Madrid

The one thing that astonished him was the sheer number of Flamenco studios and clubs. Some of the places were just complete tourist rip-off joints. Karaoke Flamenco for tourists who come by the bus-loads. Twice nightly, passionless tosh that was more about selling expensive wine and champagne. She would not be there.
On seeing the countless dance studios for himself, it seemed to him that any warehouse would do; and two blokes with a guitar and some old biddy singing would attract around twenty clapped out women, far too old to be doing this stuff, tapping their hearts out all day long. Well, it beats bingo, he supposed. He’d found sixteen English women so far, most either running from a man or their kids, not a one under thirty. It seemed to him that running away from husbands was now some kind of rampant social disease. None of them so far had been called Jan and a lot of the women for some weird reason were from Canada.

He was beginning to think that he was being stupid and stubborn. He knew that she was in Spain, he knew that she didn’t have much money. But she had to be living somewhere. The way he looked at it, she’d know her husband was dead by now, so she would be running scared; but totally invisible? London was growing impatient with him and there was the danger the story could get very cold.

No one he had spoken to had ever spoken with her or seen this mousey looking woman in the photograph. He’s spoken on the phone with Monica, this ex-lawyer and so called psychic, who claimed to know Jan well. All he knew for certain that she had flown to Madrid. She and Monica has ‘always dreamed of taking dance classes in Spain’ so she was sure he would find her. But now he wasn’t even sure he was in the right city.

He’d called her mother back in England once a week. Even though this dotty woman was now convinced he was her very worried and compassionate boss, concerned about ‘Jan’, the mother was either a very good liar or didn’t know. Either way Jan had never called her, despite the old woman insisting that they were very ‘close’.
Joe had thought hard about Jan. He’d wandered around the indoor trees of the old Atocha station and thought about her. He tried to figure out what might be going on in her mind. He’d thought hard about Madrid too. He’d taken the opportunity to go to a few galleries, in case she was a culture nut. He done the Prado, too crowded, enjoyed the Centro de Arts Reina Sofia. He didn’t really like Dali that much, but he liked the building, converted from an old hospital into one of the most simple and elegant modern art galleries he’d ever been to. He walked the Palacio Real and haunted the Latin quarter where most of the Flamenco studios were situated. Madrid had impressed him. It was hotter than he would have liked, but it was stylish. He’d nearly had his wallet taken when dosing in a park and he’d silently broken the arm of the kid who’d tried it. Just left him there swearing after him. The boy was lucky he hadn’t snapped his neck.

He avoided calling the office. No point in calling until he had got a lead. They’d know he was on it. That was why they used him. Joe would stick at it, even if things looked impossible.

He walked into a studio at the back of a seedy cafe just off Calle Toledo. He’d been here before, but there were different shifts, different classes. It was seven in the evening. Madrid was still quiet, it would get busier once the shops shut. Some woman was clapping her hands and wailing. An overweight woman in a silver leotard was gasping on the stairs. Joe paused at the double doors as around fifteen woman stomped their feet and flashed their fans as two guys with guitars strummed a rhythm. Same crap, different women. The women noticed him, some looked at him hungrily. Joe didn’t respond. He knew he was sometimes considered good looking, others said he looked mean, but he just wasn’t interested. Not in these women anyway. One thing was for sure; they’d all lose weight doing this stuff. He found it hard to sexualise these women; they just didn’t turn him on. Perhaps it was the tapping, the calluses on their hard dry scabby feet. He’d been with a real dancer once; well she’d been in touring versions of ‘Chicago’ and ‘Showboat’. She really liked him too and had ambitions to dance professionally. But she’d had disgusting feet which used to make him feel ill just to look at them and he had to break it off. He’d never told her why, no one would understand something like that. Beatrice, her name had been Beatrice. He wondered if she’d made it.
One of the guitarists came up to him during a break. He nodded. They had talked before.
‘She not here?’
Joe shook his head.
‘Your sister, she want to be a Flamenco dancer? I mean, she good?’
Joe nodded. ‘She’s ambitious, but too thin, I can tell,’ he indicated the heavy women sprawled out on the floor nursing their feet, sucking wind.
The guitarist smiled. He understood.
‘Maybe you should try Sevilla? Or Jerez? If they are any good, they go there. Andalucia, is where I would go Senor.’
Joe hadn’t thought about that. ‘Better than here?’
The guitarist looked at the women dying on the studio floor and shrugged. "Si, better than here. This is for touristas, Senor. You understand?’
Joe understood. It had taken him three weeks, but he now understood. Madrid was a quick fix. Fly in; learn all the Flamenco moves, fly out. You go someplace else for the real thing.
The guitarist was getting ready to go back to his chair. ‘Andalucia is where it all begins,’ he added.
Joe sighed. It had logic. He didn’t know Jan; he didn’t even know why people took up bloody Flamenco dancing. Why put yourself through all this? But this Jan, she lived in that elegant flat in Kensington. She would know the difference between tourist and first class. If he were going to put himself through all that pain, he’d want to be taught by the best. No doubt about it.
‘Who’s the best?’ He asked the guitarist, catching up with him, as he was about to sit down.
‘Raul in Sevilla, Isabella and Raul, or Pascalle in Cadiz,’ he shrugged, how did you make a judgement like that.
Joe could tell he was trying to give him a straight answer, but it must be choosing football teams, each had its merits. Joe gave him a hundred euro note. ‘If she comes here. Call this number. She’s called Jan, looks Spanish. There’s another note if you’re right.’
The guitarist took his money. He’d been hoping for more, but it would do. He smiled. He wouldn’t call. In his experience brothers seldom sought out runaway sisters and this man was not looking for any ‘sister’. He looked like cop. Only a cop would be so persistent.
‘I hope you find her Senor’.
Joe smiled. ‘Thanks.’

