Under the Spanish Stars by Alli Sinclair Page B

it Mateo’s way, so if that meant shutting up then so be it. Damn.
    Cristina grabbed Mateo’s arm and marched him off into the distance. They glanced at Charlotte every so often while she shifted from foot to foot, catching words in Spanish such as ‘foreigner’, ‘no right’ and ‘no way in hell’.
    As they threw their arms in the air and raised their voices, Charlotte tried to reassure herself that some nationalities had a penchant for drama and what sometimes looked like an argument was, in fact, a friendly conversation. But when Cristina shot her a well-aimed death stare, Charlotte’s hopes plummeted.
    Cristina shoved her finger in front of Mateo’s face a few times before he threw his arms out wide and strode off, leaving a self-righteous, smug Cristina behind him. Grabbing Charlotte’s elbow, Mateo steered her back towards the car.
    Wrenching the door open he sat with a thud and motioned for her to get in the vehicle. ‘It is a no. I am sorry.’
    â€˜We’ll see about that.’ Charlotte reached in and grabbed her handbag, bolting towards Cristina, who stood with her hands on hips, perfecting her stink-eye. Rummaging in the bag as she ran, Charlotte seized the copy of the painting and unrolled it. Pulling up in front of Cristina, she said, ‘Please. Look at this.’
    Cristina turned her head and stared across the empty field.
    â€˜ Por favor .’ Charlotte reached into the recesses of her mind, willing her memory to grab onto her Spanish vocabulary. ‘ Mí abuela … very sad … gran-abuelo painting …’ but the words fell away in an overwhelming sense of defeat. Hanging her head, Charlotte let her arms fall by her sides, the copy of the painting hanging limply from one hand. This was a useless endeavour. For some crazy reason Cristina had a hate on, and couldn’t care less about Charlotte or her grandmother.
    Staring at the ground, Charlotte studied her boots. In her line of visionappeared a hand with long, manicured nails beckoning her attention. Looking up, Charlotte found Cristina’s expression had softened slightly as she motioned for the piece of paper to be handed over. Charlotte did as the woman wished and Cristina held the copy at different angles to allow the moonlight to capture the shades and shapes.
    â€˜ ¿Que es eso? ’
    Charlotte replied, ‘ Una artista .’
    Cristina tilted her head to the side, eyes focussed on the image.
    â€˜It’s from—’ Charlotte stopped herself from mentioning Syeria Mesa Flores Giménez. ‘ Una artista from clan de Giménez . My great-grandfather gave it to my abuela and now—’
    â€˜ Sí, sí. Entiendo .’ She cocked her head in the direction of her community. ‘ Ven .’
    Cristina rolled the copy of the painting, placed it under her arm and marched into the forest. Turning to face Mateo, Charlotte waved for him to follow and he raced towards them, his eyes wide.
    Mateo leant over and whispered, ‘How did you change her mind?’
    â€˜I don’t know. I tried to talk to her in Spanish … Maybe she felt sorry for me or wanted me to stop mangling her language.’
    â€˜Cristina feels sorry for no one.’ Mateo squeezed her shoulder. ‘You have done well.’
    They traipsed through the forest, music and laughter growing louder the further they progressed. Branches and leaves scraped against her skin and caught on her shirt, but Charlotte pushed on, not wanting to lose Cristina. They broke free and arrived at a clearing, but Cristina continued. Charlotte hesitated, feeling like a gatecrasher. Men and women sat around a massive fire, chatting and laughing while a pod of kids ran in between caravans and makeshift houses. Just like in spaghetti western movies, they all stopped what they were doing and silently watched the newcomer amble by. Her heart pounded, sweat pooled at the base of her spine and