Under the Spanish Stars

by Alli Sinclair

  ‘I was in my twenties at the time,’ la señora paused to dab her eyes with a serviette. ‘Señora Sanchez had come over to the house of my family for the dinner. She did this often. The father of Katarina had passed two years before. After dinner the children, even though we were adults, went to the library while my mother and father share port with Señora Sanchez. I had left a book in the kitchen and when I went retrieve it I notice the door closed to the adults in salon.’ Taking another sip of water, she said, ‘We always have open doors in our house so I found this strange. Then I hear the sobbing … it was wrong to do the listening, but I was young and foolish.’ Pushing a strand of hair from her face, she said, ‘To carry this secret for so long is my penance for hearing things I should not have.’

  Charlotte tried to take in everything and hoped Mateo was doing the same. She didn’t mind him being privy to this conversation because not only would it help to remember what was said, she needed his support.

  La señora drew a deep breath and puffed out her cheeks. ‘Señora Sanchez, she was angry because the Giménez clan had been in contact again. They wanted more money. My mother tried to console her, but nothing worked well. Then my father, he got angry, he say Señora Sanchez should never have pretended the half-gitana child, Katarina, was her own and that Señor Sanchez was lucky to already be dead because otherwise my father would kill Señor Sanchez for the affair he had with the no-good gitana artist.’

  Charlotte’s madly beating heart echoed in her hollow chest. If this were true, how could she ever tell Abuela? What would it do to her, especially with her failing health? But keeping it a secret? Could she do that in good conscience? Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut, then felt an arm go around her. Opening her eyes, she found Mateo next to her, his large eyes full of empathy.

  ‘Are you saying my abuela is part gitana?’ She could barely utter the sentence and she didn’t really need la señora to answer because it suddenly made sense. Abuela’s love and talent for flamenco; her willingness to give up her family so she could follow her dream; the painting by Syeria and the reluctance of Abuela’s father to tell her the story behind it until she was an adult … the pieces fell into place and as they did so, they left a terrible, scorching burn mark on Abuela’s history.

  ‘I am saying this is what I hear. I may be old but the mind is strong.’ She pointed to her head. ‘It is impossible to hear this and forget.’ Lifting her chin towards Charlotte and Mateo, la señora said, ‘It is time you both go.’

  CHAPTER

  12

  Charlotte clutched the shoebox she and Mateo slogged up the Sacromonte hills, heading towards Bar Alegría. Sweat ran down her back and her red locks stuck to her face. She hated this humid weather and as she puffed up the hill, she chastised herself for not sticking with her New Year’s resolution of going to the gym every day. Or three times a week. Or once a month …

  The visit with Señora Blanco Alves had left Charlotte deflated. She should be happy to have found out more about the story of the painting but no one, not even Abuela, could have expected this. Mateo had read her mood perfectly, silently walking alongside her, keeping his steps short and slow so she didn’t have to rush. His kindness and compassion endeared him to her even more which only meant it would be harder for her to leave him.

  They reached the top of the hill and she headed for the entrance to Bar Alegría.

  ‘Let us go to my place. It is more private.’

  Any other time and those words would have caused a ripple of lustful excitement but the solemnity of the situation dictated otherwise. She dutifully crossed the laneway with Mateo and entered the dark stairwell of the apartment building. Taking the lead, he clomped up the stairs until they reached the first floor. She waited in the darkness while Mateo fetched the keys from his pocket, inserted them in the lock and when it didn’t budge, he uttered a few curse words then bashed the lock with his fist. The thick wooden door clicked open and he gestured for her to enter. Taking a few steps into the large room, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the harsh daylight streaming through the grimy windows. The large one-room apartment contained a kitchenette along one wall, and a small couch and television. A collection of guitars of various sizes and shiny wood finishes lined another wall. In the far corner was an unmade double bed piled high with clothes and opposite that was a large Japanese screen, most likely hiding the toilet and shower.

  ‘I am sorry for the mess.’ Mateo hurried over to the coffee table, which was stacked high with sheet music. ‘As you can see, I do not do the entertaining often.’

