The Poet's Wife (33 page)

W
hat’s
your perfect idea of happiness
,
somebody in Barcelona once asked me. And I answered quickly. I didn’t have to think about it. It was to have all the people I loved most in the world in the same room as me. And now, it’s a Friday evening, late September. I sit in the conservatory of Carmen de las Estrellas looking around me, feeling almost giddy with contentment, knowing that I now have this. Alberto is here, as well as my parents, brothers, grandmother and Tío Joaquín, my favourite uncle, though I probably shouldn’t admit it. We’ve just finished eating dinner and have now come together to drink
manzanilla.
My uncle being as busy as he is, I feel the warm glow of gratitude that he’s here, just for me. For tomorrow’s an important day: I will open my new café,
Esperanza
, conceived as a dream but now a reality. Tío Joaquín sits beside me as he lays down his glass of sherry and tunes up his guitar.

‘Paloma,’ he says. ‘If you agree, this is the piece I want to play tomorrow night.’ The lights twinkle behind him from the city below, beyond the conservatory and I smile at him. I know that anything he plays will be well received. I’m fully aware that my decision to rely on my famous uncle’s support for my opening night has already been mocked by various people. That it’ll be his fame rather than the café’s merit that will potentially attract customers to
Esperanza.
But I don’t care. I’m close to my uncle and after the initial excitement has died down following his appearance, it’ll soon become clear whether my café really has a chance of success.

After he’s finished tuning the guitar, I watch as he begins to play. His long fingers expertly master the strings and produce the sound for which he’s renowned. After a few minutes, to my left I can hear the very subtle but discernible sound of my
abuela weeping, something that often happens when Tío Joaquín plays.

We sit there for ages, long after even Tío Joaquín has stopped playing and I hear the breathing of my grandmother become slower. I look over to her and can see her eyes have closed and she’s fighting sleep. I feel a sudden sharp stab of love for her. For her frail white hands and the thinness of her legs under her dress. For her oversized feet and her long grey hair, still soft to the touch. I know I’ll never really be able to understand the pain she experienced. But to me she’ll always be one of the most beautiful and inspiring women I know.

The following afternoon, I unlock the wooden door with my key before pushing it slowly open and walking tentatively inside. Inhaling sharply, the realisation hits me afresh that I’ve been waiting for this day for many years. Without turning on the light, I look around, my eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the cave’s dim light. I take it all in: low wooden tables covered in candles. Intricately designed metallic chairs. A beautifully painted and lined bookshelf. A record player with a neat stack of vinyl placed next to it. A piano with its white keys grinning up at me. Moroccan rugs covering the floor. Walls filled with paintings and black and white photographs hung on the fossilised rock and mud walls of
Esperanza
. I’ve placed the largest print over the bar – it features the proud, smiling faces of a young Moroccan peasant boy and his grandfather surrounded by an applauding crowd. Yes, everything is here. Everything is exactly as it should be. I sink back against the wall and close my eyes. The door is slightly ajar and a thin trickle of sunlight filters in and paints the cave’s interior with a wan glow.

‘It’s too remote up here,’ my brother Dani tells me when he first sees it. ‘You’ll never attract enough of a crowd to make a success of this.’ I listen to his advice, searching high and low around the city for a suitable location. But I keep dreaming about the cave that has stoked my imagination and made my mother and grandmother’s colourful stories of visiting the
gitano
cave almost feel like my own. This particular one sat empty and neglected, beckoning me from its dark, mysterious interior. A few other possibilities came up, but I’d backed down on all of them at the last minute. Either the location lacked the charm I wanted, or the setting was fine but the building itself was too small, too cramped, too damp, too soulless. So, amidst the warnings of my brother and against my own sense of reason, I made the decision. This was a risk I had to take.

I want to draw a diverse crowd of people in from all corners of Granada to my café. I’m an introvert by nature, but at the same time, I’ve always been fascinated by people: their contradictory nature, the nuances of relationships and above all the interaction between people from different segments of society. I envisage a café not just as a place to relax over a steaming cup of peppermint tea or flick through a book, but also as somewhere that can play host to the meeting of minds. A place that can attentively watch the evolution from first contact to potential discussion and friendship. For this reason, I’ve created an intimate setting, with minimal space between the tables.

