Under the Spanish Stars

by Alli Sinclair

  ‘Really?’ She enjoyed these snippets because they helped piece together the mystery behind flamenco.

  ‘I like that you are interested.’ The smile reached Mateo’s eyes. ‘Rondeña is a palo—’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt but what’s a palo?’

  ‘It is a style of song. For example, in flamenco there are fifty types of palos. Some are more popular than others, of course. Some palos have dancing and singing and guitar, some are only danced by men, others only by women, and some may only have dancing and the palo seco—a stick that is hit on the floor in a special rhythm. It is very complicated, this flamenco business.’

  ‘I’m beginning to see this.’ Charlotte didn’t mind the distraction, at least it would keep her from worrying about Abuela for a moment. ‘So what’s this rondeña?’

  ‘Rondeña is part of the fandango malagueño and is the oldest fandango ever known. The lyrics are mostly about living a simple life in the country and the song has a three-count compás, or rhythm. The dance has no set moves and is one of wildness. Me, I love rondeñas. They are beautiful. The best player of this music is Ramón Montoya. He created a solo guitar style, but it requires special tuning. Listen.’ He fiddled around with the CD player and the cabin filled with slow, haunting guitar strumming and Mateo hummed along.

  Charlotte closed her eyes and allowed the music to wash over her. Out of the flamenco palos she’d heard so far, and they were always playing in the background somewhere in Granada, the rondeñas appealed the most. Perhaps she and Mateo had more in common than she’d thought.

  Mateo.

  Doubts now crept in about him being the kind of man who shows foreign women a ‘good time’. For if he was, surely he would have made a move on her by now. And he certainly wouldn’t be going to these great lengths if he was only interested in one thing. After all, with his charm and looks he could woo just about any woman of his choice but that didn’t appear to be what Mateo was about. His love of flamenco and obvious affection for gitanos showed he had depth, making him all the more alluring. Sigh. And his questioning about her intentions before he took her to the clan also showed he didn’t do things on a whim, not like men who picked up foreign women as sport. Clearly Mateo Vives was different to most, and, as much as she wanted to fight it, a flicker of attraction sparked within.

  Oh, Charlotte Kavanagh, where are you going with this?

  Risking a sneak peek at her companion’s long fingers on the steering wheel, she wondered what it would be like for him to run them over her body. Would he bring as much passion to lovemaking as he did when playing guitar? Would he—whoa! What? Turning to stare out the passenger window, Charlotte concentrated on the fields now covered in a blanket of darkness, a thin film of sweat breaking out on her forehead.

  Get a grip, Kavanagh.

  The music floated through the cabin and she tried to immerse herself in the notes, but her detour into what-if territory with Mateo had shaken her.

  When the song finished, she politely said, ‘I understand why you like it so much.’

  ‘I am sorry, perhaps I bore you with my talk of flamenco.’

  ‘Actually, I really like hearing about it.’ They fell into silence as they turned off the main road onto a smaller one. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way—’

  ‘Whenever anyone says this then what they have to say is likely to offend, yes?’

  She drew her lips together in a straight line.

  ‘It is okay, Charlotte, say what you must. It is hard to upset me. Maybe I am as tough as the old boots?’

  The car filled with laughter and when it fell away, she asked, ‘The reason you’re taking me to see your friends … is part of it because of who my grandmother is?’

  ‘I will not lie and say no. Her departure from flamenco remains a mystery and I am interested to find out if you can solve it. It is strange she does not tell you why.’

  ‘Yes, it is, but she’s a closed book when it comes to her flamenco days.’

  ‘The years of Franco were turbulent. People who lived through this era have a strong opinion about him—love or hate. You must always be careful when talking with older people of Spain because it is easy to upset them, especially if you do not know how they feel about Franco.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And with los gitanos. Always be careful with how you speak with them. Respect and reputation are very important but I am sure you will do the right thing.’

  The list of how to behave grew longer and longer, and although she was well versed in reading people from various backgrounds and cultures as a result of the diversity of clients in her job, the gitanos were going to be her biggest challenge. Thank goodness she had Mateo on board.

  ‘We will see how you go. The shot is long but we will try our best, yes?’

