wonderedwhy I was wondering about him, and stopped myself. I thought about what he’d told me about la Rusa instead. What had she done during the Civil War that had made her so hated that somebody might have killed her all those years later? It occurred to me that Mamie might know, but I had to stick to my promise of not asking her questions about the past.
I collected my books, but before sitting down with them, I searched the card catalogue to see if the library’s collection included anything on flamenco dancers. I found a book titled The Encyclopaedia of Flamenco that I thought could be a good start. The wait for the book, however, was longer than it had been for the other materials. When the librarian finally placed the encyclopaedia on the pick-up shelf, I couldn’t find a free seat at one of the desks to read it. So I balanced it on the edge of a desk and leafed through the pages on the great flamenco guitarists and singers until I reached the section on dancers. Carmen had been right about the stage names. La Joselito had taken her name from a bullfighter who had been trampled to death in 1920; Antonia Mercé was la Argentina because she was born in Buenos Aires; la Mejorana was named after a herb. Flamenco aficionados, it seemed, were not averse to designating names in reference to dancers’ physical disabilities, or those of their parents: La Sordita was deaf; and la Niña del Ciego was ‘the daughter of the blind one’. The gypsies had a particularly warped humour, or maybe it was superstition, because the contemporary dancer la Chunga’s name meant ‘the unattractive one’, even though from the photograph the encyclopaedia showed of her she was bewitchingly beautiful.
Then I found what I was looking for:
La Rusa was born in the slum area of Barcelona known as the barri Xinès to Andalusian parents in 1901. Out of her poverty she rose to become one of the most famous flamenco dancers of her time. Despite her newly gained wealth and prestige, she sided with the Republicans in Barcelona during the Civil War(1936–1939), perhaps in memory of her father, who had been a member of the Radical Party during the strikes of 1909. Her loyalty to the masses turned out to be a decision for which she paid dearly when she was forced to live in exile. She died in 1952 in Paris.
That was all. There was nothing about la Rusa’s real name, or why she had taken her unusual stage name. There was nothing about where she had lived in Paris. But one thing puzzled me above all else: if she had fought on the side of the Republicans against Franco during the Civil War, why would anyone in the Spanish émigré community have wanted to kill her? Most of them had been Republican supporters too. Then I remembered Mamie once telling me that Franco was supposed to have arranged the assassinations of several high-profile exiles, especially if they had continued to speak out against his regime. Was that what had happened to la Rusa?
The snippets of incomplete information made my curiosity grow. I returned the book along with those on the supernatural, and went back to the catalogue to see if I could find another book that might have more information about la Rusa. The clock on the wall caught my attention. It was already half past twelve. I was cutting it fine to get back in time for Mamie’s afternoon class. If there was anything my grandmother hated, it was a lack of punctuality — especially in front of her students.
I found two other books on the history of flamenco and filled in the request slips quickly. The notice at the desk said there was a waiting time of thirty minutes for books, but those I had requested didn’t arrive until three-quarters of an hour later. I had fifteen minutes to get to the Métro station if I wanted to make Mamie’s class on time.
I didn’t even bother taking the books into the reading room, but crouched down against a wall and balanced them on my lap. I browsed through the first book, which
I collected my books, but before sitting down with them, I searched the card catalogue to see if the library’s collection included anything on flamenco dancers. I found a book titled The Encyclopaedia of Flamenco that I thought could be a good start. The wait for the book, however, was longer than it had been for the other materials. When the librarian finally placed the encyclopaedia on the pick-up shelf, I couldn’t find a free seat at one of the desks to read it. So I balanced it on the edge of a desk and leafed through the pages on the great flamenco guitarists and singers until I reached the section on dancers. Carmen had been right about the stage names. La Joselito had taken her name from a bullfighter who had been trampled to death in 1920; Antonia Mercé was la Argentina because she was born in Buenos Aires; la Mejorana was named after a herb. Flamenco aficionados, it seemed, were not averse to designating names in reference to dancers’ physical disabilities, or those of their parents: La Sordita was deaf; and la Niña del Ciego was ‘the daughter of the blind one’. The gypsies had a particularly warped humour, or maybe it was superstition, because the contemporary dancer la Chunga’s name meant ‘the unattractive one’, even though from the photograph the encyclopaedia showed of her she was bewitchingly beautiful.
Then I found what I was looking for:
La Rusa was born in the slum area of Barcelona known as the barri Xinès to Andalusian parents in 1901. Out of her poverty she rose to become one of the most famous flamenco dancers of her time. Despite her newly gained wealth and prestige, she sided with the Republicans in Barcelona during the Civil War(1936–1939), perhaps in memory of her father, who had been a member of the Radical Party during the strikes of 1909. Her loyalty to the masses turned out to be a decision for which she paid dearly when she was forced to live in exile. She died in 1952 in Paris.
That was all. There was nothing about la Rusa’s real name, or why she had taken her unusual stage name. There was nothing about where she had lived in Paris. But one thing puzzled me above all else: if she had fought on the side of the Republicans against Franco during the Civil War, why would anyone in the Spanish émigré community have wanted to kill her? Most of them had been Republican supporters too. Then I remembered Mamie once telling me that Franco was supposed to have arranged the assassinations of several high-profile exiles, especially if they had continued to speak out against his regime. Was that what had happened to la Rusa?
The snippets of incomplete information made my curiosity grow. I returned the book along with those on the supernatural, and went back to the catalogue to see if I could find another book that might have more information about la Rusa. The clock on the wall caught my attention. It was already half past twelve. I was cutting it fine to get back in time for Mamie’s afternoon class. If there was anything my grandmother hated, it was a lack of punctuality — especially in front of her students.
I found two other books on the history of flamenco and filled in the request slips quickly. The notice at the desk said there was a waiting time of thirty minutes for books, but those I had requested didn’t arrive until three-quarters of an hour later. I had fifteen minutes to get to the Métro station if I wanted to make Mamie’s class on time.
I didn’t even bother taking the books into the reading room, but crouched down against a wall and balanced them on my lap. I browsed through the first book, which
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