Page 48 of The Moon Sister
In the candlelight, Lucía’s eyes were huge and bright with fear as María pulled her up into her arms and sat her on her knee.
‘Querida, there is no need to be frightened,’ she said gently as she undressed her daughter. ‘It is the same, however many people you are dancing in front of. Just close your eyes and pretend that you are at home here, dancing in the kitchen for me and Papá and your brothers.’
‘What if theduendedoesn’t come, Mamá? What if I can’t feel it?’
María reached for the miniature dress she had fashioned for Lucía and put it over her head. ‘It will happen,querida, once you hear the beat of thecajónand your father’s guitar, you will forget everything. There.’ María put the last hook in place on Lucía’s slender back. ‘Stand up and let’s have a look at you.’
She lifted her daughter off her knee and Lucía twirled, the train swishing behind her like a hungry shark. In the past two weeks, she had taught Lucía how to handle it, afraid of the ignominy of her daughter tripping over it in front of thousands of people. Yet, like everything else to do with dancing, Lucía had taken the train in her stride. María watched now as she flicked it expertly out of her way and turned towards her mother.
‘How do I look, Mamá?’
‘Like the princess you are. Now come, we must go. You must wear your train hitched up under your cloak so that nobody sees.’ María leant down and nuzzled her daughter’s nose with her own. ‘Ready?’ she said, as she offered her hand.
‘Ready.’
María saddled Paca, the mule, and lifted Lucía onto her back, making sure the train of the dress was hidden. They joined the stragglers at the rear of the procession that was still winding its way down the mountain, and the closer they got to the Alhambra, Paca panting from the effort of climbing the steep hill, the more elated Lucía appeared as she waved down at friends and neighbours. An elderly woman broke into song, her hoarse voice lifting into the light June breeze, and María and Lucía clapped along, joining in the chorus with the other villagers.
Two hours after they’d set off, they arrived at the Gate of Justice, where people were streaming through the keyhole-shaped entrance to the Alhambra’s main square. María helped Lucía off Paca’s back and tied the mule beneath a cypress tree, where she happily grazed on a small patch of grass.
Although it was almost six o’clock, the sun was still strong and illuminated the intricate ancient carvings on the walls. Everywhere people were touting their wares, selling water, oranges and roasted almonds. María held tightly onto her daughter’s hand as they followed the noise of hundreds of guitars and stamping feet. Behind the Plaza de los Aljibes, where the competition was being held, the great red walls of the Alhambra were lit up, forming a breathtaking backdrop. She pulled Lucía towards the Gate of Wine, where they were to meet José. She looked down and saw that the tiled floor had been covered in lavender buds, perhaps to mask the stench of so many sweating bodies packed closely together.
‘I am thirsty, Mamá, can we sit down and take a drink?’ Lucía sank to the ground as María hurriedly searched in her basket for the tin flask she’d brought with her. She crouched next to her daughter as a wave of cheering broke out, signalling that the next contestant had just walked onto the stage.
‘Look at him! Surely, he should be dead?!’ María heard someone comment. And indeed, as the crowd surged forward and she pulled up her daughter before she was trampled on, she could see that the small figure standing with his guitar was a very old man.
‘El Tío Tenazas!’ announced a disembodied voice from somewhere in front of them. A hush fell as the man tuned his guitar. Even from this distance, María could see that his hands were shaking violently.
‘He used to be famous,’ her neighbour whispered.
‘Someone said he walked for two days to get here,’ said another.
‘Mamá, I can’t see!’ said Lucía, tugging at her mother’s skirt. A man next to them lifted Lucía up in his arms.
The old man on stage strummed his guitar slowly and then began to sing in a surprisingly strong voice. Those who had been whispering and giggling fell silent as he performed. It was a song that immediately took María spinning back to when she’d heard her grandfather sing – a poignantcante grandethat she’d listened to many times. Like the rest of the crowd, she felt every painful word cut into her soul as El Tenazas mourned the loss of the love of his life.
The whooping cries of ‘¡Otra! ¡Otra!’ showed that he’d been a great success amongst the most demanding crowd imaginable.
‘He has theduende, Mamá,’ Lucía whispered as she was lowered to the ground. Then a hand grasped María’s shoulder and she turned to see José.
‘Where have you been? I told you to meet me near the Gate of Wine. Come, we are on after the nextcantaor.’
‘We got swept up in the crowd,’ María explained, struggling to keep hold of Lucía’s hand amidst the mass of people as her husband led them towards the stage.
‘Well, thank the gods you are here now, or all this would have been for nothing. Hide behind this cypress tree and fix her hair,’ he ordered as the crowd roared to welcome the next performer. ‘I must go. Now, my Lucía.’ José bent down and took his daughter’s small hands in his. ‘Wait until the fourth bar like we practised. When I shout “¡Olé!” you run from here straight onto the stage.’
‘Do I look well, Papá?’ Lucía asked him as María removed the cloak from her shoulders and unhitched the train from the back of her dress.
But José was already heading towards the side of the stage.
María’s heart beat in rhythm to the music as she decided that her husband must have been afflicted by some mental derangement to even think this plan could work. She gazed down at her little girl, knowing that if Lucía’s nerve failed her and she ran from the stage in fright, they would be the laughing stock not only of Sacromonte, but of the wholegitanoworld.
Blessed Virgin, protect my beloved daughter . . .
All too soon, thecantaortook his bow to a mixed reception and a few seconds later, José strode onto the stage.
‘I wish I had some shoes, Mamá, the beats would be so much clearer,’ Lucía sighed.
‘You do not need shoes,querida, you have theduendein your feet.’ As José began to play, María pushed her daughter forward. ‘Run, Lucía!’ she shouted, then watched her darting through the crowd, her train held over her small arm.
