‘Providence has obviously brought you here.’ He spoke in English in a deep, clipped voice. ‘One of our teachers left us suddenly. She was pregnant.’ There was only a hint of Spanish in his near-perfect accent, and I could tell from his reaction the moment I opened my mouth that I had made an impression. Vicente seemed to have a love for ‘old-fashioned’ England, and my accent was enough for me to fit in with his world view straight away. He gave me the job on the spot.
‘Welcome,’ he said warmly. ‘Glad to have you aboard. Lola, my wife, will sort out the paperwork.’ He steered me back to reception, but Lola had gone. For a moment Vicente’s suave manner gave way to extreme irritation, and he swore under his breath. Then he turned around, smiling. Would I mind coming back tomorrow?
Pedro was not at home when I arrived at the house, so I went to the beach to pass the time. Children were splashing in the light-speckled, late-afternoon water, while men with felt hats read newspapers in the shade of palm trees. Three elderly women walked topless along the shore, their pendulous, darkened breasts heavy on their swollen bellies. No self-consciousness, no attempts to change or hide their shape. Not showy, either. What would Franco have thought of this, I wondered.
Pedro came past, skipping like a boy on the hot sand to avoid burning his feet.
‘Pedro, I’ve got a job!’ I called out. He stopped, smiled, then put his finger to his pursed lips and walked away behind the rocks. A few moments later he returned, dripping wet. In the midday heat, the need for a swim had obviously been the most pressing thing on his mind.
‘Come along, Watson,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and celebrate.’
Within a week I had moved into an empty flat of Pedro’s in the centre of the city. Palm trees caressed the bay windows, which looked out onto a wide open boulevard below. There was a curious Heath Robinson device used to open the main door, involving ropes and pulleys, which took half a day to master. I was on the second floor above a photography shop run by a skinny Algerian pied noir with bad eczema, a nagging Italian wife, and two enormous sons who helped him with the business. Their shop was dark and dingy and seemed to have virtually no customers.
‘One day I’ll open up an Italian restaurant here,’ he would say. ‘Or at least that’s what she wants,’ he added, gesturing towards his wife and smiling ruefully.
Next to our building was a café permanently inhabited by workmen knocking back enormous brandies, and beyond that, the city’s main lottery shop. The place was always full, mostly with middle-aged housewives with harsh memories of the past, hoping that today they would strike lucky. On the other side of the flat was an optician’s fluorescent, flashing thermometer, which made patterns on my living-room wall – except when it rained, when the water invariably blew its circuits. Across the road was a tobacco shop run by an old woman; a left-over from the dictatorship, when Franco allocated these jobs to the nation’s war widows.
The money earned from the school was just enough for me to live on. It turned out to be a friendly and lively place and, as I had suspected, was the best and most successful English school in the city. Classes were usually held in the late afternoons and evenings, leaving me the rest of the day free to wander. Most mornings I would walk down to the esplanade for breakfast, read the paper, and watch the sailboats come and go from the harbour. Then it was off to explore the castle, the old town, the beach, the red-light area, the Gypsy quarter, always looking in vain for some sign of flamenco: a bar, a concert hall, or even someone just playing it from an open window. There was nothing.
Ever since the night of the performance in the main square, I had been puzzling over the powerful experience it had produced in me. Duende. The dictionary merely defined it as ‘goblin’ or ‘earth spirit’, or, in a flamenco context, as ‘soul’. But this was like nothing I had ever felt before, and far more intense than anything I had ever experienced listening to jazz or the blues. There was something mysterious about it too; Pedro’s reluctance to tell me any more about it had made me curious, and I wanted to find out more. But I had yet to make any progress. The obvious option was to talk to the dancer at the school, to Lola. But the problem was how to approach her. Her sharp manner made conversation difficult. What should I say? ‘Magnificent performance. Is your ankle better now?’ She would probably never speak to me again. Most of the staff were daunted or even frightened by her no-nonsense, abrupt attitude. She appeared to be slightly less aggressive with me, but even so, her manner did not invite small-talk. I planned various strategies, determined not to lose this opportunity, waiting for the right moment. But as I prevaricated, I realised I was beginning to find her spiky aloofness attractive. She was fiery and passionate underneath, I convinced myself, and very flamenca. She possessed an intense spirit and an air of suppressed energy. I had seen it in her dance. Some of the looks she gave her husband would have destroyed a lesser man. I had to talk to her.
