the finale to a love story
'No I do not think she is a Tart as you put it. Can't you see what she does? How she earns her money, she is some sort dancer you fool' .
'A dancer'? I knew it, the old devil'.
No! No! No! Janine replied shaking her head.
'Not a lap dancer for gods sake, she is something more than that, and by all accounts from what I have been over hearing a very famous one'.
Then, as if to prove the point, a guitarist who we had hardly noticed in our excitement entered the room, and struck the vibrant passages we had heard times before. And, as the lights dimmed and the rolling falseta's of the Alegrias pour Roseas, silenced the assembled audience, from the gloom at the back of the stage, there emerged the rattle tap tap of Cuban heels and a dancer , dressed in a bright orange dress came forward arms held aloft and performed the Alegrias with all the poignancy we had ever dreamed of.
The dancer was Maria Capadia. This was the beautiful lady my father had taken a liking to. This was the real Maria! This was what he found so fascinating. She was not a Tart, she was a Gypsy. A full pure bred gypsy, and as Janine so amusedly exclaimed,
'A Flamenco dancer for god' s sake! She's a bloody Flamenco dancer'!
That's what he saw in her! She's just what he wanted after mother ! A bit of excitement . A real life flamenco dancer! A gypsy, and a pretty one at that! What could be more perfect Sal? It's just what he always said he would do! Cant you see? It's the perfect solution. He always said he would run off with the gypsies when we teased him about his guitar playing, now he has done just that'!.
Signor Marras, who, sitting quite near, had heard our discourse as to the relative attributes of the Signora Capadia. Indeed, he had heard everything we were saying and eventually at an appropriate juncture, he interceded on Maria's behalf.
' Whatever you misgivings Signoritas, and I fully understand your reticence. Your father will come to no harm, he is in good company, the very best. Maria Capadia is one of the most accomplished Flamenco artists any where. Her reputation transcends Andalucia, even Espagna itself. Her credentials as a friend are impeccable. Her standing amongst Maleguenian society, of the highest order, let me assure you, she is no tart'!
Janine and I blushed . This man, my father's guitar mentor had taken our small minded assumptions and dashed them aside in the strongest, yet mildly presented terms. We who dared cast slurs upon the character of a gracious lady, were corrected. And as if to save us further discredit, that gracious lady, my fathers friend danced for us with the inborn fire of her ancestors, a sensational image of the beautiful and expressive Alegrias. A whirling torrentious amalgam of gypsy fire in the heart of the night, and we were satisfied Janine and I. The very next day we would finally meet our father.
On the morrow, at Eleven - O - clock, we assembled on the Marques De Larios amongst thousands of other Maleguenin revellers and waited for the procession of Caballeros and Peregrinos in their traditional costume. Waiting beneath the cool draped avenue, away from the glaring heat of the sun, until they came in line, riding their impeccably presented horses, or being transported in fine landau carriages, making their way slowly round from the luxuriance of the Paseo Del Parque, where they had assembled earlier that morning.
And this time as the sun shone, Janine and I felt our spirits being lifted by the exuberant joy of the crowd. One could not help being swept along by the expression of pride exhibited by everyone. Pride for their City; pride for their culture; pride for their nation. It was written on everyone's face. The Maleguenians had invited everyone to their party , and were insistent they enjoyed themselves.
As we waited on the line, a woman, who spoke no English, and as excited as a child, enthralled Janine and I by the way she continually tried to make us understand what was about to take place. All to no avail. The language barrier in this case really was insurmountable, and would have remained so had another lady, who's Sister lived in Liverpool, and who had a little English, explained as best she could.
The procession was made up of Local dignitaries; landowners; Council officials etc. Followed by Maleguenian artistes, Film Stars; Bull fighters and the like. The only one missing to both our sorrow, was Julio Inglesis,
or,
'Maybe his son Enrique' Janine said.
And we waited; and we waited; and waited, on the avenue, my sister and I; for what seemed like an age, until gradually, the buzzing clamour from the Paseo increased to a crescendo of joyful cheering as the procession entered the covered avenue and made it's painfully slow; if majestic way, to the Plaza in front of the Cathedral.
It was an exuberant manifestation of Maleguenian traditional costume paraded in all it's convivial glory. A spectacular festival dedicated to the horse, as rider after rider came on, often four abreast, astride their mounts as arrogant as kings; dressed in the finest of coloured silks.
Caballeros in their Spanish black bolero tunics and Cordoban Sombrero's, accompanied by the ladies of their choice. Beautiful sophisticated ladies, whose very grace foretold of a lost age of elegance before the era of the motor car. Then beyond the outriders, the leaders of the procession, there came loaded to the running boards, sleek dark landau carriages, pulled by four in hand stallions, as spirited as demons..
There were black Aragon ponies, whose tails were docked to the cult of the dressage, followed by pairs of dapple greys and dozens of chestnut geldings as behaved as Sunday school pupils on their way to mass. Then, towards the tail of the procession, accompanied by loud cheers from a group of high spirited revellers, we recognised as Maria Capdia's troupe, all of them dressed in their traditional swirling taffeta lined dresses, came a large black carriage drawn by six in hand Arab stallions.
On the driving seat, sat two men with pork pie Sombrero's tilted dangerously over one eye, rakishly watching as the young ladies of Malaga paraded their fine attributes in an explosion of happy 'bon ami'.
In the carriage behind as lovely as a princess, surrounded by her ladies in waiting, sat my fathers queen; his exotic and erotically refined paramour, Maria Capadia.
As they passed, one of the horses broke it's command and caught by the excited babble of the crowd, it reared dangerously for a few seconds, until it was gently but firmly dealt with by the expert driver whose afternoon it had come to spoil.
At that moment Maria and her friends spotted us in the crowd, and waived enthusiasticly, calling out to us, beckoning us towards the square at the top of the street. We could hardly hear above the noise of the crowd, and gestured good naturedly our inability; to comprehend what they intended.