  She wanted to reach over and squeeze his hand, but hesitated, worried about how Mateo would read this action. ‘I can’t thank you enough for the help you’re giving me.’

  He waved his hand in the air. ‘It is nothing. You are a nice person, Charlotte Kavanagh, how can I say no?’

  ‘You certainly know how to charm.’

  Mateo’s grin convinced her he knew exactly what he was doing. Were all men from Granada like this? So far, her experience with Granadian men had been limited to a handful who worked in restaurants and hotels and they’d been polite, but not charming. Not like Mateo Vives with his suave personality and devastating good looks. She glanced at him again as they drove into the night. Even the little bend in the middle of his nose appealed to her.

  ‘Did you break it?’ she asked, pointing at the middle of his face.

  ‘What? My nose? Sí. A little while ago. It is a long story but the short version is that my brother did not agree with what I had to say.’

  ‘He punched you?’

  Mateo nodded, but looked anxious as he slid his hands up and down the steering wheel. ‘Nothing most brothers would not do to each other, yes?’

  ‘I’ve never punched my brother, although he’s deserved it a few times.’ Charlotte smiled, remembering the rivalry between her and Steve when they were teenagers. Thank goodness those days had passed. ‘Aren’t you too old to have fisticuffs with your sibling?’

  ‘Fisticuffs?’

  ‘Having a punch-up fight.’

  ‘I think I am too old, but my brother does not believe this.’ Tapping on the steering wheel, he said, ‘So we are nearly there. Be prepared to go along with what I say and do, okay?’

  ‘Absolutely okay.’ Mateo was going out on a limb for her and she had no intention of creating any angst between him and the people he considered family. Which made her wonder about his biological family, given the snippet she’d learnt about his brother. She sensed that topic, along with many others, was not going to be shared willingly. ‘Is Cristina part of the Giménez clan?’

  ‘Yes. Why do you ask this?’

  ‘I was just wondering why we didn’t speak to her last night.’

  ‘Last night was not the right time. To ask her a favour, it is better if we do this on her territory.’

  ‘This is a gitano thing?’

  ‘It is a Cristina thing. She is complicated.’

  ‘I think she hates me.’

  Mateo held his thumb and index finger close together. ‘Maybe a little.’

  They swung off the road and onto the narrow path that led to a field. A full moon hung overhead, casting a golden light across silken straw blowing in the light breeze. Between the distant trees an orange and yellow glow flickered, and when the car stopped in the middle of the field Charlotte sensed she’d just stepped back in time.

  CHAPTER

  6

  ‘Where are we?’ Charlotte’s voice cracked.

  ‘You are nervous?’

  Charlotte bit her lip and shook her head.

  ‘Charlotte Kavanagh, I hope you are not doing the lying thing.’

  She let out a sigh and said, ‘Going to new places scares me.’

  ‘Why
?’

  ‘Because …’ She took a moment to get her thoughts straight. ‘Because I get worried that people won’t accept me into their group.’ Wow. That had come out so easily, yet she’d never had the courage to say it out loud before. What was with this Mateo Vives? Did he have some kind of super human power with getting her to reveal her innermost thoughts and emotions?

  ‘I can assure you that you are very likable and even though the Giménez clan do not accept outsiders, they will not be rude.’

  Mateo’s words did little to calm her nerves but she exited the car regardless. A lone figure stepped out from the cluster of trees. With arms and legs that went on forever, the woman sauntered across the field, long skirt and dark hair fanning out in the gentle breeze.

  As she drew close, her rosy lips broke into a wide smile but the shadows fell across her eyes. ‘I thought I heard your car, Mateo!’

  Her voice was silky and her Spanish was so clear that Charlotte didn’t have a problem understanding. Maybe her school Spanish wasn’t so bad. Mateo kissed the woman on the cheeks, wrapped his arms around her in a bear hug, then lifted her off the ground and spun her twice. He deposited her back on the earth and they yabbered at a million miles an hour while Charlotte wondered when her presence would be noted.

  The moon highlighted the woman’s face as she turned and narrowed her eyes at Charlotte. It was Cristina, who now screwed up her nose like she’d just experienced a bad smell.

