Masquerade Page 5

  ‘You should not joke about this, Doña Luz. Es mala suerte, it’s unlucky to make fun of these things.’ She considered the young woman with a grave face.

  Luz had never seen Carmela looking so serious and self-important. Perhaps she’d been a little hasty in telling her about the dream. She had to admit she found the maid’s words exhilarating because they were so uncanny given yesterday’s events, but the last thing she needed was for the subject of a novio to become one of those topics of conversation that Carmela would obsess about, turning it into part of the trif ling daily rumours that she and her friends found so absorbing. Luz picked up another grape, kissed Carmela affectionately on the cheek and gave her a reassuring smile before she went off to sort out some of the books she had still to unpack.

  The morning was gone before she knew it. So in the afternoon, armed with a map of Cádiz, Luz set off yet again on foot in search of the gypsy encampment, hoping that this time she would find a decent entrance to it.

  Luck was on her side. She went down the sun-gold path she usually took to the beach. As she neared the carob tree, where the gypsy had appeared on her first day back in Cádiz, she noticed a narrow lane. Instinctively, she turned into it. Gradually it wound uphill. She threaded her way between sand dunes, wild fig and carob trees and banks overgrown with brambles. As she drew closer to the top of one of the banks, she could see spirals of black smoke in the distance, coiling up into the darkening sky.

  All of a sudden a cluster of half-naked, brown-faced children erupted out of a dirt track, the entrance to which was scarcely visible, being concealed by mounds of rubble and rubbish. They raced past her towards the beach, scrambling down the dunes like mountain goats, kicking up the sand behind them.

  She decided to turn into the narrow track. Underfoot, the soil was red and rough, more of a bridle path than a proper track. She doubted the heavy-looking caravans she’d seen the other day would be able to tackle it. Now the path dipped down towards what she hoped would be the gypsy encampment, though still she could not see it. The silence was awesome, the landscape barren and even rockier; a countryside petrified in desolation. She could not even hear the sea. There must be another way in. Suddenly she felt incredibly weary. The eeriness of the place was getting to her but she soldiered on; she had come so far, she was not going to turn back now, and the entrance had to be closer than where she’d ended up the day before after her much longer ramble. Up another hill, down again almost perpendicularly and she was there – at the same solid portal of debris she had spotted the previous day.

  The gypsy tents were pitched near a jumble of a few cave homes amid the rubble and rocks, cacti, prickly pears and refuse bags that littered the camp. They were interspersed here and there with the high-wheeled caravans she had already seen, but now she noticed motorcycles, strange-looking wagons loaded with wood and a couple of heavily dented cars.

  The place was heaving with gypsies, many more than had been there the day before when she’d first come across the camp. Fires from copper braseros roared into a sky rapidly turning from azure to purple and now a paler shade of blue. Men, women and children all sat round them in small circles. There were murmurs and laughs, but mostly they were silent and there seemed to be an air of expectancy about the place.

  Luz stood hidden behind a large clump of bristling cactus, peering over the spiky plants in search of the gypsy youth, carefully scanning the faces lit up by the f lickering glow of the fires. Soon, a couple of gitanas came out of a cave carrying large trays of glasses filled with manzanilla. They passed the drinks around and so the Romani revelry began.

  A tall, wild-faced man with black hair standing out in tousled tufts around a face with thick black side whiskers and moustache walked to the middle of the clearing with his guitar, followed by three other musicians carrying a tambourine, cymbals and a fiddle. As they started their instrumental prelude, the audience acted as a chorus, stimulating the musicians by clapping and stamping in time with the rhythm. Some gypsies banged stones on rocks as the noise grew to a crescendo and a few women came forward, hitching their colourful skirts up to cock their hips and swirl to the chaotic music. It was a most vibrant spectacle, the sounds echoing and reverberating through the atmosphere.

