Dreaming of Spain

by Alli Sinclair

  Steve wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “We all are, sis.”

  Charlotte twisted her lips as she tried to figure out how best to break the news. There really was only one way. “She wants me to go Spain.”

  “What?” Steve took a step back. “Why?”

  Steve and Charlotte stepped to the side as lunch-trolley lady wheeled her load down the hallway, the familiar clank-clank bouncing off the walls.

  “I’ll let her explain why when you go in and see her.” Charlotte hitched her handbag back on her shoulder. “I can’t say no to her.”

  “No one says no to Abuela.” Steve smiled.

  “So very true. Look, it’s going to take some coordination with me being away and I know we’re in the middle of some big things at work and— “

  “We will figure it out. Abuela and I can deal with Dad.”

  “Thanks.”

  She moved to leave but stopped when Steve said, “Are you sure it should be you that goes?”

  “It has to be me.” She had a couple of days to persuade herself she could do this.

  “Hmmm.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what you’re like in new places.”

  Holding her chin in the air, she held her voice steady. “Steve, I am going. And I will bask in the newness of it all and I will not spend my time worrying about anything that I would normally consider a risk.”

  “Crazy taxi drivers?”

  “No.”

  “Food poisoning?”

  “No.”

  “Being mugged?”

  Slight hesitation. “No.”

  “Your crap navigation skills?”

  “No,” she said forcefully. “I am going to Spain and I will not let my worries rule me anymore.”

  If only she believed it.

  THE END

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  Chapter One

  Charlotte Kavanagh gripped the calico bag that safely concealed her grandmother’s painting as she hurried across the grounds of Granada’s Escuela de Bellas Artes. Her heart raced faster than her feet while she skillfully dodged the students dressed in an array of styles—bohemian, casual chic, business, or sporty—as they lazed on the green expanse, soaking up the sun while idly thumbing through textbooks or sharing a joke with classmates. Charlotte’s low heels clacked along the smooth path, and she longed for a moment to fully enjoy the glory of the intense blue sky, blooming gardenias, and the sun warming her pale skin. But it was impossible to slow down when this visit to Spain held so much urgency.

  Taking the steps two at a time, Charlotte hastened through the art deco doors and down the long passageway. Sunlight attempted to penetrate the small windows but failed miserably, leaving the building in gloomy darkness. Squinting, Charlotte edged along the hallway, trying to make out the names and numbers on the doors.

  “Bingo!” She drew to a halt and filled her lungs with oxygen, exhaling slowly before rapping on the door.

  No answer.

  “Damn.” Knocking harder, she adjusted the shoulder strap of her handbag.

  Rapping on the door again, she drew her lips into a tight line, about to resign herself to camping outside Professor Fonseca’s door. Charlotte wiped the sweat from her brow, then reached into the handbag, grabbed a water bottle, and took a long drink. The cool liquid brought her temperature down and the frazzled feeling waned slightly.

  High heels marching across floorboards echoed down the hallway. The owner of the stunning blue shoes was a petite woman in a stylish business suit, her hair in an immaculately tailored bob, her large brown eyes framed by perfect eyeliner and mascara. The woman stopped in front of the door, and Charlotte smoothed down her faithful jeans.

  “Excuse me, are you Professor Fonseca?”

  “Sí.” She shoved the key in the lock and it clicked open. The woman turned and narrowed her eyes as she looked over her black-rimmed glasses. “Admissions deal with foreign students. I cannot help with your application to my department.”

  “Oh, that’s not what I’m here for.” Charlotte opened the calico bag and moved to pull out the painting.

  “Do not bother.” The professor made no effort to hold in a long sigh and muttered, “¡Por Dios! Estoy cansada de esto.”

  Charlotte chose not to tell the professor she’d understood her comment about being tired of “this.” Whatever this was. “I’m sorry if you have lots of people turn up without an appointment, but I have extenuating circumstances—”

  “I wish I had a euro for everyone who says this.” The professor held the door ajar, as if readying to barricade herself in the office against this loony Australian woman. “I have a lecture in half an hour, and I am busy for the rest of the week. You return next Wednesday. Eleven o’clock.”

