eyes.

  ‘But we could keep it secret. No one need know. Just us,’ I try and convince him. ‘If we win, we’ll save your farm.’

  ‘But we cannot win. It’s impossible! You have never danced flamenco in your life. You know nothing about what flamenco means, where it comes from.’

  ‘I know it comes from Andalucía, where we are now.’

  ‘Not like that!’ He throws his arms out. ‘Yes, it comes from Andalucía. Actually, it more likely originated in India, before the gypsies moved around and ended up here. But I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about where it comes from!’ He throws his arms up again, as if they have a life of their own and refuse to be restrained.

  It’s my turn to frown. I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I do know that despite the day starting to warm up, I am feeling very cold. Have I really just lost this man his home and his livelihood? Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? He’s right, what do I know about flamenco? I may have done a bit of dancing in school, but that was nearly twenty years ago! I recall Maxine’s comment that I’d make a good Adele lookalike, and realise that with my pear shape and ample thighs, I’m not even built like a dancer. ‘Chunky’, Uncle Paul used to call me when I was a teenager. I think that’s how I’ll always see myself.

  ‘All I’m saying is, I’m a good learner. I’ve learned how to water cherry trees. I can learn how to dance flamenco.’

  ‘But like I say, you know nothing about where flamenco comes from. I don’t mean its origins; I mean about in here.’ He bangs his fist to his chest. ‘It is about the pain, the suffering, the heartbreak, the feeling of exclusion that my people have felt. Of being shunned and pushed out. An outsider . . . It is about passion, in here.’ He bangs his chest again.

  Something not unlike the volcano I watched erupt earlier in Antonio bubbles in the pit of my stomach, and it’s getting hotter. Just like before when I thought about Will and what he had done to me. The humiliation, the heartbreak, the feeling that everyone else is getting a life for themselves and I’m still here, a washer-upper with not a pot to piddle in of my own.

  ‘Do you . . .’ I hear a really deep voice, full to the brim with emotion and hurt, and realise it’s mine. ‘Do you not think that I don’t know what it is to have my heart broken, to be left without anything, not even my dignity? For years I have tried to prove to my family that I can achieve something worthwhile. I’ve watched my parents’ faces as I’ve failed over and over again, and all the time I knew they must be wishing I could finally give them something to be proud of.’

  ‘Phuff!’ he says dismissively, fanning the flames of fury in my belly. I stand up, my chair falling back as my hands start to fly around. Clearly the door that I have kept firmly shut on my emotions seems to have been ripped off its hinges.

  ‘You know nothing about me. Do you think I would be here, a thirty-two-year-old woman with nothing to my name except a rucksack, a folder of dreams and a coffee jar for storing every spare penny that I can earn, if I didn’t know about heartbreak? Do you think that when I cry myself to sleep every night I don’t know what it’s like to feel that everything I knew and trusted has been stolen from me?’

  I grip the back of a chair.

  ‘Do you think that if I didn’t know what it felt like to be an outsider I would be lying to my cousin about owning a restaurant that is clearly way out of my league and my wildest dreams? Or getting up early to water cherry trees and all the time planning to lay on the best party I can for a woman who has made my life a misery since I was a child? Since the day she stole the boy I thought I loved and was going to marry, just because she could.

  ‘I was always the kid that tried to fit in. Who tried to be like everyone else but never managed to pull it off. The kid who always ended up the laughing stock. And my poor parents, who have suppor
ted me in every madcap attempt I have made to create a life for myself, to show the world I could be like everyone else, have had to stand by and watch as one by one every attempt failed. Don’t tell me I don’t know about suffering and heartbreak . . . because I do!’

  The low voice returns and I bang the chair down on the veranda, hot, angry tears welling up. I glare at him, my eyes flashing, my heart racing like I have never known it race before, as if it has had a shot of adrenaline right into its very core.

  ‘I may not be like Esmerelda, or like Valentina with her style and elegance. But I would have given it my best shot. I would have tried to help save your farm . . . your home and Miguel’s. Because I know what it feels like to have your hopes and dreams snatched from you.’

  We stand there facing each across the veranda, with just the sound of the birds on the wire and the gentle hiss of Miguel watering the trees in the field. My chest is still slowly rising and falling. Antonio says nothing, one hand across his chest, the other on his chin.

  Then finally he says, ‘I’m going to see to the horses. Check on the trees . . .’ and he turns on his heel and leaves me standing all alone on the veranda.

  Not content with losing everything of my own, now I have even managed to lose Miguel his new home and Antonio his farm, not to mention my hopes of making a new life for myself. Finally, the hot, angry tears start to fall.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Antonio leaned forward, rising up out of the saddle, urging Suerte to go faster, putting as much distance as he could between himself and his problems. He lowered his head over the horse’s long neck, its mane flowing out as they galloped along the track through the green corridor of fruit-laden trees across the top ridge of his land.

  What was it with that woman? How did she keep doing this to him? Getting him to agree to things he’d had no intention of doing? It was utter madness to even consider this!

  Suerte’s hooves thundered rhythmically under him on the worn grassy path. Antonio pushed the horse on and it responded eagerly; it was as though the gathering speed would help him to clear his head of the fug. The harder he rode through his trees laden with buds and full of hard-working bees, the clearer everything became. One thing was for sure, he told himself: the woman understood passion. And that was all you really needed to be able to perform flamenco. You needed to have lived and to have passion.