FLAMENCO BABY

by Radford, Cherry

‘Mm.’ He looked up and fixed me with his eyes, swallowed. ‘Is what I like, after the show.’

  Pudding? A blonde English girl? I could feel my cheeks burn, a giddiness.

  ‘Cho-co-la-te.’

  How delicious the word sounded in Spanish. ‘Not before the show?’

  ‘Yes, of course, also. And for now the best is… chocolate caliente. You know, to drink. But have to be… calidad.’

  He had a point there. The delicatessen’s in Chapel Market but not the one in the coffee place near the pet shop. ‘I know what you mean. It varies.’

  He took a glass of wine from the tray of drinks offered by a coy waitress. ‘So tell me, how much pay the people to eat, talk with the dancers… or only look.’

  ‘Er… I can’t remember.’ I didn’t like him thinking I was there to only look. ‘But it helps fund everything, and we can go to rehearsals, get ticket discounts…’ And he mustn’t think I’m a spoilt, fantasising rich girl. ‘My friend bought us patron memberships for a year as a present…’

  ‘Is man very generoso.’

  ‘Well… I was upset about something,’ I said.

  ‘Up… No entiendo.’

  ‘Very sad.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looked down for a moment then glanced up again, his black eyes serious. ‘He is bad to you?’

  ‘No! He’s my best friend.’

  ‘Best friend not is good boyfriend?’

  I blushed again. ‘Well he would but… he’s gay. Prefers men.’

  He looked up from his glass, startled. I cursed myself for mentioning it; he might well have inherited homophobia along with his family’s machismo flamenco heritage.

  ‘He is with you?’

  ‘No. In Spain, actually. But he’ll be back soon for the rest of the festival.’

  ‘You come to show of Eva Yerbabuena?’

  ‘Hers and all the others.’

  ‘Excelente!’

  The waiter had returned with a heaped bowl for me. ‘Heavens.’

  ‘You have more.’

  ‘Too much. Would you like some of this?’

  ‘Ah, sí.’ He moved closer to put his bowl next to mine, our heads bowed together, almost touching. My heart started to pound, my coordination uncertain. I concentrated on spooning the profiteroles onto his bowl without dropping any, waiting for him to stop me.

  ‘Sueca?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You are so… pálida… You are from Suecia?’

  ‘Sweden? No, just English.’ He didn’t have to know about my French-Dutch father; I didn’t know much myself. ‘And where are you from?’

  ‘Sevilla.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘You visit?’

  ‘No, but I was… I’d like to, one day. But I’m going to Granada in two weeks’ time.’

  ‘Ah, to see more flamenco?’

  ‘Well to do it actually. But I’m just a beginner… a principiante.’

  ‘Ahora sí, but after of some years maybe you come to my school in Sevilla, no?’

  ‘You teach?’

  ‘Of course. When I can.’

  Then one of the organisers was saying she’d love to introduce him to somebody, and he was led away - saying something to me in blurred Spanish that I couldn’t understand.

  On my own again, I noticed that the room was thinning out. But I wasn’t ready for the evening to be in the past; I wanted to look into those black eyes again, hear more of that resonant, caressing voice.

  I went to the cloakroom and bumped into Sarah.

  ‘Well aren’t you the dark horse! Sharing your pudding - we couldn’t believe it!’

  ‘What did you learn?’ Miranda asked.

  ‘He likes chocolate. Sorry, desperate for the loo.’

  I went in to one of the toilets and waited until I couldn’t hear them laughing anymore, then came out and put my coat on, wondering whether I could say buenas noches to him as I walked past.

  Then there was a gentle hand on my arm. ‘Perdón… I need speak.’ I turned and saw the cantaora. ‘Nando want take chocolate with you.’

  My ears started ringing.

  ‘Entiendes mi inglés?’ she asked with a laugh.

  ‘Er… yes, but… where?’

  ‘He say you know, where is good. You say and I say him.’

  ‘But it’s late, the places are closed. Unless…’ Oh God. ‘I have some, at my flat, just in the next street, but…’ I laughed nervously.

  ‘Perfecto. You write the… dirección?’ she asked, miming writing movements.

  I hoped she couldn’t see that my hands were shaky as I pulled a biro and a credit card receipt from my bag. I wrote my address and a picture showing the streets and their names.

