The place he took me to was not like the cafés in the barri Xinès, which were havens for gangsters, police spies and anarchists. But it wasn’t an upmarket place either, which surprised me. It was easy to tell from Gaspar’s sharp clothes, manicured nails and relaxed manner that he was wealthy, even though he wore his good fortune lightly.
The café seemed to be full of actors and actresses, poets and idealists. We sat down at a table by an open window and the waiter brought us aromatic Cuban coffee in white cups. A group of students entered and disappeared into a back room. Gaspar noticed me watching them.
‘That’s the arts branch of the Socialist Club,’ he said.
‘Do you attend?’
He nodded. ‘Sometimes.’
I studied him. ‘Do you believe in an equal society?’
‘I do,’ he replied, not missing a beat. ‘I would give my life to see humanity united in love, and for everyone to be properly fed and clothed.’
If Gaspar had been anybody else, I would have ridiculed him. What did a young man who wore tailored clothes and a gold tiepin know of the barri del Somorrostro or the barri Xinès? The previous day, I’d stopped Fidelia just as she was about to pick his pocket. But I sensed there was more to Gaspar Olivero than met the eye. He seemed to be that rare kind of person who could make himself agreeable to anyone anywhere.
‘Are there many men like you in that club?’ I asked.
‘Men like what?’ he said, his eyes twinkling at me over the rim of his cup.
I shrugged. ‘Urbane, educated … rich.’
He laughed. ‘Well, I have a good friend, Xavier, who plays piano sometimes for the social dances. I would have liked you to meet him: he is an aficionado of flamenco. But his father had some English idea of sending him away on a grand tour of Europe before he settles down to the family business and marries. I think he is in Italy right now.’
When Gaspar excused himself to go to the bathroom, I caught sight of my reflection in the wall mirror next to our table and jumped. I didn’t recognise myself. I thought of the young society girls I had seen in the beauty salon, and for some reason Evelina Montella came to mind. How old would she be now? Twelve? Too young to have been one of them.
I recalled her beautiful mother, and remembered her father’s words that day in the sweatshop: ‘That is simply the workings of the economic system in which we live. Those who can pay reap the benefits.’ Then I relived in my imagination my dead father lying in a pool of blood on a street not far from where I was now sitting. I saw my emaciated mother in her death throes; Anastasio being buried in an unmarked grave in Africa; Ramón and Teresa being marched into exile. A humanity united in love? Gaspar was dreaming. Humanity would never be united in love as long as people like the Montellas controlled the economy.
Gaspar returned and ordered us more coffee. ‘Would you like something to eat?’ he asked.
I shook my head. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you seem very young to be a musical director. How old are you?’
‘I’m as young as I look,’ he said with a sheepish grin. ‘But I credit my parents for fostering my musical talent early. They are both fond of music, and believed each of their children should follow their inclinations. I’m afraid that they’ve spoiled me. I don’t think I’m cut out for serious work. All I’ve done is play music.’
‘Is that really true? You give me the impression of someone who has many talents.’
He chuckled. ‘And how do I manage that illusion?’
‘Everything you do,’ I told him. ‘The way you walk, your manner of speaking …’
He blushed. ‘Well, I don’t know why, but I did seem to pick things up at school very quickly without having to study much.’
‘It sounds like a good life,’ I said, trying to imagine an existence where a person had so much money they didn’t need it.
‘Now speaking of talented people,’ he said, giving the impression he was keen to move the subject away from himself, ‘I’m excited about composing music for you. I want it to be brilliant. Could we work at the club together tomorrow afternoon? Zakharov’s keen to get started on the choreography as soon as possible. El Ruso demands at least ten weeks of rehearsals before he launches any show.’
‘Why?’
Gaspar looked puzzled. ‘Senyoreta Sánchez, you do know what a choreographer is, don’t you? Zakharov’s going to plan out a dance for you.’
I thought about what Gaspar had said, then asked, ‘How is he going to plan out a dance for me? I only ever have the slightest notion of how I’m going to begin a dance, and once I’ve started another part of me takes over.’
