Golden Earrings (14 page)

Each time I went with Francisca to these dance gatherings, I willed that my turn to take part would finally come. When it
did, it would turn out to be an event that I would remember for the rest of my life.

Blanca had finished a lively
baile chico
, when Manuel commenced playing music for a
soleá
and nodded to me to stand up. My heart beat wildly when I realised that my chance to impress him and the others had arrived. I was sure that the reason he had chosen a serious dance for my premiere performance was because of his high expectations of me. I marked the rhythm with my own soft clapping and began slow steps, twisting my skirt around me. I cast my eyes down as I had seen the other women do when the music was tragic. Juanita had told me that I had beautiful hands so to make sure that I used them. I curled my fingers into arabesques for effect, and pinched my face into what I believed was an eloquent expression. I was pushing myself to the limit to impress the others, when Manuel abruptly stopped playing. I wondered what was wrong. He sucked in a breath and frowned.

‘In flamenco,’ he said, gritting his teeth, ‘the dancer does not move to the music. The guitarist plays to the dancer. How can I follow you when you send me no true feelings? I get absolutely nothing from you! In all this time, you haven’t learned anything!’

The blood rushed to my face. The last thing I had expected was to be humiliated in front of the other dancers. Hot tears burned my eyes and my feet twitched as if they were readying themselves to run away.

But Francisca touched my shoulder and whispered, ‘Follow the sea and the music will follow you. Always respect the elements and they will help you.’

Manuel commenced playing again, his eyes fixed on me. This time, I pictured the waves and breathed in time with them. I imagined the sharp shells on the beach digging into my feet and felt the gritty sand between my toes. The cool water rippled around my legs, stinging the grazes on my shins. Suddenly my mother rose from the waves, her hair dripping down her back
and her moist skin glimmering in the sun. I cried out when I saw her, overwhelmed by my longing. My mother moved about me, lifting her hands to her waist then above her head. I danced with her. With my torso, I told her of my sadness that I was growing up without her. With my arms, I related to her how Papá had died and how I mourned for the losses of Anastasio, Teresa and Ramón. With my eyes, I expressed how I had become lost and how I had come to live with the gypsies. My feet became leaden with loneliness and despair. I struggled to breathe, as if I were drowning in all the loneliness and hunger I had known. I lost all consciousness that I was being watched by others. I did not feel like a performer — it seemed to me that I had become a conductor for some supernatural power that could join the living with the dead.

I reached out to touch my mother but she vanished into the air. Shocked by her sudden departure, I stopped in my tracks. I realised then that Manuel was no longer playing. I turned to see that tears were pouring down his face. The sound of weeping assailed my ears: the sisters were hysterical. Juanita and Pastora clung to each other, rocking backwards and forwards. Blanca was on her knees, tearing at her hair so furiously that spots of blood stained her blouse. Francisca stared at her hands, bereft. She lifted her eyes to me and I felt her breath flow over me, like the afternoon breeze skimming the sea.

‘The dark angel,’ she said quietly. ‘You have the demon.’

Manuel dried his face and turned to Francisca. ‘You were right. Her ancestors are with her. Before us stands a great
bailaora.
Diego told me to take her to the restaurants on the waterfront to amuse the tourists. But never have I seen the dark angel in a child as young as this. I will not take her to those places until she can resist bending her gift for the entertainment of those who do not understand.’

I learned flamenco from Manuel and his sisters until I was ten years old and Manuel felt I was ready to dance in public. Late one evening, he came by Francisca’s shack to take me with him to the barri Xinès, where I had been born. But the girl who walked those streets in bare feet and with a patched skirt was not the same one who had left the district. I was darker and dirtier, and older in a way that had nothing to do with age. I could certainly pass for a gypsy now. I thought of Ramón and wondered if he would recognise me.

Manuel came to a stop outside the café where we were to perform that evening. I looked at the arched doorway with a grave sense of destiny. Inside, the place was noisy and reeked of wine and vomit. The only women there wore flowers in their hair and low necklines. The ‘aficionados’ Manuel held in such high regard turned out to be factory workers, gangsters and bohemians. I peered into the darkness, looking for Ramón, as I always did whenever I left the camp. But there was nobody there who resembled him.

When the café owner laid eyes on me, he glanced towards the door nervously. ‘If you attract the Civil Guard here, I will lose all my customers,’ he said to Manuel, pressing his palm to his wrinkled forehead. ‘How old is this girl? She is too young to be working so late and in a bar.’

Manuel shrugged and patted the man’s shoulder. ‘What this girl will earn will pay off not only the Civil Guard but the Governor as well. People will flock to your café to see her dance.’

The café owner stared at my dirty face and feet and shook his head. ‘You will pay the fine, Manuel.’

Manuel grinned. ‘Where is Sancho?’

The owner jerked his head in the direction of the bar where a man was sitting with a stoic look of resignation on his face. He was tall and lean with the dark, weathered skin of a gypsy.

‘All right, listen,’ Manuel said, turning to me and indicating a stool in the corner of the room. ‘You sit there and don’t move. I’m going to accompany Sancho first, and then you will dance.’

I watched Manuel and Sancho greet each other. They took up their places near the bar: Manuel sitting on a stool and Sancho next to him, also sitting, with his hand on Manuel’s shoulder. Sancho began to sing and the crowd fell silent. His voice was raspy and the veins in his neck stood out as he sang his lament about the suffering of his people and the curse of being born a gypsy:

Every so often someone in the audience would shout out ‘
ay
’ to give him encouragement or to sympathise.