' They want you to join them in the square after the service at the cathedral'
The voice was that of a young woman about Janine's age , who had already consumed enough Malagan wine for it to show and she took us both by the arm and led us determinedly towards the blair of music coming from the square.
In the square, it seemed, the whole population of Malaga had turned out to party, whilst in solemn piety, the parade devotees paid Homage to the Blessed Santa Maria in the cool vastness of the Cathedral. Then, once mass had been taken they, the devotees, the aficionados, the finely dressed dignitaries, returned to the square, to join in the festivities as did Janine and I, reticently English as ever.
Step by step tentatively we joined in, until the wine took hold and the rhythm of life, in that Bacchanalian square, caught us and we became Malaguanian as any, dancing with joy, answering the call to repeat as best we could, the swirling movements of a group of young girls dancing the evocative Sevillanas, whilst their chosen beaux, looked on.
Sullen dark eyed youths they were these boys who stood in a group at the edge of the square, drinking their fill, muttering amongst themselves, like the bandidos of the high sierra. Becoming even more morose and as watchful as pack wolves as the ladies danced and teased under the hot afternoon sun. Wishing they had the finesse denied their teenage years. A finess that might allow them the confidence to ignore the cruel taunts of their friends. A finesse to sweep away a natural shyness and ask a particular girl to dance.
And Janine and I became unwittingly swept along on the burgeoning tide of youthful passion. Well at least so did Janine. For my part, I was afforded the respect given that of a mother rather than older sister. I therefore played the part, watching in amused silence, as one by one, the sullen youths, these fine fiestral brigands, emboldened by the strength of San Miguel, if not the pack, noticed the twirling swirling English hips amongst the dark skinned Maleguenian flowers.
Then, I laughed inwardly as dark wine caused a boy, scarcely old enough to shave, to stagger forward and proposition me before the assembled wolf pack, whilst the incessant rhythms of the Fandangos du Huerte rolled on and on and on. And he gave me a rose this boy; this youth; this romantic; his eyes desperately pleading with me not to turn him down in front of his friends. And so I took him! As gently as I could, into a world he could only dream of, the world in the arms of a real woman.
Amidst the loud wolf whistles of his drunken friends we danced this boy and I, until he was suddenly and dramatically rescued from my 'clutches' by a raven haired dark eyed beauty, a good ten years my junior, who had arrived belatedly on the scene, to find her 'man' entertained by a woman old enough to be his mother.! Well , very nearly at least.
Then, to her credit, having been reassured, that she was the only girl he cared about, she apologised profusely for her behaviour and begged my forgiveness, as the boy clearly head over heels in love, whisked her away from the indelicate jeering taunts of his friends, into their own private world of each others eyes.
We saw them later that afternoon, as the shadows began to fall, sat at a table in the small cafe just off the Cathedral plaza. Enwrapped in the celebration of their feelings for each other. And she the dark eyed beauty, dressed in a primrose yellow , off the shoulder blouse, which complimented her glorious olive coloured skin, acknowledged us with joy, content in the knowledge she had re ensnared her man. Then they were gone, these fiestral lovers, leaving Janine and I to await the arrival of our host once more, as arranged.
A clamourous murmuring to our left rose and fell, as a moving heaving mass of photographers, journalists and erstwhile fans, emerged from a side ally and proceeded slowly along the concourse towards where we sat. In the centre of the swirling maelstrom of eagerly strutting paparazzi, her hand firmly clutching that of a man, whilst the other good naturedly but firmly waived away their incessant questioning, was Maria Capadia, the queen in her kingdom.
And then she saw us, realised there was no alternative to providing the melee of journalists their moment, if we were to get a moment of privacy, and poised as ever, she addressed the entourage, introducing us as her family! Imploring them incessantly! Bargaining spiritedly, until they, the ravenous pack , took their photographs one by one, and dispersed , leaving the Cathedral, the plaza and the cafe to Janine, I and our host.
It was then, at that very moment, we saw him ! The man we had known all our lives. The man who had sired and loved us unflinchingly for two score years or more. The man who watched us grow into ladies. The man who had taken us when we were sad and kissed away the hurt. The very same man, who had tended most of our wishes as he could. The man my mother had married, our father. The very same man, who had some twelve months ago abandoned all that was sacred to us and found a new woman. The man who, following mothers death, had gone for solace in the arms of a gypsy queen, almost before our mothers body was cold. The man,who had deserted us when we needed his strength. The man I would never forgive.
Janine, was less critical. She threw herself unreservedly into his arms. and they hugged and kissed; the father and favourite daughter, whilst I, as ever the prodigal issue, looked on in impatient amazement at the very gall of the man.
How could he! How could she behave this way as if nothing had happened ! He had abandoned his family when we needed him to follow; god knows what; and now! Like a marauding Bedouin, he comes in from the cold, expecting to pick up where he left off. How I hated this god of a man my father. This man who had taken my last treasured impressions of him as a hero, and dashed them on the horse of blatant philandery. I could not hug him, I could not greet him, I could not love him as I used to. Now, there was nothing left, save for a fleeting memory of the past.
And, pointedly,as if to preserve the last treasured dreams of my childhood, there came to our table, a Jackdaw, just as my father was about to leave for the bullfight. The bird, as bold as a brass effigy, sat on the back of my chair and helped itself from my plate and entertained us. Then, when the last remnant crumbs had been taken, it flew cheekily from one to the other, begging for alms. Eventually it settled on Janines shoulder, where it became fascinated by the bright glimmer of her earrings.
Tap; tap; tap; the emboldened bird dabbed at the glittering baubles with it's beak, until my sister became quite irritated with the incessant creature, and waived it brusquely to one side, only to find it subsequently, seconds later, at her side again, sat on the back of an adjacent chair, it's head cocked jauntily to one side eyeing the assembled group. Then as the rest of us enjoyed the comical antics of the creature, it was joined by another, then another raven black pestilent bird, plummeting down from the high portals of the cathedral. These three, provident in number, were eventually joined by others, drawn on wings as dark as night to the feast at our table.