‘You mean you never use a routine?’
‘A routine? No,’ I said, confused. ‘Each flamenco dance has a certain structure and style of steps, but the dancer follows her own inspiration. Of course there are clues for the guitarist — the llamada break, or a particular posture that suggests what is to follow. Even so, a guitarist and a dancer who have worked together for a long time will be able to read each other with no visual clues at all.’
‘But you do understand that part of your contract is to turn up to rehearse?’ said Gaspar, leaning towards me. ‘You can’t just go out and do whatever takes your fancy on the night.’
‘But that is flamenco,’ I told him. ‘You dance according to how you feel on that day and how the demon moves you. Do you understand?’
Gaspar’s lips twitched, as if he were trying not to laugh. ‘I do understand, senyoreta Sánchez. But I think Zakharov is going to have a fit!’
El Ruso’s first extravagant gift to me was an apartment not far from the club. He took me there after my initial rehearsal session with Zakharov. My heels clicked on the parquet floor as I stared up at the bowed plasterwork on the ceilings. I leaned against a stone pillar and looked out the curved window to the street. An unsettling feeling came over me. I realised that I was inside one of the apartments I had seen being constructed when I had fled the police station the day Teresa and Ramón were exiled; the day Francisca had found me. Overcome by a sense that my life was fated, I turned away from the view.
‘It’s too much for me,’ I told el Ruso. ‘I’m used to simpler things.’
He studied me for a moment. ‘I can’t have a star at the Samovar Club living in a slum on the beach,’ he said. ‘The press will come and interview you. You must exude glamour and mystique in all that you do.’
‘You don’t know yet that I will be a star,’ I told him. ‘If I don’t succeed, will you put me back out on the street?’
He walked over to the window and stood next to me. ‘I’ve been an impresario for a long time now,’ he said. ‘You might be a rough diamond but you’re a good one. After your season at the Samovar, I intend to tour you. Not just Spain but the rest of Europe and the Americas too. Maybe even Asia.’
We were quiet for a time, both lost in our thoughts. I could smell the citrus and bergamot notes of el Ruso’s expensive cologne and the scent of fine cigar smoke on his clothing.
Suddenly he turned to me. ‘Listen, senyoreta Sánchez,’ he said, ‘I was born into a wealthy family in St Petersburg. I grew up in a house full of servants and Kuznetsov porcelain. But after the Revolution, I lost everything. I came here and couldn’t even afford a room with a bed. I existed in some cheap communal hall where everyone slept standing up, leaning on a rope for support. I didn’t speak a word of Spanish let alone Catalan so I shone shoes and helped lug boxes onto the ships at the port. But within two years I had my first club. The year after I bought a bigger one.’ He raised his eyebrows to emphasise his point. ‘You see, a rich man can lose everything and become rich again because of the way he thinks. But a poor man will remain a poor man unless he experiences something that makes him strive for a better life.’
He stepped towards me and reached into his pocket for his wallet, then took my hand and placed a thousand pesetas in it. ‘I know that Diego takes everything you earn. That is the life for a gypsy woman. But I’m not so sure yo
u are a pure gypsy,’ he said, looking at me with his penetrating gaze.
I didn’t like him staring at me like that. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ I said.
He threw back his head and laughed. ‘I’m telling you to get used to being rich,’ he said. ‘Get used to having money … because if you ever lose it, you’ll be able to build yourself up again.’
I tried to understand what el Ruso was saying to me. He sounded as if he thought we had a choice in how our lives played out. I had never seen things that way before. I didn’t think my father had chosen to be poor. I didn’t believe he’d wanted to die at the hands of a soldier on las Ramblas and leave me and Ramón as orphans.
‘You’re right that I’m not a pure gypsy,’ I told him. ‘But I’m not a pure paya either to be so motivated by the material world. I like to be well fed and to wear beautiful clothes, but apartments and money in the bank mean little to me. They are a trap.’
El Ruso merely smiled and placed his hat back on his head as he made for the door. ‘You wait here. The decorator is coming by in a minute or so. Don’t worry about the cost. Choose exactly what you like. He has strict instructions to give you whatever you ask for … believe me, having money and luxuries will grow on you.’
