Under the Spanish Stars

by Alli Sinclair

  ‘Thank you.’ The beauty of the Alhambra filled her with joy, and the possibility of helping Abuela lifted her confidence. Moving close to Mateo, she wrapped her arms around him, unable to fully express her gratitude with words. Mateo hesitated for a millisecond then drew her close against his chest, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Closing her eyes, she enjoyed his warmth, listened to his rapidly beating heart, and embedded this moment in her memory forever.

  * * *

  Charlotte lay on the bed of her hotel room, the afternoon sun streaming through the window. With legs in the air, she studied the chipped turquoise nail polish that needed a total repaint. Holding the phone against her ear, she waited for Steve to answer. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Oh, thank God! I’ve left you twenty messages!’ Steve breathed heavily, like he was trying to catch his breath.

  ‘It was five, but none of them sounded urgent. Sorry, I was at the Alhambra and I think there’s been a breakthrough.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that. Abuela’s not doing so well.’

  ‘What?’ Charlotte sat up and looked at her suitcase.

  ‘The tests are coming up clear but she’s still very sick. There’s a team of specialists on it but no one knows for sure what’s causing her deterioration. They’re also worried the occlusion could get worse.’

  ‘I need to come back.’ Damn. She’d just found a lead.

  ‘No, don’t. Abuela made me promise to tell you to stay where you are and get answers.’

  ‘I could return for a short while—’

  ‘Nope. She said she’d refuse to see you if you do. She’s sleeping now, but told me to tell you to just get on with it. And to make it quick.’

  ‘I’m doing my best.’ Determination set in, spurring her on. She desperately wanted to see Abuela but there was no point in travelling to the other side of the world to have a breakthrough then ditch it at the last minute.

  ‘Listen, I’m still at work so I can’t talk. Shoot me an email and fill me in.’

  ‘Will do. Thanks, Steve.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  The phone beeped after Steve hung up and Charlotte felt more alone than ever. Without the constant buzz of texts and emails from work, or the chatter of friends and family, the quietness of Spain had given her time to reflect. She chewed her lip as she studied the painting she’d attempted yesterday.

  At the art supply shop she’d decided to create a special piece for Abuela to cheer her up but Charlotte couldn’t hand over anything like this. It was too bold. Too noisy. Too … flamenco. Abuela would be delighted that Charlotte had finally picked up a brush, but these colours … this movement … the subject … it just wouldn’t do. Opening the cupboard door, she pulled out Syeria’s canvas and placed it next to her own. She hadn’t set out to copy Syeria’s work. Although the brushstrokes and colours were strikingly similar, Charlotte’s work appeared more fluid. Why was that?

  Throwing a rug over both paintings she grabbed her holdall and headed downstairs into the lobby where Mateo waited, hands in pockets, sunglasses casually resting on top of his head.

  ‘You’re on time,’ she said and gave him the customary kiss on each cheek and tried not to be obvious about inhaling his magnificent sandalwood aftershave.

  ‘I thought I would find out what it is like to be English.’

  ‘I’m not English!’

  His grin told her he was messing with her head and she playfully punched him in the bicep. He formed a D with his arm, and she threaded hers through his. The constant physical contact they had with each other felt natural and left her wanting more.

  They exited the hotel and she looked around for the familiar yellow vehicle. ‘Where’s the car?’

  ‘We use these today.’ He pointed at his feet. They turned left and walked down the street in silence. It felt good to get out, stretch the legs and see the city from a different viewpoint. So much was lost travelling in a vehicle and this walk gave her the chance to view the beautifully designed wrought-iron balconies hanging over the paths and to appreciate the leafy trees forming arches over the avenues. Had Abuela walked these streets and ever felt joy in her surroundings?

  ‘A euro for your thoughts?’ Mateo nudged her gently with his elbow.

  ‘Nothing.’ Liar.

  ‘This frowning you do,’ he pointed at her forehead, ‘it does not look like nothing. Please, tell me what bothers you.’

  Concentrating on the brick pavement, she said, ‘Abuela’s not doing so well. She doesn’t want me to come home until I have answers. But I miss her. I want to be with her. It feels like she’s pushing me away, yet I’m the closest person to her.’