Their clamourous antics amused us all and we found a new Bon Ami my father and I as we became more relaxed. Then one of the birds perched on his shoulder took his cigarette from his mouth, threw it to the floor, then relieved itself on his lapel. We all collapsed in light-hearted laughter, and as I met my father's eyes across the table, he smiled, eyes only for me. Then he held out his arms and I went to him, just as I had when I was a little girl, and we hugged, my father and I, as he whispered for me to forgive him.
And at that moment, with Maria Capadia at attendance, in the midst of the Plaza del Obispo, we became one again my father and I, parent and daughter, and I did forgive him, then hugged him again as we became united in the joy of the family, Janine my father and I.
Later on, as the evening shadows began to fall, he abruptly left us for the bullfight, arranging with all his usual bravado to meet us, at Cafe Brocante; for our own special treat; an evening of entertainment in true Spanish style. We were nonplussed, such strange behaviour, after all the joy of our reunion. Our father had changed. He was not the man we knew. Yet we were unable to imagine then, how deep that change, how wide the gap had become between his previous life and this. At Cafe Brocante, we were about to find out.
We arrived late. Janine had taken such a long time at her toilet, that the opulent landau carriage arriving at our hotel, to pick us up, was forced to wait; at least ten minutes or so.
The driver could not have been nicer and I reflected how London cabbies might have behaved, given similar circumstance. There was no impatient; pointedly looking at watches, no long drawn sighs of exasperation. Just a calmly assured peace of mind, that went with the territory.
Ferrying Tourists around this beautiful city had it's drawbacks, but the method of transport, the elegant Landau carriage, evocative of another era, another time, when the pace of the day, was measured in the clip clop sound of the horses hoofs on cobbled streets, gave one a sense of immeasurable time. No rush; no push; no striving to be first, just shear unconcerned !
'Super cool' !!
Janine so succinctly termed the phrase as I was struggling to find the correct word to describe the relaxed bearing of our driver.
'Super cool Sal, that's what he is, super cool'
And you know? She was exactly right. The man was 'super cool'. It is a word we both use now to describe anything that we see as fabulous, 'super cool'. Consequently, my dress that night was seen as 'supercool' by my sister. Her new car had become 'super cool' over night,courtesy of the Malaga Landau driver who collected us..
We could here the music, as we came down the Avenue de conquistador. The sharp rattling flurry of Flamenco guitarras ringing on the night air. The incessant jangling rattle of the castanets splitting the peace, and the harsh drumming tap of the dancers shoes, drawing us ever near, inviting all who passed, to join in the fun and dance the fiery rhythms of the Allegrias.
Inside Cafe Brocante, where Maria Capadia held court, there were the trappings of her life. Her large circle of friends, enjoined by my father, who greeted us again as his lost family, bought us drinks, introduced us to one after another of his adoptive circle, as the music flowed on and on and on into the hearts of us all. The long mournful wail of the cante jondo, held us spellbound, as the singer sang a love song to my sister and I, until we both blushed with embarrassment, and he ceased his fooling for fear of offending us.
Then as he finished, the queen, the beautifully elegant Maria Capadia danced for us in all the regalia of the Andalucian gypsies. Her long flounced dress swirled and twirled in the twinkling lights of the Cafe. Her Cuban heeled feet beating out the staccato rhythms of the Fandango, has her hands, held aloft clicked, with ill concealed arrogance, the rattling Castanets in time with the music. The speed of her tapping feet, became faster and faster with every second as the guitar and the Palmas clapping of the audience took her spirited performance onward and upward to it's tremendous crescendo, until she collapsed with exhaustion at our feet..
My father ran to her side and helped her to her feet. Then he kissed her in full view of us all. A full blooded kiss! They way he would have kissed my mother once! They way they say a woman should be kissed by the man who loved her. At last here was the truth for both Janine and I to see! Now we knew why he had not returned from Spain! He had found a new way to live!
In the intervening years since mothers death, my father had embraced Chic Café society, as a true Malaguenian. There in that Southern port, under the hot Andalucian sun, he had assumed a new Identity and left us all, for pastures new. My sister and I had told ourselves, that we would never forgive him for his apparent indifference, yet in the warm stillness, of that late August evening, as the last of the wine came, followed by rich brandy and coffee, I began to see him in a new light.
As a respectful hush, descended amongst the assembled aficionado's of the music, he played for us, Janine and I, a beautiful Flamenco lament, the haunting Granainas, entitled Lagrimas de Granada. It was a piece that revealed in all it's sorrow, the desperate solitude in his soul. Then, shortly afterwards, he played a more familiar piece, a piece we remembered from our childhood. A piece which at times we had chided him about as he struggled vainly to perfect it, but this time, it held us spellbound! This time my father demonstrated his burgeoning skill.
And, as the mournful falsetas, rolled on the evening air, I came to realize, that this, my father's last Soleares, was in all reality, a poignant tribute, to his unending love for my mother. He had not in truth forgotten any of us. He had, through all his lonely years, cherished our memory, and once we realised that, my sister and I, wept inconsolably, until the elegant Maria Capeda, my father's beautiful companion, comforted us just as mother would have done in the old days. Then, considerately, to spare us further heartache, she took us gently by the hand and led us out to the waiting Landau.
The last memory of my Father in this life, was as the horse drawn carriage swept in majestic splendour, round in a wide Arc and headed west along the Avenue Du Conquistador. He was standing at the entrance to Café Brocante, with his arms around his new lady; his hat tilted jauntily at a rakish angle, waiving and smiling joyfully, his neatly trimmed beard resplendently white against the leathery tanned swarthiness of his face. It was then, that I realised, he had passed beyond us, into a romanticised world he had always dreamed of, and that this; precious; fleeting moment; was the last we would ever see of him.