  “Please.” Charlotte resisted the urge to grab the professor’s arm. “My abuela has had a major heart attack—she’s in her nineties and is very unwell. Her heart could give out at any minute, so she’s sent me here to find out who this artist is. The painting holds a lot of significance for my abuela. It’s not signed, and all she knows is it was an artist from Granada.” For good measure she added, “I’ve been told you were the expert in this field.”

  Charlotte’s attempt at buttering up appeared to have no effect as the professor crossed her arms.

  “You use abuela, the Spanish word for grandmother. Do you speak my native language?”

  “I understand it much better than I can speak, but I get by.” Good old high-school Spanish classes had been Charlotte’s only avenue to learn. Her grandmother had refused to teach her offspring, even though she insisted on being called Abuela. Yet another contradiction her grandmother clung to without explanation.

  The professor’s arms remained folded as she let out a rapid fire of Spanish. The words zapped around Charlotte’s head as she grappled to gain full meaning. What she picked up was that English wasn’t poetic, and it caused the professor’s ears immense pain to hear it.

  “I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “I didn’t get all of that.”

  The professor shrugged. “Classroom Spanish is not the same as real life, no? So we speak English, you and me.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate this.” She held back a sigh of relief. When Charlotte had sent out the call to her network of colleagues in the insurance business, she’d expected to be given the name of a secondhand dealer in the backstreets of Granada, so it came as a pleasant surprise to be put in touch with the city’s leading expert in obscure Spanish classical artists. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been warned about the woman’s prickly nature. Making a last-ditch effort, Charlotte said, “My great-grandfather gave Abuela the painting and promised to tell her the story behind it when she was twenty-one. Unfortunately, he passed away before he had the chance.”

  “Why has she waited until now to find out?” The professor took her hand off the key in the lock.

  “My grandmother was born in Granada, but moved to England in her twenties. I’m not sure when, exactly.” Because Abuela always ensured the details of her life in Spain remained murky, yet she freely spoke about her life in England. Recently, though, her grandmother had revealed tiny snippets about Spain, and for the first time in Charlotte’s twenty-seven years, she’d heard her grandmother speak about her country of birth with a hint of affection. “Later she moved to Australia. Abuela’s only legacy from Spain is this painting. Her illness has spurred her to tie up the loose strings in her life, and this is one of them.” Charlotte hoped Abuela wouldn’t be upset with her divulging the next piece of information. “She suspects this has something to do with her family heritage.”

  “It is nice, this wishing to connect with her original country, but I would say the painting is not signed because it was bought in a
market and the artist was a nobody.”

  “I know this is asking a lot, but I’ve come a long way. If you could just take a moment to look. Please.” Charlotte didn’t want to resort to begging, but she didn’t have much choice.

  Professor Fonseca gave a half shrug. “Come back next Wednesday.”

  “Please.” Charlotte took a step forward and fumbled in the calico bag, her fingers numb as she withdrew the painting and turned it so the professor could see.

  “Next Wednesday.” The professor’s gruff voice echoed down the hall, her eyes refusing to look at the artwork.

  “But—” Charlotte’s handbag slid off her shoulder and as she pushed it back on, her grip on the painting loosened and the artwork made a dive for the floor. Catching it just in time, Charlotte righted herself and found the professor staring at the canvas.

  “May I?” The professor held out her hands, fingers twitching.

  Charlotte dutifully gave her the painting. Sweat pooled in her lower back, and she wasn’t sure if it was from the muggy air or a sign of nerves. The sounds of doors swinging open and hitting walls reverberated as a crowd of students poured into the hallway, laughing and talking. The noise circled them and the professor cast her gaze up and down the hallway while clutching the painting. “Come.”

