Summer Flings and Dancing Dreams (17 page)

The first day was intense, we were surrounded by mirrors, forced to watch ourselves stumble through the machine-gun beats, the sweat, the endurance. I hadn’t comprehended the physical stamina and the mental agility required to grasp the complexity of rhythm and movement. I watched the teacher’s feet, almost too fast for my eyes, and tried desperately to copy what she was doing, but her feet were speaking a foreign language to mine. That first night I was completely exhausted, stiff and unable to contemplate any kind of movement – fit only to fall into bed. I lay there just imagining the next day, the heat, the wonderful views from the patios at Carmen de las Cuevas. I thought about how, just a year before I could never have imagined myself here, alone in another country learning Flamenco.

The next day, after another hour and a half of arduous stomping and clapping, I staggered out to a vine-clad, sun-drenched terrace with my new friends. Here in the midday sunshine we began a rather confused conversation with their schoolgirl English and my very scant knowledge of French (which consisted of reciting a list of French cheeses available at Bilton’s and didn’t really work as a language on its own). We all clutched our notebooks where we wrote down the steps in number order, all loving the dance, the place – but complaining through mime about our stiff joints. We were laughing hysterically at one point as Bette, the German lady, attempted to tell us what her job was by getting down on all fours and snorting like a pig. Eva, the Parisian woman, was laughing so much she was running around the terrace clutching her tummy as I wondered what the French was for pelvic floor. Not surprisingly, the three of us (well the two of them) were attracting some attention and a guy wandered over to our table and said, ‘I translate? I speak the French and the English and... little bit German?’ He held his thumb and forefinger almost together to show how little German he knew – but compared to me he was probably fluent. Gratefully we nodded, inviting him to our table, where he introduced himself as Juan. He was Spanish, a bit Antonio Banderas with longish hair and dark eyes, and he told us he lived in Granada and was attending the school to learn flamenco guitar. With a few questions he was able to reveal that Bette was a pig farmer, Eva worked in a bank and I worked in a big shop. It was basic, but it saved me from miming a day at the checkout, and it helped to bond us all – albeit slightly. Being here in this wonderful place steeped in the dance and the culture and the sunshine, it depressed me to even think of Bilton’s, so I was glad when the conversation moved back to my favourite subject, dancing.

‘You dance the flamenco?’ Juan asked and we all nodded enthusiastically and Eva mimed a little with her hands and stamped her feet and we all laughed politely. As lovely as these ladies were it was going to be a tough week trying to communicate in three languages, and once his task was complete, Juan said his goodbyes and told us he was attending the school for three weeks. ‘If you need me in translation just to stamp your feet and click of your fingers,’ he laughed. ‘And I will be there.’ He said this three times in three different languages. I didn’t know the words for ’wonderful’ or ‘take me, I’m yours,’ but as he wandered away, every woman at the table was glowing.

I
was determined
to make the most of my time here and really explore. Two weeks wouldn’t be long to capture this beautiful city and I wanted to start straightaway, so later that afternoon I decided to visit the Alhambra, the place that had really captured my imagination in the guide book

I headed into Granada on foot, as I had the first night I arrived. It was late afternoon, and I hadn’t expected it to be so incredibly hot. Walking along the dusty road, exposed to the arid heat was soon sucking my bones dry and I hadn’t brought a bottle of water with me or any kind of cover apart from my sunglasses and hat. It wasn’t like me to be so disorganised and I blamed the Mediterranean for messing with my head. I looked behind me, I’d come too far to go back, so stopped by the side of the road and sheltered under a prickly pear tree.

I wasn’t there long when a motorbike pulled up at the side of the road. ‘Hola guapa!’ I heard and my heart lifted slightly. I knew from my phrase book that meant ‘hello gorgeous,’ which was a bit unexpected but not unpleasant.

‘You don’t be sitting here by the road, it’s too hot – midday, Laura?’ and the admirer knew my name too... how weird.

I looked up to see a man taking off his helmet and though it took a couple of seconds to realise – it was Juan. My heart did a little jump.