I sit now at one of the tables and try to stop my mind from racing. What if too many people come? Or what if
nobody
comes? I hear noises from outside and stand up and walk to the window. I can see several people starting to appear, walking alongside the pomegranate bushes that line the path. I gulp and open the door.

‘
Buenas tardes
,’
I say. ‘There are two hours left until the official opening.’

One young man gives me a huge smile. ‘Joaquín Torres Ramirez is definitely worth waiting for!’ I smile back and shrug before closing the door again and standing with my back against it.
Mierda
,
have I underestimated Tío Joaquín’s popularity? I know he’s considered one of the greatest flamenco guitarists in the region, the country even. But he’s just my tío, my uncle, and sometimes I don’t grasp the full truth of that. Have I made a mistake in asking him to play at the opening ceremony? I look around the cosy interior of the cave and feel my stomach churning with both nerves and hunger. The café is poorly equipped to accommodate hordes of enthusiastic fans. Realising that I’ll just have to cope with it one way or another I start to busy myself. I put the final touches to the
tapas
, dropping a few remaining olives from the jar into my mouth as I begin a final clean of surfaces. Alberto soon arrives and as I dash around, he sits at the bar and pours two large
cañas
of beer. Gratefully, I take the glass from his outstretched hand and hold it close, taking small sips. Alberto reaches out and runs a cool finger down my hot, flushed cheek.

‘You’ve done it, Paloma.’

‘Not yet I haven’t. I want it to be—’

‘It will be,’ Alberto says resolutely. ‘It will be perfect.’

The opening night of
Esperanza
proves more successful than I could have dreamed. So many people turn up, they even sit on the roof and seem to hang from the narrowest corners of the cave like bats. It’s a warm night and I can hear laughter and the electric buzz of voices filling the night air. People sit around drinking chilled glasses of
tinto de verano
and beer and children chase each other around the pomegranate bushes. Before he plays, Tío Joaquín clears his throat to talk and the effect is instantaneous. A hush falls upon the lively gathering and a domino effect of gradual silence reaches all the way to the person sitting furthest away on the grassy verge outside.

‘I am honoured to have been invited here this evening by my niece, Paloma, to help her open this café,
Esperanza.
Not only is tonight the culmination of many years of dreams and ideas and hard work, but as the café’s name suggests, it will serve as hope and inspiration. Even through the darkest days, Paloma, I have the most profound respect for you and this dream you have turned into a reality and I have no doubt that through your determination and spirit you will make it succeed.’ He pauses to take a sip of water and I look around at the expectant faces, hanging off his every word. At that moment, I watch as two people make their way through the crowd assembled at the door. I’m overjoyed to see that it’s Mar and Pablo. Mar moves slowly with the help of a stick and Pablo walks beside her, her arm through his. I beckon for them to come and sit with us and, as seats are cleared for them, Tío Joaquín acknowledges them, smiling deeply in their direction.

‘It is interesting to note my niece’s choice in deciding to house her café in this historic cave. I’m sure that I don’t need to remind anyone present of what happened to the original inhabitants of these
gitano
dwellings forty years ago.’ A sympathetic murmur reverberates around the walls of the cave. Tío Joaquín pauses again, gazing intently around. ‘What happened here amongst my people was simply a catalyst for what went on to take place in this city and across the country. It hasn’t left any of us unscarred.’ A tomb-like silence has fallen upon the crowd. He has bowed his head slightly, a lock of dark hair falling over his face, and I’m sure I can see the slightest tear forming in the corner of his eye. Strange that I’ve never thought of it before, but I realise that my uncle uses his guitar as a channel for showing emotion. Without his guitar in his arms, he looks far more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him. I look around at the sea of faces before me. Young and old alike are locked in silence, those above a certain age probably reeling in their own memories. Looking up, Tío Joaquín continues. ‘We are here tonight to respect and learn from the past. But above all, we have come together to celebrate a most welcome addition to Granada’s cultural and culinary scene.’ He smiles warmly at the crowd as the tense hush erupts into hearty clapping.

