Under the Spanish Stars (20 page)

Picking up a photo, she said, ‘Look at this.'

Mateo leant over, their shoulders touching. In her hand lay a black-and-white image yellowed by time and tattered at the edges. A young man in a suit and hat sat on stone steps while a girl of about three or four balanced on his knees, looking up at him with large eyes and a cheeky grin. Her long hair framed an angelic face. She held out a bunch of carnations and he bent over, sniffing them.

‘Could that be Abuela?'

‘It could. Would that be her father?'

‘I guess.' Charlotte flicked through the papers in case there were other pictures. She went through the process twice, but found nothing. ‘Why would there be a photo of Abuela and her father if her mother wasn't speaking to her? That doesn't make sense.' She stared at the image. ‘Although maybe Abuela's mother did really love her but just couldn't get over my grandmother's relation to the
gitanos
.'

‘Maybe this will help.' He handed her a sheet of paper.

‘What's this?' As she unfolded it, a metallic object thudded onto her knee. On the paper was an address:

Avenida Riviera 689

Charlotte turned the weighty key over in her hand. ‘What's this?'

‘The key to your family home.'

‘What?' She stared at the innocuous-looking piece of metal in her hand. ‘Abuela's family home?'

‘Yes.'

‘Holy …' Instead of finishing the sentence she kept her attention trained on the small item that lay in her sweaty palms. ‘Aren't there people living there?'

‘No. Not unless there are squatters.'

‘Is this why you took so long in the
señora
's kitchen? Because she was filling you in on all this? Why didn't she tell me at the same time?'

‘Because she thought you would take this better if it was coming from me—your
fiancé
.' He cocked an eyebrow.

‘Oh, right.' She looked at her vacant wedding finger.

‘So,
la señora
wishes you to know she has not entered since the Sanchez family left. Before Señora Sanchez left with the boys, she set up an account for the Alves family to pay the city their taxes so they had a house to return to. For whatever reason they never returned.'

‘So why didn't Valery—
la señora
—rent out the house?'

‘She said her father had been given strict instructions that it was to remain empty in anticipation of the return of the Sanchez family.'

‘I guess they thought Franco's rule wouldn't last.'

‘I imagine this is so.'

‘They couldn't have possibly left enough money to cover all these years.' She studied the key again, wondering what secrets lay behind the doors of the deserted house.

‘This is the strange thing. The money finished not long after the father of Señora Blanco Alves died. Valery held much guilt for leading Katarina to flamenco because it caused her to split with her family. And she also felt much guilt for not having the courage to find and tell Katarina about the possible truth behind her birth. For this, Señora Blanco Alves chose to pay the taxes as required.'

‘So she owns the house now?' This afternoon's visit seemed to have created way more questions than anticipated. Not that she should be surprised about it. Life was rarely simple.

‘In her eyes it still belongs to your family.'

‘That's a whole lot of guilt she's carrying around.'

Mateo shrugged. ‘The guilt is her choice.
La señora
tells me the house is much like hers. Back in the time of your Abuela's childhood, neighbours did the minding of their own business and with the war and people moving in and out of many houses over the years, no one paid attention to a vacant house.'

Charlotte let out a low whistle. ‘Can we go now?'

‘Perhaps it is best to wait until daylight tomorrow.' He cocked his head in the direction of the window. Darkness had descended a few hours earlier so there was no point in entering a house that surely didn't have electricity after all these years. Although she really wanted to see it, six or so hours wouldn't make much difference. Unless …

‘I just need to check on Abuela.' She grabbed her phone and headed out to the balcony. Dialling Steve's number she tapped her fingers on the railing while she waited for him to answer.

‘Yep?'

‘You are not going to believe what I've just found out.' Charlotte launched into the events of the past few hours while Steve listened intently, interjecting every so often with ‘no way' and ‘are you serious?' She finished off by saying, ‘You can't tell Abuela just yet.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because it would be better to go into the house and see what state it's in. More than likely it's been trashed but who knows, we may find something in there that's of value or backs up
la señora
's claim. All we have is hearsay from an old lady who is remembering something from decades ago.'

