Lady Flamenco

The whiskey fills her throat with fiery warmth as she tosses it back in a single swallow. The first notes of a melody announces the start of tonight’s performance. With the sweet smokey taste of the whiskey still on her tongue she moves to Marquez’s side ready to follow him into the small area the bar staff have cleared for their use.

Manolo picks out the last few notes of his solo and after giving her a swift, darting kiss Marquez makes his entrance, his beautiful voice rising and undulating; filling the room and causing all occupants to pause and turn. His physical presence as he promenades confidently to the front of the room leaves no doubt that here is something to see, something worth watching.

Her red dress swirls about her she follows in his footsteps. Her back perfectly arched and arms poised as she places each foot on the floor with deliberation and precision. The noisy bar quietens as she holds completely still, arms raised, hands about to clap, her head tilted slightly downwards as she waits in statuesque perfection for the silence to fall.

Suddenly, she snaps her head up and brings her hands together and simultaneously strikes her heel on the floor. The sound reverberates around the bar and before its final echo dies she starts to clap and tap out a rhythmic and mesmerising beat; one that calls and challenges Marquez to join his voice to her movements.

She allows his voice to wash over her and through her. The song as familiar as her own name, yet differing every time it is heard in the smallest of ways; a note held for a beat longer or new nuance given to a single word or phrase. Manolo’s guitar picks out its own melodies and rhythms as her body reacts and she allows their music to dictate her dance movements.

She feels herself move into total possession of her body. From the tips of her fingers to the tips of her toes she is aware of every inch of her own flesh, the feel of satin as she swishes her skirts around her, the heat of the bar and the sweat starting to bead on her heated skin. She is in control of every modicum of movement, every flick and twist of a wrist, every tap of toe and heel and every extension of leg and arm.

Once again the music fails silent and her body stills before she recommences her clapping rhythm. Head held high she catches Marquez’s eye and with a steady glance challenges and goads him to sing for her once again. She can feel the crowd around them watching intently. They are under a spell woven by magic, music and dance. No one lifts a drink to their lips or takes a drag from a lit cigarette. She wonders if any of them remember her, the little gypsy girl that they turned their backs on all those years ago. No longer is she a sweet, innocent pequena nina; now she is a donna, a queen, an angel of revenge.

She is in complete control holding all in thrall as ceasing her clapping rhythm she extends her leg and caresses the floor with the toe of her shoe as Marquez returns to his song. His voice draws out notes or quickens phrasing in reaction to her movements. Her feet beat out lightening fast rhythms; she is the physical percussion to their music, the driving force conducting the pace, pushing them to play, pause, sing and even breathe as she wills it. Her own breath comes faster now as she increases the speed of her footwork. Each tap is precisely delivered, the placement of each heel and toe exactly timed.

She pulls up her skirts exposing her legs and her footwork to the enraptured crowd. A glimpse of a silver shoe so like the flash of light on the edge of a dagger. The rapid movements of her body cause the red fabric of her dress to undulate and flow around her like blood. How much blood will the old man have in him? she thinks. Will his blood flow like this? Will it flow just as his lands and his title will flow to me?

She stops the music with a flourish of her arm, she is the dance, she is the music, she is duende. Again she is poised and perfectly posed, a living sculpture of passionate wildness and a beauty so classical it defies age. She and she alone holds all the power in the room and she relishes the moment, holding everything in perfect balance, in complete control of the moment of release.

She feels a bead of sweat roll down between her shoulder blades, she breathes and quiets herself before making her final, closing, clapping call to Marquez and Manolo. The music starts, all eyes on her and only her. Slow and sinuous at first, eyes closed, trusting her body to know the right movements, trusting her spirit to know the right timing. Picking up pace, her eyes fly open and find Marquez. Her dark eyes bore into him as if seeking to find and possess him in entirety. Her eyes never leave his face. She watches every note he sings as her body moves faster and faster, until both she and the music move in frantic harmony. Impossibly fast; never a misstep, never a missed note.

Then stillness and silence as sudden as a ceased heart. The crowd blink as her spell is broken. They begin to move again like dreamers awakening. Then the applause breaks out and shouts of approval and appreciation crash over the trio at the centre of the room. It is now her turn to watch them as they clap hands, whistle, shout and bring drinks and cigarettes to their mouths.

Manolo takes his hat around the room to make the collection which will hopefully be enough to provide them with food, drink and accommodation for the night. Marquez pulls her aside, kisses her and tells her how amazing she was tonight. She breaks their embrace, “Tonight Marquez”, she says softly. “Gather your courage, for if it’s going to be done it’s best it’s done quickly”. He nods, grimly, solemnly, he knows she is right but what she is asking will not come naturally to him. With a final desperate kiss sealing their unspoken contract he leaves the bar before he can change his mind. Determination in his step and a dagger concealed beneath his jacket.