A telegram came yesterday, from Signora Capadia, informing us of my Fathers death. Accordingly, we learned, he died suddenly, whilst dancing the Farruca, an energetic masculine form of Flamenco dance, from Catalan. Her accompanying letter, explained, that he died in her arms, with Mothers name on his lips. His body, in accordance with his wishes, had been cremated at Linares, and his ashes, divided equally into two parts. One part would be returned to England, to be placed, as she explained, with my mother's remains. The other, had been scattered with all due solemnity, on Spanish soil.
In the centre of the Plaza de Torres at Linares, at the spot where, the matador Manolette had fallen, years before. Like some last romantic hero, my father was laid to rest, whilst the gypsy guitar beat out the incessant bolero rhythms of the Levante. As Janine said, so pointedly, the old devil always did have style. He was at last in heaven.
She came to the Requiem my fathers lady, all dressed in black, her long blonde hair surmounted and almost hidden by a wide brimmed respectful sombrero, which she wore with stylish flair. Her hair was swept back and tied loosely at the nape of her neck under a flame red Gardenia hair piece, that made her seem younger than her years would allow. She was even more elegant now, with that particular understated serenity that beautiful women aquire in late middle age. My father knew how to recognise style when he saw it, and Maria Capeda, had style.
I hadn't noticed her at all, until I began to read. She sat at the back of the Church alone and deferential. Suddenly, as the poignancy of the words in my eulogy took their toll, she began to weep for the loss of my father, enwrapped in her own private grief. They were the tears of a woman who had fallen in love, with an unashamed romantic dreamer, just as Mother had done all those years ago.
They were tears that reflected the pathos of a relationship, borne of personal crisis, a relationship, my sister and I had dared question out of a misplaced sense of loyalty towards our mother. It, was a crass moment of insolence, we both regretted. Now I saw their liaison for what it was, the essential swan song of two lonely people. She was weeping for what might have been, just as my sister and I had done, at Cafe Brocante. Her loss, was ours, and one, and the same.
As we left the church, I saw her at the end of the lane, where the cars were parked. She awaited the arrival of her Chauffeur and was standing at a respectful distance, not wishing to intrude in what she saw as a private family occasion. Janine insisted I invite her to join us, and I was about to do so, when I saw, their was another mourner. One I had not previously noticed. She too was dressed in black, and was standing some yards away from Maria, next to the Chapel of remembrance. The sun , particularly bright at this time in the morning, shone directly down the main driveway to the chapel and prevented me seeing who the other woman was. Neither one, acknowledged each other, both seemingly content with their own private thoughts.
Janine, was sure we should express our thanks for their respect, and more out of curiosity as to the identity of the other woman, than anything else, I made towards them, intending to pay due regard to both, out of pure courtesy. That I was prevented from doing so, for some few minutes, by one of father's friends, who wished to pay his condolence,
proved providential, for when I finally attended to my duty, Maria Capadia and the other woman were already leaving, their chauffeur, at his attentive best.
He drew the car up, and allowed both women to take their appointed seats. Then, the car, a huge Black limousine from another, more elegant era, glided majestically along the lane to where we were standing. As it came to a halt, Maria Capadia, fathers elegant lady, eased the window down on her passengers door, and I assumed she would make the identity of her fellow mourner clear.
To my abject surprise, she was the only passenger, elegantly reclining in the plush leather scented interior, seemingly detached from the sorrow she had exhibited just a few minutes ago. Somewhat aloof now in her sorrow, she looked even more beautiful than when we first met and I confess, that I felt a tinge of regret we had not come to know her better. Small wonder father had fallen in love with her.
The radiance of her smile quite brightened up the late fornoon, and as Janine and I chatted joyfully with her, swapping pleasantries; my sister bubbling with excitement, promising that we would visit her, next summer in Malaga, I quite forgot the enigma of the other female mourner! That is, until quite by chance, I experienced the most wonderful; overwhelming exultation of joy.
Janine, had thrown her arms around Maria's neck , and was wishing her a safe journey, they had clearly hit it off from the start, so I was not unduly surprised when Janine declared spiritedly.
'I do love you, you are quite the image of my mother, and I'm sure she would have liked you too'!
Maria Capadia, the ultra cool; sophisticated Maria Capadia, gave up all pretence of control, and throwing her arms around my sister, she wept, warm in the comforting sense, that a part of my father, was still abroad. It was then, at the very moment, that Maria and Janine found solace in the shared empathy of mother and daughter, that I caught the scent of a distinctive perfume from within the saloon confines of the car. It was a perfume, I had known all my life, Guerlain's 'Mitsouko', mothers favourite!
On the seat of the car, where a second passenger might have sat, there was a single rose, deep red, like the colour of port wine. It was the symbol of another's woman's love.
As I stepped back, to allow the car it's slow descent of the lane leading from the church, the Phrygian theme, of the Last Soleares began to echo through the deepest recesses of my mind, and continued as I watched. The limousine slipped round the corner and glided down the road which skirted the long escarpment of the hill as if it floated on air, and eventually, disappeared into the swirling mist. At that moment, I recalled, the incessant finale of my fathers swan song, and heard the heart rending words of the Cante Jonda., and , with the fiery rasquados of the guitar drumming in my ears, my own sprits were lifted, until all of the sorrow for my parents' deaths, had been expurgated and the desperate loneliness within my soul had been released.
Then, as I turned back towards the church, I saw them. Tossed on the wind, those enduring symbols of my childhood; their raucous calls reminding me of the insolent birds that crowded the Cathedral plaza at Malaga; and I realised then! In all this, they were the only things that remained. They! The 'black rag' Jackdaws were the only damn things that were constant.
The End.
