Page 67 of The Moon Sister
‘Stefano! Where have you been, I have been looking for you everywhere! Who is this?’
María explained, then begged her pardon.
‘He told me there was nobody minding him,’ she said as she stood up and brushed the sand from her skirt.
‘He is always going missing,’ the woman clucked. ‘Now get inside, shoo!’ She sent the boy packing.
‘Where are you from?’ To María’s relief, the woman spoke in thegitanodialect.
‘Sacromonte.’
‘Ah, Sacromonte!’ She pulled two stools from inside and offered one to María. ‘Where is your husband? Looking for work in the city?’
‘No, he is here already and I have come in search of him.’
‘A wandering husband! I know the problem well. I am Teresa, what is your name?’
‘María Amaya Albaycín.’
‘Amaya you say? Why, I have Amaya cousins!’ Teresa slapped her huge thigh. ‘Do you know Leonor and Pancho?’
‘Yes, they live only two streets from me in Sacromonte. Leonor has just had a baby boy. She has seven children now,’ María explained.
‘Then you and I must be blood related.’ Teresa smiled. ‘Welcome! I am sure you are hungry after your long journey. I will bring you a bowl of soup.’
Relieved at her good fortune, and thanking the Blessed Virgin for the vastgitanonetwork of relatives that stretched across Spain, María gulped back the thin soup, which tasted strange and salty.
‘Where is your husband working?’
‘In the Barrio Chino district in the Bar de Manquet.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He is a guitarist, and my daughter is with him, dancing. Do you know where it is?’
‘Sí.’ Teresa nodded and pointed behind her. ‘The Barrio Chino begins just along there, but if you are going at night, mind yourself. The bars are full of drunken dockworkers and sailors. It is not the place for a woman alone.’
‘But my husband told me it was the centre of flamenco and very well respected.’
‘Thecuadrosthat perform there are indeed the best in Spain. My sons go there often, but that does not mean it is a respectable part of town.’ Teresa raised her eyebrows. ‘My sons visit whenever they have the money to do so. One of them told me there is a woman who dances there who strips off her clothes in search of a flea!’
‘Surely not?’ María was aghast.
‘This is Barcelona, not Sacromonte. Here, anything goes to earn your living.’
Visions of little Lucía being forced to strip off her clothes to find an imaginary flea filled María’s head. ‘Well, I must go and find them immediately. I have some very sad news to impart.’
‘What is that?’
‘Our son died recently. I tried to send a message via travellers heading for Barcelona, but I’ve had no reply.’
Teresa crossed herself and laid a stocky brown hand on María’s slender arm. ‘I am sorry to hear that. Listen, you stay here with Stefano, and I will find one of my sons to escort you tonight to the Barrio Chino.’
She heaved herself up and María was left in the claustrophobic, sandy alleyway, every bone in her body aching to be back home in the safe environs of Sacromonte.
Any fantasies she’d previously harboured about their Barcelona relatives had been laid to rest. She’d envisaged them in pretty houses, with running water and big kitchens, just like thepayosin Granada. Instead, it seemed they lived more like rats swarming on a beach, the shifting sand a metaphor for the uncertain path they trod between life and death. And somewhere amongst them were her husband and daughter . . .
Teresa returned shortly with a scrawny young man who sported a neatly oiled moustache.