Joe left. He’d catch a train. He’d always wanted to catch a train in Spain, some childhood thing probably. He’d go to Cadiz and work his way backwards. He’d find her.
He went down into the subway. Time to go back to his hotel and pack. He felt lighter. He had a sense of purpose again.

CADIZ

Jan didn’t know any of the other women, but she shared one common element with everyone; they all, from their heads to their swollen feet, wanted to get the hell out of Jerez for a day and bathe in the cool sea off Cadiz. She skipped a class, left everything that was uncomfortable behind (which included the discordant Anthea and Frannie) and caught the train with the girls to the coast
It was so hot, around 40 degrees centigrade, they just couldn’t take it anymore. The German women seemed to be the ringleaders. They had all come to learn flamenco, but each one of the six of them had reached a personal breaking point and needed to get away, soothe their sore limbs and live a little. Each one of them loathed their martinet instructor and had little good to say about Jerez or Spain either. .

Jan knew she had been lucky to have found space in Frannie’s home. The others were either sharing squalid apartments or living in cheap hotels. Perhaps they had all shared a common fantasy in the beginning and knew the training would be hard work, but they just hadn’t imagined how hard, how relentless and how little progress they were making.

It was time to break free, regroup, have a little fun. Gerta booked the tickets and led them out of the dance school towards the station. Now they were singing and laughing like schoolgirls on an adventure.
They had caught a couple of taxis to the beach and squeezed their way through the crowds, made some space by a large rock that might afford some shade later and they shed what flimsy clothes they wore.
Jan was just as keen as everyone else and once in the warm water found herself reluctant to leave it. The salt water was soothing her sore feet and as she swam she began to think more clearly about what she was doing, why she was in Spain and how terribly she had behaved to Leonard. At the very least she should have sent him a postcard. He probably worried about her. She wasn’t sure he would have actually fretted or sent anyone after her, but she was sure he missed her. She wasn’t sure whether just thinking about him meant that she missed him, or it was simple guilt.
‘What’s wrong’?
Jan turned as she was wading back towards the beach and saw Gerta looking at her.
‘Nothing. Just thinking.’
‘Forget him. You are here for yourself Jan. Time to live life for yourself. That’s why we are all here.’
‘I didn’t say…’ She realised that Gerta was simply guessing and had hit the mark. ‘Yes, you’re right. I haven’t had time to think since I got here and…’
‘We are going to find some lunch to bring back for the girls. Want to help?’
Jan smiled. "Of course. I wanted to look around Cadiz anyway.’
‘It is very pretty. Not so many touristas, not so many English.’
‘Or Germans,’ Jan added.
‘Ja, thank god.’
Jan smiled as they emerged from the sea. She grabbed her beach dress not bothering to dry off. She knew she would be sweating again in five minutes flat anyway.. ‘Why couldn’t they have the Flamenco school here? I could have swum every day.’
Gerta nodded, the thought had occurred to her as well.
Gerta took her arm and that of Sorcha, the Irish woman, and they smiled to each other as they made their way through the crowds to the promenade above the beach. They passed an Englishman talking loudly on his mobile on a bad connection. Jan make a joke about him as they passed and they girls laughed.

