Duende

by Jason Webster

  I slipped her a note at the school as I waited for a class of ten-year-olds to arrive: a hastily scribbled message asking her to meet me at the bar after class. We could head off together from there. She said nothing, her face deadpan. I had learned to recognise this professional guise. It was functional, the harsh, unfriendly mien she wore; the only way she could survive. But I knew she had conceded and would show up.

  I headed to our usual bar. It was 10.30. Ginés, the sweaty owner, was sitting on his stool at the far end of the bar chewing on a toothpick and reading Las Provincias, the local right-wing newspaper. Behind him postcards from Ibiza and Menorca decorated a corkboard with images of breasts and naked men on the beach. I asked for a brandy. He didn’t stir. Despite being a barman, Ginés was always too proud to take any orders. In his mind, we were unwelcome guests.

  Pilar, Rafael and a few of the other members of our flamenco circle were all there at our usual table by the window. But so, I saw to my alarm, was Juan. He was the one person I feared: he knew me better than any of them and seemed to be able to read my emotions. Once Lola arrived, he was almost certain to pick something up. I sat down and lit a cigarette, deliberately avoiding the two spare places on the wooden bench next to Rafael. Instead I squeezed in next to Pilar, away from Juan’s direct gaze.

  Lola turned up a few moments later. The discussion had turned to Vicente Amigo, the young new Córdoban guitarist. He was a rising star, ‘the new Paco de Lucía’, and everyone wanted to record with him. Pilar loved his music and enthused energetically.

  ‘He’s wonderful. He’ll be one of the greats, I tell you. Watch him. So good looking! Have you seen it when he lifts his head like that when he’s playing? Ay!’

  ‘Are you sure it’s just his music you like, Pilar?’

  ‘Shut up, Rafa. No really – yes of course, he’s gorgeous, but his playing, really . . .’

  I contributed nothing, wanting to attract as little attention as possible. But Lola thought differently.

  ‘You’re talking shit!’ she cried. There was a start. They knew her for being forthright, but this was a shock. Pilar’s bulging eyes bulged even more.

  ‘Vicente Amigo is a complete prick! He’s a sell-out. Have you listened to his stuff? It’s pure jazz.’

  ‘B-But Vicente is a great guitarist,’ Pilar countered nervously. ‘What are you talking about? Even Paco likes him.’

  ‘Fuck! Paco, Paco. He’s the past. He hasn’t produced anything decent for years.’ This was close to blasphemy. There was a murmur of indignation around the table. Rafa took in a long, cold breath. I could see him mentally preparing the case for the defence.

  ‘But what about his playing with Sanlúcar on Tauromagia. That’s one of the most amazing recordings ever made.’ Pilar kept up the fight.

  ‘Amazing recording, yes. Ever wondered why they never play it live? Can’t. Too complicated. I tell you, this Vicente has had it too easy. Great flamencos don’t come from getting fat cheques in the post every week. He’s soft. There’s no edge there.’

  Rafa decided to weigh in at this point, the peacemaker, in his logical, bank-employee type of way.

  ‘Well, I’m not so sure about him receiving fat cheques, as you say. Now, yes, perhaps. But not always, I don’t think. I met a man in Barcelona once who knew Vicente and . . .’

  He rattled off a list of facts, record deals, sales figures . . . and the argument was deflated. Pilar was still upset, though. She took the attack personally. Lola sat opposite, defiantly drawing on her cigarette. Rafa droned on. I looked round at Juan, who had been quiet throughout, and his bright blue eyes looked into mine. There was an expression there as if to say: ‘I know something is up here. I’m not quite sure what it is, but something is happening with Lola, and I’ve half an idea that you might be involved in some way.’ I smiled and he raised his eyebrows quizzically.

  The conversation continued, empty and lifeless now. Ginés finally brought our drinks after everyone had calmed down. I was anxious and impatient, though. How were we going to move from here? I had got as far as the meeting in the bar, but what happened next?

  In the end, it was simple. A glass of something cold and wet knocked itself over her blouse. Surprise, concern, tissues produced to dry it up. But no good. She stood up.

