‘Did Mademoiselle Louvet recommend you do that?’
It wasn’t a question I had been expecting and it stumped me. But I was tired of lying. It was as if flamenco was somehow shameful and should be hidden, like taking drugs.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It was something I wanted to do myself.’
Mamie regarded me incredulously, but she hadn’t reacted as negatively as I had anticipated. ‘Come on, Paloma. You are a ballerina at the highest level. I hope you have a quality teacher. What style of flamenco are you learning? Spanish or gypsy?’
‘Spanish,’ I said. ‘Probably something similar to the classical Spanish dances you were learning before you took up ballet.’
Mamie seemed relieved and went back to dusting — although there was something besides dust motes hanging in the air now. Mamie was acting nonchalant, but her shoulders were tensed; she looked like a cat that had been disturbed during a nap.
‘The name of a dancer from Barcelona keeps coming up,’ I said. ‘She was supposed to be one of the greatest dancers this century. I wondered if you knew her. Her name was la Rusa.’
Mamie spun around. Anger flashed in her eyes. ‘La Rusa wasn’t a dancer!’ she spat. ‘She was a whore!’
My jaw dropped. In all my life, I had never known Mamie to react to anything this way; had never seen her attractive face scrunched into such livid lines. It was clear now it wasn’t flamenco Mamie disliked. It was la Rusa.
Mamie glared at me. ‘Don’t ever mention her name again!’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, berating myself inwardly. Hadn’t I promised not to ask any questions about Spain to spare Mamie anguish?
‘And how dare you go sneaking around my back?’ Mamie continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘Lying that you are out with Gaby! After all I’ve done for you!’
That moment with my grandmother staring at me, enraged, was one of the loneliest of my life. I couldn’t bring myself to reply.
‘Get out!’ Mamie shouted, turning away from me. ‘Go practise for your audition. Or go to your flamenco classes — or whatever it is you do these days. But don’t come near me!’
I fled the studio and ran to my room. My heart ached so much that I could barely move my arms. Usually when I was distressed, I dealt with it by practising ballet. It was dance that had got me through my mother’s death and my father’s betrayal. But now the very idea of putting on my ballet shoes and standing at the barre filled me with revulsion. The degree of loathing I felt terrified me, as if I were a mother who has suddenly realised that she hates her child. I rushed to the bathroom and stood in the shower, but even the warm water running over my skin couldn’t calm me.
I dried myself and pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt. I left the apartment with no idea of where I was going. I ran down the stairs, tugging on my scarf and coat as I went. The students for Mamie’s first class were arriving. ‘Bonjour, Paloma,’ they said as they passed me. I did my best to smile and pretend everything was normal, but something was very wrong. I couldn’t breathe.
Out on the street, I started to run with no destination in mind. If I could have stopped my mind racing, I might have considered that Mamie’s fury wasn’t directed at me. But I couldn’t think. I couldn’t stop.
I reached avenue Victor Hugo and headed in the direction of the Palais de Chaillot. I cut through the jardins du Trocadero and crossed the Seine at the pont d’Iéna. The Eiffel Tower loomed up ahead. ‘A Spaniard without a ghost is like Paris without the Eiffel Tower,’ Manuel had said. I passed the tourists studying their maps in the parc du Champ de Mars, and the joggers, rollerskaters, lovers, and students listening to Black Sabbath on their portable radios. I walked through the fifteenth arrondissement, only stopping when I came to l’hôpital Saint Joseph and I realised that I’d been walking for over an hour.
It occurred to me that I wasn’t far from Carmen’s apartment so I turned in that direction. I tried to remember if Jaime had said he was doing something today or not. As it was for Mamie, Saturday would probably be Carmen’s busiest day for classes at the academy. Would Jaime be helping her there or studying at home?
I rang the bell to the apartment with little expectation that anyone would answer. But a moment later the door opened and Jaime stood before me wearing a turtleneck ski sweater and black corduroy pants.
‘Bonjour!’ he said, with a smile. ‘Or should that be “Bon dia!”?’
