Message From Malaga Read Online Free Page B

and rouse expectations. She was unique, no doubt about that, although she was dressed like the others in the stylised costume of flamenco. And it wasn’t her selection of colours that was so different—the others had made their choices, too, combining favourite contrasts to give variety. It was the way she wore the splendid clothes. She dominated them, made them part of her individuality.
    She had reached her chair, sat down with her spine erect and head high, like all of them and yet like none of them, sweeping aside her wide skirt with a slender arm so that its rippling hem spread out on the wooden floor like an opened fan around her feet. The sleeveless top of her dress was black and unadorned. It moulded her body, from low rounded neckline down over firm breasts and taut waist almost to the line of her hips. There, the many-tiered skirt, black lace over red silk, belled out in a cascade of ruffles that ended above her ankles, dipping slightly in back almost to the heavy high heels of her leather pumps. These were the practical note, the classical shoes of the flamenco dancer, which could beat out lightning rhythms like a riffle on a drum. The small red shawl, fringed in black, was practical too: it covered the bare back and shoulders against the cool touch of early-morning air. But the flower in her elaborately simple hair was completely exotic, large, softly frilling, startlingly pink. She wore long earrings to balance the curl over her cheek, but no necklace, no rings, no bracelets. The bones of her face were strong yet finely moulded, cleverly emphasised by the skill of her make-up. Her large dark eyes were shining, her smile lingering. “Good God,” Ferrier said again, aloud this time.
    Suddenly, without any apparent signal, any noticeable exchange of glances, the four girls rose and swept into a round with the first bright chords of the sevillana, paired off, laced, separated, came together again, filling the little stage with a swirl of skirts, a flurry of heels struck hard, a crack of castanets from upraised hands. The guitars quickened, heightened, their rhythms marked by hard hand-clapping from the singer and dancer. From Tavita, too. Her eyes were watching the stamping feet withpleasure and excitement, her smile breaking into laughter. “Go! Go!” she called out to Constanza. “ Anda! Anda! ”
    Reid was studying Ferrier’s face. “This is just for openers, you know. The individual dancing comes later.”
    “They really enjoy themselves.” And I along with them. “Why the hell don’t I give up my job, move here, see this every night?” Ferrier settled back in his chair. At this moment, he thought, I am a very very happy man.
    Reid said softly, as Jaime came out of the darkness and placed their brandy before them, “Excuse me for a few minutes, will you? This is just as good a time as any—Pablo will have to dance, Miguel to sing, Constanza or Maruja to demonstrate an alegria, before we get Tavita’s performance. Don’t worry, I won’t miss that. Hold the table. Some of the late comers are ready to pounce on any free space.”
    Ferrier nodded, his eyes on the stage. But he was aware that Reid had moved, not toward the back of the courtyard, where others had previously sauntered out to the washroom, but through the door in the wall beside him. Special privilege, Ferrier thought, and was briefly entertained. And then he forgot about Reid as the climactic moments of the sevillana, with violent strumming and rapping on the guitars, wildly swinging skirts, rattling heels, lightning castanets, caught him up into the excitement of movement and colour and sound, a frenzied crescendo that ended abruptly, completely, jolting everyone into a shout of applause.

2
    Reid slipped out of the courtyard into a room that was dark and silent. And oppressive; the collected heat of the day had been trapped under its heavily timbered ceiling. It was mostly used for storage: at one end, adjoining the wineshop itself,