Short story by lastromantichero
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Written on 2006-05-01 at 08:16
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The Last Soleares by M.A.Meddings part three
Then seeing the anxiety in my eyes, she took my hand and said in a caring tone,'No I do not think she is a Tart as you put it. Can't you see what she does? How she earns her money, she is some sort dancer you fool' .
'A dancer'? I knew it, the old devil'.
No! No! No! Janine replied shaking her head.
'Not a lap dancer for gods sake, she is something more than that, and by all accounts from what I have been over hearing a very famous one'.
Then, as if to prove the point, a guitarist who we had hardly noticed in our excitement entered the room, and struck the vibrant passages we had heard times before. And, as the lights dimmed and the rolling falseta's of the Alegrias pour Roseas, silenced the assembled audience, from the gloom at the back of the stage, there emerged the rattle tap tap of Cuban heels and a dancer , dressed in a bright orange dress came forward arms held aloft and performed the Alegrias with all the poignancy we had ever dreamed of.
The dancer was Maria Capadia. This was the beautiful lady my father had taken a liking to. This was the real Maria! This was what he found so fascinating. She was not a Tart, she was a Gypsy. A full pure bred gypsy, and as Janine so amusedly exclaimed,
'A Flamenco dancer for god' s sake! She's a bloody Flamenco dancer'!
That's what he saw in her! She's just what he wanted after mother ! A bit of excitement . A real life flamenco dancer! A gypsy, and a pretty one at that! What could be more perfect Sal? It's just what he always said he would do! Cant you see? It's the perfect solution. He always said he would run off with the gypsies when we teased him about his guitar playing, now he has done just that'!.
Signor Marras, who, sitting quite near, had heard our discourse as to the relative attributes of the Signora Capadia. Indeed, he had heard everything we were saying and eventually at an appropriate juncture, he interceded on Maria's behalf.
' Whatever you misgivings Signoritas, and I fully understand your reticence. Your father will come to no harm, he is in good company, the very best. Maria Capadia is one of the most accomplished Flamenco artists any where. Her reputation transcends Andalucia, even Espagna itself. Her credentials as a friend are impeccable. Her standing amongst Maleguenian society, of the highest order, let me assure you, she is no tart'!
Janine and I blushed . This man, my father's guitar mentor had taken our small minded assumptions and dashed them aside in the strongest, yet mildly presented terms. We who dared cast slurs upon the character of a gracious lady, were corrected. And as if to save us further discredit, that gracious lady, my fathers friend danced for us with the inborn fire of her ancestors, a sensational image of the beautiful and expressive Alegrias. A whirling torrentious amalgam of gypsy fire in the heart of the night, and we were satisfied Janine and I. The very next day we would finally meet our father.
On the morrow, at Eleven - O - clock, we assembled on the Marques De Larios amongst thousands of other Maleguenin revellers and waited for the procession of Caballeros and Peregrinos in their traditional costume. Waiting beneath the cool draped avenue, away from the glaring heat of the sun, until they came in line, riding their impeccably presented horses, or being transported in fine landau carriages, making their way slowly round from the luxuriance of the Paseo Del Parque, where they had assembled earlier that morning.
And this time as the sun shone, Janine and I felt our spirits being lifted by the exuberant joy of the crowd. One could not help being swept along by the expression of pride exhibited by everyone. Pride for their City; pride for their culture; pride for their nation. It was written on everyone's face. The Maleguenians had invited everyone to their party , and were insistent they enjoyed themselves.
As we waited on the line, a woman, who spoke no English, and as excited as a child, enthralled Janine and I by the way she continually tried to make us understand what was about to take place. All to no avail. The language barrier in this case really was insurmountable, and would have remained so had another lady, who's Sister lived in Liverpool, and who had a little English, explained as best she could.
The procession was made up of Local dignitaries; landowners; Council officials etc. Followed by Maleguenian artistes, Film Stars; Bull fighters and the like. The only one missing to both our sorrow, was Julio Inglesis,
or,
'Maybe his son Enrique' Janine said.
And we waited; and we waited; and waited, on the avenue, my sister and I; for what seemed like an age, until gradually, the buzzing clamour from the Paseo increased to a crescendo of joyful cheering as the procession entered the covered avenue and made it's painfully slow; if majestic way, to the Plaza in front of the Cathedral.
It was an exuberant manifestation of Maleguenian traditional costume paraded in all it's convivial glory. A spectacular festival dedicated to the horse, as rider after rider came on, often four abreast, astride their mounts as arrogant as kings; dressed in the finest of coloured silks.
Caballeros in their Spanish black bolero tunics and Cordoban Sombrero's, accompanied by the ladies of their choice. Beautiful sophisticated ladies, whose very grace foretold of a lost age of elegance before the era of the motor car. Then beyond the outriders, the leaders of the procession, there came loaded to the running boards, sleek dark landau carriages, pulled by four in hand stallions, as spirited as demons..
There were black Aragon ponies, whose tails were docked to the cult of the dressage, followed by pairs of dapple greys and dozens of chestnut geldings as behaved as Sunday school pupils on their way to mass. Then, towards the tail of the procession, accompanied by loud cheers from a group of high spirited revellers, we recognised as Maria Capdia's troupe, all of them dressed in their traditional swirling taffeta lined dresses, came a large black carriage drawn by six in hand Arab stallions.
On the driving seat, sat two men with pork pie Sombrero's tilted dangerously over one eye, rakishly watching as the young ladies of Malaga paraded their fine attributes in an explosion of happy 'bon ami'.
In the carriage behind as lovely as a princess, surrounded by her ladies in waiting, sat my fathers queen; his exotic and erotically refined paramour, Maria Capadia.
As they passed, one of the horses broke it's command and caught by the excited babble of the crowd, it reared dangerously for a few seconds, until it was gently but firmly dealt with by the expert driver whose afternoon it had come to spoil.
At that moment Maria and her friends spotted us in the crowd, and waived enthusiasticly, calling out to us, beckoning us towards the square at the top of the street. We could hardly hear above the noise of the crowd, and gestured good naturedly our inability; to comprehend what they intended.
