Under the Spanish Stars (43 page)

‘I've only ever read one of his poems. I had no idea he'd written others. It makes me wonder if it's possible to truly know someone.' She stared off into a corner.

‘I get the impression you knew each other very well, given the experiences you went through,' Charlotte said.

‘I guess we did.' Abuela sounded distant then shook her head, as if pulling herself into the present. ‘Don't mind me, I'm being a silly old fool.'

Mateo had his head down, concentrating on his fingers gently tuning the guitar while the women talked.

Abuela looked at the email again then a moment later her breath caught in her throat. ‘I don't believe it.'

‘What?'

‘This second poem, “Duende”, is dated the day before everything went haywire in Granada. It's about love never having the chance to thrive because it was ripped away by outsiders … do you think he knew what was going to transpire?'

‘How could he?' Charlotte asked.

‘May I?' asked Mateo, finally back in the conversation. Abuela handed over the tablet and he read the words, his concentration intense. Looking up, he asked, ‘Would you mind if I put it to music? I am not a singer, but his words are beautiful. Perhaps you would like to hear them to the
palo
of
tientos
?'

‘My dear man, I would love nothing more.' Abuela settled against the pillow as Mateo moved the chair forward and rested the tablet on top of the bedside table.

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders then delicately played the strings, upping the tempo as he opened his mouth and his smooth, melodious voice took them on a journey far, far away from the small sterile room in suburban Melbourne to the hot, steamy streets of Granada, its Moorish architecture towering above, spices simmering in pots and possibilities in the air.

Charlotte glanced over at Abuela who dabbed at a steady stream of tears. What must her grandmother be feeling, hearing words written decades ago by the man she never stopped loving? The man who had lived half a world away but may as well have been on the other side of the
universe?

In the past, Mateo's playing had touched Charlotte's heart, pulling her into the music, the passion, the love with which he played. But in this moment, as he combined music and words, Charlotte became lost in its perfection and felt her heart soar, her soul fly, and every heartbreak and doubt vanished into the ether.

Abuela closed her eyes and lifted her arms slowly, twisting her wrists and swaying in time with the music. Mateo's voice wrapped around the trio as Charlotte's gaze travelled from Abuela to Mateo and back again, unable to comprehend the magic washing over her. As they fell deeper into the song, she wondered if Raul was somehow watching, delighted that the woman he had loved forever could finally hear his words.

Mateo's voice grew louder, his strumming faster, and Abuela's movements more erratic. As the song reached a crescendo, Mateo stopped singing, then strummed his guitar, the tempo slowing and notes falling away to a trickle.

Silence filled the space but there was something else—electricity, love, passion, fire …

‘
Duende
.' Charlotte couldn't manage more than a whisper.

Mateo wiped his brow while Abuela held a hand over her chest.

‘Water,' she croaked.

Rushing forward, Charlotte poured the liquid from the jug into the glass and passed it to her grandmother. ‘You shouldn't strain yourself.'

‘Oh, dear girl, that's the most free I've felt in years, even if my damn body fails me.' She drank half the glass then rested it on the bedside table. A small sigh escaped her lips. ‘In a way I am thankful for my weak heart. If it hadn't played havoc I wouldn't have forced myself to dig into my past. Who knew it would lead to this?' Patting Charlotte's hand, she said, ‘I started listening to flamenco while you were in Spain, trying to reconnect with my days there but nothing moved me like it used to—until now. Mateo, my dear man, you have a unique talent that defies tradition. It is unusual to find someone who can play guitar and sing flamenco at the same time. Hold on to that, don't ever let it go.' Abuela fixed her eyes on Charlotte. ‘And you, Missy, you need to find your own
duende
but I suspect you have a good idea where to look.'

‘I'm working on it, Abuela.' Heat crept up her neck and across her face. She wasn't entirely sure whether her grandmother was referring to her
painting or Mateo, but Charlotte was willing to give this
duende
of life a decent shot.