  While the performance was taking place, the sun had sunk and twilight turned into evening. The moon beamed in a starless sky but it was still light and visibility was good. Fascinated, Luz had lost count of time. The musicians had ended their show and she was about to turn back when one man moved out from the crowded circle and came forward, a guitar hanging across his chest. Trays of manzanilla went round again. Luz’s heart skipped a beat. She had to smother a gasp as the flickering firelight fell on the face of the man she was looking for.

  The young gypsy took his place in the middle of the circle, which the previous performers had vacated. His long, copper-tanned fingers began thrumming his guitar. The prelude continued for some time and the shouts, clapping of hands and stamping of feet worked his audience up to a state of rhythmic excitement. Suddenly, in a convulsive movement, his features contracted into a mask of agony. He closed his eyes and lifted one hand to his forehead as he broke into a long, tragic high-pitched cry: ‘Aye … Aye … Aye … Ayeeeeee!’ He repeated this lament a few times against the frenzied accompaniment of his guitar, the open strings of which he played with the other hand. Then he began singing in a deep masculine voice as if telling the world of his sorrows and misfortune. He sang in Caló, the language of the gypsies, which Luz did not understand. Despite the tension of feeling in the full, vigorous notes, he sang with an air of dignity that the young woman had never witnessed before and she had listened to many Flamenco singers in the clubs of Cádiz.

  Like the rest of the audience Luz stood breathless, spellbound, stirred to her innermost fibres. Tears in her eyes; the music awakened a fierce impulse that sent her heart hammering. He sang one song after the other, seemingly oblivious to his audience and of anything save the notes, which formed themselves in the air before him as if independent of his body. Some of the songs were passionate, heart-wrenching ballads about faithless or separated lovers, unending longing, death, prison and revenge, which he appeared to be improvising. Those few songs in Caló remained frustratingly mysterious to Luz but the words of his closing song she understood, though she found them strange. He sang in a kind of trance, as if reaching deep down into his soul to uproot the pain, drawing out the final notes in a prolonged, descending strain, with seemingly never-ending turns and tremolos. It was a haunting sound, so poignant Luz had great difficulty in controlling her urge to reach out to him. Did those coplas recall some experience in his life, she wondered.

  From birth I was rejected

  From birth I was evicted

  Where was my mother?

  Where was my father?

  They left me without a kiss

  And threw me out of Paradise’s bliss

  My life was barren, I was alone

  How could my heart not turn to stone?

  My heart is crying out to melt

  Will love reverse the cruelty fate dealt?

  As he opened his eyes, the gypsy turned towards where Luz was standing. Like deep opals his green irises shone in the semi-darkness and the look of torment in them was harrowing. She made herself smaller. Had he noticed her? The shouts of Olé! and the clapping of hands and stamping of feet were overwhelming, echoing the pounding of her pulse. Men slapped the gypsy singer on the back and young gitanas appeared from every side, screaming: ‘Leandro! Leandro!’ They surrounded him, embracing, hugging and cajoling.

  Steel fingers pinched cruelly at Luz’s heart. It was getting colder and the sea wind was beginning to blow, lifting small clouds of dust from the rubble around the encampment. Now lonely, hollow and a little sad, she was not a part of these strange, passionate people, merely an onlooker, an intruder; she had no right to be there. A sudden fear came over her that she might be caught watching them, that he could have seen her, so she turne
d her back on the scene of merriment. It was time to go home.

  CHAPTER 2

  The next few days were spent preparing for her first interview. Luz’s mornings were wholly taken up by visits to the Eduardo Raphael Ruiz de Salazar museum, which housed most of the artist’s works, and the small library attached to it.

  The Salazar museum nestled in one of the many plazas in the Old Town that were connected by narrow cobbled streets. This anachronistic building had been built specially to house the artist’s surreal and mysterious work. Tall narrow windows sat beneath macabre fairy-tale spires and an external wrought-iron staircase marched up the outside of each floor, one storey completely comprised of glass-fronted pods that jutted from the building like bulbous eyes. It was a perfect setting and Luz was pleased that she had made the trip here before her interview. Already, she would have more to talk about with de Salazar’s nephew – if she got that far.