  ‘What is she doing here?’ Cristina’s glare cut through Charlotte’s minimal confidence.

  ‘I’m—’

  ‘Charlotte is here to see El Jefe,’ Mateo interrupted, and raised his eyebrows at Charlotte. Indignation rose in her belly, but she had to play it Mateo’s way, so if that meant shutting up then so be it. Damn.

  Cristina grabbed Mateo’s arm and marched him off into the distance. They glanced at Charlotte every so often while she shifted from foot to foot, catching words in Spanish such as ‘foreigner’, ‘no right’ and ‘no way in hell’.

  As they threw their arms in the air and raised their voices, Charlotte tried to reassure herself that some nationalities had a penchant for drama and what sometimes looked like an argument was, in fact, a friendly conversation. But when Cristina shot her a well-aimed death stare, Charlotte’s hopes plummeted.

  Cristina shoved her finger in front of Mateo’s face a few times before he threw his arms out wide and strode off, leaving a self-righteous, smug Cristina behind him. Grabbing Charlotte’s elbow, Mateo steered her back towards the car.

  Wrenching the door open he sat with a thud and motioned for her to get in the vehicle. ‘It is a no. I am sorry.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ Charlotte reached in and grabbed her handbag, bolting towards Cristina, who stood with her hands on hips, perfecting her stink-eye. Rummaging in the bag as she ran, Charlotte seized the copy of the painting and unrolled it. Pulling up in front of Cristina, she said, ‘Please. Look at this.’

  Cristina turned her head and stared across the empty field.

  ‘Por favor.’ Charlotte reached into the recesses of her mind, willing her memory to grab onto her Spanish vocabulary. ‘Mí abuela … very sad … gran-abuelo painting …’ but the words fell away in an overwhelming sense of defeat. Hanging her head, Charlotte let her arms fall by her sides, the copy of the painting hanging limply from one hand. This was a useless endeavour. For some crazy reason Cristina had a hate on, and couldn’t care less about Charlotte or her grandmother.

  Staring at the ground, Charlotte studied her boots. In her line of vision appeared a hand with long, manicured nails beckoning her attention. Looking up, Charlotte found Cristina’s expression had softened slightly as she motioned for the piece of paper to be handed over. Charlotte did as the woman wished and Cristina held the copy at different angles to allow the moonlight to capture the shades and shapes.

  ‘¿Que es eso?’

  Charlotte replied, ‘Una artista.’

  Cristina tilted her head to the side, eyes focussed on the image.

  ‘It’s from—’ Charlotte stopped herself from mentioning Syeria Mesa Flores Giménez. ‘Una artista from clan de Giménez. My great-grandfather gave it to my abuela and now—’

  ‘Sí, sí. Entiendo.’ She cocked her head in the direction of her community. ‘Ven.’

  Cristina rolled the copy of the painting, placed it under her arm and marched into the forest. Turning to face Mateo, Charlotte waved for him to follow and he raced towards them, his eyes wide.

  Mateo leant over and whispered, ‘How did you change her mind?’

  ‘I don’t know. I tried to talk to her in Spanish … Maybe she felt sorry for me or wanted me to stop mangling her language.’

  ‘Cristina feels sorry for no one.’ Mateo squeezed her shoulder. ‘You have done well.’

  They traipsed through the forest, music and laughter growing louder the further they progressed. Branches and leaves scraped against her skin and caught on her shirt, but Charlotte pushed on, not wanting to lose Cristina. They broke free and arrived at a clearing, but Cristina continued. Charlotte hesitated, feeling like a gatecrasher. Men and women sat around a massive fire, chatting and laughing while a pod of kids ran in between caravans and makeshift houses. Just like in spaghetti western movies, they all stopped what they were doing and silently watched the newcomer amble by. Her heart pounded, sweat pooled at the base of her spine and she wished the ground would swallow her whole.

  As if sensing her apprehension, Mateo whispered, ‘Do not worry.’

  ‘I know I shouldn’t but …’

  ‘They are interested to know who you are and why you’re with me, but they will not say anything to you until we have spoken with El Jefe, the chief. He will decide if you stay or go.’ He placed his hand gently under her elbow and steered her between two houses.

