‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘Well . . . imagine there are lots of different sounds, some loud, some soft, some in between. If you can only hear the loud ones, you’re missing all the other ones, you’re not getting the whole picture. And they might be more interesting, more subtle. More important, even.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘And how can you learn to hear the softer sounds?’
‘I don’t know. Developing other interests, perhaps. I’ve thought of little else but guitars and flamenco for the past couple of years, trying to learn as fast as I could. It’s made me feel lop-sided.’
‘Yes, I’ve always thought it’s very important to have more than one pole in life.’
We continued up the mountain. She wasn’t going to give me any easy answers.
Twenty minutes later we reached the Sierra Nevada ski resort, and the end of the road. The place was deserted. Just a few other cars, and a barrier preventing us from driving on to the radio transmitter further up the slope. We pulled over and stepped out of the car. The air was crisp and cold, such a change from Granada. A few yards ahead of us lay the snow, and we instinctively walked towards it. It was hard, crunchy, off-white.
‘Come on,’ said Grace. ‘We can reach those rocks over there.’
We scrambled over, slipping on the ice beneath our feet.
‘If I’d known it was going to be like this, I wouldn’t have worn this flimsy little dress,’ she said.
A few slips later, and having carried her piggyback across the roughest part of the rocks, we were standing together on a promontory looking back down into the valley we had driven up. It looked dark down there: the shadows were beginning to lengthen as the sun dipped lower towards the horizon.
‘It’s strange,’ she said. ‘It looks blue.’
I stared down and then up towards the brilliant, azure sky. Such a rich, deep colour. So close, it seemed, and yet still out of reach.
‘I feel this is a time for thinking about the need to love and the need to be loved,’ she said. ‘Yes, that’s it. It’s been swirling around inside me for a while, but it’s only now that it has become clear like this. I’m very interested in love at the moment.
‘Relationships can come to you at any time, when you least expect them, or when you’re not thinking about them, but about other things, and they can grow, from somewhere you didn’t expect them to come from.
‘It’s funny, because I’ve lived many thousands of years more than you – ha, ha – yet it’s only now that it came to me: “This is what you should be thinking about.” Of course, that’s today. Tomorrow it may be something completely different.’
I stood still for a while, transfixed by it all. She had the ability to say exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment, connecting with something in me.
‘Over there,’ she said gently. ‘An eagle.’
I turned to where she was pointing. The eagle was gliding slowly and effortlessly, circling below us over the vast open space of the valley. We watched it, following its path up and over the crest of the mountain, one minute stationary, the next swooping down, turning and rising again as it came closer towards us. It was magnificent. Calm and alert, searching the valley floor for possible prey, it had presence; a total mastery of the area beneath its gaze as though the land were part of itself. ‘Watch the animals,’ Emilio had said.
Grace began to walk away, shivering, while I remained for a minute more. It was so peaceful up here; it felt as though any separation between myself and the surroundings was beginning to blur. The eagle turned once more and I followed it down the slope, circling in the dark blue shadows, then up over the hill till it reached the golden outcrop in the distance and disappeared.
Something hit the back of my head. It was cold, hard and wet. I turned and saw Grace with an innocent look on her face, hands behind her back.
‘Don’t look at me,’ she said. ‘I didn’t do anything.’
The snowball was melting and dripping down the back of my shirt. Then she pulled out another two and sent them flying in my direction. I ducked down, to dodge them, scooped up some snow of my own and prepared to launch a counter-attack.
Carmen and I were accompanied by Luis and his kick-boxing girlfriend.
‘I wouldn’t miss this if I were dead,’ he said emphatically as we walked round the back of the Alhambra. ‘I tell you, sex on tap is great, but it doesn’t beat being able to listen to Paco.’
It seemed things weren’t so great with his girlfriend again.
‘She just seems to think I’m some sort of punch-bag. And I told her: a bit of rough, no problem. But at the right moment. I mean look,’ he showed me the bruises on his arms, ‘I can’t carry on like this. Martial arts and flamenco, they just don’t mix.’
Carmen, meanwhile, was skipping ahead, urging us to hurry up. The news had just come through of her acceptance at the Conservatory.