  ‘He going soon.’ Perhaps I looked worried; I could hear Jeremy’s protective voice in my head. ‘No te preocupes. Is good man,’ she added with a smile.

  I dashed home: I wanted to tidy up, have a word with myself about what the hell I thought I was doing. Because, after a passionate performance in a cold, damp foreign city, how could a man with a fine sense of finale possibly be turning up at my flat for just a hot chocolate? It was going to take more than the correct use of the subjunctive tense to say no to anything more. But then he was so beautiful… A shiver of fear and excitement ran through my body. I glanced at the calendar: I’d had period pain… when? This is stupid, I thought, if I’m going to become a sperm bandit I really need to start being aware of the terrain.

  Bandit. Well not really…I wouldn’t ask for money or anything… just somehow let him know, let him visit if he wanted to… I could tell the child that his father was an exquisite performer, a good man. We had fallen in love one evening, but his touring had made any further relationship impossible. I took a deep breath and breathed out slowly, dazed with nerves. Told myself I wouldn’t lie: if he asked, I’d admit I had no contraception. And it couldn’t happen immediately: we needed to talk, I needed to get to know him a bit…

  The chocolate. Piping hot and delaying things. I opened the cupboard: yes, there it was, but… I shook the tin and prised the lid off. Shit. Barely enough for one. But I’d recently put it on the shopping list. Where the hell was it? I started sliding jars of coffee, tea boxes and Nurofen packets around the shelf. Fuck. I grabbed my keys and dashed across to Jeremy’s.

  Once in his flat, Jeremy’s whispering disapproval in the back of my head became a shout: his desk insisted on the safe sex he included in his novels; the sofa begged me to remember my repeated promise, murmured there in a cuddle, that I wouldn’t do anything rash in the next few months. Yes Jeremy, but you’re not here, your refusal leaves me no choice, and spring has come unexpectedly early.

  I ran to his kitchen, almost tripping over Pavlova who’d leapt into leg-winding action. I shook some more food into her bowl to get her off me and opened the cupboard. Yes: a Bourneville and an unopened Green and Black - we even had a choice. Then my intercom buzzed - faint from there but enough to make my heart stop. Oh God. Did I have time to take the tins to my flat? Yes. But… keys? I scanned the kitchen surfaces, thrust my hand in my skirt pocket. My eyes darted around the room. The sofa: I’d put them on the arm, and yes, they’d slid down the side when Pav had run along it. I dashed out of his flat and to the front door.

  He was wearing a leather jacket now; he could have come straight off the set of Starsky and Hutch. And the womanising Latin I was planning to succumb to wasn’t there: he was barely able to smile, shivering in the cold rainy wind like an animal out of its habitat.

  ‘Come in, you’re soaked.’

  He followed me into the living room. ‘Lo siento, I come here but I not remember your name.’

  ‘I don’t think I said… And I can’t remember which…’

  ‘Is very good here, tranquilo, warm,’ he said, looking round the room. He took off his jacket, sat down on the sofa.

  ‘Siéntate,’ he said, patting the sofa beside him. ‘Dime, cómo te llamas?’

  ‘Yolande.’

  I sat down nex
t to him with my hands on my knees, having difficulty looking at those eyes. Thinking, I absolutely can’t do this.

  ‘Is Spanish name.’

  ‘With an e I think it’s French… or from Holland.’

  He smiled. ‘Yoli. Is good name for you. And please, I am Nando, no Toni. He has wife, Pilar - you have meeting with her.’

  ‘The cantaora?’

  ‘Yes.’ He leaned back and rested his arm on the back of the sofa. ‘And now, Yoli, we find if we like the same…’ Oh God. ‘You make chocolate for me now?’

  ‘Right,’ I said, smiling with relief. ‘But I left it in Jeremy’s flat… I’ll just go and get them.’

  ‘Kher-e-mi?’

  ‘My friend.’

  His eyes widened, that frightening look again. ‘Is far?’

  ‘About a metre.’ I opened my door and unlocked Jeremy’s.

  ‘Ah!’ He jumped up in one movement and followed me.

  I went to the cupboard and got out the tins, turned to explain the difference between them. But he was examining the photos on the bookshelf: Jeremy and I with his mother before she started looking ill, pictures of us with our sand creations on the beach in Cádiz or in various stages of progress with the garden.

