Page 126 of The Moon Sister
‘I have news for you,’ said Carcellés as they sat together outside his favourite bar in the Barrio Chino. Lucía looked at the impresario who had organised their tour of the provinces. Carcellés’ face was red from too much brandy, and his stomach strained over his tightly belted trousers. The smoke from their cigarettes curled up into the darkening sky.
‘What is that?’
Carcellés poured some more brandy into their glasses. ‘The Fontalba Theatre in Madrid is organising a tribute to the actress Luisita Esteso. I am putting you on between two other acts. It is time your talent was showcased in the capital.’
Lucía – by now used to Carcellés’ extravagant promises, designed to spur her on but which usually amounted to nothing – stared at him in disbelief.
‘You are taking me to Madrid?’
‘Sí, Lucía. You will fit perfectly on the bill. The great Meñique has even offered to play for you. How about that?’
‘¡Dios mío!’ Lucía stood up to embrace Carcellés, knocking the trestle table and spilling their brandy everywhere. ‘Why, this is wonderful news!’
‘I am glad you are happy, Lucía. It is just one night, and you will only have five minutes on the programme, but they areyourfive minutes and you must show the people who matter in Madrid what you can do.’
‘I will, I promise I will.Gracias, señor.’
‘Did you hear, Papá?’ Lucía burst into José’s bedroom. He was alone, lying on his bed, smoking.
‘About Madrid? Yes, I have heard. Of course, you will not be paid. You realise that, don’t you?’
‘Who cares about the money?! I am to perform in front of over a thousand people. Isn’t this wonderful news?’
‘I hear Meñique is to accompany you.’
‘Yes, so there is no need for you to come. Carcellés will be on the train with me and Meñique will take care of me once I am there.’
‘That is what I am worried about,’ José mumbled morosely as he stubbed his cigarette out into a half-full bottle of beer.
‘I’m a big girl now, Papá; remember I am now twenty-one years old. I will be back before you know it.’
Lucía returned to her own room, refusing to let her father’s sulk spoil her joy. Removing her flamenco dress, she sank stark naked onto the mattress and lay there with her arms and legs splayed, thinking. Eventually, an idea started to form in her mind.
‘Yes!’ Lucía jumped off the bed and went to the corner where she piled up her clothes, and began to search through them, knowing exactly what she would wear to make this performance – and her – unforgettable.
‘Madrid . . .’ she breathed, finding what she was looking for. ‘And Meñique!’
*
‘Are you all right,pequeña?’ Meñique whispered in her ear as, two weeks later, they stood in the wings together at the side of the enormous stage, listening to the rapturous applause for El Botato, who was dancing his famousfarrucawith comedic acrobatic leaps.
‘Sí, but I am nervous, Meñique. I’m never nervous before I dance.’
‘All to the good; the adrenaline will give more depth to your performance.’
‘No one has ever heard of me here.’ Lucía bit her lip. ‘What if they boo me off the stage?’
‘Everyone will know your name after this. Now’ – he gave her shoulder a gentle push – ‘go.’
Lucía walked onto the stage to muted applause, the bright spotlights burning her eyes. She felt hot and itchy underneath the heavy cloak she was wearing. Meñique followed her on seconds later and the audience cheered and clapped.
‘Mamá,’ she whispered as she took up her opening position, ‘I dance this for you.’
Sitting to one side, Meñique watched the tiny figure draw herself up in the centre of the enormous stage. As he began to play the opening bars in preparation to sing, he saw Lucía’s chin tip up and her nostrils flare. As the beat increased, she swept off her cloak in one fluid movement and threw it across the stage. The audience gasped in shock when they saw that this tiny woman was wearing high-waisted black trousers and the starched white shirt of a male dancer. Her hair had been pulled back, parted down the middle and slicked down, and her kohl-rimmed eyes issued a challenge to the audience.
Then she began to dance. Any dissenters’ whisperings ceased after a few seconds as the fourteen-hundred-strong audience was held spellbound by the child-woman whose miraculous feet managed to somehow tap out so many beats, it was impossible for even experienced hands to keep up. When they realised that Lucía was performing the samefarrucaas El Botato – a dance reserved for men – the audience went wild, whooping and whistling at the strange sight. Meñique was so entranced as she became a whirling dervish of sheer energy, that he almost forgot to come in for the next verse of his song.
She is so pure . . . the essence of flamenco, he thought.
