Golden Earrings

by Belinda Alexandra

  I looked at my plate thoughtfully. My life had changed significantly in a couple of weeks. There was a whole Spanish side of me that was coming to light. I saw that Jaime and I had much in common in regard to our displaced family backgrounds.

  ‘Now, tell me more about your ballet,’ he said, picking up his glass of water. ‘When am I going to see you on stage?’

  I winced without meaning to. Ballet was my great passion in life, but it also caused me a lot of pain.

  Jaime sensed my discomfort. ‘Is that what was worrying you earlier?’

  I liked the way he looked at me, as if what I said and felt was of great interest to him. I had a sudden urge to tell him everything — about my father, about my failure to get into the corps de ballet, maybe even about the ‘visit’ from la Rusa. But the waiter arrived with our palak paneer and korma curry. As he placed everything on the table and refilled our water glasses, I decided to limit my confidences to the non-supernatural.

  I told Jaime that my mother had been a star with the Ballet, and about my class with Mademoiselle Louvet and my encounter with Madame Genet. ‘My father is away on tour, so I have to wait until he gets back for an explanation of why Madame Genet is so convinced the Opera’s ballet mistress will have me rejected again.’

  ‘Maybe your mother can explain what happened?’ suggested Jaime.

  I shook my head. ‘She died a year and a half ago. Cancer.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and I could see from the sympathetic expression on his face that he was. We were silent for a few moments.

  I thought of the beautiful stage of the Paris Opera House and how every day of my life had been devoted to the dream of dancing on it. I recalled Madame Genet dashing my hopes that it would ever happen. The idea of that made me want to cry out. But I was used to keeping my feelings under control, and I’d probably burdened Jaime with enough already.

  I glanced at my watch. ‘Should we get going?’

  Jaime nodded and signalled to the waiter for the bill.

  The flamenco bar Jaime took me to was a former cellar, with panelled walls and long wooden benches. The entrance was down a steep flight of stairs. Manolo, whom we had come to see, was already playing. The musician’s black bushy eyebrows contrasted with his white hair. The air was laden with cigar smoke and the fruity smell of sangria. The waiter, who appeared to know Jaime, brought us two seats so we could have a front-row view. Manolo was playing a fast rhythm. I was mesmerised by his nimble fingers.

  ‘It’s a bulería,’ Jaime explained.

  ‘Burlar’ in Spanish meant ‘to mock’. Because the rhythm seemed to change so dramatically from one moment to the next, it did fool the listener about where the piece was going.

  ‘It is one of the most difficult palos in flamenco,’ Jaime whispered to me. ‘It takes years to master it.’

  I watched the enraptured faces of the audience and felt as if I were waking from a long sleep. So there was another world outside of ballet. Normally on a Friday night, I would be at home reading a book or listening to music after a full day of ballet classes. I wondered what it would be like not to feel the constant pressure to excel — to have a normal life and a normal job and be able to come out with Jaime like this whenever I wanted. I thought of what Mademoiselle Louvet had said: ‘I don’t know at what point ballerinas became elite athletes with no room for a life outside rehearsals.’

  After the performance, Manolo greeted Jaime and came to sit with us. Jaime ordered a bottle of wine.

  ‘This is my friend Paloma,’ he said, pouring the wine into three glasses. ‘She’s a dancer and is interested in knowing more about la Rusa.’

  ‘Ah, la Rusa,’ Manolo said, a dreamy look coming to his eyes. ‘I toured with her. I was only a young man then and she was a star. The crowds gathered to see her wherever she went. In South America, they had to turn the fire hoses on people to keep them under control. I don’t believe there will ever be another bailaora like her. She was a phenomenon.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘She was certainly a shock to refined audiences who were used to dancers like Anna Pavlova and la Argentina. Even Isadora Duncan was tame by comparison. But la Rusa … she was the opposite of “civilised”. When you watched her perform, the building could have caved in and you wouldn’t have noticed. She bewitched her audiences. She was magnificent!’

  ‘And what was she like as a person as opposed to a performer?’ I asked him.

