The Return by Victoria Hislop Page A
Authors: Victoria Hislop
Tags: Fiction, General, Psychological fiction, Historical, Family, British, War & Military, Spain, Families, British - Spain, Spain - History - Civil War; 1936-1939 - Social Aspects, Granada (Spain)
Ads: Link
insubstantial frame was what really amazed her.
Once or twice, the dance seemed to reach a natural end, when the girl would pause and look away from the guitarist and towards the palmists, but then she herself would begin to clap and moments later her stamping and swaying would begin again, and her arms would resume their snakelike motion. Several times Sonia heard a quiet, encouraging ‘ Olé ’, the acknowledgement that this woman was not just impressing her peer group but also stirring their emotions as they rocked and swayed in their seats.
When the dance did truly come to an end, the rhythmic claps immediately turned to rippling applause. Some of them stood up and embraced her, and there was astonishing beauty in her broad smile.
Sonia had pushed the door slightly more open at one point and now one of the accompanists strode purposefully towards it. He had not seen her but she slunk guiltily away before he could spot her and disappeared into the cloakroom. It was not as though she had witnessed a crime, but she felt she had seen something illicit, an event that might never have been on public display.
That night, Sonia returned willingly to the salsa club. She had lost her anxiety about venturing into places where she knew so few people. Once she had relaxed and accepted a few invitations to dance, she enjoyed herself just as she had done the night before. Salsa was easy on the mind and the body, a far cry from the intensity of flamenco. She could not entirely put out of her mind the image of the girl she had seen that afternoon dancing with such consuming passion in front of her gitano , her gypsy.
Chapter Seven
THE NEXT MORNING, for the first time, Sonia understood why the nearby mountains were called the Sierra Nevada, the snowy mountains. Although the sky was bright there was an icy freshness in the air and when she pushed open the door of the hotel to leave, it was like stepping into a fridge.
Today was their last full day in Granada. Sonia was already feeling nostalgic about her visit, though it was not yet over. There was still one more dance lesson and one more chance to emerge from a nightclub as dawn was breaking.
The sun would struggle to appear above the pale turrets of the Alhambra today and would cast a golden glow only briefly on the squares before it sank behind the mountains. The owner of her favourite café, El Barril, as she had now noticed it was called, knew that few of his customers would be wanting to sit outside when the temperatures had plummeted so had not bothered to put any chairs out that day. Sonia entered the dark interior and gradually her eyes adjusted to the dimness.
The old man was behind the bar polishing glasses and he emerged to greet her. He did not need to ask what she wanted to drink and there was soon the shriek of the coffee grinder as he began to prepare her coffee with all the diligence of a scientist conducting an experiment.
Even he was finding it difficult to operate in the gloom and he crossed the room to switch on the lights.The place was transformed by the sudden illumination. It was much larger than Sonia had realised, a big square room, with perhaps thirty round tables, each with two or three chairs, and at the back of the room several dozen more piled up to the ceiling. The space was unexpected. There was nothing remarkable about the furniture or the décor, but what caught Sonia’s eye were the walls. Every square inch of them was covered.
On one wall were several dozen corrida posters. Sonia had seen something like these in the prints sold all over Spain, customised with the tourist’s name, so that people could imagine themselves famed toreadors.The posters on the walls here were not souvenirs, though. They carried the patina of age and authenticity. Sonia rose to read them.
The fights advertised by these posters had taken place in bullrings all over the country: Sevilla, Madrid, Málaga,Almería, Ronda
Once or twice, the dance seemed to reach a natural end, when the girl would pause and look away from the guitarist and towards the palmists, but then she herself would begin to clap and moments later her stamping and swaying would begin again, and her arms would resume their snakelike motion. Several times Sonia heard a quiet, encouraging ‘ Olé ’, the acknowledgement that this woman was not just impressing her peer group but also stirring their emotions as they rocked and swayed in their seats.
When the dance did truly come to an end, the rhythmic claps immediately turned to rippling applause. Some of them stood up and embraced her, and there was astonishing beauty in her broad smile.
Sonia had pushed the door slightly more open at one point and now one of the accompanists strode purposefully towards it. He had not seen her but she slunk guiltily away before he could spot her and disappeared into the cloakroom. It was not as though she had witnessed a crime, but she felt she had seen something illicit, an event that might never have been on public display.
That night, Sonia returned willingly to the salsa club. She had lost her anxiety about venturing into places where she knew so few people. Once she had relaxed and accepted a few invitations to dance, she enjoyed herself just as she had done the night before. Salsa was easy on the mind and the body, a far cry from the intensity of flamenco. She could not entirely put out of her mind the image of the girl she had seen that afternoon dancing with such consuming passion in front of her gitano , her gypsy.
Chapter Seven
THE NEXT MORNING, for the first time, Sonia understood why the nearby mountains were called the Sierra Nevada, the snowy mountains. Although the sky was bright there was an icy freshness in the air and when she pushed open the door of the hotel to leave, it was like stepping into a fridge.
Today was their last full day in Granada. Sonia was already feeling nostalgic about her visit, though it was not yet over. There was still one more dance lesson and one more chance to emerge from a nightclub as dawn was breaking.
The sun would struggle to appear above the pale turrets of the Alhambra today and would cast a golden glow only briefly on the squares before it sank behind the mountains. The owner of her favourite café, El Barril, as she had now noticed it was called, knew that few of his customers would be wanting to sit outside when the temperatures had plummeted so had not bothered to put any chairs out that day. Sonia entered the dark interior and gradually her eyes adjusted to the dimness.
The old man was behind the bar polishing glasses and he emerged to greet her. He did not need to ask what she wanted to drink and there was soon the shriek of the coffee grinder as he began to prepare her coffee with all the diligence of a scientist conducting an experiment.
Even he was finding it difficult to operate in the gloom and he crossed the room to switch on the lights.The place was transformed by the sudden illumination. It was much larger than Sonia had realised, a big square room, with perhaps thirty round tables, each with two or three chairs, and at the back of the room several dozen more piled up to the ceiling. The space was unexpected. There was nothing remarkable about the furniture or the décor, but what caught Sonia’s eye were the walls. Every square inch of them was covered.
On one wall were several dozen corrida posters. Sonia had seen something like these in the prints sold all over Spain, customised with the tourist’s name, so that people could imagine themselves famed toreadors.The posters on the walls here were not souvenirs, though. They carried the patina of age and authenticity. Sonia rose to read them.
The fights advertised by these posters had taken place in bullrings all over the country: Sevilla, Madrid, Málaga,Almería, Ronda
Similar Books
