We were still arguing when we reached the bar where Carlos was playing cards with a group of seamen of uncertain nationality. They looked up and flashed their white teeth at us as we approached.
Anita, who was always a little reluctant to enter unfamiliar bars without a reliable male escort, drew back but I pushed her forward, determined that Carlos wasn’t going to Seville without us. I knew Anita was far from happy about the arrangement we had made with him. With her usual caution, she had tried to persuade me that we should decline his offer, putting forward the usual arguments: we didn’t know him properly, it could put us under an obligation and – horror of horrors – suppose he were to try to rape us by some lonely wayside? It took me some time to convince her that as there were two of us, we were reasonably safe for even if he wanted to, he could hardly rape both of us at the same time! The one who wasn’t being raped could bash him over the head with a rock or something. Anyway, he seemed a nice enough man and it seemed unlikely he would suddenly do a ‘Jekyll and Hyde’. Eventually she agreed but her misgivings remained.
Carlos ordered us drinks and sided with Anita on the subject of Gibraltar’s sovereignty. Others hearing our discussion also rallied to the cause and I realised I was hopelessly outnumbered. In a sudden moment of exasperation, and without checking if there were any civil guards around, I burst out:“It’s a good thing for the people who live there that it’s not part of Spain.Who wants to live under a Fascist dictatorship?”
There was immediate silence and everyone looked at me and then at each other. I thought: help! What have I said? Why can’t I learn to keep my mouth shut? Then a small, quiet man who had been leaning against the bar and listening to our discussion, walked over to our table.“Leave it as it is, that’s what I say. I live in La Linea and I go across there every day to work.They live better than us and I earn higher wages than most of the people round here.”
So saying, he threw down the stub of his cigarette, screwed it into the floor with his foot and walked out into the sunny street. After that, and to my relief, no one had anything further to say on the subject of Gibraltar.
Carlos had made some friends in the bar and said he wouldn’t be leaving for Seville until that night. We arranged to meet him there and were pleased to have a whole afternoon free to explore Algeciras.We walked through the town and along the coastal road, enjoying the sunshine and working up an appetite for lunch.
After about an hour, we came across a little bar-restaurant standing among cacti beside an inviting beach. It was three in the afternoon, we were hot and hungry and this was just what we were looking for.The proprietor was a friendly man who made us very welcome and led us to a table on a small veranda overlooking the beach.
As we tucked into a paella, we gazed at the tempting sea and discussed the possibility of taking a dip in the Med. On the off chance, we had that morning optimistically extracted our swimsuits and towels from our cases in the Cadillac boot and stuffed them into a convenient bag. All we needed now was somewhere to change.
The afternoon was warm, as warm as a good summer’s day in England. It was hard to believe that this was January and Burgos was probably still blanketed in snow. Anita approached the proprietor and told him of our wish to have a swim. He considered us totally mad to even think about swimming in January, but nonetheless was good-natured enough to humour us and provided not only a room for changing but also, when we emerged from the water, an improvised shower with a watering can.
Now, the memory of that afternoon swim, of the rippling calm water floated through my head and melted into a dream as I drifted into sleep, lulled by the motion of the Cadillac. It was rudely disturbed by the pain of Anita’s sharp little nails digging into my forearm as she gripped it and shook me back to life.“Your turn,” I heard her saying in an irritable voice. “Wake up and sing to Carlos!”
“How much longer do we have to keep this up?” I complained, reluctant to leave my dream world. “Why can’t he listen to the car radio?”
“Good idea!” said Anita, brightening. She tapped him on the shoulder. “Did you hear that Carlos? Why don’t you listen to the radio?”
Carlos grunted and leaning forward, fumbled with some knobs on the dashboard. After a series of crackles and other strange sounds, we were suddenly subjected to a loud, unearthly wailing. “Morocco,” he muttered in annoyance and re-tuned the radio. More wailing. Try as he might, we could not pick up any Spanish stations – only North African ones. I realised we had not long left Tarifa, the most southerly point of Spain, so all those radio waves from Morocco were presumably whizzing across the Straits of Gibraltar in strength, jamming out the Spanish radio. Carlos switched it off in disgust and ordered us to resume our singing.
