Professor Fonseca handed over the card.
“Thank you.” Charlotte smiled. “Wish me luck!”
The professor drew her brows together again. “You will need it.”
* * *
The cool night air clung to Charlotte’s skin as she wove through the streets of Sacromonte, Granada’s neighborhood famous for flamenco and gitanos, and hopefully, the place where she would track down Professor Fonseca’s contact. She traveled up the hills and along the narrow cobblestoned streets crowded with whitewashed houses, colourful doors and windows, all protected by elaborate wrought-iron grilles. As Charlotte sauntered past, she glimpsed inside the caves carved into the hillside that once housed the Moors but now served as restaurants, shops, galleries, and dance and music schools.
Studying the map in the fading light, she made her way up, up, up, her calves burning with every step. All those times she’d avoided the gym because she was too busy with work now haunted her as she slogged up the winding, steep streets. Luckily, studying the stunning architecture took her mind off the pain—for a fleeting moment. As she rounded another corner, Charlotte switched into top gear, and her skin tingled with anticipation.
The aroma of fresh onions, potatoes, and spices wafted down the alley and guided her to Club Alegría. Hesitating outside the door, she observed the patrons laughing and eating, drinking wine and beer. Nerves tingled at the back of her neck. She hated going into places she didn’t know. There was always a risk of not being accepted, a fear she’d developed in her teenage years that still plagued her. Assessing risk every day, in the world of insurance, didn’t help Charlotte deal with her issues, but what could she do? Her father had pushed her into the family business, and there was no feasible way out. Leaving would be . . . risky.
A waiter dressed in white and black waved her in. Do this for Abuela. Swallow the fear. Taking a deep breath, Charlotte crossed the threshold into the cave. Nausea grew in her belly. Despite a lack of space, the bar was cluttered with people of all ages sitting on dark wooden chairs at tables that looked a century old. At the back of a room was a small, empty stage.
Capturing the attention of the waiter she said, “Estoy . . . buscando. . .” Why wouldn’t the words come? “Un hombre—”
The waiter held up his hand and smiled. “It is okay. I speak the English.”
“Sorry about my Spanish.”
“It is all right. You try.” He flipped a pristine cloth over his shoulder. “You say you look for a man? This is not the right place.”
“I’m looking for this man in particular.” She passed him the professor’s business card with Mateo Vives scribbled on it. The waiter studied it intently, flipping it over in his fingers, then he handed it back.
“Ah, yes, la profesora. This Mateo Vives, he is, how you say, good eggs?”
“He’s a good egg.” Charlotte smiled. “So you know him?”
The waiter motioned for her to sit at the table with two chairs near the stage. “Yes, I know him. Wine?”
She nodded, figuring she’d more than earned an alcoholic beverage, plus her legs and nerves needed a break. The waiter disappeared into the crowd, which left Charlotte to her own devices. Her fingers twitched and she grabbed her phone, checking her work email again. Nothing had arrived since she’d boarded the flight in Melbourne, and the lack of communication made her uneasy. The phone always accompanied her, and if she wasn’t talking on it and negotiating contracts she was sending and receiving emails. Always. And now she had an empty inbox, thanks to her father banning staff and clients from contacting her while she was away on “important family business.”
Dropping the phone back in her bag, she placed her hands on her lap and took in the surroundings. Large posters advertising concerts lined the walls, some in artistic stylings of the 1930s and 40s. People chatted and laughed, an air of joy hanging in the tiny bar, while Charlotte wondered what it would have been like for Abuela when she danced in Granada. Did she spend her early years in these bars before moving on to bigger venues? And what had killed the passion she’d once held for flamenco?
The waiter arrived and set down a carafe of wine and a glass, along with a plate of tapas. The pile of almonds, olives, chorizo and cheese croquettes made her stomach growl.
Looking up at the waiter, Charlotte said, “Sorry. I should have said I only wanted a glass of wine.”