I tried to return his smile but tears poured down my cheeks instead.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked, guiding me inside the apartment. ‘Did you ask your grandmother about la Rusa?’
‘Mamie told me to get out of the studio. She’s never been so angry with me before.’
Jaime touched my arm. ‘Come up to my room,’ he said. ‘I found something I want you to hear.’
To reach Jaime’s room, we had to climb a foldaway ladder in the studio. The space was a partly enclosed mezzanine. The walls were lined with shelves of books, records and flamenco memorabilia. An autographed poster of the guitarist Sabicas hung above the bed, which was covered in a red chenille bedspread. The light from the triangular window was muted by a pair of rust-coloured curtains.
Jaime indicated an oversized velour beanbag. ‘Have a seat,’ he said. ‘Can I get you anything? A coffee?’
I shook my head and sank into the burgundy beanbag. The room smelled like sandalwood incense. I stretched out my legs on the shag rug and noticed the orange paper lantern hanging from the ceiling. There were so many shades of red in Jaime’s room that I had the sensation I was resting inside a giant heart.
Jaime picked up a record off his desk. ‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked, showing me the cover. ‘It’s a recording of your grandfather, Gaspar Olivero, playing with a jazz band at the Samovar Club in 1928. That’s about the time he met your grandmother, I think?’
Avi playing with a jazz band? Until a few days ago, I would not have believed such a thing.
‘Most likely it was recorded on a gramophone disc before being converted to vinyl,’ Jaime said. ‘The sound quality isn’t so good, but your grandfather’s playing is superb!’
He dropped the needle onto the record and sat down next to me on the beanbag. Time seemed to stop as we listened to Avi play. I wondered what my father might have said about his performance. Although the recording was crackly, Avi’s technique came across as clean with complex and profound improvisations.
My life has become so strange, I thought. It was as if the people in my family had been wearing masks and were suddenly revealing their true natures all at once — my father, Avi, and now Mamie. Why did my grandmother hate la Rusa so much? If they had been enemies, why had la Rusa visited me and given me the golden earrings?
The record finished and Jaime and I were quiet for a few minutes. Then Jaime turned to me. ‘You look better,’ he said. ‘The colour has come back to your face. When I saw you at the door, you looked as if you’d seen a ghost!’
The irony, I thought. I shook my head. ‘I had some sort of panic attack this morning,’ I told him. ‘Like the ones Mamie used to get when she was my age.’ I rubbed my eyes and allowed myself to sink further into the beanbag. ‘Every day, for as long as I can remember, I have always practised my ballet. But today, the very idea of it made me want to be sick. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I think I’m going crazy.’
Jaime rolled on his side and put his arm around my shoulders. I liked the feeling of him being so close to me; the warmth that he emanated. I wanted him to hold me tighter, but I was scared of that too.
‘Sounds like burnout to me,’ he said. ‘Some people get it after ten hours, others after ten days, ten weeks or ten months. You’re a bit slower than most: it’s taken you ten years.’
I smiled. ‘You always manage to make me laugh,’ I said.
‘I’m glad.’
Jaime’s eyes focused on my lips, but then we both suddenly felt shy and looked away from each other.
‘Seriously,’ Jaime said after a
while, ‘you can’t be a great artist if you are too uptight. You have to let things flow naturally.’
‘Do you think I’m uptight?’ I asked him.
He grimaced. ‘Well … yes!’
If anyone else had said that to me, I would have been mortified. But I knew Jaime was right. I remembered Mamie’s description of Avi, how she’d said the piano was an extension of his arms. Jaime was like that with his guitar. The music simply poured out of him. Did I ever feel that way about dancing? That it wasn’t a strain? I realised that I did about flamenco — but not ballet. Not since I was a child anyway.
‘I’m so tired,’ I said, closing my eyes.
‘Why don’t you take the day off?’ said Jaime. ‘And not feel guilty for doing it?’
‘A day off,’ I said, grinning. ‘And what am I going to do on my day off?’
‘You are going to let me show you around Paris.’
I laughed. ‘I was born here. I know Paris very well.’