  ‘You are the only person she trusts for this job, yes?’

  Charlotte nodded.

  ‘It is a great privilege to do what you are doing. Maybe today you will have your breakthrough.’

  Did Mateo’s body just tense? He didn’t offer any more words of wisdom and they walked for a further fifteen minutes, reaching Calle Santiago, their destination. Mateo slowed his pace, but she suspected it had nothing to do with looking for house numbers. Eventually, they stopped in front of a three-storey building with a bright yellow door.

  ‘Are you okay?’ She placed her hand on his and noticed it was shaking.

  He nodded and pressed a buzzer.

  ‘¿Quien es?’ The soft voice sounded like a woman who had many decades behind her.

  ‘Soy yo, Mateo.’

  ‘¡Querida!’ A few moments later a set of footsteps padded across the floorboards and the heavy wooden door swung open to reveal a diminutive woman. Her perfectly coiffed grey hair sat high on her head. She wrapped her short arms around Mateo as she yabbered at a million miles an hour. Every so often she would stop talking, look him in the eyes and pinch his cheeks. Eventually the woman noticed Charlotte standing on the footpath a short distance away. She looked at Mateo and arched an eyebrow.

  ‘This is my fiancée, Charlotte,’ he said in English. Mateo didn’t look either woman in the eyes.

  Fiancée, huh? News to Charlotte but she wasn’t going to question their fictitious engagement if it got them through the door. Needing to concentrate on the task at hand, she swatted away visions of what it would be like to be married to this mighty fine flamenco guitarist.

  The señora stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Charlotte so tight she thought she’d pop a rib. The woman let go and gestured for them to enter the house. As soon as she shut the doors the heat of the day disappeared and they were left standing in a vaulted refrigerator. Marble lined the walls and floors, but as Charlotte got closer she noticed it was marred by scratches and deep gouges.

  Freshly picked gardenias sat in a vase in the hallway and they followed the señora through to a massive sitting room. Art deco furniture with parquetry wood, shiny surfaces and rounded edges crowded the expansive area, while thick orange and red geometric curtains hung on either side of the large window. The old lady gestured for them to sit on a beautiful mustard-coloured couch that looked like it belonged on the set of a 1930s movie. Mateo sat close to Charlotte, no doubt trying to prove that they were a couple. Le sigh …

  ‘I will get us coffee.’ The señora bustled out of the room and started clanking dishes and pots in the kitchen.

  ‘I thought seeing this person was supposed to be difficult,’ Charlotte whispered, glancing around the room and noticing there weren’t any photos. ‘She seems very happy to see you. And me.’

  ‘I am sorry, but when I saw her I realised it might be better if she thinks you and I are engaged.’ A smirk crept to his lips. ‘Señora Blanco Alves thinks I’m lucky to have someone willing to take me on as I’m past my prime.’

  Charlotte raised her eyebrows. ‘So the only person willing to take you off the shelf is a gullible foreigner?’

  Mateo laughed. ‘Can you pretend just for now? It will make things so much easier. Señora Blanco Alves is like t
he wind—difficult to predict which way she will blow. Today she may be happy to see me, but tomorrow could be a different story.’

  ‘If I must.’ She feigned annoyance, but secretly didn’t mind at all. ‘So is this all one house?’

  ‘Yes. La señora has lived here alone for many years, and she’s refused to move somewhere small. I guess this is still the case. There are many happy memories from my childhood within these walls.’

  ‘So Señora Blanco Alves was a close family friend?’

  ‘She still is which is why this visit may cause problems. She is the glue that holds the elite of Granada together. No one does anything without the knowledge of la señora. She is also happy to give you an opinion whether you like it or not.’ He looked at her from under his long, thick lashes. ‘But I was always her favourite and that is why she is happy to see me now.’

  ‘So why didn’t you want to see her?’ Charlotte couldn’t get her head around his reluctance.

  ‘La señora has a big heart, but a bigger mouth. I do not want her telling the family of my business.’

  ‘So you make up a fictional engagement instead?’ Mateo’s logic didn’t make any sense.