  Cristina wove through the community until she arrived at a caravan, the moonlight casting a peaceful glow on the lime green walls and red trim. A rainbow of carnations in boxes lined the stairs that led up to a bright yellow door. Cristina knocked twice, then turned and held her hand up.

  Cristina entered the van with the rolled-up copy of the painting while Charlotte crossed her arms and rubbed her skin.

  ‘You are cold?’

  ‘Just nervous.’

  ‘I understand.’ Mateo placed his arm around her shoulder, then withdrew it quickly, as if realising what he’d done.

  A moment later, Cristina reappeared minus the painting, a scowl darkening her attractive features. In Spanish, she said, ‘You can stay, but you cannot talk about your grandmother or the artist.’ She mumbled something else, then threw her arms up in the air and strode off, heading towards the group surrounding the fire.

  ‘What was that last bit she said?’

  ‘She’s unhappy because she was expecting no, but got a yes instead.’

  ‘But she was the one who let me into the community and spoke with the chief.’

  ‘Like I have said before, Cristina is a complex woman.’ Mateo rubbed the back of his neck as if struck by an intense pain.

  ‘Maybe she wanted to impress you by appearing to help me.’ The moment the words fell between her and Mateo, she instantly felt ridiculous. ‘I’m not suggesting that she thinks we’re … you know …’

  ‘Lovers?’ Mateo laughed as if it was a ludicrous idea and Charlotte didn’t know whether to be insulted or relieved.

  Embarrassed by her faux pas, she said, ‘I don’t mean to sound rude, but what’s the point in staying?’ Disappointment tugged at her heart.

  ‘Did you think you could come here and find information straight away?’ Mateo tilted his head to the side.

  ‘I guess … I …’ She’d been silly to think it would be so uncomplicated. Blood from stones would be easier. ‘I guess not.’

  ‘First, they must decide if you are trustworthy. Much like I did with you. Accept their hospitality, join in the fiesta and work your charms. Then maybe you have a chance. But you must b
e genuine; los gitanos, they are very good at knowing when a person is fake.’

  ‘So am I,’ Charlotte said, even though she knew it not to be true. Well, it certainly wasn’t the case when it came to choosing men for long-term relationships. Take her last relationship for example … she shuddered, refusing to let herself be drawn into the misery that always surfaced when she thought about Drew, her football-playing ex. Five years of unwedded bliss had resulted in a broken heart and a debt larger than a small African country. That experience had cured her of putting herself at emotional risk. No risk equalled no trauma.

  ‘You are okay?’ Mateo placed his hands on her shoulders, his dark eyes intense.

  ‘Yes, yes, fine.’ She encouraged her lips to kick into a smile. ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘We join the fiesta. Come.’ He guided her through the tangle of makeshift homes, potted plants and kids’ bicycles. Because of all the bad press about gitanos, she’d never contemplated visiting one of their communities but with Mateo by her side, her concern had diminished.

  The aroma of freshly cooked onions and garlic, along with vegetables and meat, greeted them as they stepped into the centre of the community. Cristina stood chatting with a group of women who turned to stare at Charlotte. Even if El Jefe had agreed for her to stay, she got the distinct impression Cristina, and possibly others, were not willing to go the extra mile to make the intruder welcome.

  ‘Mateo!’ A short, bald man jogged up to them. He nodded towards Charlotte, then said to her companion, ‘I must talk with you.’

  ‘Please excuse me,’ Mateo said, reluctance in his eyes.

  Charlotte stepped away, not sure where to place her hands. She tried at her side, but felt like a goof; she clasped them behind her back, but it pushed out her boobs. When she placed her hands in front, she created a barrier between her and the people she needed to impress. It wasn’t until now, standing awkwardly and alone in a community full of strangers, that she realised how much she relied on Mateo as a security blanket. This reliance, no matter how fleeting, disconcerted her.

  Visions of Abuela hooked up to multiple machines in the cardiac unit at the hospital came flooding back. Sadness weighed down on Charlotte, reminding her that Abuela needed answers quickly and no matter how uncomfortable Charlotte felt, she had to suck it up. The odds of winning over the gitanos were long, but right now, she had no choice other than to stay and hope for the best. If only she didn’t feel like a massive interloper.