I had only travelled a short way when I began to understand that the city by night was not the same place it was during the day. The buildings became confusing mazes of grey stone; trailing vines turned into tentacles reaching out for me; façades that were probably beautiful when the sun shone on them now cast sinister shadows all around me. The shops, which might have given me a better clue as to where I was, had their shutters down. I panicked. Rushing this way and that, my heart pounding in my chest, I found myself back in the hub of the city again. But those who populated it during the day — the housewives, the shopkeepers, the nuns and schoolchildren — had transformed into people of the night. I cringed at the sight of the pale-skinned women with their rouged cheeks lounging in the doorways. Their belladonna eyes searched the street where men strolled or drove past slowly in cars. Some of the men wore their hats pulled low, but others, more brazen, winked and jeered.
‘You! What are you doing here? Go away!’
I turned to see two girls, maybe just a couple of years older than I was, staring at me. They had rouge painted on their cheeks. One of them wore a floppy hat; the other had her hair piled up on her head and held with a comb. Their skin was smooth, but all the muscles in their necks were stretched taut. They looked even unhealthier than I did.
The girl in the floppy hat stepped towards me. ‘Get lost! This is our territory!’
I had no idea what she was talking about, but she smelled like rotting flesh, like Núria had. I ran under an archway, and passed a group of gypsies sitting on a blanket and playing cards. A woman in a beaded headdress sat near them, offering to tell the fortunes of the passers-by. She looked at me in surprise when I rushed past. She called out to me but I didn’t stop. I felt remote from everything around me. All wanted to do was cry.
After a few more turns I found myself on a street that I thought might be las Ramblas. Crowds were moving along it, and piano music and the fruity smell of wine wafted from the cafés and bars. A smoky bitterness hung in the air. Perhaps I should have asked someone for help — one of the surly doormen; the scrawny-necked woman selling tickets to a show — but I was too frightened of all these strangers. I continued on my way, knowing that if I could only find the flower market, I could wait there until morning and maybe Delfina or another of the flower sellers could help me. But I took a wrong turn, and found myself in an alleyway that stank of urine and spoiling seafood. The only illumination was a streak of light from an upper-storey apartment window.
‘Look, it’s a little girl!’
I peered into the darkness and saw the figures of two men crouched on the ground. They were smoking something from pipes that smelled sweet and sickly, not like normal tobacco. One of the men rose and walked towards me. The light from the window flashed over his face for a moment. His features were thin and sunken, as I imagined a ghoul would look.
‘Do you want to make some money?’ he asked. ‘I could help you. Lots of the tourists here like little girls.’
I stepped back. The man made a grab for me.
‘Leave her alone!’ a hoarse female voice growled.
Everything seemed to stand still. All I could hear was the laboured sound of my breath and the faint hum of a motor car cruising down las Ramblas.
The man backed away as if he were being directed by an unseen force. ‘All right, all right,’ he said, crouching down and picking up his pipe again.
I turned to look at the shadowy figure of my rescuer. She clicked her tongue and said, ‘Come.’ I followed her out of the alleyway and back onto las Ramblas. When I saw the woman’s face in the bright lights from the nightclub signs, I thought I might be suffering a hallucination. The mole in the crease of her nostril and the piercing eyes were familiar. She was the gypsy I had seen at the flower market with Ramón, the one who had overheard my wish to become a famous flamenco dancer.
‘Are you lost?’ she asked.
I nodded.
‘Where are your parents?’
‘Dead.’
‘And the rest of your family?’
‘They took my brother and Teresa to Alcañiz.’
The woman stared into my eyes for a long time, as if something was puzzling her. Her own eyes were bright but her skin was leathery. It was impossible to tell her age. She could have been forty. She could have been seventy. But something about her seemed ancient.
‘You’re a paya but you have the gypsy magic,’ she said.
She extended her hand and I took it, relishing the warmth of her rough skin. I’m not sure why I trusted her. Perhaps it was because she spoke with an Andalusian accent, like Papá. I did not understand that in going with the woman, I was stepping from one world to another — and that when a gypsy took a child from the street, the child would belong to them forever.