  ‘I’ll have to go home. It will stain.’ She looked up. I read the cue. My legs straightened, the chair was pushed back behind me and I stood up. The timing was almost right, maybe slightly too fast.

  ‘I’m off as well. I have to get up early tomorrow.’ Nods of understanding. We said our goodbyes and passed together out the door. No-one seemed to pay much attention. Except maybe Juan. I pushed the thought out of my mind.

  We headed down the avenue, away from the station.

  ‘Come on.’ I grabbed her hand impulsively, all need for caution erased in the urgent desire to feel her skin against mine. In all of this, the passion and the excitement of the affair, it was the new experience of simply being touched in her uniquely intense and affectionate way that mattered to me most. ‘Let’s go to my place,’ I said.

  ‘Are you mad?’ She pulled away. I blinked in surprise. ‘Someone will see us. I can’t be seen walking into a man’s house at this time of night.’

  A couple of teenagers, their arms draped around each other as if they had been welded there, came round the corner and walked between us. I watched them disappear into a doorway.

  ‘But this is a city. It’s dark. Nobody will see us.’

  She lowered her voice. ‘I’m telling you this is a small town and, yes, someone will see me.’ She paused. ‘And they’ll see you, too.’

  I shrugged the comment off. I felt indestructible.

  ‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘I always bump into people. Always. It’s just the way with me.’

  I laughed incredulously.

  ‘Listen, it’s true. I was once walking in Italy, on a tiny mountain path, and I came across the couple who run the supermarket round the corner from me. It happens every time.’

  I shrugged. She was adamant. I could see the night slipping away.

  ‘OK, so what do we do?’

  ‘Go to your place, pick up your guitar and wait for me in the sidestreet. The one with the cinema.’

  Ten minutes later we were back in her little car, cigarette smoke pouring out of the open windows as we headed once again out of the city, streetlamps and car lights glaring at us as we passed. We drove north, into the shelter of the coastal hills. It was dark and I quickly lost my bearings; the moonless sky gave no clues. After twenty minutes we reached a dirt driveway and turned off the road. Three or four crude white country houses were partially visible, half-hidden behind pine trees. We carried on for another half a mile, then stopped. There was no sound. Even the crickets seemed to have gone to sleep.

  ‘Come on!’ She dragged me along in the dark. ‘I don’t want to wake anyone up.’

  I picked up my guitar and we felt our way to the door. She pulled out an old, rusty key and fitted it into the lock.

  It was pitch-black inside, with a gritty smell that caught in the back of my throat. I walked into what felt like a chair. Lola struck a match and lit an oil lamp, then another, and a candle. I looked around. We were in a single-roomed building with an earth floor. A wooden table with a blue formica top stood in the middle, a sink to one side, some chairs, a rusty fridge and a bunk-bed against one of the walls. Everything was thickly layered with ancient dust, the kind you feel could smother and kill you if overly disturbed. On the back wall was a grubby, colourless picture of the Virgin and Child. A jar of almonds had fallen onto the floor.

  ‘I bought this a few years ago when my mother died and left me some money. I thought it might come in useful one day. Everyone needs a bolthole.’ She smiled. I dusted off a chair and sat down while she produced a bottle of wine.

  ‘Here, open this.’

  I put down the guitar as she rinsed a couple of scratched tumblers standing by the sink. It was Valencian wine, the s
tuff she’d warned me against. I said nothing and we sat and drank in silence, an emotional lull after the tension and excitement of getting here.

  After half a bottle she stood up with a start.

  ‘Get your guitar out, guiri!’ I leaned over and did as I was told, lifting the instrument out of its case and resting it on my thigh. It felt good, pushed up against my hip, my hands stretched over it, ready. It was beginning to feel like an extension of myself.

  Lola crossed her arms and lifted off her top, exposing a thin white cotton vest tucked into her lilac corduroy trousers. I tuned up as she stretched her legs.

  ‘I only ever dance in skirts or dresses. But this time, I suppose . . .’

