“There is an ancient legend”—and here I pause for effect—“that proclaims if you kiss your beloved beneath this very arch at eight-oh-seven on a Saturday night with all the sense of hope, dignity, mutual trust, shared integrity, and passion that reflects your deep abiding love in every sense, you are permitted to make a wish of your choice.” I point to the grand arch just above our heads.
Carlotta checks her iPhone and confirms the time. “Is that true?”
I smile wide. “No. Does it have to be?” And we both laugh.
“You’re so much more than a surf poet in a town where there are no waves.”
“I know.” I blast it boastfully aloud. “I’m Rodrigo Concepción de Ronda, legend maker!” A few annoyed stares are aimed in our direction from the gallery.
The cobbled alley from the Mondragón takes us to the Plaza Duquesa de Parcent, a beautiful public space surrounded by some of the antique architecture I think Carlotta will enjoy seeing—a sixteenth-century convent, the arched council building, and the Iglesia Santa María de Mayor, with its intricate Renaissance bell tower on a minaret base.
A flicker of worry nags at me while we walk around. For a second, I think I see someone I know peeking at us from behind one of the arches of the council building, and I panic, but I look again and no one is there. We are to meet Sebastian at the tablao, but I could be spotted in such a place, dining with the festival’s star toreador. It is important to maintain my anonymity, to keep from being discovered by those who would try to take me captive again.
“I want to talk to you about the bullfight,” Carlotta says.
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s very simple, actually. I see both sides of the argument,” she says.
I light up a cigarette. “And I do, too. More than ever. Since I met you.”
That is true. It has to be. I am no longer the bold, brash, egocentric, reckless, and arrogant toro of my youth, with two horns. It isn’t that I’ve been made soft. I’ve been made more receptive. And more aware. My sensibilities have been realigned, even politically, and of course spiritually. Amen.
“Rodrigo? I’d like to wear the dress.”
“Tonight?”
She nods exaggeratedly, like a young girl. I am filled with such joy at her excitement. I tell her, “We still have enough time.”
We hurry back to the Harley and motor back to the house and get to work. I open the closet door, and Carlotta almost cries. She plays the role of beautiful body, and I play the role of stylist. I slip the elaborate garment over her head. The dress is tight to perfection.
“Should I wear the headdress?”
“No, too much for the night. It’s for the portrait,” I say.
“It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. Did you design it?”
I smile, remembering my visit to the vintage clothing shop where I did indeed design it. “You may not be able to eat.”
“With a dress like this, food can wait, amore,” Carlotta says.
When I show her the matching shoes, she almost dies.
I do my part and slick back my hair into a ponytail and wear thick-rimmed prescription glasses, all topped off with a fedora, as a disguise and a deterrent to being recognized.
We get out of the taxi, and I follow Carlotta as she steps gingerly inside the lively establishment. The flamenco tablao consists of a main room with tables for dining, with the stage in back. The walls are adorned with bullfighting posters and mirrors. As Carlotta makes her way through, she receives applause from appreciative patrons also in feria dress. She dazzles. She is a dead ringer for the finest gypsy Dama Goyesca ever to meet the eye—and a subject Francisco Goya undoubtedly would have felt privileged to paint. With all eyes upon us, we are led to a booth deep to the side of the stage, the spot reserved for royalty, movie stars, and celebrated toreadors.
We order some light tapas and champagne, and a commotion erupts around us. I look up and see two matadors carving their way to their tables, trailed by Sebastian. My friend shakes some hands through the boisterous cheers and shouts of “¡Olé!” and then spots us. Sebastian and I exchange a warm embrace, and I introduce him to Carlotta. He bows slightly and kisses her hand.
“Piacere,” she says. “I am an Italian gypsy.”
“I see. Your charms do not escape the eye. Marvelous. Always in the best company, Rodrigo.”
I concur.
We all settle into the booth as another bottle is dutifully placed in our standing champagne basket.
“Masterful performance,” I say.