Joe disconnected his call. They were getting impatient in London. Not his fault. As far as he could tell this woman had hidden herself pretty damn well. Let them send someone else if they didn’t think he was doing his best. He looked back at the beach and wished he had time for a swim.

One thing had become quite clear to him. Cadiz was not a Flamenco town. He had walked the whole city twice, spoken with as many people as he could and very few seemed to speak any English, but he detected no Flamenco school. He’d got a lead to a place on Sacremento Street and must have walked the whole length of it three times (it was very long, cutting right across the old walled city) but found nothing. Cadiz was a bloody waste of time.
The hotel had been a warning. He’d arrived late, couldn’t find anyplace to stay and ended up in some place called Hotel Espana.
It was hell. Everything faced inwards. He was stuck in a room with metal bars for a window that overlooked the interior courtyard which was noisy and smokey. The hotelier was old and clearly bored of everything including his wife and as such made no effort. Whatsoever. His room stank, the shower next door didn’t work and people argued loudly in their rooms that were no different to Spartan prison cells. Joe didn’t like this place and was pretty much ready to leave Cadiz as soon as he was sure Jan wasn’t here.

He wandered into the bar just below the promenade overlooking the old fishing harbour. It was dump but he figured that if the fishermen ate and drank here it would be OK. He ordered some fried fish and he hoped he would like it. Bored he sucked on a beer whilst he waited.
He turned to look out of the door and there was this young girl leaning up against the door fanning herself with a menu. He must have smiled because she smiled back and began to walk towards him. His fish came at the same time and she pulled out a chair for him to sit down at the table nearest her. The waiter fussed a little but the fish looked good and smelled fresh so Joe just went along with everything. The girl hovered. He looked up at her and noted her long sleek black hair.
‘You Japanese?’ he asked, but for all he knew she could be Chinese or from Bali.
‘You never been in here before.’ She answered momentarily perching on a chair opposite him. ‘If you come for the dancing, it was cancelled. He’s sick. Can’t dance. They stay in Jerez’
‘Dancing?’
‘Flamenco.’
‘You a flamenco dancer?’ He wasn’t sure if Japanese girls even knew about it, let alone danced it.
‘I study Flamenco in Osaka, ‘ she answered, ‘but…’ she sighed, ‘ I am no dancer’. She brightened a little. ‘I play guitar. See?’
Joe followed her pointing finger to a poster on the wall and sure enough, there she was Midori with her guitar. Not a great poster, but he could at least make out it was her.
‘Eat your fish, looks nice. Came in this morning. I always eat here.’
Joe smiled and tasted his fish. It was excellent. Really fresh.
She grinned at him and he just ate as she watched him. Joe shook his head and smiled to himself. In the last bar at the very edge of Spain, a Japanese girl played guitar to Andalusian fisherman. It was crazy.
‘You like flamenco?’
‘I like guitar.’
‘Good, I play very soon for you. I am a student here now. A year studying Spanish music.’
Joe wasn’t sure what to make of that. He wondered what had made her want to do that. Leave Japan to live in Cadiz for a year. The music or a man. He was betting a man.
‘Your English is very good.’
"I learned in Detroit. Japanese-American school.’
‘In Detroit?’ Joe found it hard to believe somehow.
‘In Detroit, Michigan. Very cold in winter. Spain is much nicer.’
Joe smiled. There was no arguing with that.
Midori stole a piece of his bread and gave him a brilliant smile as she stood up. Joe noted that she was just about perfect. Slim tanned legs, a pert bottom and he tried not to think about it.
‘I’ll play for you now.’ She walked over to the corner and picked up her guitar and sat on the makeshift wooden platform. The guitar was almost too big for her but Joe could see she was confident with it. He noted that she was wearing ice blue winkle pickers on her feet. She was certainly different.

