Under the Spanish Stars (18 page)

‘So you're not even half
gitano
?'

‘No.'

‘Then how … sorry, I'll let you talk.' She mimed zipping her lips, locking them and putting an imaginary key in her pocket. It was then followed by an encouraging smile.

‘
Gracias
. I am not
gitano
by birth, but have always felt a strong pull towards their music and culture. My family, they are …' He closed his eyes briefly and sighed. ‘They are materialistic, not interested in culture, they only care about how much money they can make. I come from an elite family of Spain, but I have chosen to dissociate myself from them. I did work for my father for some time and made much money but I had sold my soul so I left. After this, he did not speak with me because he could not understand why I would turn my back on a lifestyle he loved. We are the chalk and the cheese.' Mateo rubbed his chin again.

‘The parallels in our lives are rather freaky,' she said, more torn than ever about dropping out of the family business. Mateo had ditched his place on the family corporate ladder and now he was estranged with his family. She didn't want to suffer the same fate but his poetic way of convincing her to give in to her artistic self sounded so convincing …

‘Charlotte?'

‘Oh! Sorry.'

‘I said to help you I must talk with family friends from my old days.'

Finally, a lead, but it was at Mateo's expense. This didn't sit well, but he was a grown man who could make his own decisions, right? It's not like she'd held a gun to his head.

‘Please understand, Charlotte, the chance is slim, yes? Many families moved out of Spain, and some changed their names if they stayed during the rule of Franco. That's why it is sometimes hard to find information and because, as it is with all the wars, records were lost or deliberately burned. However, I grew up with a family who only ever talked about other people—not always in a good way—and I suspect I know of a family who may help. That is if they will talk with me. They may not, due to their loyalty to my biological family.'

Mateo fell silent and drummed his fingers against his knee. Even the thought of seeing the people who could help made him agitated. Perhaps
there was a way around it.

‘What if you gave me their details and I saw them myself? My Spanish isn't great, but I could get by.'

‘This señora, she is a very private person and is not known for trusting the strangers. I know for a fact you will not get information from her without an introduction.' Puffing out his chest, he said, ‘There is no other option. We go together and we try.'

‘Thank you.' The beauty of the Alhambra filled her with joy, and the possibility of helping Abuela lifted her confidence. Moving close to Mateo, she wrapped her arms around him, unable to fully express her gratitude with words. Mateo hesitated for a millisecond then drew her close against his chest, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Closing her eyes, she enjoyed his warmth, listened to his rapidly beating heart, and embedded this moment in her memory forever.

* * *

Charlotte lay on the bed of her hotel room, the afternoon sun streaming through the window. With legs in the air, she studied the chipped turquoise nail polish that needed a total repaint. Holding the phone against her ear, she waited for Steve to answer. ‘Come on.'

‘Hello?'

‘Hey!'

‘Oh, thank God! I've left you twenty messages!' Steve breathed heavily, like he was trying to catch his breath.

‘It was five, but none of them sounded urgent. Sorry, I was at the Alhambra and I think there's been a breakthrough.'

‘I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that. Abuela's not doing so well.'

‘What?' Charlotte sat up and looked at her suitcase.

‘The tests are coming up clear but she's still very sick. There's a team of specialists on it but no one knows for sure what's causing her deterioration. They're also worried the occlusion could get worse.'

‘I need to come back.' Damn. She'd just found a lead.

‘No, don't. Abuela made me promise to tell you to stay where you are and get answers.'

‘I could return for a short while—'

‘Nope. She said she'd refuse to see you if you do. She's sleeping now, but told me to tell you to just get on with it. And to make it quick.'

‘I'm doing my best.' Determination set in, spurring her on. She desperately wanted to see Abuela but there was no point in travelling to the other side of the world to have a breakthrough then ditch it at the last minute.

‘Listen, I'm still at work so I can't talk. Shoot me an email and fill me in.'

‘Will do. Thanks, Steve.'

‘Cheers.'