We reached the town of Jerez de la Frontera in the small hours of the morning, our journey having been delayed by a two-hour stop for an evening meal at an inn. It had been rather a romantic meal in an inner courtyard open to the star-strewn sky.The white-washed walls were host to an enormous grapevine which roamed all over them, its gnarled and twisted branches hung with small wrought-iron lanterns. Near the top of one of the walls was an illuminated plaque bearing an image of the Virgin.Yes, it had been a romantic setting for an excellent meal and Carlos had taken care of the bill. At first, Anita had protested about this but I, ever conscious of our steadily dwindling supply of hard-earned pesetas, had kicked her under the table while thanking him for his chivalrous generosity.
Now we were entering Jerez, I had run out of songs and Anita had defiantly fallen asleep. It was hot and stuffy inside the car and smoky too as Carlos had taken to chain-smoking since the departure of Mr. Schwartz. I wound down the window and peered into the darkness, anxious to see what I could of this famous little town, home to Spanish sherry. Unfortunately, I could see very little, just a few dark streets and a signpost indicating the direction of Seville. However, to my surprise Carlos did not take that road but instead turned the Cadillac down a narrow side street. Remembering Anita’s apprehensions, I felt slightly worried.
“Carlos,” I said leaning across to him,“where are we going?”
“I’m thirsty,” he mumbled biting on his cigarette.“It’s hot and I’m thirsty. How about you?”
I had to admit that I was too. After all that singing my throat was as dry as dust.
“Well, we’ve come to the right place,” chuckled Carlos,“and I happen to know a very good bodega. Don’t you want to tell your friends in England that you’ve drunk sherry in the place where it’s made?”
“Well yes, I suppose so; but isn’t it a bit late? Will it still be open?”
Carlos roared with laughter. “They never stop drinking here,” he assured me.“Drink all night long.”
He drew the car up alongside a dirty little doorway, which could even rival the entrance to Don Federico’s academy. Just inside, I could make out a dimly lit flight of stairs running down, I guessed, to some deep cellar from which drifted the sound of drunken laughter and the twang of a guitar.
Carlos switched off the engine, rolled up his shirt sleeves and turned to me with a smile. “Here we are,” he said, “best place in town for sherry.”
For a moment I hesitated. It didn’t look the sort of place where you would find women other than those of dubious character.
“Er… you go. I’ll stay here with Anita. Sherry’s not very thirst-quenching.”
“A glass of wine then?” urged Carlos. “Come on down! I’ll look after you.There’s a fabulous flamenco singer down there.They say he’s the best in the whole of Andalusia.”
This was tempting as I could never resist flamenco and I could just hear, coming from below, something that sounded very promising. Overcoming my reluctance I decided this was something too good to miss.
“Alright, but I’m not leaving Anita.”
“No! no! She must come too,” insisted Carlos.
In fact Anita was beginning to stir, roused by our conversation and the sudden extinguishing of the car’s engine.
She raised her head and looked around sleepily. “Where are we?” she yawned. “Seville already?”
“Jerez,” I told her with excitement, “where the sherry comes from and we’ve stopped for a drink.”
“Where?” she enquired suspiciously.
“In there,” I replied waving a hand in the direction of the doorway. “I know it looks a bit seedy but there’s a fantastic flamenco singer – the best in Andalusia. Can’t you hear him?”
Anita took one look at the shabby doorway and shook her head firmly.“No way! I don’t like flamenco and, even if I did, you wouldn’t get me in there. No woman who values her reputation would be seen dead in a place like that!”
Carlos laughed.“Oh, it’s not that bad, and I’m here to take care of you. Let’s go! It sounds like they’re having a good time down there.”
From the depths of the bodega rose a chorus of animated shouts and guffaws.
Anita seized my arm.“Listen to them! They sound like a pack of wild animals. Let Carlos go on his own! I’m not going down there and neither are you if you have any sense. If you do, the chances are you won’t come back in one piece!”