SIXTEEN
Paloma
Carmen gave private lessons at her apartment in Montparnasse, not at her dance studio, where another teacher took the group classes on Wednesday nights. My feelings were a mix of anticipation and nervousness as I parked Mamie’s car near rue Raymond Losserand and walked to the quiet street where Carmen’s apartment was situated. I hoped that I would have the chance to ask her about la Rusa after the lesson. There must be people in the flamenco community in Paris who had known her. Perhaps if I had a chance to speak to one of them, I would understand why she had given the golden earrings to me.
I knew I was in the right place from the sound of flamenco guitar coming from inside the building. I pressed the bell for the ground-floor apartment and a few moments later Carmen appeared in a red flamenco dress with a shawl over her shoulders.
‘Hola, señorita Batton,’ she said with a smile, before ushering me through the chilly foyer and into the warmth of her apartment.
I was struck at the sight of the crimson walls and the mosaic coffee table. The apartment, while small even by Paris standards, was a vision of Moorish splendour. The floor was covered in Fez rugs, and a lattice screen separated the kitchen from the living area. The decor, along with the maidenhair ferns in ceramic pots and the smell of rosewater, made me feel as if I had stepped from a Parisian street into a casbah. There was a framed poster of the Alhambra Palace above the sideboard, and I deduced that the family must have originally come from Granada in southern Spain. They were Andalusians, as la Rusa’s family had been.
‘Come this way,’ said Carmen, holding aside a beaded curtain. She led me into her studio, which was the converted main bedroom of the apartment. Through the French doors I could see a small garden lit by hanging lanterns. The trees were winter bare but the cobalt blue garden chairs made the space look inviting. Jaime was already in the studio, tuning his guitar. The intense look on his face made him especially handsome. I remembered the stir his appearance had caused amongst the ladies in the flamenco class.
The telephone rang and Carmen excused herself to answer it. Jaime looked up and flicked back a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. He had eyes the colour of dark chocolate, I noticed, with very bright whites: inquisitive eyes that didn’t miss much.
‘Hola! Cómo estás?’ he greeted me.
‘Molt bé,’ I replied.
He looked surprised and I realised that instead of replying to his ‘how are you?’ in Spanish, I’d answered him in Catalan. Replying to a Spaniard in Catalan was exactly the kind of thing an uppity Catalan might do to make a point of difference. I blushed and tried to hide my embarrassment by sitting down on a chair and slipping on my flamenco shoes.
‘Too many languages,’ I said, attempting to smooth over the awkwardness of the moment. ‘I speak some English as well. Sometimes I go to speak one language and another one comes out instead.’
Jaime put his fingers to the front of his head. ‘The Broca’s area.’
‘What?’
‘It’s in the frontal lobe of your brain. The area responsible for language and motor movements of the mouth.’
‘Oh, that’s fascinating.’ Without knowing why — perhaps to compensate for
my rudeness — I launched into an explanation of my history of language learning. ‘I spoke Catalan and French as a child, so I don’t often get them mixed up although they have many similar words. I didn’t really learn Spanish until I was a teenager. That’s why I sometimes get it mixed up with the others … it’s quite similar to Catalan and French. I guess it’s because they’re all Latin languages.’
I felt as though my frontal lobe and my motor mouth were running out of control. Why couldn’t I stop talking? I remembered Mamie telling me how socially awkward she was at my age — was it a family curse? I decided the best thing to do was to change the subject.
‘So, how do you know so much about the brain?’ I asked.
‘My father is a doctor,’ he replied.
‘Is your family in Paris too?’
‘Some of them, but my parents and sisters are still in Granada. I live here with my aunt.’
I liked his voice: it was deep and clear.
‘You speak French very well,’ I told him.
He looked startled. ‘I came here when I was thirteen,’ he said, with a tinge of irony. ‘I hope that I do!’
Just shut up, Paloma! I screamed at myself inwardly. I thought of the blonde woman at the first flamenco lesson: why was it when people were friendly to me, I found a way of putting them off?
