Page 41 of The Moon Sister
‘After many travels in England before, yes. Now . . .’ Chilly went back to the pile of photographs, the ones he discarded flying to the floor yet again. As I collected them, I saw they were all of guitarists and dancers in different bars and clubs, yet the look of ecstasy on each artist’s face – caught on camera for eternity – was identical.
‘¡Aqui!Here she is.’
Chilly beckoned me towards him and I looked down at another photograph of a flamenco scene. At the forefront was a diminutive dancer, her hands raised above her head, but instead of the flowing traditional dress, she was wearing a pair of fitted trousers and a waistcoat. Her skin was pale, her hair black and slick with oil, a single curl in the centre of her forehead.
‘La Candela! The flame that burns in the heart of all our people. Can you see, my Hotchiwitchi? Look at her eyes . . . they are your eyes.’
I stared hard at the eyes of the tiny woman in the photograph, but it was black and white and for all I knew, the tiny dots could be blue or green.
‘That is her! Lucía Amaya Albaycín, yourabuela, La Candela, the most famous dancer of her day! She be born in Sacromonte and delivered by Micaela’s hands . . .’
Yet again my mind conjured a fleeting glimpse of candlelight flickering on a whitewashed oval ceiling above me as I was lifted up towards it . . .
‘Now, Hotchiwitchi, I do tell you the story of your family. We do begin in 1912, the year of your grandmother, Lucía’s, birth . . .’
María
Sacromonte, Granada, Spain
May 1912
Spanish castanets (castañuelas)
A percussion instrument used when dancing a zambra, siguiriyas or Sevillanas in the flamenco tradition.
10
The air was eerily still, as if even the birds were holding their breath in the olive groves that fell below the steep winding paths that wove between the caves of Sacromonte. María’s groans echoed around the walls of the cave, the abnormal silence amplifying her own guttural sounds.
‘Where is everybody?’ she asked Micaela.
‘At Paco and Felicia’s wedding, remember?’ Micaela answered. Thebruja’s long black hair had been pulled back into a practical knot on her head, at odds with the elegant ruffled dress she was wearing.
‘Of course, of course . . .’ María murmured as a cool cloth was placed on her sweating brow.
‘Not long now,querida, but you must push again. The baby needs your help.’
‘I can’t,’ María groaned as another contraction ripped through her body. ‘I am spent.’
‘Listen, María,’ said Micaela, one ear cocked. ‘Can you hear it? They are beginning thealboreas. Listen to the rhythm andpush!’
María heard the slow, steady beat of hands on thecajóndrum, a pulse that she knew would soon build into a joyful explosion. The guitars joined in, and the ground beneath them began to vibrate from the stamping of a hundred feet as the dance began.
‘¡Dios mío!’ she screamed. ‘This baby will kill me!’ She moaned as the child surged further down through her body.
‘It wants to come out and dance, like its mamá. Listen, they are singing for you both. It is thealba, the dawning of new life!’
Minutes later, as the air filled with the glorious sound of flamenco guitar and voices as thealboreasreached its climax, the baby made its entrance into the world.
‘It’s a girl,’ said Micaela as she cut the cord with a knife then dealt swiftly with the afterbirth. ‘She is very small, but she seems healthy enough.’ She turned the baby over and patted its tiny behind. With a small cough, the baby opened its mouth and began to scream.
‘Here,’ Micaela said as she expertly swaddled the infant as though wrapping up a piece of meat. ‘She is all yours. May the Virgin bless her with health and happiness.’
‘Amen.’ María looked down at the tiny face – the large eyes, bulbous nose and plump lips seeming too big for their setting. Little hands were balled into fists and punched the air angrily as the baby gave full voice to her lungs. Two determined feet unlocked themselves from the sheet and joined the two arms in exploring their first taste of freedom after release from the womb.
‘She is a fiery one. She has the power, theduende, in her, I can feel it.’ Micaela nodded at the baby as she offered María some rags to stem the bleeding, then washed her hands in the already bloody basin. ‘I will leave you together to get to know each other. I will tell José he has a daughter and I am sure he will return from the fiesta to see her soon.’
Micaela left the cave and María sighed as she latched the baby onto her breast to quell the squawking. No wonder thebrujahad been so eager for the birth to come quickly; the entire village of Sacromonte was at the wedding – anticipated for months as the bride was the granddaughter of Chorrojumo, the late gypsy king. The brandy would be flowing and there would be a feast fit for royalty. María knew her husband would no more leave the ensuing fiesta to visit his wife and new daughter than he would ride through the streets of Granada naked on his mule.
