Under the Spanish Stars (19 page)

La señora
clasped her hands on her lap and looked directly at Charlotte. ‘I know the grandmother of you.' Her English came out with a thick accent but could easily be understood.

Charlotte placed her cup on the table before she dropped it. ‘How?

‘We did the growing up together.'
La señora
swallowed hard.

Stunned, Charlotte could only say, ‘Your English is very good.'

‘My son, he lives in America. His children do not speak
español
so I learn the
inglés
for them.' A hint of bitterness tinged
la señora
's words. ‘Tell me, how is she? What is she like?'

‘She's not well,' Charlotte managed to say, her eyes welling up, her brother's words finally sinking in. Perhaps news about a long-lost friend might lift Abuela's spirits. ‘Did Mateo fill you in?'

‘Yes.' A small smile formed on her lips. ‘It is still hard for me to think a dare would change her life.'

‘A dare?' Charlotte leant forward, her racing heart filled with hope at the possibility of receiving answers. Could she be so lucky to get them in just one afternoon?

‘Your
abuela
, she was like a sister to me. We did a dare our families would not like. Me, I go to picture show with a boy—no chaperone. Katarina, she have flamenco lesson.'

‘The rest is history,' Charlotte said, barely able to comprehend how quickly this meeting had turned.

‘
Sí.
'
La señora
got up and made her way over to a gorgeous art deco
writing desk, on which the light and dark wood triangles joined seamlessly. Señora Blanco Alves opened and closed small boxes stuffed full of papers, muttering as she sifted. Eventually, she clutched a shoebox and came over and sat next to Charlotte.

A hint of roses in the air swam around the elderly woman. ‘For you.'

Charlotte took the box and stared at it. There were no decipherable markings or hints about the contents.

Nodding towards the box,
la señora
said, ‘This is for your family.'

‘Pardon?' Charlotte's hands ran over the perfectly smooth cardboard.

‘My family were good friends with the family of
los Sanchez
—the people of your
abuela
.'

La señora
must have noticed Charlotte's surprised expression because she added, ‘Yes, I make the friends with Sanchez and Vives families. Granada is big, but small.'

‘I'm beginning to think this is the case,' Charlotte said, aware of the significance of this connection but not fully comprehending.

‘After Señor Sanchez die, the relations with Katarina and the family explode. I tried to help Katarina but my hands, they were tied. My family agree with the mother of Katarina and I could not risk exclusion like her. You must understand, the times were hard.'

‘I couldn't even imagine,' said Charlotte, starting to understand Abuela's reluctance to speak about her past.

‘Over the night, families left, leaving possessions, the houses deserted with dreams of returning later when the political climate was not so violent.'
La señora
stared at a vacant corner of the room, as if reliving a moment.

Although anxious to learn more, Charlotte gave her the time she appeared to need. Mateo gave her a slow smile, offering her the support she needed to take in this news.

La señora
shook her head, breaking from her reverie. ‘I am sorry. This brings many memories, most not happy.'

‘I understand,' Charlotte said, but how could she possibly know what people went through back then?

‘My family refused to leave Granada, so when the Sanchez family left, they give us this box.'

‘Why didn't they take it with them?'

La señora
shrugged. ‘They have trusted in us. They know we would
never leave. Perhaps leaving this was a promise to return one day. And now here you are, from the family of Sanchez, collecting the box that is yours.'

‘I … this is a lot to take in.' Charlotte's head spun and she slowly lifted the lid, but
la señora
quickly put her hand over it, slamming it shut.

‘Now is not the time for opening. Mateo will do the explaining later.'
La señora
rested her hands on her knees and stared at the floor as if having a debate with herself. Eventually, she looked up and fixed her gaze on Charlotte. ‘Mateo tell me about the painting.'

‘He did?' Charlotte shot him a questioning look.

Mateo widened his eyes. ‘It was worth a mention, no? Señora Blanca Alves knew your
abuela
when they were young, perhaps she remembered the artwork.'