But if Jaime was offended, he didn’t show it. He adjusted his guitar and played a few chords before looking at me and smiling. ‘The good thing about music is you don’t need words. It is a language everyone understands.’
Carmen returned. ‘Indeed it is,’ she said, brushing down her dress. ‘So let’s get started, señorita Batton.’
I was relieved. At least I wasn’t such an imbecile when I danced.
Carmen stood opposite me and lifted her skirt to show her feet. ‘Now, I’m not going to go into all the ins and outs of who developed flamenco — the gypsies, the Andalusians, the Moors, the Latin Americans, or all of them — but the style I’m going to teach you is based on classical Spanish dance. I think it will complement the lovely elegance and poise your ballet training has given you.’
We began by repeating the steps I had learned in the beginners’ class, then Carmen gradually made the footwork more complicated by adding variations. At first I imitated each pattern to the sound of Carmen’s counting, but when she thought I was ready, she nodded to Jaime. He started playing slowly, and gradually increased the speed until it reached a point where I could no longer dance evenly.
‘Your timing and rhythm are excellent,’ Carmen said. ‘Now I want to see what you can do with your arms. You may have heard that traditionally there were dancers known as “upper-body dancers” and others who were known for their footwork. It was rare for a dancer to do both superbly well. The exception, of course, was la Rusa. That’s why she was a legend. She was an all-round dancer of the highest level. A genius!’
The mention of la Rusa sent a shiver down my spine. I could almost imagine that she was in the room with me.
Carmen took me through a series of exercises where I held my hands in front of my chest and rotated them, following my middle finger for several turns and then my little finger.
‘Now watch this,’ she said, nodding to Jaime.
He began an upbeat, playful piece and Carmen moved around using the footwork patterns she had shown me. Then she added her arms, twirling them and twisting them around her body and above her head. I watched with amazement. In ballet, the strength and grace of the arms were important: they formed part of a ballerina’s ‘line’ and lent a graceful frame to the body and steps. But Carmen’s arms were something else. They were expressive and musical and seemed to be performing a dance of their own, separate from the rest of her body, moving in different time to her feet. The only other time I had seen anyone use their arms so evocatively was the time Mama took me to see Yvette Chauviré perform in The Dying Swan.
When Carmen finished her dance, I applauded. It always gave me a thrill to watch a wonderful dancer, no matter what the style.
‘It must have taken years to learn to do that!’ I exclaimed.
Carmen shrugged. ‘In my day, we didn’t have lessons. We learned to dance by watching our mothers and aunties. I started to learn as soon as I could walk. Now everything is so much more professional, with the emphasis on technique. When I was growing up, most flamenco guitarists in Spain couldn’t even read lyrics let alone music. Jaime is the only musician in my family who is knowledgeable about musical terms.’
We returned to the lesson, and to finish Carmen showed me some arm exercises to practise at home. I was pleased to see Jaime put his guitar away. It meant that there wasn’t another student after me.
I was about to ask Carmen about la Rusa when she said, ‘I hope you will stay for dinner, señorita Batton?’
Her invitation took me by surprise, but the aroma wafting from the kitchen did smell very good. Someone else must be here, cooking.
‘Yes, thank you,’ I replied. ‘But please call me Paloma.’
‘Paloma. A dove,’ said Carmen with a smile. ‘It’s a lovely name. It suits you well.’
When we stepped into the living room, I was surprised to see two people sitting on the sofa. One of them was the elderly lady with the red hair who helped at the dance academy. The man next to her looked slightly younger in age.
‘This is my mother, Vicenta, whom you have already met, and my uncle, Ernesto,’ Carmen said, indicating the pair.
After we had exchanged greetings, a pretty woman in her late thirties with long curly hair and a big nose and lips appeared from behind the kitchen screen. She was carrying a stack of dishes, which she put down on a round table in the corner of the room.
‘And this is my daughter, Isabel,’ said Carmen.