' They want you to join them in the square after the service at the cathedral'
The voice was that of a young woman about Janine's age , who had already consumed enough Malagan wine for it to show and she took us both by the arm and led us determinedly towards the blair of music coming from the square.
In the square, it seemed, the whole population of Malaga had turned out to party, whilst in solemn piety, the parade devotees paid Homage to the Blessed Santa Maria in the cool vastness of the Cathedral. Then, once mass had been taken they, the devotees, the aficionados, the finely dressed dignitaries, returned to the square, to join in the festivities as did Janine and I, reticently English as ever.
Step by step tentatively we joined in, until the wine took hold and the rhythm of life, in that Bacchanalian square, caught us and we became Malaguanian as any, dancing with joy, answering the call to repeat as best we could, the swirling movements of a group of young girls dancing the evocative Sevillanas, whilst their chosen beaux, looked on.
Sullen dark eyed youths they were these boys who stood in a group at the edge of the square, drinking their fill, muttering amongst themselves, like the bandidos of the high sierra. Becoming even more morose and as watchful as pack wolves as the ladies danced and teased under the hot afternoon sun. Wishing they had the finesse denied their teenage years. A finess that might allow them the confidence to ignore the cruel taunts of their friends. A finesse to sweep away a natural shyness and ask a particular girl to dance.
And Janine and I became unwittingly swept along on the burgeoning tide of youthful passion. Well at least so did Janine. For my part, I was afforded the respect given that of a mother rather than older sister. I therefore played the part, watching in amused silence, as one by one, the sullen youths, these fine fiestral brigands, emboldened by the strength of San Miguel, if not the pack, noticed the twirling swirling English hips amongst the dark skinned Maleguenian flowers.
Then, I laughed inwardly as dark wine caused a boy, scarcely old enough to shave, to stagger forward and proposition me before the assembled wolf pack, whilst the incessant rhythms of the Fandangos du Huerte rolled on and on and on. And he gave me a rose this boy; this youth; this romantic; his eyes desperately pleading with me not to turn him down in front of his friends. And so I took him! As gently as I could, into a world he could only dream of, the world in the arms of a real woman.
Amidst the loud wolf whistles of his drunken friends we danced this boy and I, until he was suddenly and dramatically rescued from my 'clutches' by a raven haired dark eyed beauty, a good ten years my junior, who had arrived belatedly on the scene, to find her 'man' entertained by a woman old enough to be his mother.! Well , very nearly at least.
Then, to her credit, having been reassured, that she was the only girl he cared about, she apologised profusely for her behaviour and begged my forgiveness, as the boy clearly head over heels in love, whisked her away from the indelicate jeering taunts of his friends, into their own private world of each others eyes.
We saw them later that afternoon, as the shadows began to fall, sat at a table in the small cafe just off the Cathedral plaza. Enwrapped in the celebration of their feelings for each other. And she the dark eyed beauty, dressed in a primrose yellow , off the shoulder blouse, which complimented her glorious olive coloured skin, acknowledged us with joy, content in the knowledge she had re ensnared her man. Then they were gone, these fiestral lovers, leaving Janine and I to await the arrival of our host once more, as arranged.
A clamourous murmuring to our left rose and fell, as a moving heaving mass of photographers, journalists and erstwhile fans, emerged from a side ally and proceeded slowly along the concourse towards where we sat. In the centre of the swirling maelstrom of eagerly strutting paparazzi, her hand firmly clutching that of a man, whilst the other good naturedly but firmly waived away their incessant questioning, was Maria Capadia, the queen in her kingdom.
And then she saw us, realised there was no alternative to providing the melee of journalists their moment, if we were to get a moment of privacy, and poised as ever, she addressed the entourage, introducing us as her family! Imploring them incessantly! Bargaining spiritedly, until they, the ravenous pack , took their photographs one by one, and dispersed , leaving the Cathedral, the plaza and the cafe to Janine, I and our host.
It was then, at that very moment, we saw him ! The man we had known all our lives. The man who had sired and loved us unflinchingly for two score years or more. The man who watched us grow into ladies. The man who had taken us when we were sad and kissed away the hurt. The very same man, who had tended most of our wishes as he could. The man my mother had married, our father. The very same man, who had some twelve months ago abandoned all that was sacred to us and found a new woman. The man who, following mothers death, had gone for solace in the arms of a gypsy queen, almost before our mothers body was cold. The man,who had deserted us when we needed his strength. The man I would never forgive.
Janine, was less critical. She threw herself unreservedly into his arms. and they hugged and kissed; the father and favourite daughter, whilst I, as ever the prodigal issue, looked on in impatient amazement at the very gall of the man.
How could he! How could she behave this way as if nothing had happened ! He had abandoned his family when we needed him to follow; god knows what; and now! Like a marauding Bedouin, he comes in from the cold, expecting to pick up where he left off. How I hated this god of a man my father. This man who had taken my last treasured impressions of him as a hero, and dashed them on the horse of blatant philandery. I could not hug him, I could not greet him, I could not love him as I used to. Now, there was nothing left, save for a fleeting memory of the past.
And, pointedly,as if to preserve the last treasured dreams of my childhood, there came to our table, a Jackdaw, just as my father was about to leave for the bullfight. The bird, as bold as a brass effigy, sat on the back of my chair and helped itself from my plate and entertained us. Then, when the last remnant crumbs had been taken, it flew cheekily from one to the other, begging for alms. Eventually it settled on Janines shoulder, where it became fascinated by the bright glimmer of her earrings.
Tap; tap; tap; the emboldened bird dabbed at the glittering baubles with it's beak, until my sister became quite irritated with the incessant creature, and waived it brusquely to one side, only to find it subsequently, seconds later, at her side again, sat on the back of an adjacent chair, it's head cocked jauntily to one side eyeing the assembled group. Then as the rest of us enjoyed the comical antics of the creature, it was joined by another, then another raven black pestilent bird, plummeting down from the high portals of the cathedral. These three, provident in number, were eventually joined by others, drawn on wings as dark as night to the feast at our table.