  ‘He love you.’

  ‘And I love him.’ But right then I resented his intrusion. I went towards the door, but he was running his finger along the books, the DVDs. I had to stop myself saying ‘come on now’ like I do to my pupils if they start fiddling with things in the room before getting their music out.

  ‘And he love Spain also.’

  ‘We both do. But Jeremy’s an expert - he used to be a travel writer.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘He’s working on his third novel.’

  He turned to me in surprise, as if wanting to know more. But I held up the two tins. ‘We have to decide which.’

  He smiled and followed me back to my flat. I set myself to heating up the milk, while he wandered around the room asking questions about my music stand, my flute playing and teaching, photos of Charlotte and my nephews and niece.

  ‘And why you are not married?’

  I wondered if the Spanish had a word for nosey parker. I got out the mugs, opened the cutlery drawer. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But en serio, you are married, to Jeremy.’

  And I thought, damn Jeremy’s photos, damn the way the shopping always ends up in his kitchen, and damn myself for mentioning him in the first place. ‘Of course I’m not. Come and see which you prefer.’ We sat down on the sofa again and I started to feel buzzily sick.

  ‘Flamencas!’ I’d used the red spotted mugs I’d bought at Jerez airport.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you know, you not say if you like the show.’

  ‘Didn’t I? Well of course I did. Particularly Pilar’s song and the way you danced to it. I couldn’t understand the Spanish but…Where do you… find that feeling, in the words or…’

  ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘And more. From my life. There is no other way to dance flamenco.’

  Such sadness, anger. Did he have these in his life? ‘You miss your family, in Seville?’

  ‘Always. My parents, sisters… But of course I also have my other family - Toni and Pilar, the others.’

  I held my mug, wondering if he also had a girlfriend he missed.

  ‘What is this?’ He pointed to my Spanish book.

  I leaned forward and picked it up. ‘I’m trying, but—’

  ‘Ay, cuidado!’ he said with a laugh. He reached forward to take a bit of my hair that had dipped into my chocolate.

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Permit me help.’ Then he moved closer and put the ends of my hair in his mouth.

  I laughed nervously. ‘Thanks.’

  But he wasn’t letting go. He stroked the ends of my hair on his upper lip, apparently deep in thought, then his hand was at my forehead, pushing back my hair and running his fingers down it. ‘You know, while the chocolate is too hot, we can have… concierto. You play for me?’

  I was feeling so breathless I didn’t know if I could.

  ‘Please?’ He touched my shoulder. I suddenly wanted him to put both arms round me and squeeze; perhaps if I played beautifully he would. So I smiled, got up and put my flute together; I was going to sing for my supper, sing for my squeeze… but what? Something dark and dramatic to match his own performance? Or romantic? Maybe both: Syrinx.

  ‘What you like, what is you,’ he said.

  Was I Syrinx? A nymph pursued by the lecherous god Pan, with tragic consequences… I knew it by heart but put the music on the stand, needing somewhere to look.

  The haunting calling sentences of the opening filled the flat. A pause. The faster, flamboyantly rippling melodies of the chase, followed by quiet chromatic searching and then, confident of success, a lyrical, excited ascent… Only to end in a long, vibrating note of anguish, heartbreakingly vulnerable falling phrases, and a disappearance into silence.

  ‘Better not play anymore, neighbours don’t like it this late,’ I said.

  He got up and came towards me… but he just stood next to me, looking at the music. ‘Beautiful. Very beautiful. Thank you,’ he said, nodding his head and smiling to himself.

  No squeeze. No abrazo. And it suddenly occurred to me that I’d got this all wrong: he really was here for chat-and-a-chocolate, with a bonus concert. An aching sadness spread through me, followed by a wave of irritation. ‘Chocolate will be getting cold.’

  ‘No, no. It will be perfect,’ he said, back on the sofa.

  I sat down again, weary and hurt but more relaxed, tucking my feet up beside me. He tried each mug, and had a preference but I couldn’t remember which was which. He asked me whether I thought cocoa being organic affected the flavour and I said I had no idea.

  ‘Yoli? Qué pasa?’

  ‘Nothing’s the matter.’

  ‘Come, there is something.’

  I smiled and picked up my near-empty mug, but he took it from me and put it back on the table, turned my face towards him. ‘Qué pasa?’ Almost whispering, those black eyes searching so deeply that they’d see the flicker of lie.