‘Hola!’ Isabel said, smiling broadly.
Ernesto stood to give me his place on the sofa. He squinted at me through his black-rimmed glasses. ‘Ah, Jaime has got himself a pretty girl,’ he said.
I was too embarrassed to look at Jaime, but at the same time I was flattered that Ernesto thought I might be his grand-nephew’s girlfriend. I was expecting Carmen — or Jaime — to correct him, but before anyone could say anything the doorbell rang and Carmen went to answer it. She returned a moment later with a handsome couple in their forties, accompanied by two small boys in hooded coats.
‘And this is my sister, Mercedes, and her husband, Félix,’ said Carmen. ‘And their sons, Ricardo and Víctor.’
The room was so full of people that it began to feel like a crowded elevator.
‘Dinner is ready. Please come to the table,’ called Isabel.
Although there were enough chairs, I wasn’t sure how we were all going to fit around the small table, but somehow we did. I felt a thrill of excitement when Jaime deliberately sat next to me but did my best to act nonchalant.
‘Now,’ Carmen announced to the gathering, ‘our guest tonight is of Catalan descent, so I am going to explain each of these dishes to her.’
Her tone gave the impression that she was about to embark on the telling of an exotic fairytale and the gathering fell respectfully silent. Instead, she lifted the lid off a large casserole pot to reveal a dish of tomatoes, lima beans and artichokes.
‘People from Barcelona, like your grandmother, Paloma, live by the sea and have much in common with their Mediterranean neighbours,’ Carmen said. ‘But we Granadians, we are influenced by the Arabs. We like our spices.’ She picked up a spoon and indicated for me to pass her my plate, which I did. ‘Let me present to you … cazuela de habas!’
A sigh of anticipation rose from the gathering. Carmen passed my plate back to me and, rather than continuing to serve everyone else, urged me to try the dish. Aware that all eyes were on me, I scooped up a forkful. A blend of garlic, mint and cumin burst on my tongue. But there were other more subtle flavours too.
‘I can taste saffron,’ I said. The deduction brought nods of approval from the gathering. ‘And peppercorns?’ More murmurs
of assent. ‘And …’ Everyone leaned forward, waiting to hear what I would say next. ‘White wine,’ I declared. ‘I definitely detect a touch of white wine.’
‘Muy bien!’ said Mercedes. ‘She knows her food.’
‘The white wine is my special touch,’ said Isabel, lifting her chin proudly. ‘Not everyone adds that.’
‘Ah,’ said Ernesto, his neat moustache twitching with his smile, ‘Paloma shows us that there is hope for the Catalans yet!’
Dinner progressed the same way as various dishes were presented to me: a delicious almond soup; cod fish soaked in orange; and Sacromonte omelette, which I regretted accepting after Félix divulged that it contained veal calf testicles. ‘Arabs eat everything,’ he said.
I noticed Jaime passed on the manitas de cerdo, which was made from stewed pigs’ trotters. ‘It’s not for me,’ he explained. ‘Pigs are as intelligent as dogs and have the same emotions. As I won’t eat dogs, I won’t eat pigs either.’
‘Jaime is becoming an American!’ declared Ernesto.
His comment brought giggles from Mercedes and Isabel. Jaime glanced at me and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know why he always says that. I’ve never been to America, although I would like to go.’
‘I feel the same way about rabbit,’ I confided in him. ‘I had a pet one when I was a child. Whenever they served lapin à la cocotte at ballet school, I could never bring myself to eat it.’
He smiled, and I felt the regard grow between us. I had assumed, because of his good looks, that he would be arrogant and aloof. Instead, I discovered that he emanated a warmth I never found in French men. The feeling of amiability was increased by the fact that we kept bumping elbows while we ate. At first it was awkward, but then we found it funnier the more it happened. At one point I knocked Jaime when he had his fork in his mouth and he pretended that he’d broken a tooth. His pantomime made everybody laugh, and me the most of all. I wasn’t used to people being so lively at the dinner table. In Paris, you were supposed to talk quietly when eating or not at all.
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