Page 47 of The Moon Sister
María watched them saunter down the path with several other young men and women from the village, all dressed in their finest, their boots polished to a shine, their dark hair gleaming with oil.
‘Our village has never been so popular,’ José commented as he manoeuvred round a family of six who were making camp on the dusty path just outside their cave. ‘And to think most of them left here, vowing never to return. They spat on us then, but now they all clamour to come back,’ he said with satisfaction as he passed her to step inside.
You left once and came back too . . .
Still, this was indeed a moment to be savoured: this week Sacromonte would be the centre of the flamenco universe. And because flamencowasthegitanos’ universe, it seemed every member of their clan had travelled here from far and wide to be part of it. Smoke continually billowed out of every cave as the women tried to cook enough food to keep their guests’ stomachs full. The air was filled with the smell of unwashed bodies and the stench of the dozens of extra mules that stood in the shade of the olive groves, their eyelids drooping in the heat, their large ears flicking away the flies. On each of her many trips to fetch more water, María was hailed by a raft of faces she hadn’t seen for years. The question they asked her was always the same: ‘When can we see you dance?’
When she told them she had not entered the competition, they were aghast.
‘But you must enter, María. You are one of the best!’
Having offered the first few enquirers a feeble explanation – that she’d given up, was too busy with her family, to cries of ‘But no one is too busy to dance! It’s in your blood forever!’ – María learnt to offer none. Even her mother, as one of the wealthier residents of Sacromonte – a woman who usually turned up her nose at flamenco because she saw it as another way thatgitanossold their bodies to thepayos– had looked surprised when María told her she wasn’t entering.
‘It is a pity you have lost your passion for dancing. Along with much else,’ she’d sniffed.
The hubbub of guitars and stamping feet slowly subsided as the village of Sacromonte made its way down the snaking pathways. María watched the colourful, noisy line for a while, trying to capture a little of their exuberance for herself, but her soul was closed to it. Last night, José had rolled into bed at dawn, stinking of cheap perfume. She hadn’t seen Carlos since yesterday lunchtime, but at least Eduardo had been by her side to help fetch and carry this morning.
‘I must go too,’ said José, emerging from the cave, looking handsome in his white ruffled shirt, black trousers and sash. ‘You know what to do with Lucía. Don’t be late,’ he said as he slung his guitar over his shoulder and hurried off to join the rest.
‘¡Buena suerte!’ she called to him, but he did not turn back to acknowledge her.
‘Are you well, Mamá?’ Eduardo asked her. ‘Here, take some water, you look so tired.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled gratefully at her son, took the mug and drained it. ‘Have you seen Carlos?’
‘Earlier, yes. He was down at the bar with some of his friends.’
‘Is he coming tonight?’
‘Who knows?’ Eduardo shrugged his shoulders. ‘He was too drunk to talk.’
‘He is only fifteen,’ María sighed. ‘You should catch up with your father, Eduardo. I must stay here and help Lucía dress.’
‘She is waiting for you in your bedroom.’
‘Good.’
‘Mamá . . .’ Eduardo hesitated for a moment. ‘Do you think that this plan of Papá’s is right? My sister is barely ten years old. It is said there are to be crowds of over four thousand people there tonight. Will she not make a fool of herself? Of Papá? Of us all?’
‘Eduardo, there is nothing about your sister that is foolish and we must both believe your papá knows what he is doing. Now, I will see you up at the Alhambra when I have dressed Lucía.’
‘Sí, Mamá.’
Eduardo left the cave and María made her way back inside – even in the bright afternoon sunlight, the kitchen was dim.
‘Lucía? It is time to get ready,’ she called as she opened the curtain and entered the blackness of their bedroom.
‘Yes, Mamá.’
María fumbled for the matches and candle beside the bed, thinking that Lucía did not sound like herself at all.
‘Are you ill?’ she asked as she looked down at her little daughter curled up in a ball on her pallet.
‘No . . .’
‘Then what is wrong?’
‘I . . . feel frightened, Mamá. So many people . . . maybe we could stay here together instead? You could make those little cakes I like and we can eat a whole plate of them, and then when Papá comes back, we can tell him that we got lost on our way?’