‘Hi... I’m okay,’ I smiled. ‘I just needed a few minutes sit down in the shade. My mouth is dry,’ I said.

‘No, no, no. You mustn’t – too hot, dangerous. I take you, on the bike.’

‘Oh really?’ I said straightening up. I reckoned it was more dangerous to get on Juan’s bike than stay in the boiling heat, he might take me off to the mountains and try to seduce me... with any luck.

‘Your mouth? She is dry? I have something for you to put in for the wetness.’ I heard from behind me. Oh God, did I even dare turn round for this?

‘Water?’ I heard him say, to my deep relief as he brandished a frosty-looking bottle and sat down next to me. He pushed it at me gently and as I took the bottle from him our eyes met and I felt a shock go through me. My mouth was crisp and dusty and the cold water soothed my insides as it went down. I was aware he was watching me quite intensely. To me, the very act of sharing this bottle, putting my mouth where his had been, was escalating our intimacy. Or was it just the heat and my imagination? I didn’t think for one minute that Juan saw a shared water bottle in those terms, I was just another tourist to him... and a middle-aged one at that.

‘You were dry?’ he said.

‘Thirsty,’ I nodded, looking at him properly, taking in his tanned skin and curly dark hair. Juan was about the same age as me, perhaps a little older judging by the silver strands around his face. His eyes were dark and his smile was devastating.

‘You going into the city, Laura?’

‘Yes... I wanted to see the palace...’

‘Ah Alhambra?’ He nodded. ‘I can take you now?’ He was looking straight at me and I knew I was going to say yes.

Thanking him, I tried to climb on his bike in the most ladylike way possible. All I could think was I hoped Sophie would never do such a stupid thing and get on the back of a motorbike with a handsome stranger on foreign soil.

After several attempts, Juan had to help me onto the leather seat which was so hot it made my mouth water (but not in a good way). He handed me a helmet which I put on, but couldn’t work out how to fasten it and he didn’t wait to be asked. Within seconds, he was up close and personal and we were nose to nose as he secured it for me, his smoky breath in my face, his big hands at my chin. I looked away, feeling quite invaded by his eyes and his smell, a rather exotic sandalwood and smoke combination that made my head say ‘be careful,’ but my body rebelled, wanting to sniff his neck. I resisted, that would have been weird, so he started up the engine and I clutched at the seat trying not to lean on him or make too much upper body contact, after all I didn’t know this man and I already had my legs around him. But as he set off at 100 miles an hour downhill I found it necessary to grip harder with my thighs, wrap my arms around his waist and scream in his ear until we rode like Hell’s Angels into the city centre.

I’d never been on a motorbike before and apart from the petrifying speed and the fact we nearly killed several pedestrians, the whole thing was very intimate to be doing with someone I didn’t know. Even after we stopped, my thighs were rock hard, clinging to his, and I was so tightly wrapped around him, with fear, excitement and exhilaration, I felt like a teenager again and whooped uncharacteristically as I tried to get off – not pretty or seductive. I looked and felt like rigor mortis had set in and I could see him smiling to himself as he peeled me off his own back. I was breathless, and suddenly ready for anything.

‘You like the ride?’ he asked, helping me down. I tried to smile but the flesh of my inner thigh was coming off on scalding leather and the expression on my face showed everything.

‘You enjoy?’

‘Yes, it was wonderful,’ I said, trying not to put my legs together now for fear of deep, post-motorbike chafing.

‘Laura. Can I ask to take you for drink?’ he said, putting his hand to my forehead like I was ill. I must have been very red and sweaty, but I didn’t care – this was a date where I came from.

‘That would be lovely,’ I said, as my legs crumbled underneath me. I tried to laugh it off as I staggered around insisting I was great but not convincing anyone. And when a crowd formed around me, I asked if we could sit in the shade and have a drink.

We’d parked the bike in a huge tree-lined square with a fountain and several restaurants and cafes, so when Juan pointed at the nearest one I was happy to head for it.

