‘Charlotte?’
‘I’m fine.’ She turned back to the grey-black sky, aware of his hand on her leg. Lightning continued to flash, then a loud clap of thunder broke above. Seconds later, fat drops of rain pelted the car and the visibility disappeared.
Mateo took his hand off her leg and turned on the wipers, but they were useless in the deluge. Turning onto a small road, he parked the car away from the towering trees. ‘It appears nature is forcing us to stop. Perhaps now would be a good idea for a conversation.’
Charlotte closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. Unless she wanted to make a dramatic exit into the storm she was stuck here with an attractive, albeit frustratingly persistent, Spaniard.
‘Like you, there are things I prefer not to talk about,’ she said.
‘You prefer not to talk or refuse?’ Mateo arched an eyebrow and leant in close. His sandalwood scent tickled her nostrils and she tried to refrain from grabbing his collar and pulling him towards her so she could try out those beautiful, soft lips.
‘Painting is just a hobby,’ she blurted out.
‘I do not know a lot about art, but I can see the material you bought is professional.’
Thunder broke above them again and goosebumps broke out on her skin. The temperature had plummeted and she ran her hands up and down her arms, totally unprepared for the change in weather. Removing his jacket, Mateo passed it to her and she took it, not wanting to discourage his chivalrous gesture. The warmth from his body remained on the fabric and his luscious scent lingered.
‘Thanks, Mateo.’
‘It is the least I can do. Now, Charlotte Kavanagh, tell me about this business of the painting. Do you paint because of the picture your grandmother has?
‘No!’ she said, a little too strongly.
Mateo moved back, holding his hands in the air as if defending himself.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled and studied the intricate weaving on the sleeve of his dark green woollen jacket.
‘This is okay. We are all prone to the outbursts, yes? So, tell me, why the change in the mood?’
With the storm outside making it impossible to drive and a gorgeous flamenco guitarist giving her his full attention, she didn’t have any chance of avoiding the subject. Better to bite the bullet and get it out in the open.
‘My grandmother thinks I should follow my heart and paint professionally. I once had a lot of galleries interested in my work. Despite my father thinking art is a waste of time he gave me leave to work on an exhibition. If it proved successful I would be free to walk away from the family business.’
‘This is a lot of pressure for one exhibition. Does it not take years to get a reputation?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘Many critics loved my work, but the public didn’t vote with their wallets. I … I failed.’ The rain pelted so hard she worried the roof would cave in.
‘Did you sell any?’
‘Only one—to my grandmother. She wouldn’t let me give it to her. She said I had worked hard and therefore needed to be remunerated for my efforts.’
‘She loves and supports you very much, yes?’
‘She does. That’s why I’m so desperate to help her.’
‘Of course, I understand. But I must ask this: if you received the praise from the critics, it would only be a matter of time before you sold all your paintings, yes?’
‘I didn’t have that luxury. I’d stupidly made a deal with my father and I had to follow through. The sale to Abuela didn’t count in my father’s eyes and, as much as I hate to admit it, I do understand where he’s coming from.’ Hurt surged through her, the humiliation of the financially unsuccessful exhibition still fresh in her mind. ‘You need to understand that my grandparents struggled with money and so my father grew up without much. He had a lot of love, sure, but that’s not enough for a growing kid. Food, shelter, clothing … there were times he had none of these, even though Abuela and my grandfather worked extremely hard. When he became an adult and had his own children he pledged that none of his family would live in poverty and the only way to avoid that was for his children to get a good education.’
‘If your grandmother is poor, how did she find money for the painting?’
‘My father may be opinionated but he is very generous. My grandparents used to live in rural Australia and they owned a small insurance business servicing farmers. Unfortunately, they barely made any money. So my father bought the firm and paid my grandparents handsomely, setting them up for life. My father moved the business to the city and now it’s a major success. We still look after the farmers—they’re my favourite clients. I love going out to see them. There’s something special about rural Australia.’ Her head filled with images of red dust, affable farmers and scones with jam and cream.
