“No buts,” said Mr Schwartz firmly. “You go tell your friend you found yerself a Yank and he’s givin’ you a lift right down to Málaga tomorrow. Okay?”
I laughed.“That’s okay by me and I’ll put it to my friend but I can’t promise she’ll agree. You see, Spanish girls are very old-fashioned and…”
“Yeah, I know – and I like old-fashioned gals. Just tell her there’s no funny business about this deal ‘cos I’m gonna treat you just like you’re my daughters.”
The champagne and liqueurs had dispelled any misgivings I might have had and I was determined to persuade Anita to agree. No horrible, dirty train journey tomorrow. We would arrive in Málaga in style.This really was my lucky day.
Anita and I arrived back from the station after seeing Desmond off on the train to Madrid only to discover to our horror that he had left with our kilometric tickets still in his pocket. Anita had given them to him to look after, which was not a wise thing to do knowing how absent-minded he tended to be.
We rushed back to the station to consult the stationmaster about our dilemma. He was both helpful and sympathetic, assuring us that all would be well. He would telephone the ticket inspector and the tickets would quickly be recovered from Desmond and sent straight back to Granada on the next train. “Do not worry, señoritas, they will be waiting for you in the morning.”
“Even if they didn’t arrive,” I remarked casually to Anita as we walked back to the pensión, “at least we would get as far as Málaga because we’re not going by train anyway.”
She looked at me, her huge eyes wide with surprise.“What do you mean? We can’t afford to take a bus when we have perfectly good rail tickets already paid for! No, we can’t leave here until we have our tickets.”
“I didn’t say we were going by bus. I said we wouldn’t be taking the train. In fact, we’re going by car.”
“Are you mad?”
“A fantastic car too, a luxurious six-seater Cadillac with a chauffeur.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, and another thing. We’re not eating at the pensión tonight. We’re dining at the Alhambra Palace Hotel. The table’s booked for nine o’clock.”
Anita stopped walking, took my arm and peered anxiously into my face.“Now please, before you go any further…” she spoke in a gentle, humouring voice of the kind used to address someone who was seriously deranged and prone to bizarre and unpredictable behaviour.“Are you feeling all right?”
“Never felt better,” I replied breezily, enjoying her confusion, “especially when I think about that big, expensive meal we’re having tonight. It should be even better than the lunch I had today and that was lobsters and champagne.”
“You’re out of your mind!” snapped Anita, losing her temper. “What are you thinking of being so extravagant? You know we’re on a tight budget.We’ll quickly run out of money if we’re not very careful and there’s no way we can eat at the Alhambra Palace Hotel.”
“Don’t worry!” I giggled. “We’re not paying. It will all be taken care of by my good friend Mr. Jerry Schwartz from Ohio.”
“Who, for God’s sake, is he?”
“Just someone I met this morning.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” she cried, scandalised, “that you have agreed to us having dinner at the most expensive hotel in Granada with a complete stranger?”
“And he’s driving us to Málaga tomorrow,” I added.
“Ni hablar! I won’t hear of it.”
“But he’s not a complete stranger. He’s Mr. Jerry Schwartz, a very rich American and I found him in the Generalife. Now don’t you think that was clever of me?”
“But we can’t do this! Why should he want to wine and dine us and take us to Málaga in his car? What’s in it for him?”
“The pleasure of our charming company of course. You shouldn’t have such a suspicious mind. He’s just a lonely, rich old man in need of company and there’s nothing to worry about. He’s going to treat us as his daughters.”
We arrived back at the pensión and, after much persuasion she reluctantly donned her best dress and agreed to come with me for our date. As the Alhambra Palace Hotel was rather far away and we were both wearing stilettos, we decided to take a taxi.Anita became increasingly nervous, protesting that we shouldn’t be doing this and that I had no business to be picking up rich Americans in the Generalife. However, when we arrived at our destination, the sight of all that luxury and the prospect of an amazing meal seemed to quell her anxieties and she began to relax.We found our kind host waiting for us in the cocktail bar where he greeted us warmly.