Raising his glass of red wine, he tips it in the direction of all those in front of him before taking a slow, appreciative sip. ‘I’ll now play a ballad I particularly love. I dedicate it to all those who lost their lives during the conflict; to our country’s new democracy; to all of you, my friends.’ Turning to face me, he takes my hand. ‘And I dedicate it to you, Paloma. For your strength and your courage. To
Esperanza.
’

‘
¡Esperanza!
’
The crowd raise their glasses and call out, listening in delight as the throaty acoustics of the cave swallow their words and bounce from the walls. I hand my uncle his guitar. Unhurriedly, he tunes it and then enters another world, another existence where he plays of love, of longing and of liberation.

I
t is
half two in the morning and I’ve only just managed to coax the remaining revellers out. I close the door with a relieved but deeply satisfied thud. The interior of
Esperanza
looks like it’s spent far longer than one evening in the throes of merry-making. Strewn around the tables and shelves are a huge number of empty glasses and leftover morsels of food. Books have been taken down from the shelves and thumbed through and I can still feel the air of pleasure that lingers long after the last candle has burnt out. As a vinyl soothingly whirrs, Alberto sweeps the floor, whistling along to the tune. The only others still here are the two late-comers. Pablo stands at the sink washing glasses and dishes, as always a black woollen hat pulled low over his head despite the heat. I walk slowly around the café with Mar, admiring Alberto’s photographs and Pablo’s framed drawings. She stops in front of one of my grandfather planting bulbs in the garden, his face a picture of concentration with curls flopping down over one eye.

‘How perfectly Pablo has captured Eduardo’s look,’ Mar murmurs before she continues walking. I remain where I am, staring at the picture. I would love so much to have met him. Even just spent a day in his company. I turn to look at Mar who is scrutinising other photos and drawings, a knowing smile on her lips. She must have been so beautiful. She is
still
so beautiful. Her face is lined but pride is etched into each and every one of those lines and her dark eyes have a haunted but knowing look about them. I never feel I can hold Mar’s gaze for too long. Almost as if she keeps looking at me, she’ll discover something I don’t want her to know, though I have no idea what this could be.

Pausing at another sketch, Mar carefully lowers it down from its hanging place on the wall. I know she’s seen this picture many times before. In fact,
she
gave it to me for the very purpose of hanging it in
Esperanza
. But seeing it now so beautifully framed and placed on the cave’s wall, it must have taken on a new, moving significance, stirring long-forgotten memories. I walk up behind her and look at it over her shoulder. Pablo drew this picture when he was just a young boy. It’s of his mother, sweeping the yard of the cave they used to live in.

‘Do you remember when Pablo sketched this?’

Mar laughs a deep, raspy chuckle. ‘Oh, he was always drawing.
Siempre
. But this one in particular?’ She squints her eyes and cocks her head on one side in such a girlish way that I can barely see the difference between the woman in the picture and the woman she is now.

‘
No
,’ she sighs. ‘I can’t say that I do. But every day I swept, and stoked fires, and strung peppers up to dry, and washed clothes. Beatriz was always there with her tattered rag doll, what was her name? And Graciana and Inés would have been small babies at this time, probably lying in their cots I put under the tamarisk tree. And Pablo, drawing,’ she casts a proud sideways glance at her son, ‘always drawing. He used to perch on the roof of the cave watching us, ay, so serious!’

Mar breaks off and shakes her head. ‘My mother was always trying to make him laugh, but it rarely worked.’

She turns to look at me, her black eyes unnervingly large and bold. ‘You know, Paloma, my mother was not much older than I am now when she died.’

I pause as I try to hold her gaze. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘I still miss her,
sabes
. I don’t think you ever really get over the death of your mother. Even if it
is
their time to go.’ She sighs. ‘Paloma,
estoy cansada
, fetch a chair for me,
por favor
.’

I rush to pull a chair down from where it’s been stacked. ‘Why don’t I walk you back?’