  Manolo sat back and took a sip of wine. ‘She was famous but she was never a snob. After a show, she liked nothing better than to kick off her shoes and cook us all a pot of stew. She was also generous. When my wife and daughter were sick one year, I arrived at the hospital to find all the medical bills had been paid by la Rusa.’

  What Manolo was describing seemed to me something of a contradiction: a woman who was a major star cooking soup in her kitchen like a housewife.

  ‘My ballet coach said la Rusa was quite reclusive after the war — when she lived in America,’ I said. ‘Do you know why?’

  Manolo glanced at his hands. ‘Everyone was ruined after the Civil War. The Spanish … well, we love our music, our wine and our dancing, but we can be brutal. I don’t think that war left anyone unscarred. La Rusa had stayed to fight. She remained in Barcelona until the bitter end. Most of the other entertainers had long left for America or Europe before things became too bad. Poets, artists and dancers were usually the first people on the execution list for Franco’s Nationalists. She risked her life to fight for the Republic.’

  I mulled over this information. ‘Why do you think she stayed?’

  He stared into the distance for a moment. ‘I don’t know why. Perhaps she truly believed in the equality of human beings and was prepared to die for it.’

  What Manolo was telling me was interesting, but where did it all fit? I realised there was so much about la Rusa that was unknown. So much that would probably never be known. I wondered if her spirit had come to me so that I would start digging up her story. It was almost as if she wanted to be in my thoughts.

  There was no easy way to ask the next question. I took a deep breath. ‘La Rusa committed suicide in Paris. But Jaime says many people in the Spanish community think she was murdered. What do you say?’

  Manolo’s head snapped up. ‘Yes, I’ve heard that too. But I don’t know how someone could have lured her to the spot where she died, or pushed her under that train. She was too smart for that.’

  I caught my breath. Train? I hadn’t expected that la Rusa had died so violently. If she had committed suicide, I’d imagined a more romantic death, such as drowning herself in the Seine. Manolo was grimacing, as if some memory was troubling him.

  ‘Did you see where she died?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘A suburb outside of Paris. I went there later with some flowers. I was deeply sorry. I’d lost track of la Rusa after she left Europe. Maybe I could have done something to help her.’

  His regret sent the three of us into reflection. Perhaps there were too many people in our lives we didn’t appreciate enough until it was too late.

  Manolo suddenly sat up. ‘There was someone in Paris who had known la Rusa very well. He met her before she became famous. In fact, I think he helped her. He probably could have told you a lot more about her, but unfortunately he died a few years ago.’

  I nodded. Once more, la Rusa was slipping away. She was exactly like a bulería: as soon as I thought I had understood something about her, everything changed again. ‘What was his name?’ I asked out of curiosity.

  ‘Gaspar Olivero. He was a Catalan.’

  The atmosphere in the room seemed to shift. I felt light-headed. Maybe the thick smoke and the wine were affecting me. I was sure I couldn’t have heard correctly.

  ‘Pardon?’ I said. ‘Could you repeat that name?’

  ‘Gaspar Olivero,’ Manolo said. ‘He was la Rusa’s accompanist for many years. They were the greatest of friends.’

  I felt the blood rush to my feet. I turned to Jaime, w
ho lifted his eyebrows.

  ‘Does that name mean anything to you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, trying to catch my breath. ‘Gaspar Olivero was my grandfather.’

  PART III

  TWENTY-ONE

  Celestina Barcelona, 1920

  The Samovar Club was situated on las Ramblas, near the plaça de Catalunya. Diego and one of his sisters, Fidelia, came with me for my appointment with el Ruso. Diego and I had thought the Villa Rosa was luxurious so our eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when the doorman ushered us in. It was early afternoon, and even without the fashionable guests who would fill it later that evening to add glitz, we were amazed by the sumptuous velvet curtains and the golden columns which gave the space the appearance of a Russian ballroom. Surrounding the oblong dance floor were round tables decorated with linen cloths and silver candlesticks. Fidelia touched one of the dozen malachite urns that were perched on marble stands and muttered some gypsy obscenities. Diego gazed up at the crystal chandelier that hung over the dance floor, too overcome for words.

  ‘Bona tarda!’