  His nervous energy softened the tension that had followed them like a storm cloud since their visit to Señora Blanco Alves.

  ‘It’s okay, Mateo.’ She placed her hand on his arm. His skin was as warm and sweaty as hers. ‘How about I get us a cold drink?’

  ‘Yes, yes, good. Gracias.’ He nodded in the direction of the small bar fridge. ‘There is mineral water in there. Unless you want beer, then we go see Pedro.’

  ‘Mineral water is fine.’ She opened the refrigerator and took two small bottles. Mateo connected his phone to a set of speakers and guitars and strings filled the room. The haunting sound relieved the tightness squeezing her shoulders. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Paco de Lucía,’ Mateo sat on the couch. ‘For me, he is the greatest flamenco guitarist to ever live. He played a key role in creating New Flamenco in the 1970s. You like?’

  ‘I like it a lot.’

  Joining Mateo on the couch, she passed him the drink and they unscrewed the lids, clinked the bottles together and took long gulps.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said.

  ‘It is.’ He placed the bottle down and nodded at the shoebox on her knees. ‘You may have more answers in there.’

  ‘Or more questions.’ She drummed her fingers on the lid.

  Mateo shrugged.

  ‘I’m a family member, so it’s okay if I look, right?’ Charlotte wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince—herself or Mateo. She could have waited until she saw Abuela but it would be better to check now rather than raising her grandmother’s hopes in case the box contained nothing more than a bunch of useless crap. Taking a breath, she carefully removed the flimsy lid. ‘Here goes.’

  Charlotte dipped her hand in the box and withdrew a stack of papers that hadn’t seen light for decades. She gingerly opened them one by one, some of the deep creases splitting as she did so and in a short time she had a pile of documents—bank statements, property contracts, invitations to social events—papers that had little bearing on Abuela’s true heritage.

  Picking up a photo, she said, ‘Look at this.’

  Mateo leant over, their shoulders touching. In her hand lay a black-and-white image yellowed by time and tattered at the edges. A young man in a suit and hat sat on stone steps while a girl of about three or four balanced on his knees, looking up at him with large eyes and a cheeky grin. Her long hair framed an angelic face. She held out a bunch of carnations and he bent over, sniffing them.

  ‘Could that be Abuela?’

  ‘It could. Would that be her father?’

  ‘I guess.’ Charlotte flicked through the papers in case there were other pictures. She went through the process twice, but found nothing. ‘Why would there be a photo of Abuela and her father if her mother wasn’t speaking to her? That doesn’t make sense.’ She stared at the image. ‘Although maybe Abuela’s mother did really love her but just couldn’t get over my grandmother’s relation to the gitanos.’

  ‘Maybe this will help.’ He handed her a sheet of paper.

  ‘What’s this?’ As she unfolded it, a metallic object thudded onto her knee. On the paper was an address:

  Avenida Riviera 689

  Charlotte turned the weighty key over in her hand. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘The key to your family home.’

  ‘What?’ She stared at the innocuous-looking piece of metal in her hand. ‘Abuela’s family home?’

  ‘Yes.’
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br />   ‘Holy …’ Instead of finishing the sentence she kept her attention trained on the small item that lay in her sweaty palms. ‘Aren’t there people living there?’

  ‘No. Not unless there are squatters.’

  ‘Is this why you took so long in the señora’s kitchen? Because she was filling you in on all this? Why didn’t she tell me at the same time?’

  ‘Because she thought you would take this better if it was coming from me—your fiancé.’ He cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘Oh, right.’ She looked at her vacant wedding finger.

  ‘So, la señora wishes you to know she has not entered since the Sanchez family left. Before Señora Sanchez left with the boys, she set up an account for the Alves family to pay the city their taxes so they had a house to return to. For whatever reason they never returned.’

  ‘So why didn’t Valery—la señora—rent out the house?’

  ‘She said her father had been given strict instructions that it was to remain empty in anticipation of the return of the Sanchez family.’