  ‘The señora is Catholic and has a strong sense of family.’

  ‘Got it.’ Charlotte squeezed his hand. ‘Thanks so much for doing this.’

  ‘It is nada.’ His nonchalance almost had her convinced he didn’t care, but she sensed a deep undercurrent beneath his casual persona. ‘I will go and help la señora.’

  Mateo disappeared and Charlotte sat on the couch, unsure whether to go and assist as well. She figured Mateo needed some time with the señora and she didn’t want to barge in on a conversation she shouldn’t be privy to.

  Low voices came from the kitchen and Charlotte tried not to listen, but it was hard not to hear when she sat in a quiet room next door. Words like ‘unhappy’, ‘desertion’, and ‘regret’ filtered through the cracks of the kitchen door while Charlotte fidgeted, wishing she could totally ignore their conversation.

  Twenty minutes ticked by and Señora Blanco Alves returned with a tray of cups, saucers, milk, sugar and a metal jug filled with coffee. Her eyes and nose were red and Mateo followed her, his expression solemn.

  Without asking Charlotte how she preferred her coffee, la señora prepared a cup filled to the brim with thick, syrupy liquid and three spoonfuls of sugar. Charlotte accepted it graciously, balancing the cup and saucer while la señora offered a plate of small, round, sticky-looking pastries.

  ‘Pionono,’ she said.

  ‘They are made in Santa Fe, near Granada,’ Mateo explained, having found his usual calm self once more. ‘The pastry is rolled into the cylinder and is fermented with special syrup—very sweet. The brown is toasted cream.’

  La señora gestured for Charlotte to try one. The sweet combination danced on her tastebuds and she couldn’t work out why it had taken until now to discover them. ‘Amazing.’

  Their hostess placed the tray of treats on the coffee table in front of Charlotte and motioned for her to eat more. Any other time Charlotte would be only too happy to oblige but her stomach kept turning in knots. Mateo accepted his coffee with milk and sugar, even though she’d only seen him drink it black.

  La señora clasped her hands on her lap and looked directly at Charlotte. ‘I know the grandmother of you.’ Her English came out with a thick accent but could easily be understood.

  Charlotte placed her cup on the table before she dropped it. ‘How?

  ‘We did the growing up together.’ La señora swallowed hard.

  Stunned, Charlotte could only say, ‘Your English is very good.’

  ‘My son, he lives in America. His children do not speak español so I learn the inglés for them.’ A hint of bitterness tinged la señora’s words. ‘Tell me, how is she? What is she like?’

  ‘She’s not well,’ Charlotte managed to say, her eyes welling up, her brother’s words finally sinking in. Perhaps news about a long-lost friend might lift Abuela’s spirits. ‘Did Mateo fill you in?’

  ‘Yes.’ A small smile formed on her lips. ‘It is still hard for me to think a dare would change her life.’

  ‘A dare?’ Charlotte leant forward, her racing heart filled with hope at the possibility of receiving answers. Could she be so lucky to get them in just one afternoon?

  ‘Your abuela, she was like a sister to me. We did a dare our families would not like. Me, I go to picture show with a boy—no chaperone. Katarina, she have flamenco lesson.’

  ‘The rest is history,’ Charlotte said, barely able to comprehend how quickly this meeting had turned.

  ‘Sí.’ La señora got up and made her way over to a gorgeous art deco writing desk, on which the light and dark wood triangles joined seamlessly. Señora Blanco Alves opened and closed small boxes stuffed full of papers, muttering as she sifted. Eventually, she clutched a shoebox and came over and sat next to Charlotte.

  A hint of roses in the air swam around the elderly woman. ‘For you.’

  Charlotte took the box and stared at it. There were no decipherable markings or hints about the contents.

  Nodding towards the box, la señora said, ‘This is for your family.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Charlotte’s hands ran over the perfectly smooth cardboard.

  ‘My family were good friends with the family of los Sanchez—the people of your abuela.’

  La señora must have noticed Charlotte’s surprised expression because she added, ‘Yes, I make the friends with Sanchez and Vives families. Granada is big, but small.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think this is the case,’ Charlotte said, aware of the significance of this connection but not fully comprehending.