The phone beeped after Steve hung up and Charlotte felt more alone than ever. Without the constant buzz of texts and emails from work, or the chatter of friends and family, the quietness of Spain had given her time to reflect. She chewed her lip as she studied the painting she'd attempted yesterday.

At the art supply shop she'd decided to create a special piece for Abuela to cheer her up but Charlotte couldn't hand over anything like this. It was too bold. Too noisy. Too … flamenco. Abuela would be delighted that Charlotte had finally picked up a brush, but these colours … this movement … the subject … it just wouldn't do. Opening the cupboard door, she pulled out Syeria's canvas and placed it next to her own. She hadn't set out to copy Syeria's work. Although the brushstrokes and colours were strikingly similar, Charlotte's work appeared more fluid. Why was that?

Throwing a rug over both paintings she grabbed her holdall and headed downstairs into the lobby where Mateo waited, hands in pockets, sunglasses casually resting on top of his head.

‘You're on time,' she said and gave him the customary kiss on each cheek and tried not to be obvious about inhaling his magnificent sandalwood aftershave.

‘I thought I would find out what it is like to be English.'

‘I'm not English!'

His grin told her he was messing with her head and she playfully punched him in the bicep. He formed a D with his arm, and she threaded hers through his. The constant physical contact they had with each other felt natural and left her wanting more.

They exited the hotel and she looked around for the familiar yellow vehicle. ‘Where's the car?'

‘We use these today.' He pointed at his feet. They turned left and
walked down the street in silence. It felt good to get out, stretch the legs and see the city from a different viewpoint. So much was lost travelling in a vehicle and this walk gave her the chance to view the beautifully designed wrought-iron balconies hanging over the paths and to appreciate the leafy trees forming arches over the avenues. Had Abuela walked these streets and ever felt joy in her surroundings?

‘A euro for your thoughts?' Mateo nudged her gently with his elbow.

‘Nothing.'
Liar.

‘This frowning you do,' he pointed at her forehead, ‘it does not look like nothing. Please, tell me what bothers you.'

Concentrating on the brick pavement, she said, ‘Abuela's not doing so well. She doesn't want me to come home until I have answers. But I miss her. I want to be with her. It feels like she's pushing me away, yet I'm the closest person to her.'

‘You are the only person she trusts for this job, yes?'

Charlotte nodded.

‘It is a great privilege to do what you are doing. Maybe today you will have your breakthrough.'

Did Mateo's body just tense? He didn't offer any more words of wisdom and they walked for a further fifteen minutes, reaching Calle Santiago, their destination. Mateo slowed his pace, but she suspected it had nothing to do with looking for house numbers. Eventually, they stopped in front of a three-storey building with a bright yellow door.

‘Are you okay?' She placed her hand on his and noticed it was shaking.

He nodded and pressed a buzzer.

‘
¿Quien es?
' The soft voice sounded like a woman who had many decades behind her.

‘
Soy yo, Mateo
.'

‘
¡Querida!
' A few moments later a set of footsteps padded across the floorboards and the heavy wooden door swung open to reveal a diminutive woman. Her perfectly coiffed grey hair sat high on her head. She wrapped her short arms around Mateo as she yabbered at a million miles an hour. Every so often she would stop talking, look him in the eyes and pinch his cheeks. Eventually the woman noticed Charlotte standing on the footpath a short distance away. She looked at Mateo and arched an eyebrow.

‘This is my fiancée, Charlotte,' he said in English. Mateo didn't look either woman in the eyes.

Fiancée, huh?
News to Charlotte but she wasn't going to question their fictitious engagement if it got them through the door. Needing to concentrate on the task at hand, she swatted away visions of what it would be like to be married to this mighty fine flamenco guitarist.

The señora stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Charlotte so tight she thought she'd pop a rib. The woman let go and gestured for them to enter the house. As soon as she shut the doors the heat of the day disappeared and they were left standing in a vaulted refrigerator. Marble lined the walls and floors, but as Charlotte got closer she noticed it was marred by scratches and deep gouges.