“So this is your Spanish friend!” He smiled approvingly.“Gee, she sure is pretty! I’m a lucky guy. Got myself a blonde and a brunette all in one go!”
“What’s he saying? What’s he saying?” Anita demanded to know.
“Oh, nothing much: just saying hello,” I replied and then, to Mr. Schwartz,“I’m afraid my friend doesn’t speak any English.”
“Doesn’t matter, we’re goin’ to get along just fine.” He grinned at her and she smiled back at him vacantly.
One hour, two bottles of wine and an excellent meal later, Anita had unwound. My role as interpreter, though tedious, was rewarding as I could translate things in a way suitable to the listener.
Mr. Schwartz told us about his plans. His itinerary included two nights in Málaga and then on to Algeciras where he would leave the car and take a ferry across to Tangiers. “So you see, gals, you’re welcome to come with me all the way to Algeciras. It would be my pleasure.”
We were having such a good time that I completely forgot about my date with Juan until suddenly I saw it was eleven fifteen and I remembered I was due to meet him at eleven thirty.
“Look at the time!” I cried.“Anita, we must go home at once. It’s past eleven.”
“So soon?” asked our host with obvious disappointment. “How about another drink first?”
“Oh no,” I replied.“Thank you so much for everything but we must be on our way. Remember, we have a long journey ahead of us so we must go to bed early so that we’ll be fresh in the morning. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Mr. Schwartz smiled benevolently. “Okay, I guess you’re right. I’ll get Carlos to run you back.”
As we left I heard him murmur under his breath “Good ol’ fashioned kids!”
“What was the hurry?” asked Anita, puzzled, as she undressed and climbed into bed. “It’s quite early you know, and I was enjoying myself.”
“Sorry,” I said, hastily brushing my hair, “but I have to hurry. I’m late as it is.”
“Late for what? What’s going on?”
“Sorry again. I forgot to tell you, – what with so much happening. I have to meet Juan at the café down the road.”
“Who on earth is Juan? What are you doing? You can’t go out now!”
“He’s someone I met in the café yesterday and he’s promised to take me to the Albaicín.You could come with us if you like.”
Anita gave a little gasp of horror.“Desmond was right in what he said about you English girls. He is always right; but I won’t let you go.You mustn’t go with a strange man to the gypsy quarter in the night. You just don’t do that sort of thing in Spain, it’s dangerous. No, I won’t let you go.”
“Don’t be such a spoilsport! It will be fun. We’re going to a zambra with lots of singing and dancing. You know how I like flamenco and I wouldn’t miss it for anything.Why don’t you come?”
Anita groaned and shook her head in despair. “You must be joking! Nothing would persuade me to go. I value my life. I value my chastity!You must be mad.”
“You’re so old-fashioned,Anita,” I sighed.“But I promise you I can look after myself. Remember, I’m a hardy weed, so stop worrying. Now I must dash or Juan will think I’m not coming.”
“I know what it is. It’s all that stupid business with Luis. It’s affected your brain,” she speculated, seeking to justify my outrageo
us behaviour.
I pulled on my coat and planted a brief kiss on her worried face.“I promise I’ll not run away with the raggle-taggle gypsies. See you later.”
“I shan’t sleep a wink,” she threatened. “I’ll stay awake until you get back, whenever – or if ever that is.”
I slipped out into the night and made my way to the café through streets still thronging with people.When I arrived, at first there was no sign of Juan and I guessed that he must have grown tired of waiting. I was just debating whether to risk death by braving the gypsy quarter on my own, when I spied my self-appointed escort weaving his way towards me between the tables.
“So there you are! I thought you were never coming.”
“I’m sorry. I was delayed for all sorts of reasons and Anita didn’t want me to meet you. She doesn’t trust you or the gypsy quarter.”
Juan laughed.“Spanish girls are like that – like my sisters, they aren’t allowed out with boys at all. In fact, if a strange boy tried to date any of my sisters I’d soon make him regret it.” His eyes gleamed fiercely at the prospect.