  ‘I guess they thought Franco’s rule wouldn’t last.’

  ‘I imagine this is so.’

  ‘They couldn’t have possibly left enough money to cover all these years.’ She studied the key again, wondering what secrets lay behind the doors of the deserted house.

  ‘This is the strange thing. The money finished not long after the father of Señora Blanco Alves died. Valery held much guilt for leading Katarina to flamenco because it caused her to split with her family. And she also felt much guilt for not having the courage to find and tell Katarina about the possible truth behind her birth. For this, Señora Blanco Alves chose to pay the taxes as required.’

  ‘So she owns the house now?’ This afternoon’s visit seemed to have created way more questions than anticipated. Not that she should be surprised about it. Life was rarely simple.

  ‘In her eyes it still belongs to your family.’

  ‘That’s a whole lot of guilt she’s carrying around.’

  Mateo shrugged. ‘The guilt is her choice. La señora tells me the house is much like hers. Back in the time of your Abuela’s childhood, neighbours did the minding of their own business and with the war and people moving in and out of many houses over the years, no one paid attention to a vacant house.’

  Charlotte let out a low whistle. ‘Can we go now?’

  ‘Perhaps it is best to wait until daylight tomorrow.’ He cocked his head in the direction of the window. Darkness had descended a few hours earlier so there was no point in entering a house that surely didn’t have electricity after all these years. Although she really wanted to see it, six or so hours wouldn’t make much difference. Unless …

  ‘I just need to check on Abuela.’ She grabbed her phone and headed out to the balcony. Dialling Steve’s number she tapped her fingers on the railing while she waited for him to answer.

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘You are not going to believe what I’ve just found out.’ Charlotte launched into the events of the past few hours while Steve listened intently, interjecting every so often with ‘no way’ and ‘are you serious?’ She finished off by saying, ‘You can’t tell Abuela just yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it would be better to go into the house and see what state it’s in. More than likely it’s been trashed but who knows, we may find something in there that’s of value or backs up la señora’s claim. All we have is hearsay from an old lady who is remembering something from decades ago.’

  ‘The odds are slim with the house.’

  ‘Thanks for thinking positively.’ It never failed to amaze her how they had completely different attitudes to life. ‘How’s Abuela?’

  ‘Cranky.’

  ‘So she’s feeling better?’

  ‘The doctors are still concerned, but she’s trying to convince everyone she’s on the mend. She’s giving the physio a hard time and telling him her hip is perfect but she can barely get off the bed without being in pain.’

  She looked over the edge of the balcony and observed the crowds gathering outside the bars and restaurants; streetlights and neon signs broke up the darkness while waiters stood out on the street, menus in hand, ready to entice passers-by. ‘Do you think she’ll ever get better?’

  ‘I don’t know, to be honest,’ Steve said. ‘You read her better than anyone so you’d be the best judge. When are you coming home?’

  ‘As soon as I check out the house then it will depend on when I can get a flight and travelling time … Why does Australia have to be so bloody far from everywhere?’ She loved the idea of seeing Abuela, but dreaded the discussion she would need to have about Syeria. Not to mention the hours spent cramped in a sardine can to get there. The pang of sadness at leaving Mateo took her by surprise. She’d grown attached to him in a very short time and leaving Granada now meant she’d miss out on the chance of getting to know him better.

  Steve said, ‘I’d prefer you to tell her everything face to face and not leave it to me or Mum. And you know Dad is definitely not the right person for this job. You’re the warm fuzzy person in this family and it’s better if this news comes from you.’

  ‘How are the folks?’

  ‘If you’re asking if Dad is coping with you not being at work, he’s doing fine. You’re missed but we’re surviving. And Mum’s been spending a lot of time with Abuela. After all those years of fighting those two seem to have made some peace pact.’

  ‘I guess miracles do happen.’

  ‘Guess they do.’ A commotion of kids screaming and toys clattering against floorboards in the background almost drowned out her brother. ‘Gotta go before blood is spilled.’