The decorator arrived a few minutes after el Ruso had left, carrying two bags of fabric swatches and books of coloured sketches. He introduced himself as Juan Bertrán. He was a short wiry man with thin blond hair swept over his balding pate. His suit was well-cut and he had the pampered skin and white teeth of a man who took care of himself.
‘The first thing we should decide is style and colour,’ he said, opening one of his bags. ‘Are we looking at two or three tones?’
Senyor Bertrán showed me a number of sketches of drawing rooms that he had decorated. I studied the muted colours of the draperies, sconces and wing-back chairs and the modern light fittings, marvelling that people with money should choose such drab shades. I requested mustard-yellow walls, blood-red damask curtains and ottomans, and a chandelier for every room.
‘Now,’ said senyor Bertrán, wiping his brow with his linen handkerchief and walking around the apartment. ‘The master bedroom is large enough for a king-sized bed. What about the guest room? How many people are you expecting to stay with you?’
I thought about his question for a moment before answering. ‘Well, there’s Diego, Fidelia, Raquel, Pastora … about fifteen people.’
Senyor Bertrán gaped at me. ‘All at once?’ he asked. ‘You want fifteen beds in this apartment?’
I laughed. ‘No! Fifteen beds won’t fit! It’s only a four-room apartment.’
Senyor Bertrán laughed too and wiped his brow again.
‘Seven beds plus the king-sized bed will do,’ I told him. ‘The women are used to sharing with each other, and the children will all fit into one bed.’
Senyor Bertrán’s mouth dropped open again. He looked like he was about to protest. But then he must have remembered el Ruso’s instruction to give me whatever I wanted. He swallowed. ‘Seven beds plus a king-sized bed,’ he said, making a note in his folder before glancing up again. ‘Now, will they be four-poster beds or modern ones?’
‘What is this?’ shouted Zakharov, banging his fist to his forehead and rushing towards the stage. ‘I can’t work like this!’
Gaspar lifted his hands from the piano keys and nodded to me. As he had predicted, Zakharov and I had come to loggerheads over the question of whether a dance sequence should be rehearsed or not at our second session together. Gaspar had composed beautiful music: atmospheric and full of changing moods. But instead of letting me use my intuition to guide me as to where I should move on the stage, Zakharov was doing ridiculous things like marking a chalk spot where he wanted me to stop and do a llamada.
‘But what if I don’t feel like doing it there?’ I asked him. ‘What if the moment calls for something else?’
‘It won’t call for something else,’ he said, pushing back his hair and pointing to his chalk mark. ‘Everyone will be ready for it to happen there — from the lighting men to the musicians.’
‘I don’t know what you call that,’ I told him, ‘but it’s not dancing. It’s some sort of miming to music; it has no genuine feeling.’
‘Of course it will have feeling,’ said Zakharov, looking indignant. ‘You put feeling into it when you do it. Haven’t you ever seen a ballet? Anna Pavlova dances precisely the same way each time, down to the merest flick of her eyes heavenwards, yet her performances are incredibly moving.’
‘If that’s the case,’ I told him, ‘then ballet is nothing more than a simulation of feeling. It’s not real.’
El Ruso was called from his office to settle the dispute. He arrived with his secretary and his valet in tow. The valet must have been shaving el Ruso before he received the call because the impresario had the remnants of shaving soap around his ears and throat.
‘She won’t rehearse,’ complained Zakharov. ‘And she won’t follow my choreography.’
‘That’s not true,’ I said. ‘I came here today on time, and I will come every day to dance. Don’t insinuate that because I’m a gypsy I’m lazy.’
‘She does the dance differently every time,’ Zakharov told el Ruso.
‘Because I feel differently every time I hear Gaspar’s music!’ I explained. ‘There is so much to it. Yesterday I felt like a wild horse galloping through a wood. And today, the music made me think of the sea.’
‘We’ve had this trouble with gypsy dancers before,’ Zakharov told el Ruso. ‘That’s why we have never given them star parts.’
