Under the Spanish Stars (3 page)

‘It is not cold in here, but look at your skin.' He pointed at her forearms before she hid them under the table. ‘So Charlotte, why are you here alone?'

‘I'm looking for someone.'

‘The waiter?'

‘Sort of. Apparently the waiter knows the person I'm looking for.' Curiosity got the better of her. ‘I'm sorry, but who are you?'

‘Me? I am someone happy to help a foreigner. Tell me, who is this person you seek? In Sacromonte we all know each other.'

Charlotte bit her lip. The waiter hadn't reappeared, despite her sneaking glances between the throng of bodies.

‘His name is Mateo Vives and I believe he frequents this bar.'

‘Hmm … sometimes he does, sometimes he does not. Why do you search for this Mateo Vives?' Her companion scratched his chin.

‘An acquaintance says he can help me find a particular
gitano
clan I need to meet with.'

‘Why do you want to meet with
gitanos
? They prefer only to keep to themselves.'

‘That's why I need Señor Vives to help. I believe he has a special connection with them.' Man, this guy liked to ask questions. If he wasn't a journo or a cop, she'd be surprised.

‘Which clan do you seek?' He tilted his head to the side and the stage lights illuminated his face like he was in a photo shoot for a men's magazine.

‘It's a long story and I don't mean to sound impolite, but I would prefer to keep the details to a limited audience.' Taking a sip of wine, she put the glass down. ‘I'm sorry, I'd offer you some but there's only one glass and the waiter seems to have gone on holidays.'

‘Do not concern yourself,
por favor
. I am content. Who suggested you look for this Señor Vives?'

Gee, he didn't let up. Figuring giving him a snippet was better than being rude and ignoring him, she said, ‘Professor Fonseca at the
Escuela de Bellas Artes
.'

A slow smile spread across his lips. ‘Ah, she spends many hours in this
barrio
, this neighbourhood. She is big fan of flamenco, no?'

‘I guess so. Is Sacromonte where the flamenco artists hang out?'

‘Yes and no. There are bars in Sacromonte that have tourist flamenco. This is what keeps performers from starving on the streets.' The man cast his gaze around as if searching for someone. ‘What do you know of flamenco?'

‘Not much.'
Because Abuela made sure her life as a flamenco dancer remained a mystery.

‘Then as a disciple of flamenco it is my duty to inform you.' The seriousness in his tone didn't match the glint in his eyes. ‘You have time, yes?'

The waiter hadn't appeared and the carafe wasn't yet empty. Plus, she had a mighty fine view from this side of the table. ‘Sure, inform away.'

Shuffling forward, the handsome stranger began. ‘The history of flamenco is complicated, but if you look carefully, you will find it everywhere, not just in tourist bars. Flamenco shines in the eyes of the people, the way they walk or speak. Flamenco, it is in the blood and very few foreigners can understand the importance of this. I am talking about the
flamenco puro
not the tourist flamenco with the castanets, big dresses with the …' He wiggled his fingers around his shoulders.

‘Frills.'

‘The frills, yes. Tourists come here and expect to see and experience the
zambra
—a festive dance. It is happy and makes the people feel good.
Zambra
has a rhythm of four-four with accents on the first and third
beats. Like this.' He placed the fingers of his right hand on the palm of his left and clapped while repeating daa-da-daa-da. He held the rhythm easily as he continued talking.

Why hasn't the waiter returned?
Should she ask this guy if he knows where Mateo Vives lives? She studied the man across the table, his eyes shining as he enthusiastically gave her a rundown on flamenco. Any other time she'd be interested, but right now too many thoughts vied for her attention. She tried her best to tune back in but he'd just stopped talking.

‘I am sorry, I may have confused you with all this information. My fault is my passion for flamenco.'

‘I can't see how that can be a fault. There's nothing wrong with finding a passion and loving it.' She smiled even though guilt assailed her on a daily basis for ditching the only passion she'd ever possessed.

‘This Señor Vives, I can help you find him. Will you stay for the concert?' He tilted his head towards the stage. ‘We start very soon.'

