‘Hoy, Zachary!’
He sheathed his sword, put it down on the tiled floor and leaned over the railing.
‘Gabriel!’ His apprentice friend craned his neck up at him from below.
‘Thought it was you.’ Gabriel moved himself back into the middle of the road and shielded his eyes to see better. ‘Is this where you live?’
‘Yes,’ Zachary shouted back.
Gabriel whistled softly, and shook his head, his eyes catching twinkles of light.
‘Wait there, I’ll come down.’ He feared Gabriel would ask to come in and see how well-appointed it was in comparison with his baked-brick room in Triana. He would think Zachary far too grand. And yet only a few moments ago Zachary was wondering if he was good enough for the elevated company at Señor Alvarez’s. He sighed. He did not seem to fit in anywhere. But he girded on his sword belt and pulled on his boots.
‘Ana, I’m going out. Won’t be long.’ He turned the key in the lock and shouted to the kitchen as he passed.
‘Hey, it’s good to see you.’ He clapped Gabriel on the back. ‘What brings you to this part of town?’
‘I had to deliver a dagger that Guido made for one of your neighbours. A fine-looking thing, sharp as a buzzard’s beak. And a twisted steel handle wrapped in padded velvet, like the one he made a few weeks back.’
‘Come on, let’s have a jug or two and you can tell me how things are at Guido’s.’ They walked in the direction of the cathedral which rose like a cliff above the other buildings. ‘This dagger, was it the one he started while I was there last week?’
‘No, he finished that. This was another, with a longer blade. I tell you, I wouldn’t like to be on the end of that thing. The customer, Don Calveros, is convinced he will be set-upon at night by gangs of Moriscos.’
‘He sounds like a fearful man.’
‘No, he told Guido that the Moriscos are getting restless with all the rumours of their deportation, and are planning an uprising. He seems to think members of the Inquisition are not safe in their beds.’
‘He’s an inquisitor?’
‘Aren’t all cowardly men? Seems to me they turn familiares because otherwise they must take a stand against them.’
They walked up the winding alleys until they came to the edge of the cathedral square, the tower of the Girandola looming above, but then Gabriel said, ‘It will have to be a small jug, I said I’d meet Maria at the Corral del Toro in Triana.’
‘Maria?’ Zachary nudged him in the ribs and Gabriel rewarded him with an embarrassed grin. ‘Why didn’t you say? We’ll go straight there. Maybe this time I’ll get to see some dancing.’
‘If you’re sure?’
‘Let’s not keep the lady waiting. Maybe she’ll be able to introduce me to a pretty friend.’ In his head he was already picturing Luisa.
They strode quickly down the street for the breeze had got up and they had to keep a hand on their hats to keep them on. The bridge swayed alarmingly as the river mouth acted as a funnel and the wind was gusting there. They teetered across with the water sloshing over their boots and the noise of flapping sail in their ears.
The wind made it hard to talk, so they waited until they were seated in the shelter of the vine-shaded courtyard. There was no sign of Maria, so Gabriel asked about the training, whether it was all he’d hoped.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s going very well.’ He was not going to tell Gabriel anything about Elspet Leviston, or about his doubts about Alvarez’s methods. It was easier that way.
He seemed genuinely pleased, and asked what they did. Zachary bent the truth, told him how they were learning more subtle techniques than the Italians, told him that some of Alvarez’s methods were so secret he could not divulge them.
‘Oh,’ he said, and an awkward moment passed between them, as if Gabriel could sense his evasion. He covered it by pouring the ale, noticing how Gabriel’s eyes kept sliding to the door every time it opened.
It was Luisa who came in first, this time in a vibrant blue skirt and bodice over her cotton blouse, a blue like the sky just before dark. She did not see them and went straight over to the bar, but Maria spotted them, and tugged at Luisa’s arm. Luisa glanced towards him, uncertainty written all over her face. She shook her head at Maria and gestured to the guitarist at the side who was just plucking the strings, to tune them.
Maria came over to join them. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with her. She seems taken with sudden moods these days. But her friend was arrested by the Inquisition, so I guess she has good reason.’
