Page 68 of The Moon Sister
‘This is Joaquin, my youngest son. He has volunteered to take you to the Bar de Manquet tonight. You know the place,sí?’
‘Sí, Mamá.Hola, señora.’ Joaquin gave María a small bow, sizing up her widow’s weeds.
‘And you are welcome to stay with me tonight,’ Teresa reassured her. ‘Although I can only offer you a pallet on the floor.’
‘Gracias,’ she said. ‘Do you have anywhere I can wash?’
‘At the end of the row.’ Teresa pointed.
María walked along the row of shacks and stood in the queue of women waiting to use the public latrines. Inside, it stank worse than her poor son’s decaying body, but at least there was a cracked and faded mirror hung on the wall and a barrel of water in which to wash her hands and her face. Avoiding her lips for fear of a drop of it going into her mouth, she splashed the water on her face and removed the smudges of dirt. Discarding her widow’s weeds, she shook her hair loose, took a comb to it and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
‘You made it here alone, María,’ she told herself. ‘And now you must find your family.’
*
By the time she returned to Teresa’s shack, various men and women, none of whom María recognised but who were apparently related to her, had gathered outside to welcome her. Someone had brought some anise brandy and someone else a bottle of manzanilla wine to toast the sad passing of her son. As night fell, a guitarist appeared and María realised she was attending an impromptu wake with people she’d never met before. Such was thegitanoway, and tonight she was glad of it.
‘Is it not time to go?’ she whispered to Joaquin, who shook his head.
‘Nothing happens in the Barrio Chino until late.’
Eventually, he nodded at her and told the assembled party, which had grown in number as the evening wore on, that he would take María to find her husband. As they set off, it crossed María’s mind that no one here had said they had seen either José or Lucía.
Unused to alcohol, María regretted the glass of wine she’d taken to be sociable, as her feet struggled over the sand behind Joaquin. She could already hear the thrumming sound of flamenco coming from the other side of the road, and her stomach somersaulted at the thought of seeing José.
A row of lights in the distance and a constant flow of people indicated where they were headed. Joaquin didn’t say much and, unlike his mother’s, his Catalan accent was strong. After crossing the road, Joaquin led her into a rabbit warren of cobbled alleyways, each one lined with numerous bars. Chairs were set outside and women in tight-fitting dresses were advertising the food and the music on offer inside. The sound of strumming guitars was even stronger now and María followed him until they came to a small square filled with bars.
‘The Bar de Manquet is here,’ Joaquin grunted, indicating a café out of which people spilled, the sound of acantaorsinging a melancholy song emanating from within. María could see that this was not a sophisticated crowd; those around her were eithergitanosor common labourers drinking cheap wine and brandy. Yet the throng outside was larger than any other café they’d seen.
‘We will go in?’ asked Joaquin.
‘Sí,’ nodded María, not wishing to lose him in the crowd.
Inside, the noise was raucous, people sitting at tables and at the bar, with not an inch of space to be had.
‘Do you know who the manager here is?’ María asked, casting her eyes to the small stage at the back of the café where thecantaorwas sitting. A couple of girls in flamenco dresses were smoking at the bar and talking topayocustomers.
‘Buy me a drink and I will ask,’ Joaquin suggested.
María used her dwindling supply of pesetas to buy Joaquin a brandy. He talked in fast Catalan to the bartender as a roar went up. She turned and saw that a dancer had sashayed onto the stage.
‘He says the manager will be back later,’ Joaquin shouted into her ear, handing her a glass of water.
‘Sí, gracias.’ María stood on tiptoe to peer over the heads, watching the dancer. Another roar went up as a male dancer swaggered onto the stage.
‘Señores y señoras!’ shouted a man. ‘Put your hands together for La RomeritayEl Gato!’
The crowd erupted as El Gato placed a hand on his partner’s cheek. She smiled at him and they nodded at the guitarist.
A small shiver ran down María’s spine as the two of them began to move together. The woman’s feet began to tap out a beat, and her arms rose above her head as El Gato swept a hand down her back.
María remembered how she and José had danced together in their youth, and as she watched them, her eyes filled with tears for what had been. No matter that this café was ostensibly unimpressive and the audience basic, the two dancers were amongst the best she had ever seen. For a few minutes, she was transported with the rest of the audience as all their passion and brilliance played out on the stage in front of her. María raised her hands in applause as they took their bow and left the stage to make way for the next performer.
‘They were wonderful.’ She turned to Joaquin in excitement, but found he was no longer next to her. Panicking, she looked around her and saw him smoking at the bar, chatting to an acquaintance. Her eyes fell on La Romerita, who was enjoying the attentions of admiring male customers, then travelled back to the stage, where another beautiful woman with huge flashing eyes was performing azambra. Like La Romerita before her, María knew the woman was a dancer of brilliance. Then she looked closer, because there was something about her she recognised . . .
‘Juana la Faraona!’ María muttered. She was a cousin of José’s who had left for Barcelona years ago, and had arranged José’s first contract at a bar here. If anyone would know where her husband and daughter were, it was this woman. She was family after all.
After Juana had walked off stage to rapturous applause, María took a deep breath and pushed through the crowd to speak to her.