I spent a week procrastinating, thinking of ways of bringing up the topic in general conversation, but in the end it simply happened. It was late, the school was closing, and the other teachers had already left. Lola was alone in reception. Sensing that this was it, I grabbed my chance.
‘You’re a dancer, aren’t you?’ I said. ‘Flamenco.’
She looked up from her desk and gave me a scrutinising look.
‘Te gusta el flamenco? You like flamenco?’ she asked.
Ten minutes later we were in the bar below the school. I told her of my interest, how I’d come to Spain looking to find out more. She sat listening, smoke from a Ducados cigarette curling up from her lips, and for the first time I saw the beginnings of a smile.
‘Tell me, though,’ she said. ‘How did you know?’
‘Know what?’
‘How did you know about me, and flamenco . . .?’
I wanted to be able to say something about seeing it in her eyes, her hands, her body, but the courage escaped me.
‘I saw you dance in the Plaza Mayor a few weeks ago,’ I said nervously.
She burst out laughing, a low, rich, belly laugh rushing through her wide open mouth.
‘Then you must know what a great dancer I am,’ she said. She was smiling, her brown eyes now shining and warm. ‘But what makes a guiri like you come all the way from England? Just flamenco? Or is there something else? I bet you’ve got yourself a nice little María tucked away somewhere. Eh?’
She was on the offensive again, and the way she called me guiri – a derogatory word for foreigner – had jarred.
‘No. There’s no-one. I only came here for flamenco.’
‘Then why, for the love of God, did you come here? Alicante? It’s hardly the place to be. You should be in Madrid, or Seville. Not here. There’s nothing here. Nothing.’ She spat the words out.
‘You’re here,’ I said quietly.
She looked at me sharply. I realised the mistake.
‘I mean, you love flamenco, and you seem to manage here,’ I said.
‘That’s different. It’s not the same for me. You’re free.’
‘But what about the concert,’ I said. ‘It was magnificent. How can you say . . .’
‘It was a one off. You don’t think we have that sort of thing here every night, do you? They aren’t from around here. They’re friends from Murcia. It’s the first time in years we’ve had anything. You were lucky, that’s all.’
‘It was the best thing I’ve ever seen.’
‘Really?’ She was genuinely surprised. ‘The best concert?’ She laughed and looked away. ‘You’ll see better. This is only the beginning, remember? You wait. You’ll see some of the greats: Cristina Hoyos, Paco de Lucía, Enrique Morente . . .’ Her voice tailed off.
‘And I thought you danced very well.’
‘What?’
‘No, really. There was tremendous spirit there. It was just unfortunate . . .’
‘It was a cheap stage. The town hall paid for it. What can you expect? It was unfortunate. But – thank you.’
We were si
lent for a few moments. Remembering the fall seemed to annoy her. I wished I had never brought it up.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘You won’t find any big flamenco scene here. No tablaos, no flamenco bars. This is not Andalusia, or Madrid. People here don’t like flamenco. It doesn’t belong to them.’
I looked away.
‘Listen to me.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I have a small group of friends – aficionados. Some of them play. We meet up every now and again to fool around, but it’s nothing serious. It’s all I can offer you. But you’d be better off leaving tomorrow and going somewhere else.’
It seemed she wanted me gone. But I already felt half-settled. I didn’t want to be moving on again. Not now.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m staying.’
She smiled and placed her hand on my arm. ‘Wait for me after class finishes tomorrow. I’ll introduce you to the others.’