  The interview letter had explained that the initial examination and discussion was to be carried out by the directors of the artist’s estate. A shortlist would eventually be drawn up and presented to the nephew and only heir, who would see the candidates and make the final choice. While she was at the museum Luz thought she would do some research on Count Eduardo de Salazar, his work and his life in Cádiz, just to get a little more background. She could start putting together a file; that way, she would go to the meeting fully prepared.

  She had always been blessed with great powers of concentration but on this occasion it had been difficult to blank Leandro from her mind. Leandro, that’s what they had called him … the gypsy’s face had a name now. His handsome features kept springing up in her mind unbidden, obscuring the text she was reading. They had such vivid clarity that each time her heart thudded uncontrollably and she had to call on every ounce of willpower as she struggled to drive his image away.

  After mornings spent poring over books and paintings at the museum library, Luz went down to the beach, partly to try to find her locket but always in the secret hope of seeing Leandro. Added to that, the beach was where she felt most free. There she could ride Zeyna, go for a run, take a swim or simply walk for miles and feel the sun and sea air on her face. She liked to look back at the mesmerizing view of the city rising up behind her, so bright it was blinding to those approaching it by sea. Luz loved Cádiz, with its mellow-stone churches and whitewashed houses shining under a bright blue sky like a spray of water lilies on the dancing, glittering waters of the Atlantic. She had read the nineteenth-century French writer and traveller Théophile Gautier at university and his description of it as a city that was ‘lively and luminous’ had always stayed with her. It was named Cádiz Joyosa as though it was laughing in the sun.

  During her long solitary walks on the beach, and at night while she waited for sleep to come, thoughts of her unusual, powerful dream and of Carmela’s prediction of a novio preyed on Luz. She had never really given much consideration to love and marriage. Her parents were the natural embodiment of true love, and perhaps because they made it seem entirely fated, Luz had always assumed that it would just happen to her one day and her future would fall neatly into place.

  She was perfectly open to romance but always regarded herself as someone with her feet firmly planted on the ground. It had never occurred to her that she could fall in love with someone her parents would find unacceptable. And now she was behaving like one of the love-struck heroines in her mother’s romantic novels. Wasn’t she more down-to-earth than that? Hadn’t she been trying so hard all her life to be the cool English rose? But the gypsy Leandro, so mysterious and exciting to her in every way, had infiltrated her system like a fever.

  You’re a fool to allow yourself to fantasize about Leandro, she told herself fiercely again and again. What do you know about him? Nothing can come of such a union. Anyhow, how can you fall in love with someone you’ve never even spoken to? This is all schoolgirl infatuation. Yet no matter how often she recited this litany to herself, she was not convinced. Something had been awoken in her that she had never felt before. Their eyes had met only twice and she’d had no real physical contact with the gypsy apart from the few moments when he had lifted her up on the beach and later when he had given her the tea to sip. Apparently, that had been enough. No man had set a fire in her belly the way he had. She was shocked at some of the sensations and images her fantasies conjured up when she let them run wild.

  Though the idea seemed mad, some sort of sixth sense told her this must be love at first sight. After all, wasn’t this what had happened to her parents? And if that were the case, it was useless trying to fight Leandro’s haunting power over her; the hungering need she felt for him was likely to intensify with time unless she did something about it, whatever that might be. Still, for now she must concentrate on the task at hand, which was to secure the book assignment with the directors of the Eduardo Raphael Ruiz de Salazar estate.

  It was on one of those solitary afternoon walks along the beach that Luz encountered Paquita the gypsy for the first time.

  Luz was sitting on a boulder gazing down through the crystal-clear waters at the subaqueous jungle of swaying seaweed that was crinkling, twisting, curling and uncurling as the waves washed against the reef. Silver fish and velvety brown baby crabs darted in and out of rocks; a gaggle of colourful sailboats bobbed up and down on the little white crests of the waves as they slowly floated past her; not too far away a small group of winkle pickers were was hard at work with their spades and nets.