  “Gracias.” Charlotte followed the thin woman into the room adorned with dark wood paneling. The air felt ten degrees cooler and had a musty tinge, as if the windows hadn’t been opened in decades. A large desk covered in yellowing files and photographs of spectacular landscapes filled half the room, while a small reading chair and a sofa in matching burnt-orange fabric took up the rest of the space.

  Professor Fonseca sat behind her desk and turned on the reading light as she studied the painting from various angles. She squinted, widened her eyes, brought it close then moved it away. Clasping her hands in front, Charlotte stood awkwardly, unsure whether to stand or sit on the expensive-looking reading chair.

  Placing the glasses on the top of her head, the professor said quietly, “Syeria Mesa Flores Giménez.”

  “Pardon?” Charlotte shuffled closer.

  “Syeria Mesa Flores Giménez,” Professor Fonseca said louder. “This painting is close to one hundred years old. Look at this.” She pointed at the thick strokes of orange, red, and yellow flames. “See the way the paint curves up instead of lying flat on the canvas? This is her signature style. It truly is unique.” Placing a finger near the bottom corner on the left-hand side, she said, “This small rip, what is the story?”

  “I don’t know. The painting has been buried in a trunk under a pile of blankets for decades. My grandmother asked me to retrieve it only a few days ago.”

  “It has not been on display?” Professor Fonseca’s eyes widened. “A painting of this historical value should never be hidden.”

  “For Abuela, it’s the emotional value that’s important.” A lump formed in Charlotte’s throat as she recalled the last time she’d been with her grandmother. The buzz of the hospital had faded into the distance as they’d held hands in silence, their love for each other warming the cold, sterile room.

  Tapping her fingers on her thighs, Charlotte asked, “Any idea why it wasn’t signed?”

  “This Syeria, she never put her signature on the paintings because she believed her art was the collaboration between her heart and soul and nature. A team effort, you might say. Many people think they have an original Syeria Mesa Flores Giménez, but it is only a fake. But this”—the professor smiled with appreciation—“this is the real thing. I would bet my career on it.”

  “Do you have any idea who the dancer is?”

  “No, I do not, but I will say this is linked to La Leyenda del Fuego, the ‘Legend of the Fire.’ You know it?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not well-versed on my Spanish legends.” Yet another aspect of Spain Abuela could have passed on, but chose not to. Charlotte had surreptitiously studied Spain as much as possible, but it wasn’t the same as speaking with someone who had been born there.

  “It is a shame you do not know much about your heritage, but you could be forgiven in this case. The legend is more of the obscure type, known in the region of Granada and commonly heard in gitano circles. See this?” The professor pointed to the woman dancer clad in a deep red dress, her ample cleavage only slightly exposed. With a simple red rose tucked behind her ear, her thick dark hair flowed down her back and her skirt caught the breeze. Her large, brown eyes looked toward the stars twinkling in the inky sky and her arms reached upward, as if giving thanks. The woman’s long legs stretched out as she leapt over the campfire, her red shoes matching the dress.

  “It’s technically beautiful. The hues are . . . they’re amazing.” Charlotte’s eyes welled up, once again overcome by the magnificence.

  “You have a good eye.”

  “Thank you.” Keen to avoid any topic that involved art appreciation, Charlotte cleared her throat. “Is there additional information you can give me, or steer me toward, to find out more about this artist?”

  “There are some important things you must know first.” The professor glanced at the old-fashioned clock, then drew her brows together. “I will need to be fast. I cannot keep my students waiting.”

  “I’m sorry for turning up here without an appointment.”

  “It is okay. It is not every day I witness the splendor of a talented artist from an era that is no more. Tell me, what is your name?”

  “Charlotte Kavanagh.”

  “Ah, you are Irish.” The professor gestured toward Charlotte’s natural red hair, blue eyes, and pale skin.

  “Not Irish, I’m afraid. However, I do look like my grandmother.” Charlotte couldn’t remember how many times people had been surprised at Abuela’s flaming red hair and Spanish heritage.