Carlos was growing impatient with our arguing. He opened the car door and climbed out, stretching himself and taking in deep breaths of the night air.
“Well, while you two decide what you want to do, I’m going to have my drink. I’m parched. See you in a minute.”With this he locked the car and disappeared down the stairs.
I felt like a pet dog left on the back seat, awaiting the return of its owner and I was annoyed with Anita for being such a killjoy. Thanks to her, I had not only forfeited the drink I so much needed, but also the chance of hearing the best flamenco singer in Andalusia.
“I despair of you,” sighed Anita as we sat waiting for Carlos. “You just don’t seem to understand about Spain. We’re not in Castile now, remember! This is Andalusia and they’re very old-fashioned here in their attitude to women.The people have all this Moorish and Gypsy blood and the men are like wild beasts when they’re drunk.”
“I think you’re exaggerating,” I said sulkily. “And anyway, you can’t tell me anything about dangerous Spanish males; not after living withVázquez!”
At that moment, Carlos reappeared bearing two glasses of wine which he handed to us through the rear window.“They’ll be up in a moment,” he said, “that’s just to keep you going till they come up.They’re bringing the sherry and the flamenco singer.”
“Who are?” cried Anita, sitting bolt upright in alarm. “What are you saying?”
“That lot down there, of course.” Carlos grinned and lit a cigarette, leaning against the side of the car. “I’ve told them there are two beautiful señoritas up here in need of refreshment and entertainment.”
“How could you say such a thing?”Anita’s face was reddening. “How embarrassing! Go down at once and tell them not to come!”
“Too late!” he chuckled. “They’re on their way up now. Here they come!”
The sound of rowdy merry-making grew ever louder and we saw the dark shapes of what seemed like dozens of men emerging from the doorway. Anita shrank back in terror as they approached. They lurched towards us shouting drunkenly in their heavy Andalusian accents, waving bottles and glasses above their heads, and filling the still air with their raucous laughter. Anita clung to me and I could feel her trembling.“This is awful!” she whimpered, “I knew we shouldn’t have come with Carlos.”
They clustered round the car, bending to leer at us through the windows, thrusting forward their bottles and inviting us to refill our glasses.
“Que guapas!” shouted one of them peering at us with semi-focused eyes and then, turning to Carlos:“Two in one go you lucky bastard! Tell us how you do it!”
“Yes, what’s he got that we haven’t?” yelled another.
Anita buried her face in her hands. “I think I shall die of shame!” she said dramatically.
Carlos pushed them away from the car.“Wind down the window!” he ordered.“They’re bringing up the flamenco singer now.”
Somebody shouted, “Make way for Pepe!” “Where’s Mario?” called another voice.“Ah, there he is! Over here, Mario!”
Out of the gloom stepped a plump, middle-aged man with a guitar. He smiled at us with half-closed eyes, a cigarette smouldering at the corner of his mouth, his black Andalusian hat set at a jaunty angle. He struck a few chords on his guitar then came over and took up his position near the bonnet of the Cadillac. Up the stairs came yet another group of men who appeared to be half carrying, half dragging something between them. Brushing aside Anita’s protests, I wound down the window to get a better view of what was going on. I then realised that what they were hauling through the doorway was a man who appeared to be semi-conscious.
“Wake up, Pepe!” shouted one of his companions. “Here are two señoritas come all the way from Algeciras to hear you sing.”
Someone slapped him on the cheeks and he rallied a little, opening a pair of dazed eyes and peering around. He was lean and dark with an unshaven face and thick, black sideburns reaching almost to his jaw. He was dressed in a torn, wine-stained shirt, faded trousers and rope-soled sandals. Round his waist he wore a wide faja, a sort of sash reminiscent of characters in a Goya painting. Mario struck a few more encouraging notes on his guitar and someone called out:“Give him another drink!”
I leaned out of the window. “Is this the flamenco singer?” I enquired of the men.They nodded vigorously.“That’s him. Best in the whole of Spain.”