  We turned in the direction of a marble staircase to see el Ruso coming down it with another man by his side. The stranger was wearing a silk suit with pleated pants. His hair was brushed back from his clean-shaven face and parted sharply at the side. When he saw us — me and Fidelia in our flamenco dresses and Diego in his ill-fitting suit — he didn’t seem impressed.

  ‘This is our choreographer, Vasily Zakharov,’ said el Ruso.

  Zakharov nodded in greeting but did not extend his hand. The idea of touching any of us seemed to disgust him.

  Another two men appeared from a door at the rear of the club. The older one, a swarthy gypsy, was carrying a guitar. The younger man had copper-coloured hair. He smiled when he saw us.

  ‘This is Gerardo Ruíz,’ said el Ruso, indicating the gypsy. ‘And this young man here,’ he placed his hand on the red-haired man’s shoulder, ‘is Gaspar Olivero: our musical director and a genius composer.’

  Gaspar Olivero shook our hands warmly. He had a ready smile and a pleasant manner about him. I was surprised that he was a musical director at such a young age: he looked a year or two older than me.

  El Ruso turned to me. ‘I thought you might show us one of your dances, senyoreta Sánchez. Gaspar will compose some numbers especially for you.’

  I passed my shawl to Fidelia and walked up on stage. Gerardo followed me and set up a chair for himself. The others took seats at one of the tables, Zakharov screwing up his nose and placing himself as far away as possible from Diego and Fidelia.

  ‘What do you dance?’ Gerardo asked me. ‘Shall I play a bulería?’

  I sensed that he was challenging me by suggesting such a complicated rhythm, but I nodded because I danced everything.

  ‘Are you really a gypsy?’ he asked, adjusting his guitar.

  I glanced at Diego, who nodded. ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  ‘Where are you from?’ asked Gerardo. ‘You speak Spanish like a Catalan.’

  ‘I am from the barri del Somorrostro.’

  Gerardo looked away from me to el Ruso. ‘Then she’s a fraud,’ he told him. ‘Only gypsies from Andalusia know how to truly dance flamenco.’

  El Ruso rubbed his chin and chuckled. ‘Wait and see, Gerardo,’ he said. ‘Wait and see.’

  The blood boiled under my skin. A fraud! I didn’t need a guitarist! I could make my own percussion if I needed! Besides, my mother had been of gypsy descent!

  Gerardo played and I danced with passion. Then I did something I had never done in front of Diego: I danced a series of furious zapateados, building to a frenetic climax before coming to a sudden stop.

  ‘Good gracious!’ said Zakharov, standing up. ‘Did you see what she did with her feet?’

  Diego nodded as if my explosive foot percussion was well known to him. I’d picked it up from watching the male dancers at the Villa Rosa and other clubs, and practised it when no one was looking. It was the first time I had tried the steps in public.

  ‘She shouldn’t dance like that,’ Fidelia complained to Diego. ‘It’s not feminine. Those steps are for men.’

  ‘I’ve never seen a man dance like that!’ said Zakharov.

  He was looking at me with awe, like a fossicker who has struck a stream of gold.

  ‘She performed those zapateados better and much faster than any male flamenco dancer I’ve seen,’ added Gaspar. ‘She’s strong but she has dainty feet.’

  El Ruso raised his eyebrows and looked to Gerardo.

  ‘I humbly apologise,’ the gypsy said to me. ‘You are every inch the great bailaora that el Ruso said you were. But I agree with your friend that those steps are for men.’

  El Ruso rose from his chair and leaned against the stage. ‘That’s exactly what I was explaining to you. She’s not just another Spanish dancer. She is unique. We have to create an act that conveys that to the audience. I want them left breathless.’

  He thought something over before saying to Gaspar: ‘Could you fetch la senyora Dávilo, the wardrobe mistress? I want to see la senyoreta Sánchez dance those steps in a man’s suit.’

  ‘What?’ asked Diego, rising from his chair, his machismo offended. Then he realised where he was and thought of the fee I might be paid. He sat down again.