‘Good. Now back to this book of poems. Your Felicidad could send it over, but I don't trust couriers. Not with the volume of parcels going here, there, and everywhere. Perhaps, Charlotte, you—'

‘Could go and pick it up in person?' she asked. Her head dreaded the thought of more planes and airports but her heart loved the idea of being back on Spanish soil with the man she had grown to love. With a lopsided smile, she asked, ‘Do you think I'm your personal courier?'

Abuela tilted her head to the side and said, oh-so-casually, ‘I just thought you might like to go back to Spain for a visit. Surely you've clocked up the frequent flyer miles working for your father and running errands for me. While you're in Granada picking up the parcel, you could do some flamenco lessons, enjoy the scenery, perhaps listen to talented musicians play
and
sing.' The glint in her eyes said everything.

‘Are you trying to get rid of me, is that it?' Charlotte asked, playing along.

‘No, I just thought you should take your time getting the book and letter. After all, I have no intention of going anywhere anytime soon.'

‘I think your grandmother is doing the matchmaking thing, yes?' Mateo asked, his lips twitching into a smile.

‘I believe so.' Charlotte placed her hands on her hips. ‘I'll have to think about it.'

But she'd already made her decision.

A small breeze rustled the leaves of towering trees, the sun making its leisurely descent below the horizon. Children squealed with delight, dashing between caravans and cabins while adult laughter filled the community as they slowly made their way to the large fire. People sat on logs and small chairs in readiness for the party to begin.

Charlotte stood at the edge of the forest, paintbrush and palette in hand. She smiled, picturing her blank canvases, oils and brushes stacked neatly in Mateo's apartment, directly opposite his wall of classic flamenco guitars. On the odd evening they were home, they sat on the couch, surrounded by creative possibilities that embraced both passions.

Dabbing her brush into the crimson paint and gently swishing it onto the canvas, Charlotte wondered what her great-uncles would have been like. With Abuela's Pandora's box of the past wide open, Charlotte had done more research with records in Morocco to find the long-lost relatives but unfortunately, Abuela's mother and all her brothers had passed away. Abuela had taken the news hard and Charlotte suspected this soul searching her grandmother had undertaken had ignited a desire to reconnect with the family she grew up with. Once again, time had cruelly swept in and taken people before Abuela was ready to revisit her past.

The gaslight flickered, drawing Charlotte back to the task at hand. Although she'd tried to paint at the apartment and in various parks around Granada, nothing called to her like the countryside, especially the landscape around the Giménez community. Charlotte had no idea if her creativity was sparked by the clan's ties to ancient cultures, or the possibility she could be related to them. Leila had made it her personal crusade to convince
El Jefe
to take a DNA test, but he'd yet to give any decision. Charlotte had stayed out of it, not wanting to destroy the fragile
relationship she'd been developing with the clan. She didn't need science to tell her she was family.

Although Charlotte felt at home within the Giménez community, living there wasn't feasible. Without any other surviving members laying claim to the Sanchez family home, Charlotte's father had paid Señora Blanco Alves the taxes plus interest and Abuela had quickly passed the baton, appointing Charlotte as caretaker. After lengthy discussion with her family, it was agreed that the home would receive a new life by turning it into an artists' residence. Granada's mixed heritage and beautiful artistry provided the perfect backdrop for artists, writers, musicians, and dancers to soak up the atmosphere and create work that would bring joy to many. It had surprised Charlotte when her father backed the idea, stating her business acumen would serve her well in this endeavour. For a man who had never shown interest in his Spanish heritage, he now embraced it wholeheartedly. He still didn't refer to it as an ‘artists' residence' but the fact he wanted her to take on this business and give the family home a new, and hopefully prosperous, life was enough for now. Her father hadn't even balked at the idea of Mateo helping with the renovations, either. It probably didn't hurt that the men had found a common love in football, even if they did support rival teams.

‘You are ready?' Mateo walked up to where she stood but he stopped on the other side, knowing she'd get upset if he tried to peek at her work.

‘Not yet but soon.' She dabbed a small amount of yellow paint on the edge of the palette.