She liked this guy and got the feeling he was sincere and not expecting anything in return. Then again, she'd been off the mark with plenty of men in the past, especially with her last boyfriend who had done a wonderful job of appearing straight while he conducted a hot affair with one of the players on his football team. Perhaps trusting her instincts with men, romantic intentions or not, wasn't the wisest move, but she had little choice at the moment, especially since her waiter had been abducted by aliens.

‘Please excuse me.' He stood and pushed the chair under the table.

The moment he appeared on the stage, people cheered and whooped. Over the noise she shouted, ‘I didn't catch your name!'

It was no use. The audience grew rowdy as more musicians poured from the crowd like ants from an anthill. Her mystery companion sat on a stool, reached behind the curtain, then pulled out a shiny guitar and placed it on his knee. The deep orange and red of the wood reminded her of the sunset she'd witnessed earlier that evening, when she'd stood in front of Sacromonte Abbey, bathing in an array of warm hues. Despite Granada's turbulent history, Charlotte found this city enchanting and she loved the way Granada thrived on its mixed cultural heritage, embracing the old and the new, just like her beloved Melbourne.

A woman sauntered onto the stage and the bar fell silent. She wore a pristine white shirt tied under her breasts, a red scarf around her neck and
a yellow skirt that fit snugly from her waist to her knees then fanned out to swirl above her ankles. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, but her natural beauty didn't suffer. She floated to the centre of the stage, head bowed, arms by her side.

An older man appeared from behind the curtain, his navy blue shirt with high collar pressed to perfection. He sat next to her handsome new acquaintance, who'd already started strumming his guitar, the hypnotic notes reminding Charlotte of the music played in her favourite Moroccan restaurant at home. The older man's gravelly voice drifted through the room and a moment later two more women stepped onto the stage, clapping in a steady four-four rhythm just like the guitarist had mentioned. There was a slight pause in the music, then the dancer arched her back and swung her arms high in the air. She stamped her feet continuously, the steady rhythm gaining momentum as her body dipped and twirled. The fluidity and strength in her movements commanded full attention from everyone in the room.

The singer's words chased the swirling notes through the cavern, weaving between audience members' bodies frozen in the moment. The dancer grabbed the hem of her skirt, revealing slim, athletic legs and black, patent leather shoes. She hit the boards hard with her heels, shot her arms towards the heavens and let out a guttural cry that hit Charlotte straight in the chest. This primal energy surging through the room ignited an unfamiliar feeling in Charlotte. What was it? Electricity? Sensuality? Ghosts of her family?

The power of the dancer radiated within the small cave then she abruptly moved to the side of the stage, her chest rising and falling heavily. The guitarist ran his fingers up, down and across the strings with ease. He finished the solo and the dancer took centre stage again, her passion and intensity hitting Charlotte once more. When the performance finished, the audience leapt to its feet and shouted their appreciation. The group played a few more songs and then Charlotte realised nothing was left in the wine carafe.

Oops.

With the set complete, the group disbanded. Picking at the tapas to line her stomach, Charlotte wished she'd had one, perhaps two, glasses fewer than she'd guzzled but it was too late. Light-headedness had descended.

The guitarist had sauntered over then slid onto the chair as though
they'd been friends for years. This time, she welcomed his presence. ‘Did you enjoy the performance?'

‘It was … uh … it was …' For someone with a dual degree in economics and business management she nevertheless abjectly failed to string a sentence together in this instance.

He gave a gentle laugh, smile lines crinkling around his dark eyes. ‘Do you always have trouble with your native language?'

‘I …' God, what was wrong with her? ‘That whole performance gave me goosebumps. I've never experienced anything like it. Was that
duende
?'

‘You know of this?'

She nodded and his smile broadened.

‘Señorita, if you have to ask if it was
duende,
then I am afraid it was not. You will know it when it happens, I promise.' He punctuated this with an authoritative nod. Even after the magic he'd worked on stage not one bead of sweat appeared on his lovely olive skin.