  Luz closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky; she wanted to savour the delicious warmth of the sun on her skin. When she opened them again the old witch was there, peering at her with hooded eyes beneath bushy eyebrows, a mask-like expression on her swarthy, wrinkled face. She had come out of nowhere, making no noise as she approached. Short and bent as she stood there in the sand, she wore a red scarf over her white scraggly hair. Her nose was strong and hooked.

  Luz gave a start and instinctively recoiled in fear. The old gypsy’s eyes flashed with cunning and her mouth curved into a smile, albeit one like a grimace that uncovered toothless gums.

  ‘Hermosa jovencita, beautiful young lady, don’t be afraid, Paquita means you no harm,’ she rasped.

  Luz suddenly realized how isolated she was. People rarely strolled so far along the beach and the gypsies had a reputation for being quick with knives, even old women like this one. If she screamed, no one would hear her.

  ‘Please go away,’ she said politely. ‘I have no money on me and nothing else to give you.’

  ‘Paquita isn’t looking for money or anything else from you. Give me your palm, I know who you are.’ Insistent and slyly menacing in her manner, the old woman moved surprisingly swiftly towards her and claimed her wrist with thin, gnarled fingers.

  ‘What do you mean, you know who I am?’ Luz demanded. She tried to pull away from the gypsy’s iron grip. Her eyes fell on the old woman’s long nails – they reminded her of a bird of prey’s talons. She shivered.

  ‘Gypsies never forget.’ The sharp black irises glowed with a strange fire. ‘You have your father’s bewitching eyes and your mother’s clear complexion, a happy combination. Paquita is an old friend of the family … a very old friend. Ask your parents about me, they will tell you.’

  ‘I doubt they will remember you,’ said Luz sceptically, jerking her wrist out of the witch’s claws. Even supposing they did, she very much doubted that it would be a welcome topic of conversation.

  The old hag gave a hoarse chuckle. Her wizened old face lit up with a wicked grin. ‘They’ll remember me all right. I was there – I saw it all. If they had listened, they would have heard, but they ignored Paquita.’ She scoffed and shrugged her bony shoulders, a look of contempt on her sharp features. ‘And now, hermosa jovencita, you must listen to me,’ she said, peering at Luz again through narrowed eyes.

  Luz’s brows lifted. ‘And why is that?’ she asked, trying to seem detached.

  The tone of the witch’s vo
ice changed a little. ‘Because I see into the future, I know the unknown!’ she replied. ‘So tell me, child, what are you looking for, or should I say, who are you looking for?’

  ‘You tell me, since you can see into the past and the future.’ Luz fixed Paquita with fierce, steely blue eyes.

  The old crone winked and, once again exposing her ungainly jaws, broke into hideous crackles of laughter that resonated eerily in the silence. ‘A tongue and personality to equal your beauty, eh?’ she said in her hoarse voice. ‘Quite a rare jewel!’

  She paused and seemed to be pondering for a moment. Suddenly, under her untidy bushy eyebrows, her eyes lit up with a wild fire. She grabbed hold of Luz’s arm, clutching it tightly in her horny hand. ‘You want to know your bahi, your fortune? I will tell you. I have seen the simachi, the sign in the full moon,’ she whispered, pulling closer, her breath warm and garlicky on Luz’s cheek. ‘Gemini! You’re looking for Gemini! He is your sustiri, your fate. Many men covet you, but your bahi lies with him of the moreno, dark skin and the lion’s eyes, eyes as green and deep as African forests. A gypsy hidalgo de la mas pura ratí, of the purest descent. Do not try to avoid your destiny or the curse will come upon you. I tell you, I have seen the sign in the full moon this month. Every word I speak is true.’

  Luz’s heart filled with a dark unease as the crone’s flow of words screeched to a halt. The image of Leandro’s face danced in front of her and while the old harpy’s description fitted him like a glove, nothing else made sense. It was one thing fantasizing about the handsome gypsy, quite another for a sinister old gitana to tell her that she was fated to be with him and would be cursed should she choose to ignore her destiny. Again she tried to rid herself of the ensnaring fingers.