“I hope my brother died with honor. He was a worthy adversary,” Sebastian says.
I whisper to Carlotta, “Sebastian is referring to the bull—he talks that way.”
“How did you become a toreador?” Carlotta asks.
“It was all I knew. My father was a rancher on a bull farm. Still is.”
“I understand that. I have taken over my family business.”
“Carlotta is a wine aficionado.”
“We do what we know, yes. And if we are fortunate, we add our own creativity along the way,” Sebastian says.
I pour for Carlotta and Sebastian and take a slow sip myself.
“Creativity lives within all of us,” I add. “But in some it remains dead. Because some are afraid to put themselves out there, to enter the ring. It doesn’t matter if the talent is not appreciated by others. The important thing is to try. And not be overcome by fear. Otherwise you will never know. And part of one’s soul stays dim.”
“I tried to sketch a horse one time,” Sebastian admits. “It was a disaster.”
We laugh, of course, and I say, “But you tried. You put yourself through it, and now you know what it is to have tried. Before we die, we must try everything possible. To drink the cup of life, the whole cup, not half.”
To this we toast, and the waiter brings another bottle.
The stage lights dim, and the flamenco performers take the stage to resounding applause. They break into a whirlwind of a spectacle, performing a fandango de Málaga. The audience applauds wildly at the conclusion of the dance.
“The performers all seem so—how do I say it?—almost sick with passion,” Carlotta remarks.
“They are gypsies,” Sebastian adds.
“That’s true. And there is something unique to the gypsy persona,” I say. “It is special, profound to their core, deep within their being. It is called duende.”
“Another word for ‘soul,’ ” Sebastian adds.
I am sufficiently saturated with champagne to be light-headed and to need to choose my phrases carefully. So I pause and wait for the words to flow to me, perhaps through me. There are moments you must seize. This is one.
“Yes. But duende is more than that. It’s a heightened state of emotion. And expression. And authenticity. And it is connected to flamenco. It comes from Spanish mythology. In the stomach of a gypsy resides a fairy. And it flies freely within the ribs, up and down. It is duende, the passion of the soul, that responds physically and emotionally to an artistic performance that is particularly powerful and expressive.
“The duende fairy inside helps the flamenco artist see the cruel limitations of human existence, and to understand that death is always there. One heartbeat away. It makes the artist confront death. And that death-in-the-face contest helps an artist create memorable, spine-chilling art.
“Duende is virtuosity. God-given grace. And charm. The artist must use the power of duende skillfully. Work with it. Attempt to control it. The energy of duende must be channeled and tamed. Otherwise the performance is dissipated, scattered. You see, the audience, whether rich or poor, crude or educated, they feel the duende of an artist. As the great poet Federico García Lorca said, duende is ‘a sort of corkscrew that can get art into the sensibility of an audience . . . the very dearest thing that life can offer the intellectual.’ ”
I watch my tablemates, who seem to be reflecting on my words.
“I am not an
intellectual. I am a simple man,” Sebastian proclaims. “This discussion is perhaps over my head. But you have summoned your own duende in speaking of this cultural mystery, and that I recognize.”
“On the contrary, my friend. You are an artist. You have duende. You look at the face of death every time you step into the ring. And you tame that duende fairy within—as you tame your brother, the toro. With virtuosity. And grace. You provide that ‘corkscrew’ for forty thousand people. You have it, Sebastian. And you use it well.”
I raise my glass, and my tablemates are inspired to raise theirs, too. “Olé,” I toast in a whisper.
“Olé,” Carlotta and Sebastian echo in tandem.
Carlotta leans in and kisses my neck. I sense she is proud to hear me speak this way. I never would have before. I never could have before. I behold then the sheer beauty of a great woman by one’s side, and I propose my own toast to that silently but gratefully and so very deferentially.