He ate half his fish as she tuned up, then stopped eating altogether when she began to play. He was astonished. Predictably it was Rodrigo ‘Zapateado’ but played with masterly precision and feeling.
Joe looked around the room and noted no one else was listening to her but him and he felt a tug of sorrow for the girl. Such confidence, such skill and nothing but indifference. She looked up a moment and saw him staring and she gave him a brief smile before returning to her intense concentration on her fingerwork.

A tall woman in a skimpy costume came in dripping wet from swimming; the men’s eyes swivelled around to look at her nipples visible through the wet cloth of her costume. She stepped out again and Joe heard a German voice dismissively say ‘Just a girl with a guitar.’
Joe finished his fish and watched as Midori played on, something classical, but with a contemporary feel, her own composition he sensed.
Twenty minutes later a young man with a scrawny beard came in and Midori stopped playing. The boy went up to her and she began packing up her stuff without a word or a smile to him. He seemed impatient. Joe found that for some reason he was more disappointed that he had a right to be.
Midori glanced at him as she left. He signalled and smiled at her as she departed but her face was expressionless now. The boy looked mean. He hated that. He hated seeing someone waste themselves on someone mean. Joe resolved to leave Cadiz for Jerez that night.

On the beach Jan was handing out sandwiches to the other women. She wanted to sneak off and listen to the girl in the bar playing the classical guitar. Justine, one of the German girls had said she was brilliant. Jan loved classical guitar.
Gerta arrived back with some sparkling water. ‘She left.’
‘Who?’
‘The Japanese girl. Leon, you remember him the dancer from Sevilla? The one I told you has a crush on you. He told Justine that she was brilliant. Saw her play in Toledo last month. Can’t believe she plays here in a fisherman’s bar.’
‘She’s Japanese?’ Jan asked, slightly confused by all this.
‘Someone has to be,’ Gerta replied, taking a ham sandwich from Jan’s hands. She laughed then and Jan joined in.
She tried to remember any conversation about this Leon who was supposed to have a crush on her. Since when? She made a mental note to ask about this on the way home.
‘Too hot here,’ I’m going to swim again.’ Jan told them.
She slipped away and ran back into the sea. Leon, she was thinking. No, too arrogant, too self-important. Too good. He was the best dancer in Jerez; there was no way he was interested in her.

On the way back to Jerez, Gerta surprised everyone by getting stonking drunk on peach brandy. Jan knew the German women were hard drinkers but she had been surprised by Gerta’s determination to get smashed. She had finished half the bottle when she began to talk about her husband – who, Jan was surprised to hear, she had loved dearly. Her Herman was calm, kind, steady, never been without a job, cared for her and had raised their child Eberhard with much care and love. Herman was also boring, terrible in bed, never wanted to go anywhere and expected her to keep him happy the way his mother did. But when Eberhard was killed in a car accident it was Herman who mourned, Herman who went to pieces and Gerta realised that her life was slipping away. She left him, without regret. Never wrote, not even a postcard. Never missed Eberhard either. Everyone thought she was a hard bitch who was incapable of love. Perhaps it was true, so once a month she made sure she got absolutely drunk to make sure she got in touch with her feelings.

Jan thought about that and about how methodical Gerta was. A women who felt guilty because she didn’t feel any pain. Jan started telling her about Leonard but Gerta wasn’t listening by then, the peach brandy had taken hold. By the time they reached Jerez again she was asleep and they would have to carry her back to her hotel.

At the back of the train Joe was in and out of a dozy state. He hoped he could find a better hotel in Jerez. He’d noted the German women in the front carriage and made a mental note to ask them about Jan if they got off in Jerez. If not tonight, the next day. It was a small town, some German women should be easy to find.

Everyone was rather reluctant to end the day when they arrived back at the station. All had that sleepy feeling, their skin glowing from the combination of sun and sea, but just below the surface there was a sense of dread that they were back and that more torture awaited them the next day. Jan found herself suggesting that they do it all over again in a weeks time. They smiled, the same thoughts had occurred to them all. They walked home together laughing and supporting the semi-conscious Gerta between them. Jan felt that some kind of bonding moment had happened. It was a good feeling shared by all. For the first time in a long time she could feel that she was making real friends.

Chapter Four here

sam.north at port.ac.uk
© sam north 2004/5- all rights reserved
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