  ‘After Señor Sanchez die, the relations with Katarina and the family explode. I tried to help Katarina but my hands, they were tied. My family agree with the mother of Katarina and I could not risk exclusion like her. You must understand, the times were hard.’

  ‘I couldn’t even imagine,’ said Charlotte, starting to understand Abuela’s reluctance to speak about her past.

  ‘Over the night, families left, leaving possessions, the houses deserted with dreams of returning later when the political climate was not so violent.’ La señora stared at a vacant corner of the room, as if reliving a moment.

  Although anxious to learn more, Charlotte gave her the time she appeared to need. Mateo gave her a slow smile, offering her the support she needed to take in this news.

  La señora shook her head, breaking from her reverie. ‘I am sorry. This brings many memories, most not happy.’

  ‘I understand,’ Charlotte said, but how could she possibly know what people went through back then?

  ‘My family refused to leave Granada, so when the Sanchez family left, they give us this box.’

  ‘Why didn’t they take it with them?’

  La señora shrugged. ‘They have trusted in us. They know we would never leave. Perhaps leaving this was a promise to return one day. And now here you are, from the family of Sanchez, collecting the box that is yours.’

  ‘I … this is a lot to take in.’ Charlotte’s head spun and she slowly lifted the lid, but la señora quickly put her hand over it, slamming it shut.

  ‘Now is not the time for opening. Mateo will do the explaining later.’ La señora rested her hands on her knees and stared at the floor as if having a debate with herself. Eventually, she looked up and fixed her gaze on Charlotte. ‘Mateo tell me about the painting.’

  ‘He did?’ Charlotte shot him a questioning look.

  Mateo widened his eyes. ‘It was worth a mention, no? Señora Blanca Alves knew your abuela when they were young, perhaps she remembered the artwork.’

  ‘And did you?’ Charlotte turned to her. La señora nodded slowly, as if scared to answer. Leaning in close, Charlotte said, ‘Please, tell me anything you remember.’

  ‘I remember too much, this is my problem.’ She crossed her arms, then looked away, as if she’d changed her mind about r
evealing what she knew about the painting.

  Desperation clawed at Charlotte, but she willed herself to stay calm. ‘I realise you haven’t seen my abuela … Katarina, for many years, but you were good friends once, right? Don’t you want her to know the truth? Wouldn’t a friend do that?’

  ‘¡Virgen santa!’ La señora closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross. ‘The painting, the one from her father, has much significance.’

  Charlotte gave a quick nod, silently urging Señora Blanco Alves to continue.

  ‘It is by the gitana Syeria Mesa Flores Giménez, but you are aware of this, yes? What you must know is Syeria is the mother of Katarina.’ La señora swallowed hard and fanned her face with a serviette. With a shaking hand she reached for the glass of water and took a long drink.

  ‘It … I …’ What could she say? If this were true, then everything her grandmother believed had just been shot to pieces. How could the quest to discover the artist of a painting come to this? Surely it couldn’t be true. Humans loved creating scandal, loved making small stories into huge sagas, so this had to be the case here, right? Even as the thoughts swam around her brain, Charlotte’s heart knew a truth she wasn’t ready to accept. ‘I’m sorry, Señora Blanco Alves, but you must be mistaken.’

  ‘I am afraid I am not. Why would Katarina, girl with everything, choose flamenco in the slums instead of the money and power? You must remember, at the time, our country, it had much turmoil. Flamenco put her at risk. She always say she never felt right with her family. She had the flaming red hair and the fire in her belly. When I find the truth many years later I try to find her, but I was too scared of the problems it would mean for my own family. I see what happened to Katarina with her family and … I am very sorry. I lose my nerves.’ Shaking her head slowly, she said, ‘I have always had the regret of not trying harder to tell her.’

  Charlotte placed her hand on la señora’s dry and wrinkly skin. ‘Times were different then. People didn’t go against their families so easily like they do today.’ Although Charlotte knew that to be a lie, because she had a hard time standing up to her own father. ‘Can you please tell me why you think Syeria is my grandmother’s birth mother?’