‘I seem to remember that we didn’t use gypsy dancers previously because they wouldn’t adapt to our audience,’ el Ruso replied. ‘They wouldn’t refine their steps or give up their mournful attitudes.’
‘Exactly,’ said Zakharov.
‘But when I watched your first rehearsal with la senyoreta Sánchez, I thought she was very agreeable. Has she not learned the new steps you gave her?’
‘She’s learned them perfectly,’ said Zakharov, throwing up his hands. ‘It’s where she is putting them in the dance that’s the problem. Yesterday she was a horse and today she is the sea!’
El Ruso turned to me. ‘Senyoreta Sánchez, didn’t you tell me that you had no objections to using castanets?’
‘No,’ I told him. ‘I have no objections.’
He walked towards the stage and beckoned me to move closer to him. ‘Do you mind if Zakharov puts some classical Spanish dance movements into your act? Maybe some from folk dances too?’
I shook my head.
‘And what about some dramatic Russian dance steps or Cuban ones?’
I shook my head again. Dance was dance to me: I loved to learn it all. To Zakharov’s credit, he was a gifted dancer himself. There was so much he could teach me. All I wanted was to be able to express myself authentically. I didn’t want to repeat my music-hall days with Manuel. I didn’t feel bound to dance only gypsy flamenco puro, but I’d learned not to disrespect the demon either.
El Ruso turned to Zakharov and smiled. ‘It seems to me you have a very cooperative performer to work with. Why don’t you show la senyoreta Sánchez the steps you would like her to do, and let her decide where and when she does them in her performance?’
Zakharov looked horrified. ‘You mean differently every time?’
El Ruso grinned and nodded. ‘Differently every time … if she so wishes.’
After a rehearsal the following week, I waited until everyone else had left before approaching Gaspar at the piano. I showed him the thousand pesetas that el Ruso had given me.
‘Deu meu, senyoreta Sánchez! You shouldn’t be carrying that amount of cash around. Do you want me to open a bank account for you?’
I shook my head. ‘I want you to take me to Alcañiz.’
Gaspar looked puzzled. ‘What’s in Alcañiz?’
‘My brother Ramón and a friend of my father’s, Teresa Flores García. They were exiled ther
e after the uprising in 1909. Ramón said he would come back for me, but if he did, he was never able to find me.’
Gaspar stared at me. ‘Returning would have meant the death penalty. Let’s hope he didn’t try it.’ He glanced at the money in my hand again. ‘You want to give him that?’
I nodded.
Gaspar picked up his copy of the rehearsal schedule from the top of the piano. ‘All right,’ he said, scanning the pages. ‘It’s meant to be just you and me the day after tomorrow, and then we have the following day off. We can say we are rehearsing at my home. We are going to have to leave early and stay overnight. Is that Diego character going to mind?’
‘His sister will come with us.’
‘Then I’ll see you first thing Thursday morning,’ said Gaspar.
I had known before I had asked him that Gaspar would help me. He was the only person I trusted fully.
I sat down to take off my dance shoes. ‘I don’t think my brother will recognise me,’ I said, undoing the buckles. ‘It’s been ten years since I saw him.’
Gaspar smiled. ‘He’ll recognise you,’ he said gently. ‘There are certain things about people that never change.’
The morning that Gaspar was to take me and Fidelia to Alcañiz, I woke up long before my alarm rang. I didn’t rest well in my new apartment without the sound of the waves to lull me to sleep. On top of that, Diego’s other sister, Raquel, shared the bed with me and had snored most of the night. I’d tossed and turned, unable to stop thinking about Ramón and Teresa. Ramón would be twenty-one now. I wondered what he would look like. What would our first words be after all these years?
Diego’s clothes were soaking in the tub in the bathroom, so I filled the sink with water and washed myself with a sponge. Being ‘a star’ meant my ablutions took longer. By the time I had curled my hair, filed and buffed my fingernails and applied my make-up, an hour had passed by. Fidelia was already in the kitchen when I went to make myself some coffee. She was assembling a picnic lunch.
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