‘From what I’ve seen, your outback looks beautiful. Your father sounds like a kind man.’
‘He can be—when he wants. He’s made sure Abuela doesn’t need to scrimp and save these days and she’s appreciative, but it doesn’t stop her from speaking her mind with him.’ Charlotte smiled with fond memories of Abuela wagging a finger at her son over family lunches and telling him to stop being so pig-headed. He took it like a good son did, but still went on his merry way, doing what he felt was best for him. Always him …
‘I can understand the wish of your father for his children to have a good education and secure job but sometimes the soul needs to be free or else it will wither and die.’ His tone held barely concealed bitterness. ‘Why would you let your father dictate what you should be doing?’
‘In the end there was no point in arguing with him. I realised that I’m not good enough to paint professionally.’
‘You say this after one exhibition? If I gave up flamenco after my first performance I would never have ended up this happy. I did the drowning thing. Played so badly, made many, many mistakes but I did not let it stop me.’ Mateo gave her a gentle push in the arm. ‘You need to grow some cojones.’
Charlotte let out a small laugh. ‘Maybe.’
‘There is no maybe. You grow the cojones and you follow your dream. ¿Entiendes?’
‘Yes, I understand.’ She tried not to grit her teeth.
‘You should quit.’
‘Quit what?’ she asked, completely confused.
‘Tell your father you quit, then follow your dream to paint. If the risk is small, the success is small. If the risk is big, the success is big.’ He spread his hands, palms up. ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘I’m not a quitter.’ She crossed her arms, aware she was being defensive, but decided to leave them where they were.
‘Yes, you are.’
‘Am not.’ How did Mateo make her revert to sounding so childish? It was like being in Abuela’s presence with the relentless questions over her choice to dump her artwork. ‘Besides, since I’ve spent the last few years assessing risk for work, it’s impossible to take risk in my own life.’
‘How can you expect to be happy if you do not do what makes you happy?’
‘But painting makes me miserable.’
Mateo glanced at her, perplexed. ‘I do not understand.’
‘Neither do I.’ Mateo opened his mouth and she held up her hand. ‘Please, let me finish. Perhaps I have enough talent to become a professional, but I don’t have the confidence. That first exhibition affected me deeply. Painting is like music and dance—the minute we make it public we are judged. I don’t want people to constantly assess my work, but if I’m to make any money from it then I have to let them, right? I just don’t know if my skin is thick enough for that kind of life.’
‘So you would rather pursue a career that makes your father happy, but your life miserable. Does he not want to see his daughter making the most of her abilities and find peace with herself?’
‘Of course he does, he’s not an ogre by any means. He thinks he’s doing a favour by pushing me to have this career so I can set myself up for life. I don’t
blame him for it at all. But there’s no point in giving up my current career if I don’t have the guts to become a full-time artist. Basically, it’s lose-lose.’
‘If you want to look at it that way.’ Lightning flashed above the hills in the distance. ‘Family is important, yes, but sometimes dreams are much bigger, much stronger and we should embrace them even if they make us scared. If we do not follow our passion, then we cheat ourselves from finding our true self. Would you run a marathon and quit just before the finish line?’
‘Of course not. I’d drag myself on my hands and knees if I had to.’
‘Then why do you not do this in real life? Get yourself across the finish line, Charlotte Kavanagh. Do not waste a minute worrying about what other people think. It is your marathon, your life, your dream, and no one has the right to tell you otherwise.’ He punctuated his speech with a sharp nod of the head.
‘You sound like my grandmother.’
‘She is a wise woman. I think I would like her very much.’
‘I think she’d like you, too.’
The rain let up and the thunder and lightning rolled into the distance. Mateo started the car, the wheels sloshing on the waterlogged road. When they reached the highway the car gained speed and Charlotte’s mind didn’t have a problem keeping up. Thoughts about her artwork, her father, her dreams whirred in her head, tugged at her heart. Why, when she was in the presence of Mateo Vives, did she have a burning desire to lose herself in Spanish and gitano culture? Had he found a way to tap into the very small part of her Spanish genes? And why hadn’t she been to Spain before now? Probably because Abuela always gave the impression that Spain was the land of the devil.
