At a second performance, the
cueva
overflowed. Emilio was there to see them this time and even he, predisposed to criticise this man who had usurped his role, could see that this was a remarkable partnership. At times, the spark between Mercedes and Javier could almost have ignited a blaze. Emilio slipped away before the applause died down.The last thing he wanted was for his sister to notice he had even been there, and even less so for her to see his reaction.
While Pablo and Concha thought their daughter was in her room finally getting round to doing some school work, she was dancing with Javier Montero in the Sacromonte. It was only a matter of time before someone mentioned it to them and sure enough they did.
‘You are only just
sixteen
!’ shouted her father, when she returned that night. She had hoped her parents would already be in bed, but she found them sitting waiting for her. Pablo’s anger made all the more impact because it was so rare.
‘All I’m doing is
dancing
!’ she defended herself.
‘But how old is this man? He should know better,’ continued Pablo.
‘You’ve been very deceitful,’ reprimanded Concha.
‘You’re a disgrace!’ Ignacio, who had arrived home moments earlier, joined in. ‘Dancing with a bloody
gypsy
!’
Mercedes knew it was pointless trying to defend herself. She was under attack from all sides.
Emilio was the only person who understood this compulsion of hers, but he had sensed the brewing storm and withdrawn to his room. Having been displaced by an outsider, his own resentment had continued to brew. Filial love had been swept aside by the infatuation that now dominated his sister’s every waking moment.
‘Just go to your room. And don’t come out,’ ordered Pablo.
Without argument, Mercedes did exactly as she was told. Javier had travelled back to Málaga that night so there was nothing she wanted to leave it for.
For two days Mercedes stayed upstairs and Concha left meals outside her door. An hour later she would return to find them untouched.
Eating was the very last thing Mercedes felt like doing. She lay on her bed and wore herself out with weeping. In one move, her parents had taken away the two things that were at the centre of her life: dancing and Javier. If she could not dance with her
gitano
she was not going to dance at all. And if she could not dance, she could not bear to live.
Emilio knocked at her door late one afternoon and went in. Mercedes sat up when she saw him. Her eyes were swollen with crying.
He stood at the end of her bed, his arms folded. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I understand how you feel.’
Mercedes blinked at him. ‘Do you?’ she asked quietly.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And I am going to talk to our parents. I’ve seen you dancing with Javier and that sort of performance doesn’t happen every day.’ ‘What do you mean?’
‘It was . . . um . . .’ Emilio struggled. He suddenly felt awkward in front of his sister.
‘It was what?’
‘It was . . . perfection. Or something close to it. Between you and . . . him.’
Mercedes did not know how to react to her brother’s clumsy compliment. She could see how much it had cost him to say it.
Emilio was true to his word. He took his father to one side, knowing that, of the two of them, Pablo was less vehemently against Mercedes’ dancing than Concha.
‘You can’t just put a stop to something like this,’ he said to his father. ‘Nothing can stand in its way.’
Emilio’s representations on Mercedes’ behalf made Pablo reconsider. Even his description of the way Mercedes danced made her father proud and, within a few days, Concha, albeit reluctantly, had agreed to meet Javier.
Chapter Fourteen
DURING THE FEW weeks while these negotiations were going on, Mercedes’ obsession with dance had increased.There was nothing else in life that she wanted to do.
Letters were exchanged, and one day Javier arrived at El Barril. For an hour he talked with Pablo.
In spite of himself, Señor Ramírez warmed to this young man. There was no doubt that he was a serious member of the flamenco scene and Pablo’s view of the situation began to shift. Javier Montero had played not just in Granada and Málaga, but in Córdoba, Sevilla and Madrid. He even had forthcoming engagements in Bilbao, the home of his celebrated
guitarrista
uncle.
Eventually Concha appeared and introductions were made. She was not predisposed to liking Javier, but it was impossible to do otherwise. There was a sincerity in his manner that shone out and, sometime later, when she eventually heard him performing, she knew that it was this same quality that gave his playing such power.
Mercedes was not allowed to leave her room while Javier was there. Maternal fury was not so easily dispelled.
Javier was bold. He made it clear that he wished to continue playing for Mercedes in Granada but he wanted more than that. He wanted to take her to other cities. He did not tell Mercedes’ parents as much, but he felt his whole life was held in limbo. As far as he was concerned, his future was in their hands, dependent on whether or not Mercedes could continue to dance for him, and he to play for her.
After an hour or so, their meeting came to an end. Pablo spoke for himself and his wife, in agreeing to consider Montero’s request.
Concha was very concerned. Having Mercedes dancing with Emilio was safe but this was another matter altogether.
‘How do we know where all this will lead?’ she said to Pablo. ‘She’s only just sixteen and he’s almost five years older!’
Having met Javier, Pablo’s views had changed. He smiled.
‘And what is the age difference between
us
?’ he enquired wryly.
Concha did not reply. It was at least a decade.
