Page 24 of It Takes Three To Tango

“Can he force you to go back?” Constantin asks.

“He can’t physically force me, but he could stop my allowance, so I’d be homeless and without enough money to live on. I don’t make enough to live in Buenos Aires just teaching.” He sits up and turns to look at us. He looks genuinely distraught, and I’m thankful that my family isn’t complicated.

“Has he threatened to do that?” I ask.

“No,” Florencio sighs. “Not yet, but he has hinted at other measures. He’s a callous bastard who just has his eyes on what he’ll be getting. Knowing him, he already has plans for it. Well, I hope Auntie lives forever.” He throws himself back on the lounger and lapses into silence.

Suddenly, Constantin starts chuckling. I haven’t heardhim laugh since he got here... well, not much at all, really. We both turn and look at him.

“What’s so funny?” Florencio demands, his face darkening.

“Well, aren’t we a pathetic trio?” He’s still laughing.

“How so?” Florencio looks like thunder, and I wonder what he’s like when he’s really angry. Is it another trait he’s inherited?

“Well, here we are, all of us homeless, or potentially so, with no money or little income. And yet we sit here on the terrace of what must be one of the most expensive houses in Barcelona.”

“Yes, it is pathetic.” Florencio’s face loses its fury, but he doesn’t look like he sees any humour in the situation, unlike Constantin, which is a strange sight as it’s usually the other way around.

I’m not sure I find it funny either. I find it damn scary, if I’m honest. We’re here by the grace of a lady who is, by her own admission, dying. It seems a perilous situation to me.

“Well, what are we going to do about it?” I ask, though I have no clue. I guess if it comes to it, I can go home. But the thought of that feels like a bitter blow just when I think everything is going well.

“I don’t know.” Constantin lies back down. “But right now, I’m going to do nothing but enjoy lying here in the sun.” He doesn’t even react when Florencio throws a cushion at him, but that he does is a sign Florencio’s getting back to his normal self.

I rise and leave them to it. I’ve had enough rest today, and it’s getting a little too hot for me. I’m not sure I’m well equipped for a summer in Barcelona. I’m not used to high temperatures. Instead, I walk through the house, which is wonderfully cool. I look at the art on the wall, wondering if Estrella collects it personally or even knew some of theartists. I spy a door I’ve not seen before, standing slightly open. I don’t like to pry, but we haven’t been told that anywhere is off limits, just which part of the house Estrella’s suite of rooms is so we don’t disturb her if she needs to rest. I look round the door, but the room is empty. It’s not a large room, just a small lounge. It’s lavishly furnished with velvet drapes and gilded furniture, but what attracts my attention are the pictures. Hundreds of photographs hang on the walls, all of them of Estrella and every star imaginable. I see her with Lawrence Olivier and Richard Burton, Joan Crawford and Rita Hayworth. I can only stand and stare in awe at her incredible life and career. I think back to the stories she’s told us and realise we’d only been scratching at the surface. As every new picture catches my eye, an idea starts to form, and I feel an excitement that has eluded me for months. I know what my next project will be.

“How’s it going, Con?” Luis’s voice down the phone is bright and enquiring. I’ve called my cousin to fill him in on what happened at the bar before he heard it from elsewhere. His voice changes to concern.

“If there’s anything I can do, let me know, okay?”

“Well, maybe don’t penalise me for not paying your invoice yet?” I’m only half joking, but Luis immediately responds.

“Take as long as you want. You know you can do that.”

“Thank you, Wis.” He laughs at the childhood nickname I call him, from back when I wasn’t old enough to pronounce Luis. I knew he probably wouldn’t have a problem. He might be family, but business is business, and I don’t want to take advantage of him. He has a vineyard to maintain, which is expensive and a gamble; one bad harvest can wipe out your whole production for that year. I know he’s had his share of difficulties, especially in the early days.

“And if there’s anything else I can do, just let me know,” he says, and although there isn’t, it feels nice to know he’s there if I need him. My parents have been similarly supportive, not that they can help either, but the moral support is welcome. I did have to listen to a five-minute talk—short by their standards—about how I never come to visit. I gave them my usual promises of soon and rang off before heading down to the bar to check on work for the day.

It’s amazing how easily we can adapt to a new routine, a new normal. It’s only been a few days since I was dragged up here to stay in the mansion. Perhaps dragged isn’t the right word... harassed, press-ganged, bullied . . . Well, whichever it was, I was reluctant not only to leave my bar but also to be so far away from it.

Being here with Rafe and Florencio is both a blessing and a curse. I enjoy their company, of course. Florencio is hilarious and you know exactly what you’re getting with him. Most of it is his witty, sharp self, but we’ve seen an occasional bout of anger and frustration, mostly directed at his family. Rafe is more reserved, and I can’t always tell what’s ticking inside that head of his, except to know that if he’s decided to do something, he puts his all into it. He’s learning Spanish at an incredible rate, and we can now hold short conversations.

But being in close proximity is doing nothing for the images of them that taunt me, even chase me into my dreams, and every day it becomes more difficult. I force the images away, becoming haunted by them every time I close my eyes. They mock me, reminding me it’s unattainable and thedreadful consequences of giving in. I have my bar to show for that.

We tend to meet over breakfast, then I go to visit the repairs to the bar while Florencio and Rafe go to a gallery or museum, as Rafe seems determined to make up for not visiting them before. Then, the afternoon may be for siesta, reading, or talking. One thing we always do is get together for dinner. Florencio has taken on most of the cooking, though Rafe has been assisting him. I can help a little with some prep work, but I’m no cook. I’m able to fend for myself, and I’ve managed for ten years without starving to death, but I’m not good enough to allow other people to eat my creations. I’ve subsisted on the few dishes we serve at the bar, usually too busy to make time for a proper meal. So the gathering together seems strange and yet now, here, the most natural thing in the world.

Sometimes Estrella joins us if she feels up to it. She hasn’t for a couple of days, so it’s a nice surprise when Juana escorts her into the dining room. Juana no longer hovers in the background. Florencio made it clear that if he was cooking, we were all eating it, so she sits at the table with us now.

Dinner tonight is lasagna. Rafe said he wanted to contribute to the cooking, and it was the only dish he could be certain would turn out edible. It’s delicious and I compliment him. Watching the way he responds to praise is certainly not helping my carnal thoughts, but I can’t stop doing it. I’m becoming addicted to seeing him soften in response to my words.

I help to clear the plates away and stack the dishwasherand then we linger at the table with coffee, no one wanting to move too soon. Eventually, Rafe asks Florencio to practise dancing with him. I stay for a while with Estrella. Juana has gone off to tend to some other duties.

Estrella reaches for a packet of cigarettes, I hadn’t seen her smoke before and didn’t know that she did. She lights up a black Sobranie. Russian and decadent, so she must have them imported.

“Do you mind if I join you?” I ask, pulling out my Marlboros.

“If you want.” She shrugs her permission, so I light one up. She takes a long drag, blowing the smoke out slowly and watching me. “Smoking is bad for you.”

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