They finally reached Granada, the streets steaming after the late afternoon storm. Arriving at the hotel, Mateo got out of the car and opened the door for her. ‘I will see you tonight at Club Alegría. Nine o’clock, yes?’
‘Yes, that would be wonderful. Thank you for taking me out today.’
‘I am sorry it was not successful, but we knew this may be the case,’ Mateo said.
‘so …’ She bit her lip, silently cursing herself for being impatient. ‘About what Leila said before in regards to helping—’
‘We cannot discuss this now.’ Mateo kissed her on the cheeks, then scooted around the front of the car and jumped behind the wheel. With a quick wave he merged into the traffic and once again, Charlotte stood on the curb watching life go by.
‘Bugger.’ She turned on her heels and dodged the puddles, hurrying into the hotel and through the foyer, into the lift and up to her room. Throwing her bag on the bed next to the art supplies, she pulled out her phone and shot a text to her brother. It had been a day since she’d had an update and even though no news was good news, she still needed to know for sure.
A moment later her phone pinged with a text.
Abuela says she is fine, but am not convinced. She’s greyer than ever. Any breakthrough?
Charlotte texted back: Will be on next flight if need be. As for mission, more difficult than expected. Am doing my best.
Steve replied with a smiley face and she laughed. Things couldn’t be too bad if her brother used an emoji, something he rarely did. Putting the phone down, she crawled to the head of the bed and rested her back against the wall. The stupid art supplies beckoned her and even though she diverted her gaze to other parts of the room she kept looking back at the paints, brushes, and canvases vying for her attention. Mateo’s speech about not giving up ricocheted in her head and as much as she wanted to ignore the conversation they’d had, his words of wisdom weighed down on her, more than the many years of nagging from Abuela.
‘Bloody hell.’ Crawling on her hands and knees to the edge of the bed, she picked up a brush, slid off the plastic and ran the bristles lightly over her hand. The soft hair of the brush reminded her of the days when she was a kid hanging at Abuela’s, painting for hours on end, stopping occasionally to have a tickle fight with her grandmother. The freedom of painting without angst had fuelled Charlotte’s desire to create—until her father convinced her to undertake economics and business management degrees at uni and she got bogged down in her studies. Although, if she was entirely honest, the main reason she stopped painting was her lack of confidence.
Grabbing her supplies, she moved over to the window and rested the canvas against the glass while she placed the paint, brushes and palette on the sill. Laying a plastic sheet on the floor she contemplated how long it had been since the scent of oil paints had tickled her nostrils. How much time had passed since she’d revelled in the delight of creating magic with oils? And how long since she’d been paralysed by fear every time she attempted a new piece of work?
Do not quit before the finish line, Mateo had said.
Her fingers caressed the tube of white paint as she unscrewed the lid and peeled off the foil seal. She dabbed a small amount onto the palette, then opened the blue and mixed them carefully, her fingers tingling with anticipation. She always started with blue as that was the most common hue in the seascapes she loved plus the peaceful colours put her in the right frame of mind.
There was nothing so exciting as a blank canvas, the chance to create a world from one’s imagination, to pour out the feelings of one’s soul. What had Syeria Mesa Flores Giménez felt when she’d painted the woman leaping over the fire? What inspired her? What emotions were behind those beautiful and unique brushstrokes?
Putting the palette down, Charlotte picked up Syeria’s painting and took her time to study every detail. The work was incredible. The way Syeria had managed to create a 3-D image from paint without it looking clunky was pure genius. Closing her eyes, Charlotte let an image of the woman in the painting materialise in her mind. Music and singing, laughter and clinking of metal mugs, young children squealing with delight, smoke from a burning fire, the woman’s jasmine perfume … it unfolded like a movie reel before her. The guitars plucked out a melody followed by the wail of a singer, a melancholy, lonely guttural cry that morphed into a song about the inability to find a place to call home and living as an outcast. The woman in the red dress lifted the soft fabric above her knees as she danced into frenzy, readying herself to jump the flames. What had the professor called it? La Leyenda del Fuego.