The waiter finally reappeared with another carafe of wine, two glasses and more tapas. He set it down on the table and topped up Charlotte's glass. Her head spun at the thought of drinking any more but to be sociable, she took a small sip.

The waiter winked at her and slapped the guitarist on the back. ‘Tonight you perform very well, Mateo.'

Wine flew up Charlotte's nostrils, burning their insides, as she gasped then slammed her glass down. ‘
You
are Mateo Vives?'

‘
Sí
. You are surprised?' He raised his eyebrows and poured himself a wine.

‘Why didn't you tell me before?'

He shrugged and popped an olive in his mouth.

‘I feel like an idiot,' she mumbled, annoyed. The professor had warned her about the
gitanos
being difficult, but she hadn't expected it would also pertain to this Mateo Vives clown.

‘Do not be so hard on yourself. The waiter, Pedro, said a woman was looking for me. Many women come to this bar and ask for me, but they have intentions I am not interested in. I wanted to know if you are the same before I revealed my identity.'

Who did he think he was, James Bond? Charlotte crossed her arms, not sure if he was spinning a story, messing with her head, or both. Or, quite simply, he could be telling the truth.

‘I'm not a groupie or a tourist looking for a Spanish lover, if that's what you're angling at.'

Mateo raised his palms in the air. ‘It is not necessary to be so defensive.'

‘I'm not.' She narrowed her eyes, aware her actions were most definitely defensive. Making an effort to change her tone, she said, ‘Professor Fonseca said you could help me find the Giménez clan. I'm happy to pay for your time if you wish.'

Mateo's body stiffened and he stared at her just long enough for her to realise she may have hit a raw nerve and this quest could be over before it got into full swing.

Damn.

‘Mateo?' She kept her tone gentle.

‘I … What has she told you about my association with this clan?'

‘Nothing, really. She just said you were on good terms with them and that you might be able to assist me.' Charlotte tilted her head to the side, wondering why he'd had such a strong reaction.

‘You do not need to pay me for my time.' He jutted out his chin. ‘Be aware that the Giménez clan do not like the foreigners and I cannot guarantee my making the introductions will assist you in any way. That is, of course, if I choose to help. First, I must understand why you need to meet with them. If I do not think it is a valid reason then you will not have my assistance.'

‘Please, it's very important. There's no other way, there's no—'

The woman in the white shirt and yellow skirt sashayed over and slung a long, beautifully manicured hand over Mateo's shoulder. She gave Charlotte a saccharine smile while she leant down and placed her glossy red lips next to Mateo's ear. In a low voice, she whispered, ‘It is time.'

He stood, winked at Charlotte and followed the woman who glided back to the stage. Mateo and the rest of the group readied themselves and Charlotte settled back in her chair, unable to leave the bar until she got a definitive answer. Pulling the phone from her bag she surreptitiously checked for messages, but none had arrived from her family about Abuela's condition. In this instance, no news was good news.

* * *

Charlotte stifled a stream of yawns, despite having enjoyed the dancing and music. The group had finished their performance ten minutes earlier and the crowd had dispersed, filing out the door rowdy and happy, onto the cobblestoned streets, ready for a short or long stagger home via the next bar. While the band packed up, she sipped a tall glass of water, her belly full from the never-ending tapas. Pedro, the waiter, deposited the bill on the table while she pulled out the cash, happy to leave a generous tip. He had, after all, led her to the man who was her only chance of meeting with the Giménez clan.

‘
Gracias
.' Pedro collected the money and took away the tapas plates, leaving the unfinished wine.

Charlotte closed her eyes and rubbed them. She hoped this visit to Granada wasn't in vain and didn't end up with Abuela being bitterly
disappointed. It had been difficult witnessing her grandmother's suffering from the decline in her health but it was harder still being on the other side of the world chasing a long shot and missing Abuela immensely. From the last phone conversation they'd had, Charlotte knew finding out about the artist behind the fiery painting was the only thing that kept her grandmother going through the tough medical tests, the poking and prodding, and the endless worry about the future of her health.