Page 149 of The Moon Sister
As Pepe went to take another swig of his beer, María firmly took the bottle out of his hand.
‘No,querido. Alcohol is bad for the fingers.’
‘Really? Then why did I see Papá drinking at lunchtime?’
‘Because he has learnt his skills already. Now, watch the show.’
After another few minutes of José and Meñique improvising, José’s fingers suddenly halted.
‘But where is La Candela?’ He looked around the room as the audience held its breath. ‘She is not here and we cannot start without her.’
‘I am here,’ a voice said from the entrance to the café.
The whole audience turned at the sound of Lucía’s voice, and began to cheer and clap. She silenced them with a raised hand as she swept through the crowd, the long train of her flamenco dress – the length of which would rival any queen’s – following like a serpent behind her. She arrived on stage and expertly flicked her wrist to manoeuvre it into submission.
‘¡Arriba!’
‘¡Olé!’ cheered the audience in response.
‘Now we can begin.’ José strummed his guitar with a flourish as Lucía began to move.
Along with everyone else in the room, María sat there transfixed by a creature so full of fire and passion that she could hardly recognise her as her own.
How you have moved on, querida mía, she thought as she listened to the audience’s ecstatic applause and joined them in a standing ovation.You are simply magnificent.
José too seemed to have discovered a whole new level of performance. That evening he matched his daughter beat for beat, seeming to know exactly when he should let her feet take over.
‘My sister, she is incredible!’ Pepe whispered as Lucía completed heralegríasand the entire café stood up demanding an encore.
She used her hands to quieten them.
‘Sí, I will give you an encore, but only if my special guest joins me on stage first. Come, Pepe,’ Lucía beckoned him as all eyes in the café fell upon the boy.
‘I can’t, Mamá!’ Pepe panicked. ‘I am not good enough!’
María reached for his guitar, which Lucía had insisted he bring. ‘Go, join your sister, Pepe.’
Shaking, Pepe made his way to the stage. Meñique stood up and gallantly offered Pepe his chair. The boy sat down next to his father, who whispered in his ear.
‘Señores y señoras, may I present José and Pepe – father and son – playing together for the first time!’ Lucía announced as she swept herself and her train to the side of the stage.
As Pepe lifted his guitar into position, José reached out to clutch his son’s shoulder, then gave him a nod and began to play. After a few seconds, Pepe joined in tentatively, watching his father’s fingers and listening to the rhythm. María held her breath as Pepe struggled to conquer his nerves, and finally, as his eyes closed and his shoulders relaxed, María’s did too. She watched as José ceased playing suddenly, understanding that Pepe had the confidence to continue alone. Lost in his own world, just like Lucía had always been when she danced, Pepe’s fingers moved like fast, agile spiders across the strings. His solo achieved a roar of applause, then Meñique, José and Lucía joined him, bringing the performance to a brilliant crescendo, which had the audience on their feet and yelling for more.
José stood up, pulling his son to his feet and hugging him. Unable to stop them, María let the tears fall freely down her face.
Lisbon
August 1938, two years later
26
‘I have received an offer for us to perform in Buenos Aires,’ José announced as he sat with Lucía and Meñique in their suite.
‘Is that not where La Argentinita was born?’ Lucía asked her father.
‘She was born in Argentina, yes.’
‘And where is Argentina? Is it in the United States of America?’