Their clamourous antics amused us all and we found a new Bon Ami my father and I as we became more relaxed. Then one of the birds perched on his shoulder took his cigarette from his mouth, threw it to the floor, then relieved itself on his lapel. We all collapsed in light-hearted laughter, and as I met my father's eyes across the table, he smiled, eyes only for me. Then he held out his arms and I went to him, just as I had when I was a little girl, and we hugged, my father and I, as he whispered for me to forgive him.
And at that moment, with Maria Capadia at attendance, in the midst of the Plaza del Obispo, we became one again my father and I, parent and daughter, and I did forgive him, then hugged him again as we became united in the joy of the family, Janine my father and I.
Later on, as the evening shadows began to fall, he abruptly left us for the bullfight, arranging with all his usual bravado to meet us, at Cafe Brocante; for our own special treat; an evening of entertainment in true Spanish style. We were nonplussed, such strange behaviour, after all the joy of our reunion. Our father had changed. He was not the man we knew. Yet we were unable to imagine then, how deep that change, how wide the gap had become between his previous life and this. At Cafe Brocante, we were about to find out.
We arrived late. Janine had taken such a long time at her toilet, that the opulent landau carriage arriving at our hotel, to pick us up, was forced to wait; at least ten minutes or so.
The driver could not have been nicer and I reflected how London cabbies might have behaved, given similar circumstance. There was no impatient; pointedly looking at watches, no long drawn sighs of exasperation. Just a calmly assured peace of mind, that went with the territory.
Ferrying Tourists around this beautiful city had it's drawbacks, but the method of transport, the elegant Landau carriage, evocative of another era, another time, when the pace of the day, was measured in the clip clop sound of the horses hoofs on cobbled streets, gave one a sense of immeasurable time. No rush; no push; no striving to be first, just shear unconcerned !
'Super cool' !!
Janine so succinctly termed the phrase as I was struggling to find the correct word to describe the relaxed bearing of our driver.
'Super cool Sal, that's what he is, super cool'
And you know? She was exactly right. The man was 'super cool'. It is a word we both use now to describe anything that we see as fabulous, 'super cool'. Consequently, my dress that night was seen as 'supercool' by my sister. Her new car had become 'super cool' over night,courtesy of the Malaga Landau driver who collected us..
We could here the music, as we came down the Avenue de conquistador. The sharp rattling flurry of Flamenco guitarras ringing on the night air. The incessant jangling rattle of the castanets splitting the peace, and the harsh drumming tap of the dancers shoes, drawing us ever near, inviting all who passed, to join in the fun and dance the fiery rhythms of the Allegrias.
Inside Cafe Brocante, where Maria Capadia held court, there were the trappings of her life. Her large circle of friends, enjoined by my father, who greeted us again as his lost family, bought us drinks, introduced us to one after another of his adoptive circle, as the music flowed on and on and on into the hearts of us all. The long mournful wail of the cante jondo, held us spellbound, as the singer sang a love song to my sister and I, until we both blushed with embarrassment, and he ceased his fooling for fear of offending us.
Then as he finished, the queen, the beautifully elegant Maria Capadia danced for us in all the regalia of the Andalucian gypsies. Her long flounced dress swirled and twirled in the twinkling lights of the Cafe. Her Cuban heeled feet beating out the staccato rhythms of the Fandango, has her hands, held aloft clicked, with ill concealed arrogance, the rattling Castanets in time with the music. The speed of her tapping feet, became faster and faster with every second as the guitar and the Palmas clapping of the audience took her spirited performance onward and upward to it's tremendous crescendo, until she collapsed with exhaustion at our feet..
My father ran to her side and helped her to her feet. Then he kissed her in full view of us all. A full blooded kiss! They way he would have kissed my mother once! They way they say a woman should be kissed by the man who loved her. At last here was the truth for both Janine and I to see! Now we knew why he had not returned from Spain! He had found a new way to live!
In the intervening years since mothers death, my father had embraced Chic Café society, as a true Malaguenian. There in that Southern port, under the hot Andalucian sun, he had assumed a new Identity and left us all, for pastures new. My sister and I had told ourselves, that we would never forgive him for his apparent indifference, yet in the warm stillness, of that late August evening, as the last of the wine came, followed by rich brandy and coffee, I began to see him in a new light.
As a respectful hush, descended amongst the assembled aficionado's of the music, he played for us, Janine and I, a beautiful Flamenco lament, the haunting Granainas, entitled Lagrimas de Granada. It was a piece that revealed in all it's sorrow, the desperate solitude in his soul. Then, shortly afterwards, he played a more familiar piece, a piece we remembered from our childhood. A piece which at times we had chided him about as he struggled vainly to perfect it, but this time, it held us spellbound! This time my father demonstrated his burgeoning skill.
And, as the mournful falsetas, rolled on the evening air, I came to realize, that this, my father's last Soleares, was in all reality, a poignant tribute, to his unending love for my mother. He had not in truth forgotten any of us. He had, through all his lonely years, cherished our memory, and once we realised that, my sister and I, wept inconsolably, until the elegant Maria Capeda, my father's beautiful companion, comforted us just as mother would have done in the old days. Then, considerately, to spare us further heartache, she took us gently by the hand and led us out to the waiting Landau.
The last memory of my Father in this life, was as the horse drawn carriage swept in majestic splendour, round in a wide Arc and headed west along the Avenue Du Conquistador. He was standing at the entrance to Café Brocante, with his arms around his new lady; his hat tilted jauntily at a rakish angle, waiving and smiling joyfully, his neatly trimmed beard resplendently white against the leathery tanned swarthiness of his face. It was then, that I realised, he had passed beyond us, into a romanticised world he had always dreamed of, and that this; precious; fleeting moment; was the last we would ever see of him.