‘You have been saying this for days.' He cocked an eyebrow and she laughed.

‘I know. My concept of time has become a little skewed.'

‘It is good to see your Spanish heritage influencing you—in more ways than one.' He reached over the canvas and stroked her face.

Feigning annoyance, she said, ‘I have work to do. Now bugger off!'

Mateo's lips curled into the private smile he kept only for her. He sauntered over to a small group of musicians clustered around the fire, reached into the case and gently took out Raul's guitar. Ever since Abuela had entrusted him with the instrument, Mateo's music had changed dramatically—as if Raul and Mateo were working together to create something wondrous. He started strumming, setting the tempo and after hearing the familiar twelve count of the upbeat
bulerías
she smiled, her
inspiration fuelled by the music. She hummed and concentrated on her brushstrokes, each one easier than the next as music danced across the cool evening. Charlotte recognised the singer, an older woman, from a previous visit. Her strong, clear vocals circled Charlotte, pushing her to tap into her creative soul. Although she stood alone at the edge of the forest, Charlotte felt an overwhelming presence by her side, as if someone guided the fiery colours, created the swirls, the movement. Like Syeria, her art was a collaboration between her heart, soul, and nature. The muted blue and green seascapes were now a distant memory. This new, wilder, brighter style fit Charlotte like a handcrafted leather shoe.

Swishing the final stroke on the canvas, she put the materials down and stepped back. The painting was alive with the fiery colours, the guitarist's eyes closed while the woman in front of him held her head high, one long arm stretching to the sky with the other resting on her hip. Tears welled in Charlotte's eyes as she studied the painting, unable to comprehend that she'd finally finished and hadn't self-combusted from the anxiety that once crippled her.

The painting was the best she'd ever done—it represented all her emotions, her spirit, her love, but now it also held disappointment. Perhaps it was wrong to expect that magical moment when everything aligned and overwhelmed the creator and onlookers. Instead, she was left with immense satisfaction, but no hint of
duende
whatsoever.

‘
Magnifico,
' Leila sidled up to Charlotte. ‘You have a beautiful talent.'

‘Thank you.' Charlotte picked up her brushes and started cleaning them with a rag. ‘I'm trying on a new life.'

‘I think you are wearing it very well.' She smiled and cocked her head in the direction of Mateo. He continued playing but must have sensed Charlotte looking at him, because he shot a lopsided grin her way and she blushed, gave a little wave then quickly put her hand down when Cristina walked behind him. Cristina narrowed her eyes at Leila, then Charlotte, who received an extra-long glare. Leila said, ‘Give her the time. After you helped her that night she does not talk so badly of you. She will be liking you one day.'

‘I hope so because I have no intention of leaving anytime soon.'

‘Good.' Leila grabbed her hand. ‘Come, let us dance.'

‘Oh no,' Charlotte dug her heels into the soft ground. ‘I'm happy to watch, but dancing isn't for me.'

‘You are doing the ridiculous thing. Live with this,' she said and pointed at her heart, then pointed at her head, ‘Not this. You have done the painting with the emotions, why do you not do the same with the dancing?'

‘Because …' Why? What was it holding her back? ‘Thank you, but no.'

‘I have faith you will change your mind one day. You are not an outsider any more.' She nodded towards
El Jefe
shuffling over to where they stood.

El Jefe
puffed on his pipe and gestured towards the painting, as if asking to look. Charlotte nodded, nerves making her stomach flip, then flop. She worried the
gitanos
might take offence with the subject matter but she couldn't stop the brushstrokes forming the images—it was as if she was compelled by an unseen force, a spirit that understood the need to create this kind of beauty. Goosebumps sprouted on her skin as she finally realised whose presence she'd felt.

Gracias, Syeria
.

‘Very good. You have soul like
gitana
.'
El Jefe
pointed at the canvas. ‘Passion and fire. We do the test.'

‘The DNA test?' Charlotte asked, hardly able to form the words.

Leila gave a massive grin and skipped over to the others clustered around the fire.