‘She told me. It sounds terrible—’ Zachary began, but the sound turned into a whine as the musician tightened the pegs, then he played a small arpeggio and began to strum.
‘Our fathers would kill us if they knew we were here,’ Maria shouted over the music.
Luisa made a show of ignoring them, and put her foot up on to a chair to remove her shoes. She kept her back towards them as she swayed over to the empty space in the corner and strapped on a belt made of silvery discs which tinkled and caught the light. The guitarist slapped a palm on the body of his instrument in a zapateado and Luisa grasped her skirts and swirled them in a flurry of blue as the first chords strummed out. A boy came round to light the candles.
The bar man called ‘Olé!’ and Zachary saw the flash of Luisa’s skirts, and felt the draught of their swing. The boy moved on and now Zachary caught Luisa’s rapt almost angry expression. A power from her feet seemed to climb up inside her so that it erupted in fluid, graceful movements that spread to the tips of her fingers. Her feet stamped into the ground as if to pull up some force from the earth with their hammering. And all the time her fingers snapped out the rhythm at the ends of arms raised in an elegant curve.
He was transfixed. She was strong but graceful. The fabric of her dress flowed around her knees as if she stood in a stormy sea. By now the bar man and three or four more slapped their hands together in staccato palmas, the handclap.
‘More ale?’ asked Gabriel.
But Zachary shook his head impatiently, eyes fixed on Luisa.
She arched backwards from the waist as the guitar strummed into a crescendo, her heavy hair fell from its comb, the belt rattled as the vibration moved upwards through her hips and exploded in an almost Dionysian ferment of stamps and snaps. The final posture was with her arms flung outwards. Her eyes sought his in a look of defiance and disdain.
He was gripping so tight to the chair that his fingers were rigid. He exhaled, and she swept away, back to the bar where a number of men crowded around her with expressions of appreciation.
‘She’s something, isn’t she?’ Maria said.
He could do nothing but nod.
‘She has caught what we would call duende – the spirit. She was made to dance. There is something about the Arabic blood, it sings of the stars and the desert, and the men, well, they feel it. They all do – look at them.’
He allowed himself to glance over. Luisa sat unperturbed amid a crowd of three or four men.
‘It transforms her somehow,’ Maria said. ‘Shall I get her to come over?’
Zachary looked to Gabriel. He feared that she would come and join them, and he feared that she would not. His discomfiture was absolute, and he knew Gabriel had seen it. Maria did not wait for an answer but hurried over to talk to Luisa.
‘Have a drink, my friend,’ Gabriel said, to distract him from the women at the bar.
Zachary supped the warm yeasty liquid gratefully, bringing himself to calm. Never had a woman affected him so. He had gone with a few women in his time, but all of them on his terms. One look at this woman dancing was enough to show him that she would make her own conditions. He saw now that his view of her as just a servant was mistaken. But he had hardly ever seen her smile, her gravity was part of her mysterious attraction.
He pretended to be engaged in conversation as they approached, by asking Gabriel about Guido, and whether he was making any more weapons for the men of the I
nquisition. But Gabriel hadn’t time to answer before the women were upon them.
‘Good evening,’ Zachary said, rather too formally.
They ignored him and sat down. Maria leaned over towards Gabriel, whispered something, and took hold of his hand. He squeezed her fingers and traced the back of her hand with his thumb. Zachary knew Luisa had seen it too, but Luisa looked icily over Zachary’s shoulder.
‘That was beautiful. I mean, you dance wonderfully,’ he said, attempting to open the conversation.
‘Thank you.’ She looked away.
‘Will you dance again? I mean . . . I would like to see you dance again.’
‘And I suppose you will offer to pay me?’ She spat out the words.
Zachary saw Maria watching, and felt as if a knot was tying itself in his guts. ‘No, no. I didn’t mean that. I just thought it was the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Does no one dance where you come from?’
‘No. I mean yes, they do, but not like that.’ She frowned and opened her mouth but he leapt in to rescue himself before she had time to speak. ‘I mean the dancing is not so –’ he searched for the word – ‘so impassioned.’