‘And did you?' Charlotte turned to her.
La señora
nodded slowly, as if scared to answer. Leaning in close, Charlotte said, ‘Please, tell me anything you remember.'

‘I remember too much, this is my problem.' She crossed her arms, then looked away, as if she'd changed her mind about revealing what she knew about the painting.

Desperation clawed at Charlotte, but she willed herself to stay calm. ‘I realise you haven't seen my
abuela
… Katarina, for many years, but you were good friends once, right? Don't you want her to know the truth? Wouldn't a friend do that?'

‘
¡Virgen santa!
'
La señora
closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross. ‘The painting, the one from her father, has much significance.'

Charlotte gave a quick nod, silently urging Señora Blanco Alves to continue.

‘It is by the
gitana
Syeria Mesa Flores Giménez, but you are aware of this, yes? What you must know is Syeria is the mother of Katarina.'
La señora
swallowed hard and fanned her face with a serviette. With a shaking hand she reached for the glass of water and took a long drink.

‘It … I …' What could she say? If this were true, then everything her grandmother believed had just been shot to pieces. How could the quest to discover the artist of a painting come to this? Surely it couldn't be true. Humans loved creating scandal, loved making small stories into huge sagas, so this had to be the case here, right? Even as the thoughts swam around her brain, Charlotte's heart knew a truth she wasn't ready to
accept. ‘I'm sorry, Señora Blanco Alves, but you must be mistaken.'

‘I am afraid I am not. Why would Katarina, girl with everything, choose flamenco in the slums instead of the money and power? You must remember, at the time, our country, it had much turmoil. Flamenco put her at risk. She always say she never felt right with her family. She had the flaming red hair and the fire in her belly. When I find the truth many years later I try to find her, but I was too scared of the problems it would mean for my own family. I see what happened to Katarina with her family and … I am very sorry. I lose my nerves.' Shaking her head slowly, she said, ‘I have always had the regret of not trying harder to tell her.'

Charlotte placed her hand on
la señora
's dry and wrinkly skin. ‘Times were different then. People didn't go against their families so easily like they do today.' Although Charlotte knew that to be a lie, because she had a hard time standing up to her own father. ‘Can you please tell me why you think Syeria is my grandmother's birth mother?'

‘I was in my twenties at the time,'
la señora
paused to dab her eyes with a serviette. ‘Señora Sanchez had come over to the house of my family for the dinner. She did this often. The father of Katarina had passed two years before. After dinner the children, even though we were adults, went to the library while my mother and father share port with Señora Sanchez. I had left a book in the kitchen and when I went retrieve it I notice the door closed to the adults in salon.' Taking another sip of water, she said, ‘We always have open doors in our house so I found this strange. Then I hear the sobbing … it was wrong to do the listening, but I was young and foolish.' Pushing a strand of hair from her face, she said, ‘To carry this secret for so long is my penance for hearing things I should not have.'

Charlotte tried to take in everything and hoped Mateo was doing the same. She didn't mind him being privy to this conversation because not only would it help to remember what was said, she needed his support.

La señora
drew a deep breath and puffed out her cheeks. ‘Señora Sanchez, she was angry because the Giménez clan had been in contact again. They wanted more money. My mother tried to console her, but nothing worked well. Then my father, he got angry, he say Señora Sanchez should never have pretended the half-
gitana
child, Katarina, was her own and that Señor Sanchez was lucky to already be dead because otherwise my father would kill Señor Sanchez for the affair he had with the no-good
gitana
artist.'

Charlotte's madly beating heart echoed in her hollow chest. If this were true, how could she ever tell Abuela? What would it do to her, especially with her failing health? But keeping it a secret? Could she do that in good conscience? Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut, then felt an arm go around her. Opening her eyes, she found Mateo next to her, his large eyes full of empathy.

‘Are you saying my
abuela
is part
gitana
?' She could barely utter the sentence and she didn't really need
la señora
to answer because it suddenly made sense. Abuela's love and talent for flamenco; her willingness to give up her family so she could follow her dream; the painting by Syeria and the reluctance of Abuela's father to tell her the story behind it until she was an adult … the pieces fell into place and as they did so, they left a terrible, scorching burn mark on Abuela's history.