“Wow!” I retorted,“You might just as well lock them away like the Moorish kings’ harem wives. I can’t believe how restricted women are here. But remember, we foreign girls may seem liberated to you but that doesn’t mean anyone can take advantage of us.”
My companion drew himself up proudly. “What are you suggesting? We Andalusians are men of honour. We have, running through our veins, the blood of the Conquistadors.”
“I wouldn’t have thought that much of a recommendation!” I laughed.“It’s hard to think of a more blood-thirsty band of rogues – wiping out the Indians, stealing all their gold!”
Juan looked hurt. “You English were no better. Your pirates couldn’t wait to get their hands on our treasure ships. But never mind about that, let’s go and find those gypsies.”
Together we climbed the hill towards the Sacromonte, through the dark streets of the Albaicín under a sky glittering with stars.The night was full of mysterious sounds: disembodied voices behind barred windows, a woman’s weeping mingled with the crying of a baby, the distant throb of guitars and hissing whispers of love from couples who stood together in the shadow of alleyways. It was a world apart, the world of García Lorca. Begging children darted like fireflies in and out of doorways as we passed, barring our way, wheedling, parting us from our spare pesetas with their tales of starving baby brothers and mothers languishing on their deathbeds. Although the stories were probably fantasies, there could be no doubt about the wretchedness of their condition. Their rags, bare feet and emaciated, small bodies bore witness to the devastating poverty which had driven them out onto the streets. Poverty, that ever-present ghost at the feast, was as much in evidence here in beautiful Granada as elsewhere in Spain.
The Sacromonte where the gypsies lived was pulsating with life. From the doorways of their cave dwellings carved into the side of the hill, floated the sound of nocturnal revels: rhythmic clapping, stamping feet and the rise and fall of husky flamenco voices. The zambras were in full swing and for a modest sum we were invited to join them. At the entrance to our chosen cave we were greeted by an enormously fat woman in a multi-frilled, polka-dot dress who proudly informed us that she was related to Carmen Amaya, a famous dancer well-known to London audiences. She ushered us in, her vast breasts and hips heaving and trembling as she moved, as though in protest at the restrictions imposed on them by her tight costume. Here was someone who was definitely not starving.
Inside the dimly-lit cave, the gypsies were seated in a semi-circle clapping to the rhythm of the guitar while two dancers writhed and twisted in the middle of the room. The walls were white-washed and hung with all kinds of decorative objects.There were fans, tapestries, copper pans, pots and plates, knives, guitars, lanterns, wrought-iron trinkets and even a bull’s head which glared at us angrily beneath its great curved horns. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves and even a couple of tiny children, resplendent in flamenco costume, joined the adult dancers, stamping and clicking their fingers with amazing skill.
Extra rush-seated chairs appeared from nowhere and we took our places in the semi-circle, surrounded by raven-haired beauties, their frilly dresses flowing about them like billowing waves. The dance ended and glasses of sherry were handed round. The performers refreshed themselves, chatting together in their unintelligible Caló gypsy language and calling to each other in hoarse voices. In a corner, the guitarist sat bent over his instrument, caressing the strings gently, like a lover, coaxing from them strange ripples of oriental-sounding melody. A bead curtain parted at one end of the room and a frowning young man entered. He was dressed in tight black trousers, a short jacket and frilled pink shirt open to the waist to reveal a tanned, hairy chest. He walked over to the guitarist, placed a hand on his shoulder and stood glaring fiercely at the assembled company, his black, untamed hair falling in strands across his hawkish features. There were shouts of Olé Paco! and then the room fell silent, heavy with expectation.
The guitarist struck a few significant chords and Paco threw back his head, closed his eyes and twisted his face into an expression of acute suffering.There followed a long, unearthly wail which rose and fell, varying in intensity, with never a pause for breath. It mounted at last to a passionate, trembling crescendo where it hung agonizingly for a moment before sinking into a moan and fading away to the accompaniment of frenzied olés.
“That’s a good canta’or, “ remarked Juan. “And watch this! Here comes a beauty – olé morena!”