We drove out of the city in the failing autumn light, heading inland past olive groves planted in red earth and sharp-sweet smelling eucalyptus trees. The landscape was different here: greener, lusher, less barren than the area around the city. Blue-tiled church domes dotted the countryside like islands of water in a sea of dark, heavy green.
We wound up the deserted road then turned off onto a dirt track that seemed to lead us into a field. It was darker now, and I could see some lights ahead. We arrived at what seemed to be a small barn in the middle of nowhere. About a dozen people were milling around, carrying food and glasses inside.
The ‘barn’ was in fact some kind of house, like a shepherd’s cottage. It was much colder here than down on the coast and a fire was burning in the hearth. On seeing Lola, there were genuine cries of delight, warm embraces, and a spontaneous and friendly energy filled the room. I was introduced as a new member of the club. Everyone came over to greet me with kisses and handshakes. They seemed like a very ordinary group of people. Not many of them were actually flamencos; most were simply there because of the company and to hear performances by those who could dance or play the guitar. I was taken to one side by a small, intense, wiry woman with bulging eyes, called Pilar. As she led me away, I turned back and saw Lola already surrounded by a group of men by the fire.
Pilar was firing off questions like an artillery barrage. How did I become interested in flamenco, where was I from, when did I arrive, how did I know Lola, what was I doing here in Alicante?
I told her I was looking for a guitar teacher.
‘Oh! Then you must talk to Juan,’ she said.
‘Juan! Juan!’ she called across the room, gripping my arm. A man seated by the table looked up from his beer.
‘Juan,’ Pilar said, ‘he wants to learn to play.’
Juan lifted his arm and, with a simple flick of the fingers, beckoned me over. Pilar tagged along behind.
‘Juan,’ she panted, ‘he said he likes the guitar. He’s looking for a teacher.’ Then to me she said, ‘Juan used to teach the guitar, but he hasn’t done so for years. Isn’t that right?’
Juan nodded and then pointed to an empty chair next to him. There was no room for Pilar.
I looked at him. He was small, with white skin, black hair, and brilliant light blue eyes. There was something serious and melancholy about him.
The music had begun. A man on the other side of the room was playing a guitar, while four or five people clapped out a complicated rhythm. Lola began to dance.
‘You know what this is?’ Juan asked, turning to face me. I had the impression he didn’t want to watch.
‘No. I don’t.’
‘This is called Bulerías. It’s one of the most difficult palos in flamenco. It’s fast and frenetic. They say nobody can work it out unless it is explained to them. Only Gypsies used to know it. Now it’s common property.’
‘I feel I want to clap along,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know how. Every time I try, it comes out wrong.’
‘That’s normal . . . at the beginning.’
‘Can you teach me?’
He screwed his face up for a moment, eyes squinting, scrutinising me. ‘I haven’t taught for years.’
‘I know, but . . .’ I had to think of something. ‘Everyone’s told me what a wonderful guitarist you are.’
‘Really?’ He was suspicious. ‘Who?’
‘Oh, Pilar. Lola . . .’
‘Lola?’
‘Yes.’
He went silent for a while, turning his gaze back to the throng. Lola and another man were dancing together in the centre amid the rising din. She lifted her skirt in a handful at her waist, flirting with her eyes.
Juan took in a deep breath, and then without looking at me, beckoned me to copy him as he clapped.
‘Twelve-beat rhythm,’ he said. ‘Listen to the stresses. Follow me.’
Some time later Lola came and bent over me, so that I could hear what she was saying. Her skin was damp with sweat, her face radiant.
‘Are you enjoying it, guiri?’ she asked breathlessly. I nodded.
‘I see you’ve found yourself a teacher.’ She flicked her head towards Juan. He didn’t respond.
‘Well, I hope so.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Juan’s the best there is.’
Juan stood up and went to get himself another drink. I looked around quickly. Pilar was nowhere to be seen.
‘I hardly got a chance to speak to Juan,’ I said. ‘Your friend Pilar . . .’
‘Oh, Pilar. You have to watch out for her. Doesn’t know when to stop.’