“Rodrigo, mi amigo, since you just mentioned the great Federico Lorca . . .” Sebastian begins, and he withdraws his wallet and teases from it a small square of yellowed antique paper. “I carry this next to my heart. For every contest. It belonged to my grandfather, an Andalusian matador. He kept it with him for all his corridas. When he died in the ring over fifty years ago, it was found in the breast pocket of his satin suit. It is a short quote by Lorca: ‘I want to sleep for half a second, a second, a minute, a century, but I want everyone to know that I’m still alive . . .’ ”
“Bravo,” Carlotta praises.
We all clink glasses, albeit somewhat clumsily.
“Now, Sebastian, maestro of the Plaza de Toros,” I say. “From the lessons we’ve learned tonight, it would appear that all you have to do to achieve immortality is to die in the arena.”
The humble toreador, my friend, states nobly with an emerging smile, “I’ll do my best.”
34
TOSCANA CLASSICA
Carlotta and I are in Tuscany at last, to visit her family. She needs to be here for the Chianti Classico festival, to play hostess and to present her selections. Also, her parents are eager to meet me, and I want to meet them. I am a little apprehensive about meeting Carlotta’s mother, in part because she is such a strong influence in Carlotta’s life and, by extension, mine: Carlotta would break up with me rather than live with the kind of betrayal her mother has put up with throughout her marriage. And Carlotta’s father—he will expect me to live by a different standard than he did, if I am to be with his daughter.
So, immediately after the bullfight in Ronda, we have come to Gaiole, where Carlotta’s parents have a house near their winery. Her father is at the Ballerini factory when we arrive, but her mother is home and welcomes us warmly. She is gracious and soon puts me at ease, and my preconceived notions begin to evaporate.
I see at once that Giuliana is a gentle soul with kind, mournful eyes, a beautiful countenance, and an air of dignity. She must have been a classic beauty in her younger days, but now her face reveals something of her age and the disappointments she has endured.
Carlotta has responsibilities connected with the festival, and she wants me to see the breathtaking Tuscan landscape, so we set out on bicycle to visit some of the vineyards participating in the festival. The famous white gravel roads of the Province of Siena are bumpy, especially on a bicycle. We pass endless sweeps of olive groves covering the soft, undulating hills, and where the groves disappear, they are replaced by vineyards as far as the eye can see, featuring the region’s legendary Sangiovese grape.
It is a long ride back to Gaiole. The exercise revitalizes me, as lately, I have been making a strong push on my Unified Universe. There are so many canvases I’ve planned, but it is the unplanned ones that I’m now fervently trying to put to paint—canvases inspired by my lady love—and there are portrait concepts flourishing all around me. All I have to do is stop a second and seize them out of the air.
We arrive at her parents’ house just in time for pranzo—an afternoon meal that could be either lunch or dinner, depending on the time and circumstances; today it’s lunch—and I meet her father at last.
Salvatore Ballerini, Carlotta’s father, is Mediterranean matinee-idol handsome, with a sharp, silvered hairline that is sliced back at the temples. He is tanned, with piercing brown bordello eyes that glint in the sun, and the creases in his face show ever-present traces of his charming smile. The man is brash, energetic, and charismatic, and he has a full tank of testosterone and isn’t afraid to step on the gas. Given Carlotta’s profile of him, it is easy to see how he could be a formidable force in the mistress arena.
Pranzo is already on the table, so we hurriedly wash up and sit down.
It is evident that the Ballerinis take full advantage of their location in Tuscany when it comes to their food. There is spicy bruschetta with the freshest tomato, garlic, onions, and basil; ribollita soup with cannellini beans and vegetables; locally harvested black-and-white shaved truffle ravioli filled with spinach and cheese; a seasoned pork roast with terra-cotta–colored crackling from a prized Tuscan Cinta Senese pig; for dessert, there’s panforte stuffed with fruits and nuts and ricciarelli almond cookies. And yes, we all have our fair share of the Ballerini red Chianti Classico.
Conversation begins with a direct and somewhat provocative missile from the fearless and irreverent patriarch, aimed at me: “So, Romeo—”
“His name’s Rodrigo—”
“Scusi. So I hear you took Tes to a bullfight—?” “Tes” is his pet name for Carlotta, short for tesoro, or “treasure.”
