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“This one?” Nana asked.
The place looked nice enough, but then so had the other six they’d ignored, and it wasn’t as if Gabi knew them like she did the bars back home. She couldn’t tell what was a good one and what to avoid. Frankly, she was on the edge of a sugar-low induced rage, and she was about to pass out with hunger or murder some unsuspecting tourist. “Great.”
Nana spoke to the waiter who, even though most of the tables had a reserved sign on them, seated them in a prime position overlooking the bustling street. Gabi didn’t know whether it was Nana charming the men in their native tongue that seemed to have them eating out of her hand, or maybe they were just more attentive to a woman of Nana’s age. She didn’t back herself to get the same results if she’d done the asking.
“Some tapas are free,” Nana said, “like olives and bread, and sometimes pan con tomate. If it has a pincho in it, then it costs. The longer the pincho, the more expensive. Hot tapas cost. You need to know this.”
“Okay.” The best they’d offered at her old bar was free crisps and peanuts, but with more attention being given to people with allergies now, the nuts had gone a couple of years back. The crisps went shortly after.
Gabi picked up the menu and squinted at it. The waiter placed two dishes of tapas on their table. Neither dish had cocktail sticks in the morsels of food. Gabi started on the tapas and felt the tension release as the food registered in her stomach. It wasn’t only the sunshine that encouraged her to breathe more easily. There was something intoxicating about the place. Grubby, sometimes tatty, buildings leaned against majestic structures, and yet neither looked out of place. They appeared part of a grander, richer scene. The place had a unique feel and so different from England. Waiters with an unhurried, easy-going manner stood outside their restaurants smoking, encouraging passers-by with their effortless charm and bright smiles. Even when their offer was rejected, they laughed and chatted as if talking to a good friend. They appeared to have all the time in the world and all the world in their time. It was captivating. She was drawn to just sitting, and observing, and revelling in the aromas and the relaxed ambience. Besides, she hadn’t spotted a women’s bar yet; she hadn’t been looking. That might be of interest later, but it wasn’t like they were on a short holiday. She was in no rush. “I’m enjoying your company,” she said.
Nana peered over the top of her menu. It was one of her gently quizzical looks that would normally have Gabi flushing with guilt. Only it didn’t this time because what she’d said was true. Having dinner with Nana and watching the world go by, with the clicking and chanting from the street performers seducing her mind was calming.
Nana had talked about bullfighting when Gabi was younger. The dance between bull and matador, the art Nana had said—not the killing—was what drew people into the arena to watch. Gabi hadn’t had a clue what she’d meant and no matter what, she didn’t like the idea of an animal being treated that way. They’d watched the opera Carmen together on the television, the passionate plea of lovers forced apart by circumstances. Both were a cliché of course, but both summed up the feeling in the air, and the passion in the music coming from the streets. Granada was electric by Devon’s standards, which didn’t take much to be fair, and now they’d arrived, she was excited to explore.
She’d never seen Nana eat as much, let alone drink two glasses of wine. All right, they were small glasses, but she wondered how Nana was going to negotiate the cobbled streets safely back to the hotel. Nana had been quiet as they’d eaten. “Has it changed much?” Gabi asked.
“Has what changed, cariño?”
“Granada.”
Nana looked around. “It’s busier. More people and a lot of cars. Too loud. The shops and restaurants have changed. It was a long time ago, Gabriela, and for most of my teenage years, I didn’t come into the city. It was unsafe.”
“Did they sing and dance in the streets like this? I love it.”
“Yes.” She looked towards the group of people chapping and cheering and turned up her nose. “That’s for tourists. We should visit Sacromonte for real flamenco by the Roma Gypsy descendants.”
“I’d like that.”
Looking out over the square, Nana stifled a yawn and rubbed her eyes just as Gabi was about to order another drink. Even though Nana had benefitted from that late afternoon nap, she must be shattered after their early start and long journey.
“Are you ready to go back?” Gabi almost said home, but they were a long way from the farmhouse.