‘The odds are slim with the house.'

‘Thanks for thinking positively.' It never failed to amaze her how they had completely different attitudes to life. ‘How's Abuela?'

‘Cranky.'

‘So she's feeling better?'

‘The doctors are still concerned, but she's trying to convince everyone she's on the mend. She's giving the physio a hard time and telling him her hip is perfect but she can barely get off the bed without being in pain.'

She looked over the edge of the balcony and observed the crowds gathering outside the bars and restaurants; streetlights and neon signs broke up the darkness while waiters stood out on the street, menus in hand, ready to entice passers-by. ‘Do you think she'll ever get better?'

‘I don't know, to be honest,' Steve said. ‘You read her better than anyone so you'd be the best judge. When are you coming home?'

‘As soon as I check out the house then it will depend on when I can get a flight and travelling time … Why does Australia have to be so bloody far from everywhere?' She loved the idea of seeing Abuela, but dreaded the discussion she would need to have about Syeria. Not to mention the hours spent cramped in a sardine can to get there. The pang of sadness at leaving Mateo took her by surprise. She'd grown attached to him in a very short time and leaving Granada now meant she'd miss out on the chance of getting to know him better.

Steve said, ‘I'd prefer you to tell her everything face to face and not leave it to me or Mum. And you know Dad is definitely not the right person for this job. You're the warm fuzzy person in this family and it's better if this news comes from you.'

‘How are the folks?'

‘If you're asking if Dad is coping with you not being at work, he's doing fine. You're missed but we're surviving. And Mum's been spending a lot of time with Abuela. After all those years of fighting those two seem to have made some peace pact.'

‘I guess miracles do happen.'

‘Guess they do.' A commotion of kids screaming and toys clattering against floorboards in the background almost drowned out her brother. ‘Gotta go before blood is spilled.'

They said their goodbyes and Charlotte shoved the phone in the back pocket of her jeans. Puffing out her cheeks she opened up her other hand to reveal the key. ‘What secrets do you have?'

‘Me?' Mateo stepped onto the balcony and she turned to lean against the railing.

‘I have a feeling you have a lot of secrets, Señor Vives.'

‘Perhaps. What about you?' He stepped closer and her breath caught in her throat.

‘I'm an open book.' Man, he was so near, she could easily—

‘I like to read.' One more step brought him closer and she could almost feel his lips on hers. Her fingers tingled, the muscles in her chest tightened, her head spun.
Please, please, please.
It felt like they'd been dancing around this moment for a while and now it was finally upon them—

‘¡Mateo! ¡Aquí esta Cristina buscándote!'
Pedro shouted from below and waved up at them, not perturbed about Mateo almost kissing a foreigner on his balcony.

‘
¡Mierda!
Stay here, I will be back soon.' Mateo grabbed his phone and keys and dashed out the door, slamming it behind him.

Disappointed by their thwarted kiss, Charlotte stayed on the balcony and watched him hurry across the alleyway, pat Pedro on the back, then dash inside Café Alegría. Pedro looked up and saluted her, but she couldn't work out if it was in recognition or a way to say he'd saved Mateo from making a mistake because he should be with Cristina. But he said he wasn't with her and … why was she debating this, anyway? It's not like she was planning on moving here and setting up a row of white picket fences.

Tut-tutting herself, she wandered back inside as there was no point hanging around and looking like she was spying on Mateo. Just like her,
he was a free agent and could do as he pleased. Or maybe he wasn't as free as he touted, because he ran to Cristina's side oh-so-quickly.
Stop this madness, Charlotte!

Taking the key out of her pocket, she tried to picture exactly which street her grandmother's family home was on. She'd spent some time wandering Granada, navigating the narrow alleys and wide avenues, but she couldn't ever remember seeing Avenida Riviera. She could go and hunt for it in the dark, but without a local's knowledge, she'd more than likely end up in a dim, dark alley tussling with some of the more unsavoury characters of the city. Tomorrow felt so far away, though.