‘All thanks to Juana,’ she said. ‘I’m finally getting out of this place.’
We found our seats and settled down under the clear night sky. The open auditorium was set in beautiful gardens, with the thick, sweet scent of galán de noche blowing over our heads like liquor fumes. There was the usual noise and excitement, cigarette smoke and bronzed limbs. But I needed a pee.
‘You can’t go now! He’s about to come on,’ Luis cried.
‘Back in a tick.’
I made my way out of the auditorium, onto the gravel path, and started looking for the loo. There were people everywhere, guards and ticket collectors, long tables serving as makeshift bars, but I couldn’t find the toilet. In the rush, I decided there was nothing for it but to go behind a tree. I cut through a gap in the hedges and started heading cross-country. After a few minutes I found what looked like a suitable spot, pulled down my fly and relaxed. No-one would see me there, I was certain. But trying to urinate as fast as I could, I heard a rustle nearby. Someone else had had the same idea. I looked up and saw a man with long, dark blond hair, a mournful face and an expression equally astonished as my own. It was Paco.
‘Hombre, Paco!’ I said. Here I was, in the Generalife, pissing next to the greatest guitarist of all time.
‘Hola,’ he said nervously.
‘No toilets backstage?’
‘This is backstage.’
‘Oh. Sorry. It’s just I couldn’t find . . .’
‘Don’t worry. Neither could I. Everyone gets nervous just before going on, and all the toilets were taken. I couldn’t wait.’
We both finished at the same time and zipped ourselves up.
‘Nice meeting you,’ I said.
‘And you.’ He smiled, turning to leave.
‘Good luck tonight.’
‘Thanks for coming.’ And he shook my hand.
I watched as he walked away. He looked uncomfortable on his feet. Too much sitting down practising, probably. Then I looked down at my hand. This was one handshake that would definitely be washed away. I knew exactly where his hand had been before it touched mine.
I was back in my seat just as Paco came onto the stage. He looked different up there, dressed in his traditional white shirt and black waistcoat. The guitar on his lap changed him, somehow. More powerful, more presence.
‘You almost missed him,’ Carmen hissed.
The concert started with a Taranta. Paco sat alone on stage, gradually drawing the audience into the concert as they settled down, and the hum of voices in the hot, perfumed air of the garden fell silent.
For the following piece more members of the band appeared, and the concert moved up a gear. But something happened when El Grilo – the tall, powerful-looking dancer with greased-back black hair – arrived. Previously playing percussion on the sidelines, he threw himself onto the centre of the stage towards the end of a Bulería and started dancing, taking us all by surprise. The man was panther-like, commanding and graceful, and with clean, elegant movements he managed to mesmerise the audience. There was absolute joy in the way he danced;
unaffected, playful, almost childlike.
The hairs began to lift along the back of my neck and arms, an electric energy passed through the audience. He had it, he had duende: holding us all down in our seats and seizing our attention. And we watched him, his tall, dark animal-like form hammering the floor with immense speed, sweat flying from his head, arms thrust out at his side. A moment of near-madness descended upon us for a second, and then, just as quickly, flew away, leaving a hollow, joyous echo.
His performance inspired the other players. Paco, I could see, had been coasting along until then. But now he had something to play for, to play against, as did the other members of the band, and they all responded with more energy, greater passion. It produced a spark, each one trying to improve on the other, while the audience sat back in pure enjoyment, music flowing over and into us, like the scent of flowers. Paco’s playing was sublime.
‘I wonder if I could play like that one day,’ I asked myself.
‘Twenty years of practice, eight hours a day,’ said Luis. ‘That’s what it takes to play like that.’
‘You need genius for that,’ Carmen added.
‘She’s right. The girl’s right.’
Genius and obsessive discipline. It felt like a tall order. Would I ever be able to produce duende?
I was finding other things.
epilogue
* * *
TAK TAKA-TAKA. TAK taka-taka. Tak taka-taka. TAK.
I am woken from my siesta by the rippling of heels against the wooden floor in the next room. The space in the bed beside me is empty. Stretching up above my head, I open the windows to the sunny January air and allow the late afternoon sounds of Gypsy sweet-sellers and mopeds drown out the sharpness of her shoes. My head is still heavy from the rice and verdejo wine of lunchtime and I need five minutes more.