  She spun sharply with her back to me and began to dance, clicking her fingers above her head. Tak tak tak. Taka tak tak. Her heels pressed rhythmically into the dirt floor, slowly at first, then faster, kicking up more dust in the thick half-light. Her head bowed, one arm stretched out, hands twisting like flames in the air. There was an intense, almost pained look on her face, eyes half-closed, brow tightened, mouth open slightly as she took short, shallow breaths. Something about her, I realised, was only given full expression in dance. At school she was cold and formal. Outside, at the bar or if you saw her in the street, you might notice something about her from her walk. But it was subtle, hidden. Only now, when she danced, did her all-embracing sensuality show itself. I was enchanted and absorbed.

  She signalled to me to accompany her. I had to work out which palo she was performing. I struggled, watching her feet closely, frightened of failing her. What was she doing? Fandango? Sevillana? I listened to the rhythm harder than I had ever done before. Then it clicked. It could hardly be anything else. Tango.

  I started playing, hesitantly at first, missing the beat for a couple of seconds until finally coming into line, like a telescope focusing sharply on a once distant scene. Tok, takadan, takadan, dan dan. Tok, takadan dan-dan-dan. She swayed, pounded, arched, while my fingers hammered the strings. Watching her footwork intensely, I worked hard to keep the tempo. And for a moment, just a moment, it was as if her dancing and my playing became one. The divisions between us faded and a surge of energy passed around my arms and neck. But almost as quickly as I became aware of it, I lost it, wobbling out of beat. I tried to get myself into line once again, to force the guitar to obey, but failed. She brought the dance to an end and stood in front of me, breathing heavily. I didn’t look up. I was exhausted and invigorated. She leaned over, kissing my head.

  ‘Not bad for the first time, guiri. Not bad.’

  We stepped out into the still darkness, the sweat drying on our skin in the warm midnight air. The silhouette of the surrounding hills was faintly visible against the starred sky. I walked to the car, stones and dead wood grinding under my feet, and waited as Lola locked the door. Still no noise. Lola approached and stood facing me. A change had come over her. Despite the blackness, I could see she was anxious.

  ‘You can’t be seen in my car with me. Not at this time of night.’ The intimacy of a few moments ago had gone.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can’t get in the car.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, you can’t be seen in the car. That’s it.’

  I could barely believe what she was saying.

  ‘It’s late, everyone will be in bed. No-one’s going to see us. And if they do, you’re just giving me a lift, that’s all.’

  ‘No, it’s impossible.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Lola. It’s miles.’

  She was adamant. ‘You’re not getting in that car!’

  Our voices had risen from high whispers to low, hoarse shouts. I was worried we might wake people up. But we had both taken a position and were refusing to yield.

  She made a move to the car and I lunged forward to stop her. I was damned if she was going to leave me here. Pushing against me as I tried to remove her from the door of the car, she turned round and fought back. Her nails tore into my shirt and sank into the flesh of my chest. Hair flew into my eyes as she tossed her head from side to side. I tried to close her in with my arms, aware that if I let her go, her nails would scrape through my skin, but she pushed me back and away. Together we slipped on the loose stones, stumbling to the side and as we did so, her nails gouged deep scratches across my body. I stood apart, bent with the stinging pain, warm blood soaking into my shirt. She knew I was hurt but didn’t move. Concerned, guilty even, but she would not back down.

  There was a solution to all this, one she must surely have been aware of but had refused to acknowledge in her anger. I stepped towards her, snatching the keys from her hand. She didn’t resist. Picking up my guitar, I opened the boot of the car and climbed in, huddled in the tiny, dirty space next to tins of oil and mangled jump leads. She waited a moment, then walked round, took the keys back from my outstretched hand, slammed the black lid down over me, and drove off.