A telegram came yesterday, from Signora Capadia, informing us of my Fathers death. Accordingly, we learned, he died suddenly, whilst dancing the Farruca, an energetic masculine form of Flamenco dance, from Catalan. Her accompanying letter, explained, that he died in her arms, with Mothers name on his lips. His body, in accordance with his wishes, had been cremated at Linares, and his ashes, divided equally into two parts. One part would be returned to England, to be placed, as she explained, with my mother's remains. The other, had been scattered with all due solemnity, on Spanish soil.
In the centre of the Plaza de Torres at Linares, at the spot where, the matador Manolette had fallen, years before. Like some last romantic hero, my father was laid to rest, whilst the gypsy guitar beat out the incessant bolero rhythms of the Levante. As Janine said, so pointedly, the old devil always did have style. He was at last in heaven.
She came to the Requiem my fathers lady, all dressed in black, her long blonde hair surmounted and almost hidden by a wide brimmed respectful sombrero, which she wore with stylish flair. Her hair was swept back and tied loosely at the nape of her neck under a flame red Gardenia hair piece, that made her seem younger than her years would allow. She was even more elegant now, with that particular understated serenity that beautiful women aquire in late middle age. My father knew how to recognise style when he saw it, and Maria Capeda, had style.
I hadn't noticed her at all, until I began to read. She sat at the back of the Church alone and deferential. Suddenly, as the poignancy of the words in my eulogy took their toll, she began to weep for the loss of my father, enwrapped in her own private grief. They were the tears of a woman who had fallen in love, with an unashamed romantic dreamer, just as Mother had done all those years ago.
They were tears that reflected the pathos of a relationship, borne of personal crisis, a relationship, my sister and I had dared question out of a misplaced sense of loyalty towards our mother. It, was a crass moment of insolence, we both regretted. Now I saw their liaison for what it was, the essential swan song of two lonely people. She was weeping for what might have been, just as my sister and I had done, at Cafe Brocante. Her loss, was ours, and one, and the same.
As we left the church, I saw her at the end of the lane, where the cars were parked. She awaited the arrival of her Chauffeur and was standing at a respectful distance, not wishing to intrude in what she saw as a private family occasion. Janine insisted I invite her to join us, and I was about to do so, when I saw, their was another mourner. One I had not previously noticed. She too was dressed in black, and was standing some yards away from Maria, next to the Chapel of remembrance. The sun , particularly bright at this time in the morning, shone directly down the main driveway to the chapel and prevented me seeing who the other woman was. Neither one, acknowledged each other, both seemingly content with their own private thoughts.
Janine, was sure we should express our thanks for their respect, and more out of curiosity as to the identity of the other woman, than anything else, I made towards them, intending to pay due regard to both, out of pure courtesy. That I was prevented from doing so, for some few minutes, by one of father's friends, who wished to pay his condolence,
proved providential, for when I finally attended to my duty, Maria Capadia and the other woman were already leaving, their chauffeur, at his attentive best.
He drew the car up, and allowed both women to take their appointed seats. Then, the car, a huge Black limousine from another, more elegant era, glided majestically along the lane to where we were standing. As it came to a halt, Maria Capadia, fathers elegant lady, eased the window down on her passengers door, and I assumed she would make the identity of her fellow mourner clear.
To my abject surprise, she was the only passenger, elegantly reclining in the plush leather scented interior, seemingly detached from the sorrow she had exhibited just a few minutes ago. Somewhat aloof now in her sorrow, she looked even more beautiful than when we first met and I confess, that I felt a tinge of regret we had not come to know her better. Small wonder father had fallen in love with her.
The radiance of her smile quite brightened up the late fornoon, and as Janine and I chatted joyfully with her, swapping pleasantries; my sister bubbling with excitement, promising that we would visit her, next summer in Malaga, I quite forgot the enigma of the other female mourner! That is, until quite by chance, I experienced the most wonderful; overwhelming exultation of joy.
Janine, had thrown her arms around Maria's neck , and was wishing her a safe journey, they had clearly hit it off from the start, so I was not unduly surprised when Janine declared spiritedly.
'I do love you, you are quite the image of my mother, and I'm sure she would have liked you too'!
Maria Capadia, the ultra cool; sophisticated Maria Capadia, gave up all pretence of control, and throwing her arms around my sister, she wept, warm in the comforting sense, that a part of my father, was still abroad. It was then, at the very moment, that Maria and Janine found solace in the shared empathy of mother and daughter, that I caught the scent of a distinctive perfume from within the saloon confines of the car. It was a perfume, I had known all my life, Guerlain's 'Mitsouko', mothers favourite!
On the seat of the car, where a second passenger might have sat, there was a single rose, deep red, like the colour of port wine. It was the symbol of another's woman's love.
As I stepped back, to allow the car it's slow descent of the lane leading from the church, the Phrygian theme, of the Last Soleares began to echo through the deepest recesses of my mind, and continued as I watched. The limousine slipped round the corner and glided down the road which skirted the long escarpment of the hill as if it floated on air, and eventually, disappeared into the swirling mist. At that moment, I recalled, the incessant finale of my fathers swan song, and heard the heart rending words of the Cante Jonda., and , with the fiery rasquados of the guitar drumming in my ears, my own sprits were lifted, until all of the sorrow for my parents' deaths, had been expurgated and the desperate loneliness within my soul had been released.
Then, as I turned back towards the church, I saw them. Tossed on the wind, those enduring symbols of my childhood; their raucous calls reminding me of the insolent birds that crowded the Cathedral plaza at Malaga; and I realised then! In all this, they were the only things that remained. They! The 'black rag' Jackdaws were the only damn things that were constant.
The End.
Short story by lastromantichero
Read 655 times
Written on 2006-05-01 at 08:16
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