Malaga - excerpt from "Toreador"

Fernando looked up and for a moment I saw anguish in his eyes. But as his eyes looked into mine their expression softened and I was happy to see a smile appear on his gorgeous face. His eyes crinkled and he shook himself a little, as if to expel some demons.

“Nada, mi bonita,” he said, standing up and pulling me up with him. “Nothing, my pretty. Let’s go and have some fun.”

It was twilight when we hit the street, the sunset lending an orange-pink glow to everything. Fernando took my hand, no trace of his earlier unease visible in his demeanor. We set off at a leisurely pace, leaving the hotel Maestranza in the direction of the paseo maritimo, which ran along the waterfront of the Malagueta beach.

“There’s a great flamenco place near here,” Fernando said, strolling beside me in that fluid way of his. One of my hands was ensconced in his, but there was some distance between us.

“It’s been years since I’ve seen a flamenco performance. And even then I don’t think it was a very authentic one.” I said.

“Then you are going to enjoy this, you’ll see,” Fernando smiled.

The place Fernando took me to was tucked away in a side street and I’m sure that if you didn’t know it was there you would not have noticed its existence. The sign outside which said “La Caverna” was only dimly lit and the doorway was small and barely visible. Fernando led me inside holding on tight to my hand. And as soon as we were inside I could see why – it was obviously a popular place with the locals. We could hardly find room to stand, but somehow we made it to the bar and Fernando ordered a glass of wine for me and water for him.

As I waited for him to get our drinks I surveyed the place. It was surprisingly full for this early hour, the only free space the slightly raised, very big square stage at the back of the dark, low-ceilinged room. On both sides of the stage was a low wooden chair and behind it a dark red velvet curtain hung. Fernando appeared at my side and said:

“Looks like we’re not going to be able to sit down.”

“It looks that way,” I agreed.

“The first guitarists should be out any minute; I asked,” he said.

I sipped my wine and moved my body in a little closer to his, thinking he would put his arm around me. But instead I felt him stiffen a little and move away the tiniest bit. It reminded me of his similar reaction back at the hotel and I wondered again why he was behaving in this uncharacteristic way.

I was toying with the idea of saying something when, without any type of announcement, three men appeared from behind the curtain onto the stage. Two of them carried guitars and one a box. The three of them had thick black hair that fell in curls and waves to their shoulders and their skin was dark and pockmarked. The one with the box, a scowl of concentration on his face, set it down, sat on it and looked to the guitarists, who were making themselves comfortable on their little chairs. A hush came over the bar as the three regarded each other and then simultaneously broke into an upbeat rumba. The box turned out to be a percussion instrument, which I watched with fascination for a moment, never having seen one.

I enjoyed the music and became entranced as people started to pair up and dance. If you didn’t know how, there was really no way to move to this strident, vigorous rhythm, so I was happy to watch others. The dancers, men and women dancing in couples, expressed a controlled sensuality that was impossible not to watch. Raw emotion mixed with an animal grace that infused their bodies. I turned to look at Fernando, meaning to smile at him and show my enjoyment of the place he had brought me to, but I caught on his face an expression I had not expected to see. Preoccupation and something that looked very much like fear. I wanted to bring him back to the moment so I moved in front of him, my back to him, and pulled his arms around me to rest on my tummy. After a moment’s hesitation he squeezed me hard and buried his face in my neck, under my hair. I could feel soft his lips there and I closed my eyes to savor the sensation.

An hour must have gone by in which we were unable to speak because of the loudness of the music in the small space. We watched the dancers, listened to the musicians and then as suddenly as they had appeared, they left the stage.

Fernando kissed me with a feather-like touch of his lips and said:

“Would you like to get something to eat or watch more of this?”

I realized I was hungry so opted for the former.

Out in the street night had fallen and the air was filled with the delicious salty tang of the sea. I breathed it in and closed my eyes, holding tight to Fernando’s hand.

He smiled for the first time since we had left the hotel.

“Are you having a good time?” he asked.

“I always have a good time when I’m with you,” I answered, putting my arms around him and drawing his face down to mine. He kissed me, but I felt a certain restraint and he gently but quickly broke out of my embrace.

We strolled back along the ocean front until we reached a restaurant named Sal Gorda, which, once we were inside, I saw was entirely decorated with bullfighting paraphernalia. Fernando told me the restaurant belonged to the matador Manuel Garcia’s family. We found a table against the wall under a mounted bull’s head and almost immediately a short balding man with glasses was clapping Fernando on the back.

“Hombre, I was wondering when you’d turn up!” he said cheerfully. “How have you been?”

“Manuel, let me introduce my friend Miriam,” Fernando answered, smiling as he pulled me forward.

“Encantado,” Manuel Sr. said, kissing my cheeks. “Enchanted.”

“Manuel owns this wonderful restaurant,” Fran told me with a twinkle in his eye. “And tomorrow his son and I are in the same corrida.”

Manuel Sr. smiled proudly.

“As always, I am both excited and terrified,” he said with disarming honesty. He took our drinks order and Fernando looked around the restaurant, seeming distracted and a little ill at ease. He did not meet my eyes.

I was toying with the idea of telling Fernando my discovery of my grandmother’s religion but just as I had decided that I would, his cell phone rang.

As soon as he answered it his face clouded over and he got up to take the call in private, at the back of the restaurant. I watched him there, gesticulating with one arm and obviously having an argument.

He came back to the table and still without really looking at me properly said he had to go. His uncle had arrived in Malaga earlier than expected and there was something they urgently had to discuss.

“What are you going to do?” he asked me, his tone softening a little. “Would you like to stay here and have your drink or go back to the hotel?”

“I’ll stay here,” I said, making the decision to my own surprise.

In the end Fernando stayed and had his drink too, before leaving. I wasn’t entirely sure why Luis would need to talk to Fernando in person at this time of night but I didn’t press the issue and after one more drink with Manuel and his very amiable friends I set off for a solitary stroll which lead me down to the beach. I took my shoes off and enjoyed the feel of the sand between my toes, walking right down to the water’s edge. The ebb and flow of the warm sea over my toes was very soothing and I felt myself relax a little. So the evening hadn’t gone quite as planned. But still here I was, in Malaga with Fernando. After a while I sat down in the sand and regarded the silver path the moon etched on the sea. Other people passed me on the sand: young couples, couples with children, and a few solitary strollers like me.

I sat there for a while, not wanting to hurry back to the hotel to sit in the room by myself for hours. But eventually I did get up and started back, taking Arenal St. As I was nearing the corner with Reding St., where the hotel was, I was surprised to find someone falling in step beside me. I looked up quickly, feeling panic rise in me when I didn’t recognize who it was straight away. But then the man beside me turned to me and I saw that it was Fernando’s uncle, Luis.

“Oh, hello,” I said, surprised and relieved. “I thought you and Fernando were together.”

“We finished,” Luis answered shortly. “I wanted a word with you as well.”

“You did?” I was even more surprised.

“I wanted to tell you that it would be in your own best interests not see Fernando anymore after you get back to Ronda,” he said clearly and without emotion.

I stopped in my tracks and looked at him.

“Now why on earth would you say that to me?”

Luis ignored my question and went on in the same manner as before.

“Don’t say anything to him tonight – you don’t want to upset him in any way before a corrida.”

I remained rooted to the spot. I was being told by Fernando’s close family member and mentor to stay away from him but to pretend, for now, that nothing was going on? My head reeled and I had a sudden strong urge to get away from this man, his bulk seeming suddenly menacing beside me.

“Good night,” I said and took off as fast as my shoes allowed me to.