‘What is the subject of this conversation?’ asked Pablo. ‘Are we just talking about dance? Or do you think there is something more?’
Concha thought of her daughter’s hollow eyes and uneaten meals. Hard as she tried, she found it difficult to attribute these things to a ban on dancing. She was not a heartless woman and had once known that same intense, all-consuming love herself, even if it had grown quieter with the years.
‘What is it that worries you more?’ asked Pablo.‘Our daughter’s love of dancing or the possibility of her falling for this man?’
‘Well, we can’t ask her that,’ said Concha flatly.
‘And anyway, the two things might be bound up together,’ mused Pablo.
‘You know I wanted her to expand her horizons,’ lamented Concha, ‘but not quite in this way.’
‘Is there really a choice? If we don’t let her dance with Javier, what else do you think she is going to do? Sit in her room like a good student?’
Antonio had come in.
‘What do you think?’ Concha asked him.
‘Are you sure you want my opinion, Mother?’
His mother nodded. He hesitated to take sides in a dispute between his parents, but clearly a casting vote was needed.
‘My view is this. One of the reasons her dancing affects people is that they witness this extraordinary determination,’ he said.‘And that same determination will never allow anyone to get between her and this
flamenco
.You’re fighting a losing battle if you try to stop her.’
Her mother was silent for a while as she reflected on what Antonio had just said.
‘Well, as long as you chaperon her, Pablo, I suppose I shall have to put up with it.’
A while later, Mercedes came downstairs. The girl was pale. She knew her future had been discussed that afternoon.
Her parents were both in the bar.
‘We met Javier today,’ said Pablo, telling her something she already knew. ‘And we liked him.’
‘But can I dance with him again?’ she asked impatiently. It was all she wanted to know.
Mercedes was overjoyed when she heard of her parents’ decision.
A week later, she packed her bag. A crisp new flamenco dress spilled out. Antonio had given her some money to buy it.
‘I think you’ll need a spare,’ he had said, kissing her on the forehead.
Mercedes and her father travelled on a bus to Málaga. They were to be away for three days. It was the furthest distance she had ever travelled, the longest time she had ever been alone with her father, and the first time she had danced away from her home city. Even without the prospect of seeing Javier, everything about this trip to the bustling friendly city of Málaga was an adventure. They rented a room close to where Javier lived and on the first morning he collected them for a rehearsal, which was to be in the back room of the café where they were to perform that night.
Pablo was amazed by the transformation in his daughter’s dancing. He sat, mesmerised, as they went through their repertoire of tangos, fandangos,
alegrías
and
soleares
. This was a different Mercedes from the one he had seen dancing at a fiesta only a few months before. The little girl had become a young woman.
They were on a stage set up in the café and the audience was receptive. Javier was familiar to them, as was his father, Raul, who played at the beginning of the evening.
Mercedes was more nervous than she had even been in Granada. Everything was so unfamiliar and she was sure the audience would not like her, but the performance went as well as the rehearsal. No one failed to appreciate the grace and energy of her dancing, the fineness of her hand movements, the love, the fear and the fury that she expressed through them all.
Neither of them could stop smiling, an expression that was so at odds with the mood of much of the music and dancing. They could not stop themselves. Mercedes felt euphoric and, when she saw the pride on her father’s face, was unafraid to show it.
At the end of the evening, a photographer wanted to take pictures of them, together and separately. The following morning when Javier came to meet Mercedes, he had a set of portraits for her.
‘You can show them to your mother,’ he said. ‘You look beautiful in them!’
‘But there isn’t one of you!’ she protested. ‘I want a photograph of you!’
‘I’m sure your mother doesn’t!’ he teased.
‘It isn’t
for
my mother,’ she said.
‘I’ll swap you a photograph,’ he said. ‘I want one of you as well.’
In every photograph, the subjects beamed almost from ear to ear.
The second night’s performance was in Málaga’s movie theatre. It was a much bigger room than the café and the stage was higher. As she waited in the wings behind some thick red curtains, Mercedes’ anxiety almost got the better of her.
Javier took her hand gently and lifted it to his lips.
‘You will be fine, my sweet, you will be fine. Don’t worry.They will love you.’
His tender concern gave her courage. After only a minute or so on stage, she heard a murmured ‘
Olé
’ and knew that the audience was with her. There was no play-acting of emotion in her dancing. In her mind, she merely recreated the anguish of separation from Javier, and the passion she required to dance poured out of her.
It was another magnificent performance. The local paper described it as a ‘triumph’ and their photographs appeared on the front page.
Pablo was persuaded to travel with his daughter on some future engagements and Mercedes’ career and reputation grew. As did her devotion to the
guitarrista
. Their love was absolutely mutual, as equal as their limelight on the shared stage. When they were apart, both of them meticulously counted the days until they would be reunited.
Emilio tried to hide his sense of rejection. He stayed at home playing his guitar much less now that he did not have his sister’s encouragement. When he was not working, he did not want to hang around in El Barril, especially when Ignacio was about.