‘Do you? Well, I don’t believe you’ve seen Paris with me. I think we should start with the view of the city from Sacré-Coeur.’
I sat up. ‘I didn’t bring my car.’
‘Did you come by Métro?’
I shook my head. ‘I walked.’
Jaime’s eyes widened. ‘You walked?’ He gave a chuckle. ‘Well, never mind. I have transport.’
I waited in front of the apartment building while Jaime went to the rear courtyard to get his ‘transport’. A few moments later I heard the hum of a motor scooter coming down the street and turned to see him heading towards me on a Vespa. He brought it to a stop in front of me.
‘Hop on,’ he said. ‘It will be a bit cold, but if you lean against me I’ll keep you warm.’
I don’t believe you’ve seen Paris with me. Indeed, I had never experienced my own city with my arms around a young man’s waist, weaving in and out of the chaotic traffic with the wind in my hair. I felt as though it was me zipping around Paris rather than the scooter; I wasn’t closed off to everything as I was in Mamie’s car. I took it all in — the bare winter trees, the soft sunshine, the faces of the pedestrians. It was noisy and exhilarating. I hadn’t felt so free since I had ridden a bicycle as a child, before I became fearful of injuring myself. Some of the students at the ballet school had owned scooters but I’d always declined their offers of rides home, too cautious to tempt fate.
We turned into boulevard Saint-Michel and stopped at a set of lights. I saw Gaby walking along with several shopping bags on her arms. Our eyes met.
‘Paloma!’ she called out. Her glance went from me to Jaime and her face broke into a smile. I just had time to wave to her before we took off again.
I blinked my eyes. I felt like I was in a dream. We reached the cobblestoned streets of Montmartre and I thought how wonderful it would be to live there: to open my window in the morning to see artists at their easels; the old matrons walking their dogs; the performers coming home from the clubs.
Jaime parked the Vespa and, arm in arm, we walked past the postcard and souvenir shops then up the steep slope to la Basilique du Sacré-Coeur. The beautiful Romanesque-Byzantine church was brilliant white against the soft blue sky.
‘There are more stairs than I remember,’ I told Jaime when we reached the top of the hill and the rooftops of Paris stretched out before us.
‘I thought dancers were supposed to be fit,’ he teased.
I squeezed his arm. It wasn’t because I was unfit that I was breathless.
We found a bench to sit on and Jaime put his arm around me. I loved the sensation of his warm breath against my neck.
‘So are you enjoying your day off?’ he asked me.
‘Very much!’
‘And are you enjoying seeing Paris with me?’
I turned and looked at him. ‘Yes.’
He leaned towards me. I closed my eyes when his lips touched mine. His kiss sent butterflies spinning in my stomach. We broke apart and smiled at each other. Then we kissed again, this time more passionately. We pressed our bodies together so tightly it was as if we were trying to melt into each other.
We stayed on the bench the rest of the afternoon, kissing and talking. Finally the winter light grew weaker and the air turned too cold to stay there.
‘Would you like something to eat?’ Jaime asked.
We walked down the steps holding hands. I felt different. The Paloma who had gone up to La Basilique du Sacré Coeur was not the same one coming down from it. I had been distressed that morning, but now my brain had turned to dough and I was blissfully peaceful.
We stopped at the first café we found, which was full of tourists. Many Parisians hated tourists, but I loved seeing their animated faces and listening to their excited chatter as they shared stories of their sightseeing. I was glad that my city had such an enlivening effect on them. I was glad that today it had shared its magic with me. I had been training so hard these past few years that I had ceased to notice it.
Jaime and I ordered some tomato soup and bread. I reflected on his earlier observation that I was uptight. Then my mind drifted back to what Carmen had said in my first flamenco lesson — how the internal force of one’s spirit needs to combine with the spirit of the dance and the music. She had called that union ‘duende’.
‘Jaime, what exactly do flamenco artists mean when they talk about duende? In normal Spanish it means a poltergeist-like spirit.’
