Page 138 of The Moon Sister
Lucía frowned at him. ‘Señor, perhaps I do not understand you fully due to the difficulty of translation. Surely you did not say that you have cancelled our contract?’
‘I am afraid that I did, Señorita Albaycín. We could not let the theatre stand empty last night. I am sorry you have come such a long way, but the contract stipulated you would arrive in time for the technical rehearsal and you did not.’ He stood and went to a filing cabinet, leafed through it, and pulled out a document. ‘Here.’ He passed it across the desk.
Lucía glanced down at it, the words meaningless on the page. She took a deep breath, as Meñique had taught her to do, before she spoke.
‘Señor, do you know who I am?’
‘I do, señorita, and it is most unfortunate—’
‘It is not “unfortunate”! It is a disaster. Do you know what we have done to get here to Lisbon to perform in your theatre?!’
‘No, señorita, but I can only guess and salute your bravery.’
‘Señor,’ Lucía stood, put her tiny fists on the leather-topped desk and leant forward so her eyes were only centimetres away from his. ‘To fulfil our contract, we risked our lives. We had everything we owned taken by the military, and you are sitting there in your big comfortable chair, telling me that our contract is cancelled?!’
‘I am sorry, señorita. Please understand that the news from Spain was not good.’
‘And please understand, señor, that you leave us penniless, with no work in a strange country!’
He looked at her and shrugged. ‘There is nothing I can do.’
Lucía slammed her fists down on the table. ‘So be it!’ She turned from him with such speed that tendrils of her long hair whipped across his face. She walked towards the door, then paused and turned back.
‘You will be sorry for what you have done to me today.’ She pointed a finger at him. ‘I curse you, señor, I curse you!’
As she left, the impresario shuddered involuntarily and reached for the decanter of brandy that sat on his desk.
*
Back at the hotel, Sebastian the safecracker was instructed to empty his pockets of all the pesetas he had stolen, minus what they had paid to Bernardo for bringing them here.
‘How much for each room?’ Meñique asked Lucía.
‘The manager didn’t say. He believes I am a film star and so rich I do not need to know. Hah!’
Meñique was despatched to find out the prices from the tariff board behind the reception desk. He returned, shaking his head.
‘We have enough to cover the cost of one of the smaller rooms. For one night.’
‘Then we must find a way to earn the rest,’ said Lucía. ‘Meñique, will you accompany me downstairs for a drink at the bar?’
‘Lucía, we do not have the money to drink in a place like this.’
‘Don’t worry, we will not be paying. I will just renew my make-up and we shall go.’
Downstairs, the large, elegant bar was packed. Lucía’s eyes searched the room as Meñique reluctantly ordered them both a drink and, propped up on barstools, she raised her glass. ‘To us,querido, and our miraculous escape.’ She chinked her glass against his. ‘Now, try to relax and look as if you are enjoying yourself,’ she added through clenched teeth.
‘What are we doing here? We cannot afford this extravagance, Lucía, and . . .’
‘The great and good of Lisbon must come to this bar. Someone will know of me and help us.’
As if on cue, a deep male voice rang out behind her. ‘Señorita Lucía Albaycín! Is it really you?’
Lucía turned and looked into the eyes of a man who seemed vaguely familiar.
‘Sí, señor, it is.’ Lucía extended her hand to him as regally as any queen. ‘Have we met before?’
‘No, my name is Manuel Matos and my brother, Antonio Triana, is acquainted with you, I believe.’