“You look thirsty. ¡Salud!” He nodded toward the full carafe then scurried away before she had a chance to ask more about the professor’s mystery man.
Standing, Charlotte craned her neck to look over the crowd so she could get the waiter’s attention, but he’d already vanished. Tapping the corner of the professor’s business card on the table, Charlotte sipped the very nice, but potent, wine and contemplated her next step. Lollygagging in a bar in Spain would not get the answers she so desperately needed for Abuela.
“Are you lost?” A tall, dark, and handsome cliché gave a lopsided grin, his dark chocolate eyes framed by impossibly long, black lashes.
“Not lost, but I’ve lost someone. Did you see where the waiter went?” Man, this guy was attractive. So flipping attractive, he would scare most women into speechlessness. Not Charlotte, though. She’d dealt with every type in her line of work, including men who had the world at their feet because of their looks.
“He is busy, yes? Perhaps I can help?”
“Thank you, but I don’t think so.” She sat down again.
“May I?” He motioned toward the spare chair and she couldn’t say no without appearing rude, which was not in her nature.
She gestured for him to sit and he did so, leaning back and placing his hands behind his head. “So, what brings you to Club Alegría? Flamenco? Wine? Tapas? My scintillating company?”
She furrowed her brows, not sure whether his questions were born of sarcasm or arrogance.
“I am doing the joking thing.”
She gave a polite laugh.
“So . . .” He lifted an eyebrow in a questioning manner.
“Charlotte.” She held out her hand, which he took and planted a light kiss on her skin. Goosebumps broke out involuntarily, and she subtly moved her arm away.
“It is not cold in here, but look at your skin.” He pointed at her forearms before she hid them under the table. “So Charlotte, why are you here alone?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“The waiter?”
“Sort of. Apparently, the waiter knows the person I’m looking for.” Curiosity got the better of her. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”
“Me? I am someone happy to help a foreigner. Tell me, who is this person you seek? In Sacromonte we all know each other.”
Charlotte bit her lip. The waiter hadn’t reappeared, despite her sneaking glances between the throng of bodies.
“His name is Mateo Vives, and I believe he frequents this bar.”
“Hmm . . . sometimes he does, sometimes he does not. Why do you search for this Mateo Vives?” Her companion scratched his chin.
“An acquaintance says he can help me find a particular gitano clan I need to meet with.”
“Why do you want to meet with gitanos? They prefer to keep to themselves.”
“That’s why I need Señor Vives to help. I believe he has a special connection with them.” Man, this guy liked to ask questions. If he wasn’t a journo or a cop, she’d be surprised.
“Which clan do you seek?” He tilted his head to the side, and the stage lights illuminated his face like he was in a photo shoot for a men’s magazine.
“It’s a long story, and I don’t mean to sound impolite, but I would prefer to keep the details to a limited audience.” Taking a sip of wine, she put the glass down. “I’m sorry, I’d offer you some, but there’s only one glass and the waiter seems to have gone on vacation.”
“Do not concern yourself, por favor. I am content. Who suggested you look for this Señor Vives?”
Gee, he didn’t let up. Figuring giving him a snippet
was better than being rude when he’d offered to help, she said, “Professor Fonseca at the Escuela de Bellas Artes.”
A slow smile spread across his lips. “Ah, she spends many hours in this barrio. She is big fan of flamenco, no?”
“I guess so. Is Sacromonte where the flamenco artists hang out?”
“Yes and no. There are bars in Sacromonte that have tourist flamenco. This is what keeps performers from starving on the streets.” The man cast his gaze around as if searching for someone. “What do you know of flamenco?”
“Not much.” Because Abuela made sure her life as a flamenco dancer remained a mystery.
“Then, as a disciple of flamenco, it is my duty to inform you.” The seriousness in his tone didn’t match the glint in his eyes. “You have time, yes?”