And she walked back into the middle of the room, clapping her hands and shouting to one of the other dancers.
The music continued as the evening wore on. Juan returned and began to explain to me the different palos: Tangos, Alegrías, Rumbas, each with a different rhythm and feeling. And then later, as the drinking continued, other pieces: Soleá, Seguiriya, slow at first but often speeding up towards the end in a dramatic climax.
‘Compás – rhythm,’ he said, ‘is the most important thing. Flamenco begins and ends with compás. Or at least most of it does. It depends.’
I was confused.
‘I’m sure you’ll get on fine,’ Juan said. ‘Fine.’
The guitar began again. Lola was back in the middle. She is beautiful, I thought. I leaned over to Juan.
‘Duende,’ I asked. ‘What is duende?’ He laughed.
‘Have you ever been in love?’ he asked.
I didn’t reply.
‘Duende is love,’ he said. ‘Duende is being in love. It is being with people you love and care for.’ He paused. ‘Like now.’
chapter TWO
* * *
Por Rumba
No estamos locos,
que sabemos lo que queremos.
Vive la vida
igual que si fuera un sueño,
pero que nunca termina
que se pierde con el tiempo.
Y buscaré.
We’re not mad, we know what we
want.
Live life as if dreaming,
a dream which never ends and is lost
in time.
And I will keep on searching.
Ketama
‘FLAMENCO IS ORGANIC. A living thing that will become your life-force . . . if you practise hard enough.’
It was late afternoon and I was sitting in Juan’s red flat: red walls, red floors, red chairs, red table, red curtains hanging over red windows.
‘Red is the colour of flamenco,’ he would say. ‘The colour of passion.’
He served coffee from a red pot into red cups and we stirred it with red-handled spoons. Everything, from the corridor to the bedroom to the bathroom, was red. The toilet paper, however, was pink.
‘Yes,’ he said, looking a little disappointed when I pointed this out.
The flat was a temple to flamenco. Pictures of past greats stared down at us from the walls: the singer La Niña de los Peines with her thinly pencilled eyebrows and heavy, bad-tempered face; the dancer La Argentinita, the flamenco mus
e of the 1920s and 30s who inspired Manuel de Falla to write his famous El Amor Brujo; and Ramón Montoya, the first flamenco to develop the guitar as a solo instrument – fat and immaculately dressed as the previous generation of flamencos always had been. Juan had old guitars placed in corners, or hanging from the walls, as if he needed a constant reminder of who he was. I couldn’t be sure if it was reflected light, but I could have sworn some of them had a red tinge in the varnish.
Juan spent most of the first lessons guiding me through the array of flamenco objects dotted around his flat. It seemed to please him to have someone to show off his memorabilia to and for the time being I went along with it, happy to delay the serious business of starting to play in earnest. I told him I could barely hit a note and was coming to flamenco with hardly any musical knowledge; a plea, I suppose, for him not to expect too much. Despite his friendliness, I could sense there was a fierce temperament in him, and a moodiness that I wanted to avoid as much as possible.
Flamenco music played all the time. Juan had hundreds, possibly thousands, of records and CDs and an entire wall was taken up by a sophisticated stereo system, which was black: luckily there were no red ones on sale. He seemed to spend most of his time buying expensive pieces of kit to add on to it, producing some crucial improvement in the sound quality. I could never tell the difference, but he always swore by his gadgets. And when not playing the guitar, Juan was usually tapping out some complicated rhythm with his fingers, flicking them out one by one with amazing dexterity. Invariably as I walked into his house for a class, a new recording was blaring, while he rapped his knuckles in time on the counter like a typist.
‘Have you heard this?’ he would shout enthusiastically above the music. ‘It’s the latest from Carmen Linares. I met her once. Nice woman. I love her singing.’ At this point I would put down the guitar and head to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water.
‘The cables for the speakers are new – made of gold,’ he would shout through. ‘It gives a purer sound. More heart. More love.’ And he would pound the centre of his chest while looking up at the red ceiling.
Duende Page 3