“Sí. I was happy she came.”
“How did that go?”
“Papà,” Carlotta objects.
“She didn’t jump in the arena and try to save the bull, did she?”
I smile. “No.”
“Don’t mind him, he’s always this way,” Carlotta says.
“What way? I’ve tried to get you to go a million times,” Salvatore persists.
“Going with you and going with Rodrigo are two different experiences.”
“Where did you see a corrida?” I ask.
“Where did I not go? I went to Barcelona, Madrid, Seville, where else? Pamplona. Never saw a goring, though—my one regret.”
I take a good drink of Giuliana’s eyes and can see what she is hearing when her husband talks about his trips to the bullrings: opportunities for him to spend time with his mistresses.
“And I hear you’re an artist. What kind?” Salvatore asks.
“You know what kind,” Carlotta says. “I showed you on the computer.”
“Per favore, can I have a conversation with this young man? Actually, not so young. How old are you?”
“Forty-nine.”
“When I was forty-nine, Giuliana and I had been married for over twenty-five years already. You making good money?”
I nod.
“That’s good, that’s good. The last guy Carlotta brought home—”
“Salvatore!” Giuliana spits.
“Papà!”
“What? What was he, an undertaker?”
“He’s an arborist.”
“Arborist? More like a florist. Well, I think he was a little—” He flutters his hand, indicating a homosexual.
“Was not! You’re a little—” Carlotta says, fluttering her hand back at him, and everyone laughs.
“I mean, mi dispiace, but who does flowers for one’s lifework? Tell me that!”
“Could you be more embarrassing?” Giuliana asks.
I can tell Carlotta is her mamma’s pride and joy. Giuliana must have stuck up for her all these years; it is obvious that she admires Carlotta for her courage, feistiness, and independence—everything she wishes she had been and might have been if the times had been different. It is etched all over Giuliana’s face. I’ve never seen a woman’s eyes so connected to her soul.
“Now let me tell you about this guy—”
“You think Rodrigo cares about him?”
<
br /> “Well, I would. I’d want to know where my girl had been.”
Fed up, Carlotta tosses her napkin on the table and leaves the room.
“Let me tell you, this guy comes here, takes me for a walk, and tells me about the disease in all my trees and what I’m doing wrong and all the brainy tree arguments and all my violations and— I’d just fed him for a month and made his bed! I wanted to kick him in the ass, hoist him up and hang him by his slippers, and say, ‘How rotten do you think my trees are now, you snotty jackass!’ ”
“He didn’t wear slippers, they were espadrilles!” Carlotta yells from the other room, and I can hear her breaking up ebulliently.
“See? She knows. What a joke.” Then Salvatore lifts the tablecloth to look at my shoes.
I’m laughing now. This guy is hysterical. He is entertaining. And I can tell he cares. He loves his family. And he loves his daughter. They are both alphas and bound to collide. There is no give. He is everything in that old-school-machismo way. He has a good heart, within the confines of the house, his castle. But, like a king, he wants his perks, too—and it is his wife who has paid the price.
It is time for me to have a second glass; Giuliana instinctively notices and gets up and pours it for me. Carlotta reclaims her seat at the table.
“So how’s the art business?” Salvatore asks me.
“It’s okay. I love the painting, not so much the business.”
“But you’re a famous guy, you do well.”
“I’ve had my moments.”
“A lot of nudes?”
“Here he goes again,” Carlotta complains.
“What? If I were a painter, I’d do nudes. What’s wrong with that?”
I remain silent, which is a mistake, and drain my glass quickly. I pour myself a third.
“Unless you prefer the male form,” Salvatore tosses with purpose. “Imagine how many fruit flies are in town for the festival. I mean, like shooting fish in a barrel!” He is laughing so hard he has tears in his eyes.
The Beautiful Dream of Life Page 19