The waiter hadn’t appeared and the carafe wasn’t yet empty. Plus, she had a mighty fine view from this side of the table. “Sure, inform away.”
Shuffling forward, the handsome stranger began. “The history of flamenco is complicated, but if you look carefully, you will find it everywhere, not just in tourist bars. Flamenco shines in the eyes of the people, the way they walk or speak. Flamenco, it is in the blood, and very few foreigners can understand the importance of this. I am talking about the flamenco puro not the tourist flamenco with the big dresses with the . . .” He wiggled his fingers around his shoulders.
“Frills.”
“The frills, yes. Tourists come here and expect to see and experience the zambra—a festive dance. It is happy and makes the people feel good. Zambra has a rhythm of four-four with accents on the first and third beats. Like this.” He placed the fingers of his right hand on the palm of his left and clapped while repeating daa-da-daa-da. He held the rhythm easily as he continued talking.
Why hasn’t the waiter returned? Should she ask this guy if he knows where Mateo Vives lives? She studied the man across the table, his eyes shining as he enthusiastically gave her a rundown on flamenco. Any other time she’d be interested, but right now too many thoughts vied for her attention. She tried her best to tune back in, but he’d just stopped talking.
“I am sorry, I may have confused you with all this information. My fault is my passion for flamenco.”
“I can’t see how that can be a fault. There’s nothing wrong with finding a passion and loving it.” She smiled even though guilt assailed her on a daily basis for ditching the only passion she’d ever possessed.
“This Señor Vives, I can help you find him. Will you stay for the concert?” He tilted his head toward the stage. “We start very soon.”
She liked this guy and got the feeling he was sincere and not expecting anything in return. Then again, she’d been off the mark with plenty of men in the past, especially with her last boyfriend, who had done a wonderful job of appearing straight while he conducted a hot affair with one of the players on his football team. Perhaps trusting her instincts with men, romantic intentions or not, wasn’t the wisest move, but she had little choice at the moment, especially since her waiter had been abducted by aliens.
“Please excuse me.” He stood and pushed the chair under the table.
The moment he appeared on the stage, people cheered and whooped. Over the noise she shouted, “I didn’t catch your name!”
It was no use. The audience grew rowdy as more musicians poured from the crowd like ants from an anthill. Her mystery companion sat on a stool, reached behind the curtain, then pulled out a shiny guitar and placed it on his knee. The deep orange and red of the wood reminded her of the sunset she’d witnessed earlier that evening, when she’d stood in front of Sacromonte Abbey, bathing in an array of warm hues. Despite Granada’s turbulent history, Charlotte found this city enchanting, and she loved the way Granada thrived on its mixed cultural heritage, embracing the old and the new, just like her beloved Melbourne.
A woman sauntered onto the stage and the bar fell silent. She wore a pristine white shirt tied under her breasts, a red scarf around her neck and a yellow skirt that fit snugly from her waist to her knees then fanned out to swirl above her ankles. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, but her natural beauty didn’t suffer. She floated to the center of the stage, head bowed, arms by her side.
An older man appeared from behind the curtain, his navy blue shirt with high collar pressed to perfection. He sat next to her handsome new acquaintance, who’d already started strumming his guitar, the hypnotic notes reminding Charlotte of the music played in her favorite Moroccan restaurant at home. The older man’s gravelly voice drifted through the room, and a moment later two more women stepped onto the stage, clapping in a steady four-four rhythm just like the guitarist had mentioned. There was a slight pause in the music, then the dancer arched her back and swung her arms high in the air. She stamped her feet continuously, the steady rhythm gaining momentum as her body dipped and twirled. The fluidity and strength in her movements commanded full attention from everyone in the room.
The singer’s words chased the swirling notes through the cavern, weaving between audience members’ bodies frozen in the moment. The dancer grabbed the hem of her skirt, revealing slim, athletic legs and black, patent leather shoes. She hit the boards hard with her heels, shot her arms toward the heavens and let out a guttural cry that hit Charlotte straight in the chest. This primal energy surging through the room ignited an unfamiliar feeling in Charlotte. What was it? Electricity? Sensuality? Ghosts of her family?
