Page 117 of The Moon Sister
Chilly was thecuadro’s residentbrujo, forever concocting herbal remedies for its members, and Lucía trusted in his skills and his gift for seeing implicitly.
‘Yes, Chilly, I did. I think it helped, I feel a little more energy today.’
‘Then that is all to the good, although the most basic cure is to stop pushing yourself so hard.’ He stared at her in the way that made her feel he was scanning her soul. She averted her eyes and did not answer, so he continued. ‘You are on your way to the Bar de Manquet?’
‘Yes, I’m meeting Papá there.’
‘Then I will accompany you.’
Chilly walked along beside her in the sweltering sunshine. Being a weekend, the bars were already packed with dockworkers and labourers spending their wages on beer and brandy.
‘What is wrong, Lucía?’ he asked her quietly.
‘Nothing,’ she said immediately, not wishing her woes to travel back to Rosalba’s ears.
‘I know there is – I can see your heart is empty.’
‘Sí, Chilly. You are right,’ she capitulated. ‘My heart is . . . bored, but most of all lonely.’
‘I understand, but . . .’ Chilly halted and grasped her hands in his. He looked upwards and Lucía knew he was seeing. ‘Someone is coming, oh yes . . . very soon.’
‘Pah! You have told me this before.’
‘I have, yes, but I swear, Lucía, the moment is upon you. So,’ he kissed her on both cheeks as they reached the Bar de Manquet, ‘good luck,chiquita. You will need it.’ He winked at her and strolled off along the street.
The Bar de Manquet was humming as always and Lucía pushed her way through the crowd to a roar of applause, heading for thecuadro’s table at the back near the stage. Her father was already seated, his head bent in concentration as he spoke with a man whose back was facing her.
‘The usual, Lucía?’ asked Jaime, the bartender.
‘Sí, gracias. Hola, Papá, I have dragged myself here as you can see.¡Salud!’ She raised the small glass of anise brandy that Jaime handed to her and knocked it back in one.
‘Ah, the queen has arrived,’ José responded. ‘And look who has come to worship at your throne.’
‘La Candela! We finally meet.’ The man stood up and gave her a small bow. ‘I am Agustín Campos.’
The first thing Lucía noticed about him was that he did not tower above her like most men. His diminutive but elegant frame was attired in a crisply cut suit, his black hair neatly combed back from his forehead. His skin was paler than mostgitanos’ and Lucía bet her new castanets there waspayoblood in him. Although his ears stuck out rather, his mellow butterscotch eyes were warm.
‘Hola, Señor Campos. I hear your guitar recordings have become famous all over Spain.’
‘Please, call me Meñique, everyone does,’ he said.
‘Meñique . . .’ Lucía said with a smile. ‘“Little finger”?’
‘Yes, I was given the name as a child, and as it seems I have not grown much since, it is still an apt name, don’t you think?’
‘And asyoucan see, neither have I,’ she giggled, enchanted by his honesty and lack of arrogance. Most guitarists – especially successful ones – were insufferable. ‘What are you doing here in Barcelona?’
‘Making a new recording for the Parlophone Company. And whilst I am here, I felt that I should drop in to the Barrio Chino to see old friends, and perhaps make new ones . . .’ he said as he swept his eyes down her body. ‘I can see that La Candela burns brightly.’
‘No, her light is fading because she is exhausted by performing the same dances to the same crowds. But you, Meñique, are on every gramophone I hear.’
‘Let us find another drink.’ Meñique snapped his fingers to alert the barman. As José watched his daughter rise out of her earlier dark mood, he sent up a prayer of gratitude.
Esteban Cortes, the owner of the Bar de Manquet, came over to their table, and after greeting Lucía with kisses on both cheeks, turned to Meñique.
‘It is time for you to do your magic,hombre. Show Barcelona what we have been missing here!’
As Meñique stepped onto the stage, the audience cheered, then grew silent in anticipation. Lucía sat at her table, now nursing a manzanilla wine, and cooled herself with her fan.