‘Perhaps tomorrow it will not be. It is different every time. That’s the beauty of it. It is never the same.’
‘Ah,’ he said, latching on to something he could tell her, ‘in England the dances are fixed, and everyone knows where to step and where to move. The patterns are all thought out beforehand.’ He blundered on, unthinking, ‘And no woman would think of dancing without a partner.’
‘It sounds dull.’
‘Have you ever danced with a partner?’ He could not stop himself, although his words hung between them as if they hovered on the edge of an abyss.
She did not answer. The words waited as if cut from the air. Then she stood abruptly, and gestured to one of the young men over at the bar. His mouth split into a smile. He swaggered over to the tiny space where the guitarist waited, who at his approach burst into a torrent of song. Luisa stalked towards them and stamped her feet.
Zachary could barely watch. It was both humiliating and exciting. The man had a roughness to his movements and an attitude that was both coarse and sensual. Luisa seemed to taunt him with her swaying hips and twirling wrists. They played out a drama of passion, their eyes locked together as they circled each other, he beating out the rhythm with percussive steps and flicks of his heels, she inciting him with lowered brows, her lips pressed together in a scowl.
‘Eh, asi se baila! Agua!’ called someone. The fire between them was unmistakeable. Zachary could not drag his eyes away.
The thrum of the guitar built in intensity until Luisa’s bare feet hammered the ground in a kind of frenzy; the gitano lifted his chin and pushed out his chest, staring down on her as she paraded before him. He took hold of her shoulders as if he would kiss her. Zachary saw her glance momentarily his way. A feeling rose up in him, the urge to break the table before him to pieces, to take a chair and smash it into that ugly gitano’s face.
He leapt to his feet and blundered out of the courtyard, down the road towards the river, blood beating at his temples. After he had walked for a quarter-hour or so, he slowed to look out over the water at the lights of the city, and then up at the winking stars above his head. He was panting, not from exertion, but from emotion.
He leaned up against a fence by the shore, put one foot on the rail. He could not go back to the city yet, it felt as though his chest had been cut open. He wondered fleetingly what on earth Gabriel would be thinking of him.
‘Bloody woman,’ he cursed, but he knew it was more than that. It was the old feeling of powerlessness he could not stomach. He was afraid. That was why he liked to fight. He was not afraid of death, but he was afraid of love.
Chapter 35
All Elspet wanted when she returned home after the long day at the fencing school was to bathe and rest. She slept well for the first time in months, but awoke groggy and listless. She knocked gently on Mr Wilmot’s door, but he did not answer. She creaked it open and eyed the miserable heap of bedding with horror. He lay still and white, his breath hoarse in his throat; his cheekbones protruded through his flesh. Martha too was not up, but lay in bed moaning.
She did not dare go out whilst they were both so ill. She must do something. Could she afford the physician? She took her purse and fingered again the paltry amount of money before pulling the cords tight and tucking it away. Not enough.
All day she watched them, like a mother hen. The following evening they seemed no better and she knew she would not sleep for worrying. She found her way down to the kitchen by the smell of burnt rice. Several hostile pairs of eyes swivelled towards the door as she entered. The kitchen workers were all dressed in Moorish dress. She paused awkwardly on the threshold before addressing them, ‘I am looking for . . .’ But then she realized she had never even asked the house slave’s name.
Fortunately, at the sound of Elspet’s voice, the girl stood up from where she had been wiping something from the floor.
‘They’re worse. I’d like to know where I can find – where I can find the woman you spoke of.’ Elspet addressed her directly.
The girl nodded and said, ‘Come. I’ll show you.’ She dumped the cloth back in the pail and rubbed her hands dry.
‘Tell me your name.’
‘Gaxa,’ she said.
What a strange name, she thought, but then she pointed to herself and said, ‘Mistress Leviston.’
‘Yes. I know.’ She did not blink.
‘Elspet,’ she said. Gaxa nodded.
Elspet followed her and was surprised to find that they were heading back towards Triana.