The power of the dancer radiated within the small cave, then she abruptly moved to the side of the stage, her chest rising and falling heavily. The guitarist ran his fingers up, down and across the strings with ease. He finished the solo, and the dancer took center stage again, her passion and intensity hitting Charlotte once more. When the performance finished, the audience leapt to its feet and shouted their appreciation. The group played a few more songs, and then Charlotte realized nothing was left in the wine carafe.
Oops.
With the set complete, the group disbanded. Picking at the tapas to line her stomach, Charlotte wished she’d had one, perhaps two, fewer glasses than she’d guzzled but it was too late. Light-headedness had descended.
The guitarist sauntered over, then slid onto the chair as though they’d been friends for years. This time, she welcomed his presence. “Did you enjoy the performance?”
“It was . . . uh . . . it was . . .” For someone with a dual degree in economics and business management she nevertheless abjectly failed to string a sentence together in this instance.
He gave a gentle laugh, smile lines crinkling around his dark eyes. “Do you always have trouble with your native language?”
“I . . .” God, what was wrong with her? “That whole performance gave me goose bumps. I’ve never experienced anything like it. Was that duende?”
“You know of this?”
She nodded and his smile broadened.
“Señorita, if you have to ask if it was duende, then I am afraid it was not. You will know it when it happens, I promise.” He punctuated this with an authoritative nod. Even after the magic he’d worked on stage not one bead of sweat appeared on his lovely olive skin.
The waiter finally reappeared with another carafe of wine, two glasses, and more tapas. He set it down on the table and topped up Charlotte’s glass. Her head spun at the thought of drinking any more, but to be sociable, she took a small sip.
The waiter winked at her and slapped the guitarist on the back. “Tonight you perform very well, Mateo.”
Chapter Two
Wine flew up Charlotte’s nostrils, burning their insides, as she gasped then slammed her glass down. “You are Mateo Vives?”
“Sí. You are surprised?” He raised his eyebrows and poured himself a wine.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
He shrugged and popped an olive in his mouth.
“I feel like an idiot,” she mumbled, annoyed. The professor had warned her about the gitanos being difficult, but she hadn’t expected it
would also pertain to this Mateo Vives clown.
“Do not be so hard on yourself. The waiter, Pedro, said a woman was looking for me. Many women come to this bar and ask for me, but they have intentions I am not interested in. I wanted to know if you are the same before I revealed my identity.”
Who did he think he was, James Bond? Charlotte crossed her arms, not sure if he was spinning a story, messing with her head, or both. Or, quite simply, he could be telling the truth.
“I’m not a groupie or a tourist looking for a Spanish lover, if that’s what you’re angling at.”
Mateo raised his palms in the air. “It is not necessary to be so defensive.”
“I’m not.” She narrowed her eyes, aware her actions were most definitely defensive. Making an effort to change her tone, she said, “Professor Fonseca said you could help me find the Giménez clan. I’m happy to pay for your time if you wish.”
Mateo’s body stiffened and he stared at her just long enough for her to realize she may have hit a raw nerve and this quest could be over before it got into full swing.
Damn.
“Mateo?” She kept her tone gentle.
“I . . . What has she told you about my association with this clan?”
“Nothing, really. She just said you were on good terms with them and that you might be able to assist me.” Charlotte tilted her head to the side, wondering why he’d had such a strong reaction.
“You do not need to pay me for my time.” He jutted out his chin. “Be aware that the Giménez clan do not like the foreigners, and I cannot guarantee my making the introductions will assist you in any way. That is, of course, if I choose to help. First, I must understand why you need to meet with them. If I do not think it is a valid reason, then you will not have my assistance.”
Dreaming of Spain Page 6