Freshly picked gardenias sat in a vase in the hallway and they followed the señora through to a massive sitting room. Art deco furniture with parquetry wood, shiny surfaces and rounded edges crowded the expansive area, while thick orange and red geometric curtains hung on either side of the large window. The old lady gestured for them to sit on a beautiful mustard-coloured couch that looked like it belonged on the set of a 1930s movie. Mateo sat close to Charlotte, no doubt trying to prove that they were a couple.
Le sigh
…

‘I will get us coffee.' The señora bustled out of the room and started clanking dishes and pots in the kitchen.

‘I thought seeing this person was supposed to be difficult,' Charlotte whispered, glancing around the room and noticing there weren't any photos. ‘She seems very happy to see you. And me.'

‘I am sorry, but when I saw her I realised it might be better if she thinks you and I are engaged.' A smirk crept to his lips. ‘Señora Blanco Alves thinks I'm lucky to have someone willing to take me on as I'm past my prime.'

Charlotte raised her eyebrows. ‘So the only person willing to take you off the shelf is a gullible foreigner?'

Mateo laughed. ‘Can you pretend just for now? It will make things so much easier. Señora Blanco Alves is like the wind—difficult to predict which way she will blow. Today she may be happy to see me, but tomorrow could be a different story.'

‘If I must.' She feigned annoyance, but secretly didn't mind at all. ‘So is this all one house?'

‘Yes.
La señora
has lived here alone for many years, and she's refused
to move somewhere small. I guess this is still the case. There are many happy memories from my childhood within these walls.'

‘So Señora Blanco Alves was a close family friend?'

‘She still is which is why this visit may cause problems. She is the glue that holds the elite of Granada together. No one does anything without the knowledge of
la señora
. She is also happy to give you an opinion whether you like it or not.' He looked at her from under his long, thick lashes. ‘But I was always her favourite and that is why she is happy to see me now.'

‘So why didn't you want to see her?' Charlotte couldn't get her head around his reluctance.

‘
La señora
has a big heart, but a bigger mouth. I do not want her telling the family of my business.'

‘So you make up a fictional engagement instead?' Mateo's logic didn't make any sense.

‘The señora is Catholic and has a strong sense of family.'

‘Got it.' Charlotte squeezed his hand. ‘Thanks so much for doing this.'

‘It is
nada
.' His nonchalance almost had her convinced he didn't care, but she sensed a deep undercurrent beneath his casual persona. ‘I will go and help
la señora
.'

Mateo disappeared and Charlotte sat on the couch, unsure whether to go and assist as well. She figured Mateo needed some time with the
señora
and she didn't want to barge in on a conversation she shouldn't be privy to.

Low voices came from the kitchen and Charlotte tried not to listen, but it was hard not to hear when she sat in a quiet room next door. Words like ‘unhappy', ‘desertion', and ‘regret' filtered through the cracks of the kitchen door while Charlotte fidgeted, wishing she could totally ignore their conversation.

Twenty minutes ticked by and Señora Blanco Alves returned with a tray of cups, saucers, milk, sugar and a metal jug filled with coffee. Her eyes and nose were red and Mateo followed her, his expression solemn.

Without asking Charlotte how she preferred her coffee,
la señora
prepared a cup filled to the brim with thick, syrupy liquid and three spoonfuls of sugar. Charlotte accepted it graciously, balancing the cup and saucer while
la señora
offered a plate of small, round, sticky-looking
pastries.

‘
Pionono
,' she said.

‘They are made in Santa Fe, near Granada,' Mateo explained, having found his usual calm self once more. ‘The pastry is rolled into the cylinder and is fermented with special syrup—very sweet. The brown is toasted cream.'

La señora
gestured for Charlotte to try one. The sweet combination danced on her tastebuds and she couldn't work out why it had taken until now to discover them. ‘Amazing.'

Their hostess placed the tray of treats on the coffee table in front of Charlotte and motioned for her to eat more. Any other time Charlotte would be only too happy to oblige but her stomach kept turning in knots. Mateo accepted his coffee with milk and sugar, even though she'd only seen him drink it black.