‘I am saying this is what I hear. I may be old but the mind is strong.' She pointed to her head. ‘It is impossible to hear this and forget.' Lifting her chin towards Charlotte and Mateo,
la señora
said, ‘It is time you both go.'

Charlotte clutched the shoebox she and Mateo slogged up the Sacromonte hills, heading towards Bar Alegría. Sweat ran down her back and her red locks stuck to her face. She hated this humid weather and as she puffed up the hill, she chastised herself for not sticking with her New Year's resolution of going to the gym every day. Or three times a week. Or once a month …

The visit with Señora Blanco Alves had left Charlotte deflated. She should be happy to have found out more about the story of the painting but no one, not even Abuela, could have expected this. Mateo had read her mood perfectly, silently walking alongside her, keeping his steps short and slow so she didn't have to rush. His kindness and compassion endeared him to her even more which only meant it would be harder for her to leave him.

They reached the top of the hill and she headed for the entrance to Bar Alegría.

‘Let us go to my place. It is more private.'

Any other time and those words would have caused a ripple of lustful excitement but the solemnity of the situation dictated otherwise. She dutifully crossed the laneway with Mateo and entered the dark stairwell of the apartment building. Taking the lead, he clomped up the stairs until they reached the first floor. She waited in the darkness while Mateo fetched the keys from his pocket, inserted them in the lock and when it didn't budge, he uttered a few curse words then bashed the lock with his fist. The thick wooden door clicked open and he gestured for her to enter. Taking a few steps into the large room, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the harsh daylight streaming through the grimy windows. The large one-room apartment contained a kitchenette along one wall, and a small
couch and television. A collection of guitars of various sizes and shiny wood finishes lined another wall. In the far corner was an unmade double bed piled high with clothes and opposite that was a large Japanese screen, most likely hiding the toilet and shower.

‘I am sorry for the mess.' Mateo hurried over to the coffee table, which was stacked high with sheet music. ‘As you can see, I do not do the entertaining often.'

His nervous energy softened the tension that had followed them like a storm cloud since their visit to Señora Blanco Alves.

‘It's okay, Mateo.' She placed her hand on his arm. His skin was as warm and sweaty as hers. ‘How about I get us a cold drink?'

‘Yes, yes, good.
Gracias
.' He nodded in the direction of the small bar fridge. ‘There is mineral water in there. Unless you want beer, then we go see Pedro.'

‘Mineral water is fine.' She opened the refrigerator and took two small bottles. Mateo connected his phone to a set of speakers and guitars and strings filled the room. The haunting sound relieved the tightness squeezing her shoulders. ‘Who is this?'

‘Paco de Lucía,' Mateo sat on the couch. ‘For me, he is the greatest flamenco guitarist to ever live. He played a key role in creating New Flamenco in the 1970s. You like?'

‘I like it a lot.'

Joining Mateo on the couch, she passed him the drink and they unscrewed the lids, clinked the bottles together and took long gulps.

‘That's better,' she said.

‘It is.' He placed the bottle down and nodded at the shoebox on her knees. ‘You may have more answers in there.'

‘Or more questions.' She drummed her fingers on the lid.

Mateo shrugged.

‘I'm a family member, so it's okay if I look, right?' Charlotte wasn't sure who she was trying to convince—herself or Mateo. She could have waited until she saw Abuela but it would be better to check now rather than raising her grandmother's hopes in case the box contained nothing more than a bunch of useless crap. Taking a breath, she carefully removed the flimsy lid. ‘Here goes.'

Charlotte dipped her hand in the box and withdrew a stack of papers that hadn't seen light for decades. She gingerly opened them one by one,
some of the deep creases splitting as she did so and in a short time she had a pile of documents—bank statements, property contracts, invitations to social events—papers that had little bearing on Abuela's true heritage.