The firecrackers start in the street below; a great thundering crescendo that echoes around the fin de siècle apartment blocks. I am used to it by now – back in Valencia, the pyrotechnical capital of Spain – but it once sounded to me like the beginning of a battle. Echoes of the Civil War.
I get up and go to help Salud prepare for tonight’s gig, although she would never ask me to. Her nervous tension fills the corridor and cannot be ignored. We’re running late, as always. A quick massage of her hands and feet and it will be time to go. Her bag is already prepared: red dress, tights, towel, make-up, a comb for her hair, and shoes. She wears Gallardo shoes for dancing. Coral, the other main make, never last her very long, she says. She has been dancing flamenco for half her life.
After five years away, I have returned, as I always thought I would. Back on the eastern coast, a flamenco connection once again. But different this time – another turn in the cycle. I am still fascinated by Spain, perhaps the only country, as Hemingway suggested. It is a labyrinth-like land, a place only partially influenced by the mechanical world, it seems. I always have the sense that, on turning any corner, or entering any village here, I might pass unexpectedly into an ancient, fairytale world where earth spirits still reign. Or meet an old man with simple phrases of wisdom that are passed down from generation to generation. Fates and duendes, song and blood rituals: this was the land from which flamenco was born and to which it still belongs.
Flamenco Discography
Here is a very personal selection of some of my favourite Flamenco records, in no particular order.
OMEGA – Enrique Morente. The great Granadino sings words by Garcia Lorca and Leonard Cohen to a flamenco and heavy metal backing track. Only Morente can do this. Wonderful.
MI CANTE Y UN POEMA – Estrella Morente. Enrique´s daughter, and the great hope for the future of flamenco.
TAUROMAGIA – Manolo Sanlúcar. Virtuoso guitar-playing inspired by the spectacle of the bullfight.
ALMORAIMA – Paco de Lucía. Anything by Paco is worth listening to. This is a classic of Nuevo Flamenco.
POTRO DE RABIA Y MIEL – Camarón de la Isla. His last album, and possibly his best. The mythification of Camarón is quickly turning into an industry, but listen to him singing por bulerías and you’ll understand how special he was.
A MANDELI – Pepe Habichuela. Simply great flamenco guitar.
OROBROY – Dorantes. Others have tried to play flamenco piano, but it sounds like jazz. Dorantes manages to pull it off, sounding almost like a flamenco version of Satie.
JEREZ CANTA POR BULERIAS – Various. Just for the sense of fun they put into the music. Real juerga stuff.
ESQUILONES DE PLATA – La Niña de los Peines. Perhaps my favourite flamenco track. Raw and passionate. It can be found on various compilation records.
UN RAMITO DE LOCURA – Carmen Linares. Beautiful, mournful singing accompanied by the masterful Gerardo Núñez.
MORDIENDO EL DUENDE – Mártires del Compás. Of all the bands of Nuevo Flamenco, these guys sound the most authentic: rough-edged and unique.
About the Author
Jason Webster was born in San Francisco in 1970 and grew up in England and Germany. After living for several years in Italy and Egypt, he went to Spain where he learnt flamenco guitar. He currently lives in Oxfordshire and Valencia. This is his first book.
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA
A Random House Group Company
www.transworldbooks.co.uk
DUENDE
A BLACK SWAN BOOK: 978 0 552 99997 0
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781407094618
Originally published in Great Britain by Doubleday
a division of Transworld Publishers
PRINTING HISTORY
Doubleday edition published 2003
Black Swan edition published 2004
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © Jason Webster 2003
The right of Jason Webster to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Lines from F. García Lorca are from Poema del Cante Jondo. Verse here by Camarón de la Isla from the soundtrack to Carlos Saura’s film Sevillanas (1992).
Verse here from the song ‘No Estamos Locos’ by Ketama from the album De Alcia Ketama.
The publishers have made every effort to contact owners of the quotations appearing in this book. In the cases where they have been unsuccessful, they invite copyright holders to contact them directly.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk
The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009
Duende Page 27