‘I think it’s all the dancing and walking uphill and the heat and... the motorbike. And I haven’t eaten much today,’ I explained as we sat down at a small table covered in white linen and glasses. I had been so excited and so busy I hadn’t even thought about food, which was a first for me.

‘Let’s eat,’ he nodded, beckoning the waiter. I was very hungry but as my Spanish was still very basic and I wanted to taste ‘real’ Spanish food, I asked Juan to order for both of us.

‘Where are we?’ I said, as the waiter brought a welcome jug of iced water and a bottle of Rioja, accompanied by a dish of olives and almonds.

‘Where are we?’ he asked. I notice the people here did this a lot, repeated the question, I found it quite endearing, along with his smile. ‘We are in the Paseo de los Tristes.’ He poured the water for both of us and offered me an olive from the terracotta dish. ‘It means in English... erm... walk, erm, promenade of the sad.’

‘Oh dear... why?’ I tasted the oily, salty olive and my jaw ached with joy.

‘Because funerals passed through here on their way to the... do you say cemetery?’ he said, now pouring the red wine into our glasses without taking his eyes from mine.

‘Oh I see... yes cemetery that makes sense.’ I was interested in what he was saying of course, but I was struggling to take it in due to the intensity of his eyes.

He was very attentive and as I took a sip, I looked at him over my glass and he was looking straight back. What the hell, I thought, he’s good-looking and he can speak Spanish, it will be fun to spend some time with him. Besides, he knew his wine – it was rich and comforting, a perfect complement to the gentle crunch of the smoky, spicy almonds and the savoury olives.

We talked about everything over that first bottle of wine and it transpired that Juan danced too.

‘I love the dance, the flamenco she is in your blood when you are from here,’ he said, gesturing around him. ‘She is something you feel, something that itches at your skin and to move is the only way she is sated.’

‘I think I understand that feeling,’ I smiled, sipping on the delicious wine. ‘Dancing, she is what you say... my mistress,’ he smiled wickedly, ‘I try to leave her but she drags me back.’

I tried not to look for too long into his dark eyes. The wine was making me very relaxed and I loved his accent, the way he talked conjured up late nights in faraway cities. I imagined us dancing close, his hand on the small of my back, my face in his neck, tango music floating through us. And as I drank more, I imagined lying naked next to him and I knew if the food didn’t arrive soon I would be informing him of this.

So when the nibbles were but a distant memory and the wine was almost gone, I was glad when a huge steaming platter of paella was placed before us, smelling of Spain, the colour of sunshine, with splashes of red and green, spicy chorizo, hot scarlet peppers jumbled up with every type of seafood imaginable. The flavours were rich and soft, smoky and salty – each mouthful seemed to trigger the need for another and I ate far more than I intended, washed down with a second bottle of the robust red wine.

We chatted about Granada, flamenco, our real lives – and when everything in our glasses and on our plates was gone, we ordered coffee and Juan lit a cigarette and we talked some more. He explained that flamenco is a very old gypsy dance and to dance like a gypsy you have to be free.

‘They had nothing... so they dance. And while they dance on the tiny patch of land, they can say, as long as I dance here this land is mine.’

I was enchanted by this thought, that the dance could empower a whole culture. And it gave me goose bumps as he talked about how flamenco can be deeply sad and at the same time happy. ‘You hear songs so full of grief... they speak about the grief of a nation. And you think how can I compare my own sadness to this?’

His words really spoke to me. About how there are life is so much bigger, and grief so much deeper than our own individual sorrows. And I thought about my mum and her grief when she lost Dad. She gave up after he’d gone and I was filled with sadness for how much life she’d missed, by choice. She’d allowed her grief to become bigger than her – it swallowed her up and took over her life. Perhaps mine too? But not anymore.

In between flamenco stories he told me he worked in a bar in the Sacramento district, quite near the school. ‘I am a musician... and a poet... but poets they don’t make so much money,’ he shrugged. I watched him talk, drinking in his words, his eyes, his lovely Spanish voice. ‘I ate paella in the square with a Spanish poet,’ I heard myself telling Tony and Sophie. And all I could think was... is this really me? Laura from Bilton’s?