  ‘But that’s been done before,’ said Zakharov. ‘La Tanguera danced the farruca in men’s clothes.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed el Ruso. ‘But la Tanguera was masculine and she danced like a man. Here we have a beautiful woman who demonstrates feminine rather than masculine strength. I don’t want her dressed like a matador. I want her wearing something … becoming but powerful at the same time! We have to let people see those magnificent feet. Otherwise it’s like not being able to view the hands of a great pianist.’

  Everyone turned and stared at me, as if they couldn’t quite see who it was that el Ruso was calling ‘beautiful’. The exception was Gaspar, who nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘That’s a brilliant idea!’ he said. ‘Her technique is feminine but her strength is powerful. I see her with ten guitarists and an orchestra behind her!’

  El Ruso clapped his hands. ‘A spectacular!’

  ‘Flamenco, rest in peace,’ said Gerardo. Fidelia murmured her agreement.

  ‘Don’t be such cynics. Art is always evolving,’ Zakharov told them. ‘It is not vulgar to be innovative!’

  Ten guitarists and an orchestra, I thought. Wasn’t I the girl who’d started out dancing to the sound of Manuel’s old guitar and his sisters clapping their hands and banging their knuckles on tables? Hadn’t I learned flamenco’s rhythms from the sea? The idea of an orchestra amused me. Dancing was in my soul, not in my head. The truth was, it didn’t matter who accompanied me, what I wore or what the audience thought. In the end I danced only for myself — and for the demon.

  In the office afterwards, el Ruso and Zakharov showed me a contract. ‘You can read it?’ el Ruso asked.

  I nodded, although my reading level wasn’t quite up to deciphering a legal document.

  ‘Then take it with you and go over it. How much do you want to be paid?’

  I turned to Diego, who stared at the ceiling as if he were making a complex calculation. I knew he was probably considering the value of the marble busts and mahogany desk in el Ruso’s office.

  ‘Twelve pesetas a night,’ he said. He’d doubled my usual earnings.

  El Ruso and Zakharov exchanged a glance. Fidelia shifted in her seat, as if she expected the impresario to chase us out of the office for asking for such an audacious sum. But el Ruso made no objection. He rose from his chair and said to me, ‘Please come back here at ten o’clock tomorrow morning so we can discuss your act further.’

  I stood too and el Ruso cast his eyes over my worn dress and dirty sandals. ‘You’ll need some new clothes, as befitting an upcoming star at the Samovar Club, and a new hairstyle. La senyora Dávilo will see to that for you.’

  The secretary clo
sed the door behind us and I heard Zakharov laugh and say something in Russian to el Ruso. A long time afterwards, when I knew el Ruso better, I asked him what Zakharov had said to him that day that was so amusing.

  El Ruso smiled when he recalled the conversation. ‘We were surprised at your exorbitant asking price,’ he said with a wink. ‘Twelve pesetas!’

  I smiled too. Diego was a terrible manager. The Samovar Club paid me sixty pesetas a night for my first season. Afterwards, when I was a star touring America, my fee was ten thousand dollars a show.

  ‘Wow! Is that you, senyoreta Sánchez?’ Gaspar cried when he saw me at the club after senyora Dávilo had finished with me.

  I had spent the morning at the beauty salon being rubbed, steamed and pummelled. Now, instead of smelling of sea salt and the olive oil I used to smooth my hair, I exuded an assortment of fragrances: the witch-hazel astringent the beautician had said would ‘stimulate my skin’; the lanolin and zinc day cream that was supposed to give me ‘a glow’ and act as a base for the powder she had patted over my face, neck and décolletage; and the petrolatum scent of the sticky underarm deodorant cream that she had assured me all the dancers at the club used instead of talcum powder. The hairdresser had left my hair long for my dance act, but had curled it with an iron and pinned it up to give the illusion of the short chic style that was in fashion.

  ‘You look beautiful!’ Gaspar exclaimed.

  I twirled around to show off my Chantilly lace dress and beaded handbag, teetering on the boulevard heels of my pumps. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘My face feels hot. I don’t normally wear powder and lipstick.’ Every time I blinked, I was conscious of the thick layer of cake mascara the beautician had applied.

  Gaspar laughed that hearty, open laugh of his. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ he said. ‘You look gorgeous! You must let me take you out to a café. I want to show you off.’