‘Now, there is a contentious topic!’ Jaime replied, rubbing his hands together. ‘Few artists can agree on exactly what duende is and whether it exists or not. Some say it is essential to flamenco, while others say it is nothing more than a fanciful idea coined by the poet and flamenco aficionado Federico García Lorca. I’ll tell you what I think it is: it’s that moment when any artist, not just a flamenco one, transcends their ego and channels into their art something greater than themselves.’
‘By something “greater than themselves” do you mean God?’ I asked.
‘Something spiritual and something universal,’ he explained. ‘It may be God or it may be something else. Musicians, dancers, writers, artists — they all talk about this moment of fusion between themselves and a greater force. Their audiences sense it too, and the effect is powerful. Athletes experience it as well: they call it “being in the zone”.’
I thought about what Jaime was saying. My father had talked about a similar experience when he was giving a concert, although he had never given it a name. He’d told me how there were times when he’d been tired or unwell and had wanted to cancel a concert because he was afraid that he wouldn’t play to his best standard. But when he went out on stage, suddenly something else would take over and he would give one of the most inspired performances of his career and the audience would be ecstatic.
‘The gypsies never used the actual term duende,’ Jaime went on, ‘but I’ve read about how they often referred to a “demon” that would possess a performer at some point and transform a simple performance into an extraordinary spiritual experience. For them, that idea of duende was always connected to deep grief and the mystery of death.’
‘You know, in that first class I felt something,’ I told him, ‘even though we were doing the basic first step. I had a sense of having danced flamenco before.’
He nodded. ‘I saw it too. You had a profound connection to flamenco that made you stand out in the class. It wasn’t only that you’re a trained dancer; there was a presence about you. It’s interesting, because while you have a family connection to Spain, it’s through Catalonia. As you know, the Catalans are closer to the French and Italians in their way of thinking. But when you dance, you are pure Andalusian.’
I found what Jaime was saying interesting, but disturbing too. I had only seen la Rusa’s ghost on one occasion, but what if she was around me all the time and I simply couldn’t see her? Was that why she had given me the golden earrings, so that she could possess me through them? I thought about the research I’d covered at the Bibliothèque Saint-G
eneviève: Some ghosts are demonic and will possess you if you attempt to make any contact with them. Hadn’t Mireille Fourest’s book also warned that ghosts retained the same personality they’d had when they were alive? If Mamie hated la Rusa so much, she must have good reason. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that la Rusa was evil and the golden earrings were a bad omen.
I was even more perturbed when Jaime brought up la Rusa at the same time I was thinking about her.
‘You know, talking about duende, la Rusa was considered to be one of the most powerful possessors of it. I’ve read accounts of people crying and inflicting all sorts of harm on themselves because they were so moved by one of her performances. I do remember seeing a film with her in it — not one of her glitzy Hollywood ones, but a Spanish flamenco film made before the war. She really owns the dance she performs. There’s probably a copy of that film in the Conservatoire’s library. Do you want me to book a film room and we can watch it together?’
The idea of seeing la Rusa on film frightened me. It was one thing to listen to my beloved Avi on a recording years after his death, but to see la Rusa alive and animated … I wasn’t sure if I could face that. It might be inviting trouble.
Jaime seemed to have a sixth sense for knowing when I was uncomfortable about something. ‘What is it with you and la Rusa?’ he asked. ‘It’s more than interest in her as a phenomenal dancer, isn’t it? Does it have something to do with your grandfather?’
I wanted to tell Jaime the truth. But after the way I had shown up on his doorstep that morning, did I need to give him more reasons to think I was unstable? I knew that if I told him about la Rusa, he wouldn’t be so insensitive as to laugh in my face, but I was worried it would turn him off me. I lowered my eyes.
‘Come on, Paloma,’ he said quietly. ‘At some point you’re going to have to trust me. You’re going to have to let me inside that tough shell of yours.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Every Spaniard has a ghost, apparently. And I’ve discovered mine.’ I lifted my eyes to see that Jaime was looking attentively at me. I sighed and sat back. ‘This is going to sound crazy.’
Golden Earrings Page 25