It was peaceful here, the low hum of chatter, the trickle of the fountain. We talked and talked and the soundtrack of the afternoon turned seamlessly from heat and ice cream and families, to a golden dusk of couples and wine. Glasses clinked, the children had all gone, and in their place cigarette smoke and the promise of sex hung over the Paseo de los Tristes like a delicious cloud.

I’d smile across at Juan, sip my wine and wait for the familiar wave of guilt to wash over me. I momentarily wondered if Sophie and Mum were okay, I thought about Tony and then Carole too. What if one of them needed me and I was sat here flirting and drinking? Then I remembered no one needed me to call them, visit them, FaceTime them, or worry about them in any way. For the first time in my life all I had to worry about was me. I lifted my head, feeling the final flickers of light on my face as the orange sun dropped slowly in the cobalt blue sky... this was living.

The feeling of liberation was so intoxicating that when Juan asked if I would like some sherry, despite feeling quite tipsy, I said, ‘Why not?’

So we sat a while, sipping the dry, buttery Manzanilla sherry and taking in the view as it dimmed, like house lights being turned down in the theatre. And when the moon came up behind the Moorish palaces, the effect was hypnotic... the evening performance had begun. I’d never seen anything so beautiful, but it may have been the two bottles of wine, the sherry and the fact that a very handsome Spanish poet’s knee was touching mine under the table.

Looking at him over the empty glasses and the prawn shells, the unmade bed of our afternoon, I knew I wanted to sleep with him. I’d never ever slept with anyone I didn’t know, never had a one-night stand with a man I might never see again. I’d never done anything I shouldn’t really do – which is why I had to do it.

He was looking at me with eyes like liquid chocolate, a sprinkling of desire, a vague dimple in his smile, turning his broody look into pure wickedness. He may be the wrong man, but the time was right.

‘Will you take me home?’ I heard myself say. He didn’t answer, he just asked for the bill, and as we left the restaurant he caught my arm and slipped his hand into mine. It felt good, firm and strong, and a little further on we let go of each other’s hands and he put his arm around my shoulder, firmly massaging my flesh through cotton, and my arm went about his waist, my hand pushed under his T-shirt, freeing it from his tight jeans and making contact with his warm back. It was like my body had gone on ahead before my mind could even decide what was going to happen next. This wasn’t like me – I didn’t act on instinct, I planned everything – but not tonight, not here, with the sound of flamenco guitar on the air and a throbbing in my chest. The ride back was better, more exciting and I felt no fear. I loved the feeling of my body next to his and clung tightly to him my cheek now resting snugly on his broad back as we wound uphill fast through the narrow streets. Swerving to avoid dogs and people, I heard myself shouting to go faster – and when we arrived at my apartment I was breathless with anticipation.

The evening was hot and it was a relief to be inside the cool apartment. I went straight to my bed and lay there, tired, wanton, feeling very bohemian and exotic. He followed and lay down next to me, kissing my neck, gently tugging at my clothes, and I began to undress him. In the moonlight I unveiled his body – it was perfect for me – not too muscular, but strong and manly. It had been so long for me I wanted to wrap my arms around him and kiss him madly, passionately. I’d almost forgotten what it was like this ‘bedroom dance,’ and wasn’t sure what was expected of me, so held back a little waiting for my cue. And he turned to me, gently lifting the kaftan over my head, unhooking my bra and pulling down my jeans. I lay back on the bed, and for the first time in my life I felt good about my naked body. I felt shapely and confident now with my dancer’s physique and flexibility. I wrapped my legs around his waist and he lifted me up, and pushing into me, we both gasped with pleasure. This had been building all afternoon as we’d talked and gazed into each other’s eyes over olives and wine, and when we came it was an explosion of pent-up lust and heat. That night we slept deeply, heady with sex and alcohol.