“But he’s dead drunk! He can’t even stand upright, never mind sing.”
The men laughed. “The more he drinks the better he sings,” said one of them.“You’ll see. Oye! Over here Pepe! The señoritas are waiting.”
“He’s famous, you know,” somebody said,“everyone’s heard of Pepe.”
“Pepe, Él del Cuchillero,” added the first man, “Son of the Knife Grinder.You’re lucky to have found him.”
Meanwhile, Pepe, still supported by his friends, was being plied with yet more alcohol. Someone thrust a glass into his hand and someone else filled it from an earthenware carafe. He swigged it down in one gulp and the glass was immediately replenished. I expected to see him collapse again but, surprisingly, it seemed to have the opposite effect. Considerably revived, he broke away from his entourage and staggered forward to inspect us. He stood beside the car, swaying slightly, scrutinising us with jet-black eyes.
“Now we know what it feels like to be an animal behind bars in a zoo!” I whispered to Anita.
“Well, it’s your fault,” she retorted, “it’s all your fault, being so crazy about flamenco: just like a foreign tourist.”
I knew this last remark was intended as a strong insult and it brought home to me just how annoyed she was.
“Well, what do you think of them?” asked Carlos of the assembled company. He was grinning with satisfaction, showing us off as a farmer would a pair of prize pigs.
Pepe, Son of the Knife Grinder gave a slow smile and clamped his hand to his heart.
“I am blinded by their beauty,” he lisped.“They are as beautiful as dawn itself. This one,” here he pointed to Anita, “has eyes that sparkle more brightly than the stars; and this one,” indicating me, “has hair golden as the rising sun.”The onlookers, who had fallen silent, all nodded and muttered their agreement.
“Aha!” I said, giving Anita a nudge, “you have to admit these Andalusians certainly know how to pay compliments.”
I knew the one thing she could never resist was flattery and already I saw that she was weakening.
“Well, yes,” she admitted,“as compliments go, I suppose they’re not too bad. Not a patch on Desmond’s, of course.”
“My song,” said Pepe,“is dedicated to their loveliness.”
He lurched over to where Mario was standing, his guitar at the ready, and the crowd surged forward, shouting encouragement.
Someone had thoughtfully brought up a chair fo
r the benefit of the guitarist who sat down to tune his instrument. Meanwhile, Pepe drained his glass and tossed it into the air where it was deftly caught by one of the bystanders. Mario bent over his guitar and struck a series of rousing introductory notes.The moment we had all been waiting for had arrived.
Pepe’s eerie flamenco voice cut the stillness of the night with strange, trembling song, rising and falling, passionate and spine-chilling while the guitar followed him, accompanying each wild, improvised sequence with appropriate chords.The others muttered olé! and other comments of approval at the end of each cante. From time to time, between songs, he would refresh himself with yet more wine and, oddly, it really did seem that his singing improved with every glass.
Anita and I were handed sherry through the car window as our serenade continued. Having exhausted the theme of our loveliness, he went on to sing about gypsy lovers, dark-eyed girls, impending death and unrequited love. Many of the words and phrases must have had bawdy double meanings.As a foreigner, they were lost on me but were obviously significant to the men who responded with ribald laughter while Anita blushed, clapping her hand to her mouth.
Sometimes, during more lively passages, the others would join in with rhythmic hand-clapping and the scene gradually acquired the atmosphere of a street party. The whole situation was so extraordinary and unreal that it was hard to believe I was not dreaming.
At last, and with some reluctance, Carlos decided it was time for us to make a move. Pepe had sung his last song, the alcohol having at last taken its toll. He collapsed once more into the arms of his friends who, by this time, were not in a much better state themselves.
With their drunken farewells still ringing in our ears, we backed slowly out of the narrow street and onto the Seville highway.
I said:“That was a good idea of yours, Carlos, stopping at that place. But we weren’t expecting a party in our honour!” I turned to Anita.“What did you think of Pepe, Él del Cuchillero?”
Mad Dogs and an English Girl Page 21