  She opened the boot to the orange streetlights of the city, its hot, damp air like a suffocating blanket. We were in a sidestreet near the esplanade. She didn’t want to drop me anywhere near my house. That would mean giving in. I climbed out, wiping oil stains off my face, trying to disguise my stiffness and the stinging pain in my chest, but willing to forget our fight. She refused to look at me. I pulled out the guitar and turned to say goodbye, but she ignored me and drove off without a word. Shaking my head, I set off home, unsure if we would see each other again.

  chapter FIVE

  * * *

  Por Tangos

  El vecino del tercero

  a mí me mira con seriedá,

  porque dice que yo tengo

  con la vecina amistá.

  My neighbour on the third floor

  looks at me darkly

  because he says

  I’m too friendly with her next door.

  ‘YOU’RE MAD.’

  It was the first time I had seen Eduardo worried.

  ‘And you tell me she’s married?’

  I looked down. He laughed and raised his hands to the sky.

  ‘I told you, she’s trying to get a divorce, but it’s not so easy with the kids and the business.’

  ‘The business?’

  I sighed. ‘Vicente. He’s my boss. At the language school.’

  Eduardo grimaced, took a drag on his cigarette, then slowly and deliberately leaned towards me.

  ‘You may think you’re becoming a flamenco. But be careful, son. Be very careful.’

  It was getting hotter, and my clothes began to stick to my skin in the salty, humid air.

  ‘You’ll know when it gets over thirty-seven degrees.’ The pied noir running the photographic shop beneath my flat was fanning himself by the door with an old copy of National Geographic. ‘When you blow on the tip of your nose it feels cool. That’s when your body temperature is less than it is outside.’

  I felt suffocated, both by the weather and the situation with Lola. It was impossible to be lovers when she feared all the eyes of the coast were trained on us. Our argument at her country bolthole had been forgotten, but we would never be able to go back there again. It felt jinxed. And so I spent most of my time thinking of opportunities and excuses, or places where we could be together and alone, with no fear of discovery. The school and the bar, the places we would normally see each other, were dangerous, but we improvised by passing notes to each other whenever we could – in between lessons, or if I nipped out to the office in the middle of a class, when she was most likely to be on her own. Once she came to my flat, but it didn’t work – too many fears about being seen – and we ended up in another shouting match. ‘Never again!’ she cried up the stairwell as she raced away. The tension was part of what fuelled our passion, but at times it seemed to strangle us.

  I left the newspaper one exceptionally humid day after the air conditioning had failed. Heading through the orange and white tower blocks of Benidorm for the main road back down to Alicante, I could see the coastal mountains half-hidden abo
ve the haze. They looked so far away. I had grown accustomed to driving up and down the coast road and it was easy to forget this green and luscious world was, in fact, close at hand. You only had to lift your eyes.

  I turned off and sped up the hill. It would be cooler up there, I thought. And less humid, with any luck. After only a few minutes, the change was dramatic. The light became sharper, and as the road wound round, I looked down with a sense of relief at the sea-front and the cloud of dense humid air hanging over it. Pushing on, I drove along olive-lined roads, through La Nucia, where the English had introduced car-boot sales to the Spanish, and through Polop, famous for its spring water. Then narrower roads as I went higher and higher. Guadalest, an ancient Arab castle, appeared ahead, a white turret sitting above a bright blue lake, set like a lapis lazuli in the hillside. There were some tourist buses that made it this far – the castle was a popular day-trip destination for anyone tired of beach life – but I was interested in what lay beyond Guadalest, the unchartered territory further up the valley. That was where I wanted to be: beyond the reach of the coastline.

  I started to plan. I would find a village somewhere off the road, walk into the bar, have a brandy, ask the barman if there was anywhere to rent in the area, he would say yes, I would then see it and take it on the spot. A silent country retreat, far away from the city and the coast. Inland, where nobody would recognise us.

  I skirted round the elephantine coaches lined up in rows on the outskirts of Guadalest and passed higher up into the valley. Pro-Catalán graffiti was daubed on the low walls at the side of the road: ‘Long live Cataluña’, ‘Death to Spanish imperialism’. The air blowing through the window was cool, lighter and cleaner. My spirits lifted. It was just a question of where to stop, which village to go to. I drove on, and the further and higher I went, the freer I felt.