  They said their goodbyes and Charlotte shoved the phone in the back pocket of her jeans. Puffing out her cheeks she opened up her other hand to reveal the key. ‘What secrets do you have?’

  ‘Me?’ Mateo stepped onto the balcony and she turned to lean against the railing.

  ‘I have a feeling you have a lot of secrets, Señor Vives.’

  ‘Perhaps. What about you?’ He stepped closer and her breath caught in her throat.

  ‘I’m an open book.’ Man, he was so near, she could easily—

  ‘I like to read.’ One more step brought him closer and she could almost feel his lips on hers. Her fingers tingled, the muscles in her chest tightened, her head spun. Please, please, please. It felt like they’d been dancing around this moment for a while and now it was finally upon them—

  ‘¡Mateo! ¡Aquí esta Cristina buscándote!’ Pedro shouted from below and waved up at them, not perturbed about Mateo almost kissing a foreigner on his balcony.

  ‘¡Mierda! Stay here, I will be back soon.’ Mateo grabbed his phone and keys and dashed out the door, slamming it behind him.

  Disappointed by their thwarted kiss, Charlotte stayed on the balcony and watched him hurry across the alleyway, pat Pedro on the back, then dash inside Café Alegría. Pedro looked up and saluted her, but she couldn’t work out if it was in recognition or a way to say he’d saved Mateo from making a mistake because he should be with Cristina. But he said he wasn’t with her and … why was she debating this, anyway? It’s not like she was planning on moving here and setting up a row of white picket fences.

  Tut-tutting herself, she wandered back inside as there was no point hanging around and looking like she was spying on Mateo. Just like her, he was a free agent and could do as he pleased. Or maybe he wasn’t as free as he touted, because he ran to Cristina’s side oh-so-quickly. Stop this madness, Charlotte!

  Taking the key out of her pocket, she tried to picture exactly which street her grandmother’s family home was on. She’d spent some time wandering Granada, navigating the narrow alleys and wide avenues, but she couldn’t ever remember seeing Avenida Riviera. She could go and hunt for it in the dark, but without a local’s knowledge, she’d more than likely end up in a dim, dark alley tussling with some of the more unsavoury characters of the city. Tomorrow felt so far away, thou
gh.

  The wall of guitars caught her eye and she walked up to study each one in detail. They varied in colour, size and shape and all were in immaculate condition. Tempted, she gently placed her fingers on a guitar the colour of rosewood with a glossy surface smooth to the touch.

  The front door closed and she spun around, dropping her hands by her side. ‘Sorry, I was only—’

  Laughing, he walked over. ‘It is no problem. I can see you were being gentle. Do you play?’ He reached for her hand, turning it palm up and studying her fingers. Her chest constricted and a shot of heat raced through her body.

  ‘Me? I’m about as musical as a guitar without strings.’

  ‘It did not appear to be so when you danced the other night. Your compás, rhythm, is very good.’

  She gave a half smile at memories of dancing flamenco with Leila, but they then morphed into horror at the meltdown when she’d tried to paint the next day. Charlotte had managed to avoid thinking about it since the visit with Señora Blanco Alves but now it pushed to the front of the queue once more. ‘Remember the trouble I had with my painting?’

  ‘I am not sure if changing painting style means trouble, but yes, I do.’

  ‘I’m wondering if it has something to do with my heritage. You know, the more I think about it, the more I wonder if Syeria is my great-grandmother. Maybe I have her painting genes.’

  ‘And maybe you also have your grandmother’s flamenco genes.’

  Charlotte shook her head and let out a small laugh. ‘I don’t think so. Flamenco is interesting, but it’s not my passion, not like it is with you. So tell me,’ she gestured towards the guitars, ‘why so many?’

  ‘Flamenco singers sometimes specialise in one area because of the nature of the palo. For example, a singer of siguiriyas must reflect the lyrics of pain and tragedy in their voice and it takes a talented person to perfect this over many years. Branching into another area, such as the festive bulerías, could ruin their training.’