Across the floor drifted a slender, olive-skinned girl with huge, sultry eyes and pouting lips. Her ink-black hair hung to her waist in a lustrous, thick mane which flew about her face with each proud toss of her head. She stamped and clicked her way towards us, followed by the long rustling train of her scarlet dress, wriggling her body sensuously and provoking howls of anguish from Paco. The dance built up to a fast and furious frenzy, the girl’s feet moving like lightning, beating out an intricate rhythm on the floor, arms twisting and weaving in the air, her face contorted in passionate anger, eyes and white teeth flashing.
“Olé! niña de mi alma! Olé guapetona!” yelled Juan. “They’re good, aren’t they? You won’t see dancing as good as this anywhere else in Spain.”
Flamenco is infectious and, after a few more drinks, we ceased to be merely spectators and were persuaded to participate in the entertainment.They taught us how to clap in time to the various rhythms and Juan was dragged to his feet by Carmen Amaya’s relative who had taken a fancy to him.To everyone’s amusement, she hooked her black embroidered shawl round his neck and, still dancing, led him triumphantly to the centre of the room, grinning and winking at us as she did so. She lumbered around him, her thick torso swaying to the music; but old and fat though she was, the graceful movements of her arms and head proved that she had once been a good dancer. Juan of course, would have preferred to have been partnered by the beautiful ‘Niña del Peñascal’ who continued to captivate him, but it was not to be. Her partner was a wild, dubious-looking character who kept a sullen, watchful eye on her the whole time. I guessed he was the type in whom it would be unwise to inspire jealousy if one valued one’s life.
In the course of the night, Paco proved himself not only an excellent canta’or but also an imaginative poet. He approached me and hissed in my ear that I had been his sole inspiration for the entire evening and he could not permit us to leave until he had dedicated to us a copla which he had just composed. I told him I was both surprised and honoured and he nodded and strode back to his place by the guitarist.
“This copla,” he announced in a loud voice, “is dedicated to the English señorita and her Spanish novio.”
“Muy bién!” yelled the others.“Come on, Paco! Let’s hear it!”
The guitarist struck up an improvised introduction and Paco sang us his lines, rendered in the same agonized tones as before. His accent was so strong that I could barely make out the words
but Juan told me it was about a fair-haired girl who had travelled from distant shores to join the gypsies of the Albaicín and steal away the hearts of the Granadians.Tears of emotion sprang to my eyes which made me realise I had drunk far too much.The night wore on, as amid laughter and sherry it slowly turned to dawn.
Somehow, and at some time, I managed to get back to the pensión although I remembered little about it. I couldn’t even recall having said goodbye to Juan but I did notice that Anita seemed to have abandoned her all-night vigil and was curled up in her bed.As I finally crept, exhausted, into mine I could hear her stirring. “At last!” she muttered beneath the blankets,“I’ve been out of my mind with worry about you. I haven’t slept a single wink.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
YANKEES
The following morning dawned bright and warm. By the time Anita shook me into wakefulness she had already been down to the station to collect our tickets, had breakfasted, paid our bill and packed her things. She brought me a strong cup of coffee which was more than welcome as a nagging headache was reminding me of my night on the tiles.As I sipped the comforting brew, I regaled her with an account of those escapades and she listened with fascination and incredulity.
“It sounds amazing,” she conceded,“but I’d never dare do such a thing.”
“Anita,” I said,“my mum has always impressed on me that life is short and youth is fleeting so it’s as well to make the most of it while it lasts.”
“Yes,” she nodded doubtfully. “I suppose she’s right. Do you know? When I woke up this morning I could hardly believe that I hadn’t dreamt all those things that happened yesterday: Mr. Schwartz and the Alhambra Palace Hotel. Are we really going to Málaga with him this morning?”
“Yes!” I exclaimed excitedly, forgetting my headache and leaping out of bed. “We’d better hurry up. He’ll be here any minute!”
I was barely dressed when there was a knock at the door and a puzzled maid appeared. “There’s a big car outside,” she said “and the chauffeur is asking for you.”
Mad Dogs and an English Girl Page 19