‘In Triana?’ she said, breathless, trying to keep up with her.
‘Yes,’ Gaxa said.
‘Oh, I wish I’d known,’ Elspet mumbled, but then gave up the conversation to concentrate on weaving through the narrow streets. Her legs had stiffened from the previous day’s wrestling with the sword, and her feet were sore. It was all she could do to keep up.
They passed down narrow alleys where the houses were simply built of local stone or clay, plastered with a mud render. Some of them had glowing ovens built on the outside; from others smoke came from inside the house through a hole in the roof. She stepped around a pool of vegetable peelings and a dark patch of what could have been blood on the pale earth.
It was close to nightfall, it was as if a dark cloth had been thrown over the streets, and she began to fear she might never find her way home again. Finally, they arrived at the back of a row of larger houses. They had yards with pots of herbs growing and she could hear goats bleating in the fields behind. Gaxa hammered at the shutters of one of the windows. A yelp of surprise came from within, but no one came to open up. Gaxa knocked again, but the house stayed silent.
‘Wait,’ she said. She went around to the side of the house and called softly, ‘Ayamena! It’s Gaxa. Only me.’ A pause, and then, ‘Look and see, just Gaxa.’
She came back to where Elspet stood. ‘They won’t open the door.’ She pointed. ‘Looks bad. Blood on the ground up there. That’s why. We’d better leave.’
But just then the wooden door in the bleached double gates opened a hand-width and the frightened eyes of a woman looked out.
‘Gaxa,’ the woman whispered, ‘it’s late. What is it? What’s the matter?’
‘There’s a woman very sick. Needs your help.’
She looked past Gaxa to where Elspet stood. ‘This woman?’
‘No,’ Gaxa said scornfully, ‘her servant. But she can’t pay.’ She said this accusingly, indicating Elspet with a wag of her head.
‘I know her.’
Elspet took a better look at the woman on the threshold. At first she wondered if her Spanish had let her down and she must be mistaken, but she came out further into the light, and recognized the woman from the fencing school.
‘Oh, yes,’ Elspet
said. ‘You work for Señor Alvarez. Señora Ortega, is it? I am sorry to disturb you, but my friend Mr Wilmot and my maid are very sick.’
She looked around, and realized with embarrassment that they were outside the fencing school, just that this was the back door. The servants’ entrance, where goods and pack-mules came and went. She was chastened by her own stupidity.
Ayamena was speaking. ‘I’m not sure, Gaxa, there’s trouble enough. I don’t want to treat any white woman. If she dies, they’ll accuse me of sorcery.’
‘She’ll die if you don’t.’ Gaxa stated it as a fact, and planted her brown-toed feet firm in the dirt.
Elspet could think of nothing to say, so she waited.
Ayamena looked from one of them to the other, then beckoned them in. ‘Quick, quick. Before someone sees. In this world gone mad, the least I can do is offer tea.’
Elspet followed Gaxa over the threshold and through a wooden door into the gloom of a chamber. Immediately, a man was there in front of her, asking, ‘Who is it?’ but before he even finished his question Ayamena said, ‘Only Gaxa, and the Englishwoman, the friend of Señor Alvarez, who needs some help.’
By the light of the smoking candles Elspet took in that all their possessions were in a pile in the middle of the room. Cooking pots, rolled-up rugs, a stick cage with a squawking bantam inside. The man in front of her looked familiar, and she realized she’d seen him coming and going in the yard with his stick. He always had his head forward, looking at the ground as if he could not see properly, and carrying a bundle of books wedged under his arm.
‘Who is it, Ayamena?’
‘Good evening, señor. It is Mistress Leviston. Elspet Leviston, Mr Deane’s cousin. I am sorry to disturb you. But Gaxa thought you might be able to help my . . .’ She paused. She could not think of a way to describe Mr Wilmot and his relationship to her.
Gaxa finished the words for her. ‘The Englishman who was here. He’s worse. And the maidservant. I think it’s the sweating sickness. Will you come?’
A Divided Inheritance Page 29