Charlotte quickly put down Syeria’s painting, grabbed the red and yellow oils and furiously mixed them on the palette. Inspired, she laid heavy strokes of red, orange and yellow, creating a fiery background, not unlike the flames in Syeria’s painting. The music of zambra echoed within, the rhythm and haunting melody reminding her of the very first song she’d heard Mateo play the night they met in the flamenco cave. For the first time in years, Charlotte felt connected to her work, but something else buzzed beneath the surface. A feeling she’d never experienced before, like she was coming home.
A bolt of alarm shot through her body and she dropped the palette and brushes onto the plastic sheet on the floor. The intensity of emotions overwhelmed her and she backed away from the canvas, collapsing on the bed, hot tears stinging her eyes. A deep sob surfaced as she looked up at the unfinished canvas, the bright colours shocking her. They looked nothing like the safe seascapes she’d always painted. Gone were the aquamarine oceans, blue skies and birds and in their place were thick strokes of blazing hues taking on a life of their own.
Grabbing her bag, Charlotte threw in her phone, purse and key card as she dashed out of the room, ensuring the door slammed behind, keeping the painting far away. Whatever had led her to start creating such a piece scared the bejesus out of her and right now she needed time for the emotions to settle. Plus, she needed a very stiff drink.
* * *
Pedro poured a bottle of Alhambra beer into a glass while Charlotte rested her elbows on the counter of Bar Alegría. Instead of the electric atmosphere of people enjoying flamenco music and dancing she’d experienced the other night, the bar had a casual café feel, crammed with small groups of two or three people at the tables who were enjoying coffee or
a quiet beer. They spoke in low voices, the peace punctuated every so often with an outburst of raucous laughter.
Pedro lined up a shot next to the ice-cold beer. ‘Chinchón, good for health.’
She lifted up the shot glass, inhaled deeply then coughed as her nasal passages were assailed by aniseed and strong alcohol.
He pointed his chin in the direction of the clear liquid. ‘Made near Madrid. Seventy-four per cent proof. Drink up, live long.’
Placing the glass to her lips she tipped back her head and allowed the potent drink to slide down her throat. It burned on its way down. Slamming down the shot glass, she took a long sip of beer.
Pedro looked very pleased with himself as he passed over a plate of hot prawns bathed in olive oil, garlic and herbs. ‘Eat this—gambas al pil-pil. Delicious. Good drink, yes?’
‘Yes, good drink,’ she rasped. ‘So when is Mateo due in?’
‘You arrange to meet him now?’
‘No. I’m here on the off-chance he’d be around.’ She cautiously cleared her throat.
‘Not here for three hours. You want me to call him?’ Pedro wiped down the already shiny and spotless countertop.
‘Yes, thank you.’ She could have called him herself, but she’d hoped to track him down in person. Sipping her beer, she waited for Pedro to pick up the ancient wall phone. Instead, he moseyed to the door that led to the street, cupped his hands and shouted across the narrow laneway. ‘Mateo!’
A balcony door on the first floor of the apartment building opposite swung open and Mateo poked out his head, his dark hair slicked back like he’d just stepped out of the shower. ‘¿Sí?’
‘La guiri here for you!’ Pedro turned around and winked, reassuring her the Spanish slang for foreigner had not been used in a derogative sense.
‘¡Un momento!’ yelled Mateo and slammed the door.
Two beers and forty minutes later Mateo waltzed through the doors of Bar Alegría. ‘Sorry.’
‘For?’
‘Sorry I took so long?’ He arched his eyebrows, giving the indication he felt he should apologise, but couldn’t exactly figure out why.
Under the Spanish Stars Page 11
