Page 118 of The Moon Sister
She watched as Meñique tuned his guitar, then his long slim fingers struck the first chords of aguajira. Lucía smiled inwardly; it was the most showy and complicated style of flamenco song – even her father stumbled when playing it – and only the most confident guitarists took it on.
As the beat of thecajónstarted and Meñique began to sing in a low mellow voice, Lucía could not take her eyes off him, his fingers caressing the strings with huge speed but a light touch. He looked up suddenly and sought her out in the crowd. As their eyes met, she felt her body respond, her heart matching each beat of the music, a trickle of sweat trailing down her neck.
With a flourish, he came to a triumphant stop, a small smile playing on his lips. She found herself smiling back as a clear thought formed in her mind.
Chilly was right. I will have you, Meñique. You will be mine.
*
Later that evening, once the public in the bar had been satisfied, the flamenco artists went upstairs for an improvisedjuergain a private room.
‘Dios mío,’ said Meñique, entering with Lucía and finding it packed.
‘It is payday for us here in the Barrio Chino, and we all gather together to dance and sing for each other,’ she explained.
‘Look, there is El Peluco.’ Meñique pointed to an old man sitting regally in a chair, a guitar over his lap. ‘I can hardly believe he is still upright and playing, he drinks so much brandy.’
‘I have not met him before, but perhaps he is a guest at the Villa Rosa along the street,’ Lucía said with a shrug. ‘Now, please get me some brandy.’
Already, El Peluco had taken the floor with his guitar, singing what Lucía recognised as one of the old songs her grandfather had sung when she was young.
‘I must introduce you to him, he is a legend,’ Meñique murmured in her ear as loud applause greeted the old man and another singer took up his vacant stool. ‘El Peluco!’ Meñique waved at him.
‘Ah, the protégé from Pamplona.’ El Peluco returned the wave and came to join him.
‘Brandy for you, señor.’ Meñique offered him a glass. They toasted, then he turned to Lucía. ‘And this is La Candela! Another protégée in the room.’
Lucía felt El Peluco’s hooded eyes upon her.
‘So, it is you that I hear so much about. Yet, there is hardly anything of you,’ El Peluco laughed before he gulped back his brandy, then leant in to Meñique. ‘Certainly nothing of a woman. And it takes a woman to dance flamenco. Perhaps she is just a little fraud,’ he whispered loudly, before letting out an enormous belch.
Lucía heard him as she’d been meant to. Anger welled up inside her and there was only one way she knew to rid herself of it. Standing where she was, her feet still bare following her performance earlier, they began to beat against the floor. Her arms raised slowly above her head, the backs of her hands touching and forming the shape of a rose, as her mamá had taught her. And all the time she stared into the eyes of the man who had called her a fraud.
As the crowd realised what was happening, a circle opened around Lucía and thecantaorwas hushed to silence. Meñique and José took up the beat and began to hum some ancient verses of asoleáas Lucía’s feet pounded the floor. Still staring at the man who had insulted her, she summoned theduendeand danced only for him.
Finally, Lucía sank to the floor, spent. Then she nodded to her audience, who roared in approval, rose and pulled up the nearest chair so that it was right next to El Peluco. She climbed upon it so she could look him in the eye.
‘Never call me a fraud again,’ she said, jabbing a finger towards his bulbous nose. ‘Okay, señor?’
‘Señorita, I swear on my life I never will. You are . . .magnifica!’
‘What am I?’ Lucía jabbed her finger at him again.
El Peluco looked for heavenly guidance before he bowed – ‘The queen!’
The room cheered at his reply, then Lucía put out her hand for him to kiss it.
‘Now,’ she said to Meñique as he helped her down from the chair, ‘I can relax.’
*
Lucía woke the next morning with her habitual headache, caused by too little sleep and far too much brandy. Her fingers searched on the floor beside her mattress for her cigarettes. She lit one and watched the smoke rings rise to the ceiling.
Something is different. . . she thought, because even in the fug of her hangover she did not feel the usual depression that another day in this world had dawned.
Meñique!
Lucía stretched luxuriously, her cigarette held behind her head, and wondered what it would be like to have those sensitive, famous fingers touchher.