Nana blinked. “Yes. I think I will. You stay.”
“No, I’ll go with you.”
“No. I know the way. We just walked from there. And that neon hotel sign is bigger than the moon. It can’t be missed.”
Nana was exaggerating a little, but she made a good point. The evening had barely begun. She gave Gabi her look again that told her not to argue.
“Okay, fine. But promise me you’ll be careful and go straight back.” Gabi sounded like the parent she’d sworn she would never become, for the second time since they’d set off. She had agreed reluctantly, and it came with a twinge of discomfort. But Nana didn’t seem at all concerned, and she had to respect that, or she would end up trailing her everywhere and that wouldn’t work for either of them.
Nana shook her head. “I know this city like the back of my hand.”
“Hm.” Gabi doubted that Nana was as familiar with Granada as she once might have been, but there was little point in arguing. Gabi paid the bill and watched Nana as she started to retrace her steps. She looked remarkably spritely, wielding her cane, on the back of two glasses of wine. As she mingled with the others and Gabi lost sight of Nana’s white hair, her pulse raced. She’ll be fine.
Gabi gravitated back towards the music in time to see a dancer lift her skirt and reveal her knees and block-heeled shoes. The crowd cheered as she started to tap. She stood on a piece of wood with her back to a man. He perched on the stone wall of the water feature behind them, a guitar in his lap. Another man sat next to him, his palms resting on the top of what looked like a metal block he had clamped between his legs. He started tapping his fingers in a fast beat on the front of the instrument. The woman clicked her heels. Two other men who appeared to be a part of the group started clapping and moved to stand on either side of the woman.
The speed that she moved her feet and the sound that she made were mesmerising. Gabi couldn’t stop staring, and she became immersed trying to work out the pattern in the beat. Some of the other spectators around her were clapping, and she had no idea where to begin. The man with the guitar started to strum. There was nothing lazy or relaxing about this music. He had a dark intensity to his appearance. It was as if he was the music, all passion, fast and fiery.
Gabi had no idea how long she’d been standing with her hands clasped together in front of her, but when the woman leading the dance caught her eye and smiled, she became acutely aware of how odd the prayer position felt given she held no faith. It was astounding that anyone could move a body part that quickly, let alone several parts in coordinated, precise movements. She thought about Michael Flatley’s tap dancing during the interval at Eurovision the previous year. That had been brilliant, but this flamenco was another level of genius. It was raw, fresh, and every beat seemed to ignite a fire inside her. She wanted to dance with them, to feel as uninhibited and as connected to the spirit of the music as they appeared. Nana said this was for tourists, and if Nana was right, Gabi couldn’t wait to see the real thing. It was insane, in a brilliant way.
All these people were beautiful, like the stars in a Hollywood movie. They were olive-skinned, athletic, and alluring. Now that she’d quit her obsessive need to watch the woman’s feet and had registered that she’d smiled at her, Gabi felt as hot as hell and in desperate need of a chilled beer. She tried to wet her lips, tried to breathe deeper. She failed at both. Her heart raced and her hands tingled, and she felt very self-conscious.
The woman glanced in her direction again as she danced a circle with her arm raised, clicking her castanets, and tapping her heels. Gabi was sure they’d locked eyes. It wasn’t the kind of stare she used in England for the explicit purpose of getting laid. This was nothing like that. Not even remotely close. It was as if every cell inside her had stopped functioning and held her suspended inside the passion of the music, and then those cells had simultaneously come to life in a wave of electric vibration that had no end. And each glance the woman stole in Gabi’s direction intensified the feeling. It was hard to breathe and impossible to not stare.
As the music came to an end, the crowd cheered, and people threw coins into the upturned hats that defined the boundary of the group’s makeshift stage. Gabi stepped forward and dropped a note. She had no idea how much she’d given, but she knew what she’d experienced was worth more than she’d brought out with her. She was ushered from the hat by a man wanting to show his appreciation. Coins chinked, and she wandered away in a trance.