  ‘I want a cuddle.’ A puzzled look. ‘Quiero un abrazo.’

  ‘Ah.’ He laughed and nodded. ‘Is no problem.’ A firm warm arm came round my back and pulled me over, and I rested my head on his shoulder. He kissed my hair, my neck. But I needed to believe this was happening, needed to see his face…

  ‘Ay…!’ he said, smiling and clutching his chin where I’d bumped it with my head.

  ‘Ooh, sorry.’ I cupped his stubbly face in my hand, but he took it and kissed it. Then he pulled me over again and gently kissed me on the lips. Like Jeremy, I realised, and quickly banished the thought. Then he was squeezing me, so hard I could hardly breathe, and he was kissing me again, his tongue in my mouth…

  And I thought, this is going to hurt. But then, didn’t it always? It would just be a much accelerated version of the usual pattern: instead of the months before having sex there’d be just hours; all in one night there’d be the excitement and heavenly discovery of each other, followed by comfort, a level of misplaced trust, and then the polite but brutal abandonment. But until then this beautiful man is all mine, I thought, running my hands through his long soft hair. And maybe, just maybe… I needed to see his face again, see what he was feeling. If he was feeling. It was important, not just for me… I pulled back.

  Concerned, his eyes darker than ever but gentle, no longer frightening me. ‘Yoli… you not want…?’

  Sweet, sweet man. A good man. But before anything else happened I wanted to feel the simple comfort of his arms and chest. Without the shirt. Surely not much to ask. I started undoing his buttons, saying something daft like ‘better abrazo’, and he watched for a moment with a bemused grin before taking it off. He started to try and undo mine but I was making it difficult, snuggling into him and exploring his smooth olive skin and fine black hairs, the lean, hard mus
cles of his chest. And hesitantly, his taut tummy and the arrow of black hairs pointing downwards in to his jeans. He laughed softly as if I was tickling him, and then on impulse I kissed him there, affectionate really, almost joking, but he suddenly tensed, breathed out heavily and groaned, deftly unbuttoning his jeans and starting to push me down… But inside my head I was screaming no, not this… it’s too…

  The phone. I sat up, heard my daft cheery message. I was saved, but also somehow caught. Because I knew who I was about to hear.

  ‘Switch your mobile back on, you idiot. Where are you? Bit late, Yol. What are you doing? You haven’t dragged señor Molino or Morales back to the flat to give you an intensive lesson in Spanish, flamenco or strong, Latin s—’

  I’d reached the phone and punched the button to switch off the speaker. ‘You woke me up,’ I said into the receiver, sounding far from sleepy.

  ‘Oh sorry. Good show?’

  ‘Yes, fantastic. But I’m really tired… speak to you tomorrow, okay?’

  ‘Alright. Night-night then.’

  I stood there looking at the phone, couldn’t face turning round. But I didn’t have to: Nando was putting his arms round me, and kissed my cheek. His shirt was back on, his jacket over his arm.

  ‘He’s joking, I don’t… I’ve never—’

  ‘Is okay, I know this. I’m sorry, Yoli, I not understand. And is late now, I go, have to sleep.’ He released me and put on his jacket.

  I took him in as if for the last time: the black eyes that stood no lies, the full mouth that I’d kissed… I ached for him, hated myself for my failed courage, resented Jeremy for ending the evening. Even if it was all inevitable.

  I followed him into the hall; he opened the door, seeming hurtfully keen to escape. But once on the doorstep he turned back to me.

  ‘Come and see me tomorrow, after show. At stage door.’

  A rush of speechless pleasure.

  ‘Sí?’

  ‘Sí.’

  Then he strode down the road, a dark figure quickly blending into the night, as if he’d been a figment of my imagination all along.

  Back in the living room I put the mugs on the kitchen work surface, put my flute away. Picked up a cushion that had fallen off the sofa - and saw something flutter to the floor. I picked it up: the credit card slip. I turned it over to see if the trembling of my hand had shown. My heart thudded. An arrow to my house had been added, along with ‘aquí vive tu esposa!’ Here lives your wife. Wife: probably what Pilar calls all his chocolate-making infatuated women. A stupid, cruel joke. No, not cruel - I wasn’t meant to see it. I threw it into the waste paper basket.