When Manuel had said he was going to accompany Sancho before it was my turn to dance, I had thought that he meant for three or four songs. But Sancho wailed his grievances without a break for two hours. With each new song, his voice became hoarser and he grasped Manuel’s shoulder more desperately, as if he were trying to draw strength from him. Beads of sweat dotted his brow and patches of wetness stained his shirt. But the rougher his voice became, the more the audience appreciated his singing. ‘
Olé, Sancho!
’ they shouted to him.

Sancho’s voice was painful to listen to — and yet somehow irresistible at the same time. His hard eyes glowed, and I wondered if it was reflected light or whether he was being possessed by the ‘demon’. I thought of the Sagrada Família and how its newly built walls had already appeared to be crumbling that day I’d seen it while lost. Then I thought of how the
wrinkles on Francisca’s face enhanced her beauty. Was there some sort of magnificence in destruction?

Sancho’s voice cracked on the last line of the song. The audience was sobbing. One of the prostitutes collapsed to her knees in a faint and had to be revived with a splash of cold water.

Sancho sat down without a word. Manuel glanced at me. How could I dance after such a performance? I was relieved when the café owner brought Manuel a glass of wine and he slowly sipped it. The café patrons returned to their conversations and noise filled the space again. It was another hour before Manuel approached me, and by then my eyes were drooping with sleep.

‘Just dance as you do in the camp,’ was all Manuel said.

There was no stage in the crowded bar, so he placed me in the gap between the tables that the waiters were using as a corridor to deliver drinks to the patrons. One waiter tripped on me when he hurried past with a tray of glasses. A prostitute and her lover sitting nearby burst into laughter.

‘Whose child is this?’ the whore screeched, arching her thinly pencilled eyebrows. ‘She should be home in bed!’

Manuel adjusted his guitar and began to play. A few people stopped talking to listen to him, but no one even glanced at me. I hesitated; there were butterflies in my stomach. Then I remembered that this wasn’t a performance. How to summon the demon again? I thought of the sea and calmed my breathing. I tried to conjure up my mother, but nothing happened.

‘Come on!’ a sailor shouted. ‘Give us a dance, sweetie!’

Manuel frowned at me then turned back to his guitar. Pins and needles prickled my feet. I gave a start when I saw Anastasio standing before me. A mountain rose up behind him and he began to climb it. I wanted to follow him, but I could only take tiny steps. My feet slipped on the loose stones. I lifted my arms, begging for his help. ‘Come! Come!’ he called to me, but I couldn’t follow. I threw back my head and cried, but no sound came out. Then Anastasio was beside me again, weaving around me in circles. He told me how he had felt his heart break when the
Cataluña
had pulled away from the dock and his family became nothing more than tiny dots in the distance. He told me that his last thoughts before dying were of Ramón and me, and his fear about what would become of us. I asked Anastasio if he knew what had happened to Ramón and Teresa, but before he could answer me a sinister shadow engulfed him and he vanished.

I desperately searched around for Anastasio before realising the music had stopped and everyone in the bar was staring at me. Then anarchy broke out. The reaction was like a wave rushing towards the beach. Everyone was shouting, screaming or singing at once. People reached out to touch me. I was overwhelmed, and retreated. A woman swished her skirt around her ankles, in what I guessed was an imitation of me. Something hit me in the knee and tinkled to the floor. People were throwing me money: notes and coins. Although the patrons of the bar were poor, they emptied their pockets in honour of my performance.

Manuel squeezed his way through the crowd towards me. ‘Don’t pick up the coins,’ he said. ‘Only the notes. The coins are an insult.’

I did as he told me, but regretted it as there were more coins than notes. Had I picked them up, there probably would have been enough for bread for the whole clan. Manuel took my arm and guided me towards the door. I followed him, but could not take my eyes off the coins we were leaving behind. I had been hungry all week and I was tired of always longing for food.

Outside, the pale light of sunrise was falling across the street. ‘Why only the notes and not the coins as well?’ I asked Manuel.

‘Why do you worry about money?’ he asked me, lifting his chin proudly. ‘Only
payos
worry about those sorts of things. What you gave those people can’t be bought.’

Manuel didn’t care about money, but Diego certainly did. As clan leader he took my share of the earnings, and Francisca and I still went hungry.

After that first public performance, I accompanied Manuel every night to barri Xinès. But the ‘dark angel’ did not come to me every time on demand. Its presence became more fleeting, and sometimes it did not appear at all, leaving me with only the steps I had learned and Manuel’s music. The tourists in the restaurants along the wharf didn’t know any better, but the aficionados could tell. The game of cat and mouse I played with the demon only increased my desire to experience my communion with it again.

‘It showed itself to you so that you would believe in its presence,’ Francisca told me. ‘But now you have to earn it.’

Early one morning, when I returned to the camp after a night of performing in bars, I found Francisca lying on her bed, clutching her lower back in pain.

‘What is it?’ I grabbed her hand. It was swollen like a sponge full of water.

She looked at me with compassion in her deep eyes. ‘Do not panic, little one. All is well.’

Not panic? Her fingers were like ice. Her eyes were puffy.

Francisca took a breath and rallied herself. ‘Look,’ she said, sitting up. ‘The fire is still burning. Why don’t you make some liquorice tea?’

I did as Francisca asked, taking the dried liquorice from among the tins of herbs she kept in her cupboard and boiling the water. I handed her a cup, and sat on the end of her bed.
We drank the tea in silence, breathing in its strong aromatic fragrance. Colour came back to Francisca’s cheeks. Perhaps she would be all right, after all.