  “Really?” The professor looked at the clock again and pushed back the chair. “You walk with me, yes?”

  “Of course.”

  Professor Fonseca gave the artwork one last, longing look before handing it over. Charlotte put it gently in the calico bag and tied a knot while the professor grabbed a folder, laptop, and pen. The door locked behind them as they took off down the dark hallway, Charlotte straining to keep up with the professor’s short legs, but long strides.

  “This Syeria Mesa Flores Giménez specialized in painting gitano legends from her clan. La Leyenda del Fuego was her favorite, and she painted many works with this theme.” She tucked the pen behind her ear. “Have you ever had a piece of music or painting that has spoken to your soul?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said, casting her mind back to the countless hours she’d spent in a little-known gallery in South Yarra, in her hometown of Melbourne. The gallery was her favorite place to discover unknown artists whose work left her reeling with an array of emotions that cut to the core. These days, though, she preferred to stay away from galleries because they brought back the pain of her one and only exhibition.

  “Do you know of duende?” Professor Fonseca asked, click-clacking down the stone steps. They crossed the busy courtyard, the crowds of students parting as the professor powered through.

  “Every artist wants to achieve this, right?” Dreams long gone clawed to the surface, but Charlotte shoved them back down into the murky depths of memories best forgotten.

  “Yes, it is true, but the duende I speak of, the one that is depicted in Syeria Mesa Flores Giménez’s artwork, is more complicated than you and I could ever comprehend. In La Leyenda del Fuego, the flamenco dancer is so overwhelmed by the feelings within, he or she is pulled toward the fuego—the flames—that signify the fire in their soul. When the dancer leaps, it is a symbolic leap of faith. By doing so they open up their heart to experience duende in its purest form.”

  Entering another building, they started up a flight of stairs.

  “Does the fire duende happen to many dancers?”

  “No,” said the professor, “the person must be a member of the Giménez clan, but even then there ar
e no guarantees. It is like being the chosen one, and it is beyond everyone’s control. Like other forms of duende, La Leyenda del Fuego cannot be forced. It must be organic—a connection of pure love with spirit, heart, and flamenco.”

  Charlotte hesitated, then asked the question brewing in her mind. “As an academic, do you think the legend could be true?”

  They stopped outside the lecture hall, and the professor’s lips formed a slow smile. “It does not matter what I think. I know the Giménez clan believe this, so who am I to argue? I have not heard of La Leyenda del Fuego happening for decades, but I am not privy to what goes on inside a gitano clan.”

  Charlotte nodded. She’d never been one to foist her beliefs on others, either.

  “I cannot offer any more information on the painting belonging to your abuela. As with any clan of the gitano culture, it is closed to outsiders. They do not wish to speak of the past and do not keep written records, so there is no historical information.”

  “So how do people know about Syeria Mesa Flores Giménez?” Charlotte asked.

  “They know of her existence because an art collector wanted to make her a showpiece, promote her as a gypsy artist. She painted for love, not money. She disappeared from the eyes of the public sometime around 1919. No one saw her again.”

  “She didn’t use the gitano network to hide?” This was way more interesting than any miniseries.

  “There are rumors she left the country and never returned. No one knows for sure. It is a good mystery, yes?”

  A lanky student with shoulder-length hair rushed through the open door to the lecture hall, knocking Charlotte’s arm into the doorframe. A sharp pain gripped her elbow, but she managed to keep hold of the painting that raised more questions than answers. The student threw a hurried “discúlpame” and continued into the room brimming with students.

  The professor raised an eyebrow. “I am sorry for my student. Here, take this.” She produced a business card from her folder then hastily scribbled a name on the back. “You would be best to speak with the Giménez clan. They live outside the city, keep to themselves, and follow their own rules—the only way to get access to them is to befriend someone they trust.” Waving the card, she said, “This man is not gitano, but he has the connections you need. You will find him at Club Alegría. It is home to many flamenco greats. He is there most nights, and if anyone can help, it will be Mateo Vives.”