The wall of guitars caught her eye and she walked up to study each one in detail. They varied in colour, size and shape and all were in immaculate condition. Tempted, she gently placed her fingers on a guitar the colour of rosewood with a glossy surface smooth to the touch.

The front door closed and she spun around, dropping her hands by her side. ‘Sorry, I was only—'

Laughing, he walked over. ‘It is no problem. I can see you were being gentle. Do you play?' He reached for her hand, turning it palm up and studying her fingers. Her chest constricted and a shot of heat raced through her body.

‘Me? I'm about as musical as a guitar without strings.'

‘It did not appear to be so when you danced the other night. Your
compás
, rhythm, is very good.'

She gave a half smile at memories of dancing flamenco with Leila, but they then morphed into horror at the meltdown when she'd tried to paint the next day. Charlotte had managed to avoid thinking about it since the visit with Señora Blanco Alves but now it pushed to the front of the queue once more. ‘Remember the trouble I had with my painting?'

‘I am not sure if changing painting style means trouble, but yes, I do.'

‘I'm wondering if it has something to do with my heritage. You know, the more I think about it, the more I wonder if Syeria is my great-grandmother. Maybe I have her painting genes.'

‘And maybe you also have your grandmother's flamenco genes.'

Charlotte shook her head and let out a small laugh. ‘I don't think so. Flamenco is interesting, but it's not my passion, not like it is with you. So tell me,' she gestured towards the guitars, ‘why so many?'

‘Flamenco singers sometimes specialise in one area because of the nature
of the
palo
. For example, a singer of
siguiriyas
must reflect the lyrics of pain and tragedy in their voice and it takes a talented person to perfect this over many years. Branching into another area, such as the festive
bulerías
, could ruin their training.'

‘Is it the same for guitarists?' She appreciated Mateo's love for flamenco, but sometimes he gave her so much information her head almost exploded.

‘A flamenco guitarist is expected to move in and out of
palos
with ease. One minute it is slow and emotional like
siguiriyas
then the next is fast with a lot of rhythm, like
alegrías
. This is why we need different guitars for different occasions. Here,' he picked up an instrument and handed it to her, ‘it does not weigh much, no?'

She nodded wondering how he could ignore what almost happened on the balcony only moments before. No one brings their lips so close to someone else's unless a kiss is on their mind.

‘Depending on the guitar and the sound that is needed, different wood is used. Rosewood for percussion,' he rapped his knuckles rhythmically against the wood while she held it. Guilt consumed her for not being interested in his flamenco lesson as all she wanted to do was push him onto the nearby bed and have her way with him. Did Mateo have
any
clue how irresistibly sexy he was?

‘The traditional flamenco guitar,
blanca
,' he continued, lost in his world, ‘is from light cypress. Spanish cypress was once used in these guitars because it was cheap and available but these days it is rare, and so the modern guitar, called
negra
, is made of dark-coloured rosewood from Brazil and has a rich tone like classical guitars.' He picked up a rosewood guitar and turned it over for her to study.

She gazed at his long fingers, wondering what they would feel like—

‘I am sorry about my mini-lecture. It is a bad habit, no?'

‘Not a bad habit at all,' she said and passed back the guitar. ‘It's good to have a passion.'

He rested the guitar against the wall and gave a lopsided smile. ‘You are a kind person, listening to my flamenco tutorials.' He held out his hand and she happily took it, loving the feel of his skin against hers. ‘Leila wishes to see you.'

‘Don't you mean Cristina?'

‘Cristina? Wh—' He let out a short laugh. ‘Cristina gave me a message
that Leila would like to meet with us before my performance tonight. Leila is on her way.'

‘Oh.'

‘You are disappointed?' He shrugged on his jacket.

‘No, not at all! I like Leila.' Charlotte grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder, wondering when she could next get Mateo alone.