Book Extract
she explained that flamenco’s
birthplace was Costa del Sol, the
region running the length of Spain’s
southern coast. Many of the dancers
were descended from Gypsy families.
They’d been coded at birth to
understand flamenco’s language and
music. The only requisite needed for
the rest of the world to experience
this exquisite art form was a passion
for flamenco’s beauty, sorrow and pain.
“How do you know so much?” Miguel
asked as the tablao filled with
animated patrons.
“When I lived in Spain years ago, I’d
go to Andalucia to see flamenco
performed by the pros. I’m a true
devotee. This was the perfect invite
for me tonight.”
She then explained flamenco’s three
elements: the song, which was most
important; the dancers, and the
music, primarily guitarists. The
clapping hands of the performers,
who sat onstage in a row of simple,
rustic chairs, were the magical
accompaniment to the flamenco
dancers’ feet. The tapping in
flamenco music imitated the sounds
made in a forge. Many Andalucian men
worked as blacksmiths. The lyrics
sung during flamenco were often
impromptu and composed on stage.
“If you give me your scent, I will give
you my soul. How’s that for sexy? It’s
the best I’ve heard,” Leah told Javier.
Before he could answer, the lights
dimmed and several guitar players
sauntered on stage followed by six
women dancers. Each flung a fringed
shawl over one shoulder. The women
had jet-black hair slicked back into a
bun, highlighted with a red flower
tucked behind one ear. “Olé,” some
audience members shouted as the
dancers’ castanets found their beat
alongside the plucked guitars.
After the show, Miguel and Leah
strolled in the midnight mist until
they reached the city’s Plaza Mayor, a
massive main square like Salamanca’s
dating back centuries. It felt so right
and so peaceful as he motioned for
them to sit under a table umbrella
and enjoy a nightcap.
“This is none of my business, and you
can tell me that, but what happened
with Javier in Salamanca?” Miguel
asked when he stopped raving about
the beauty around them.
“Our blissful rendezvous was a
disaster. He wants me as a quasicompanion, an occasional lover. He
still grieves for his deceased wife and
black tights and shoes, complemented
with a white shirt and a colored sash
representing the wearer’s college.
When they left their table to
serenade another couple, Miguel
suggested it was time to leave.
wants to be a full-time and
unattached widower with children.”
“So what did you say?”
“I wanted us to be a committed
couple.”
“What a beautiful night, Leah,” he
said, and reached for her hand.
“And?”
They lingered outside her apartment
building. She wanted to invite him in
but resisted the impulse. Instead, she
wished him well in his travels through
Castilla y Leon and Castilla-LaMancha
that would begin the next morning.
He’d be gone for two weeks and fly
back to Virginia without stopping in
Madrid again.
“It’s not going to happen. I’ll never
see or talk to him again. And to think
all those years we’ve known one
another went poof. I’ll miss the
friendship. Oh well.”
“I didn’t expect that answer.”
“You’re a guy with good instincts.
Why did he want me for so long and
then reject me? I know he loves me
but not enough.”
“Call me from the road if you
remember. I’d love to hear your
impressions of Spain,” Leah said in
parting.
“La familia is exceptionally important
to Spaniards. It can withstand a lot.
You can kiss him good-bye if he
brought his family into the picture.
Ask yourself if you want to get
involved in that scenario for a
lifetime. His wife’s memory and their
children will always come before you.”
“How about breakfast tomorrow
before I drive to Segovia? Maybe you
can give me some travel tips,” he said
hesitantly.
“I’d love that. You know about the
aqueduct in Segovia. Right? Oh, and
be sure to eat lamb or roasted pig. I’ll
think of some more things,” she said,
“Is it also cultural differences? He
brought that up.”
“That, too, but
mostly he lacks
courage when
it comes to
women. I know
many men in
Spain like
Javier and even
some in America. How others perceive
them and their marriage is important.
He loves you. I’m sure of that. But
don’t expect him to change. You’re
too independent for him.”
“Happy to have you aboard, madam,”
he added and saluted.
Once on the road, Spain’s magnificent
and billboard-free highway opened up
before them with panoramic views of
the Meseta, the massive central
plateau in the center of the Iberian
Peninsula. At times, stark brown and
gray tones highlighted the parched
earth. Square bales of khaki-colored
hay were piled into stair-like forms
while others were placed randomly on
the farmlands. It was a delightful ride.
The conversation included his
favorite literary characters, many
names new to Leah. Mostly they
laughed and shared anecdotes from
their lives. But there was more going
on than conversation, and they knew
it. They were well-schooled in the art
of seduction and its consequences.
When they ran away to Segovia,
Miguel broke his commitment to a
trusting woman back home. Leah
betrayed her, too, though neither of
them mentioned that.
Despite being successful business
people with a few gray hairs, they
acted like carefree teenagers,
stretching each hour to its fullest.
They arrived in glorious Segovia in
“If you give me your scent, I will give you my soul. How’s that for
sexy? It’s the best I’ve heard,” Leah told Javier.
elated at his request to see her again.
~~~~
“Have you seen Segovia?” Miguel asked
Leah at the end of their breakfast.
“Yes. Beautiful place.”
“I wasn’t before. Why did he remarry
his ex-wife?”
“Want to see it again?” he said softly.
“They probably had an odd marriage
but, in his own way, he loved her.
Forget him, Leah. He won’t live the
life you need. I’m a Spaniard, too, but
I’ve lived in America long enough to
appreciate a woman like you. Forget
Javier.”
“Now?” she asked incredulously. She’d
seen the famed city with the Roman
aqueduct several times, but she
accepted his offer with excitement.
What was going on? Her emails would
be left to languish; her pledge to
write, sabotaged; her friends
neglected and long walks abandoned.
Instead, she’d spend the day in
Segovia with tender Miguel. He’d
later reveal how his invitation had
become a struggle when Susan, his
Virginia girlfriend, flashed across his
thoughts. He invited Leah anyway.
His insight startled her. Before she
could respond, strolling La Tuna
musicians stopped at their table to
serenade them. The minstrel group
recreated a twelfth-century
tradition begun when struggling
university students supported
themselves through donations given
by appreciative listeners. The group
still dressed in traditional costume:
black jackets with slashed sleeves;
black calf-length or shorter trousers;
“Seatmates again. Destination
Segovia,” Miguel said as they buckled
their car seatbelts.
73
the afternoon. Absorbing it all, they
sat at an outdoor cafe in a cozy,
embracing plaza where stone
buildings were adorned with
wrought-iron balconies covered with
geraniums.
As the day slipped into early evening,
they strolled arm in arm, stopping
often to laugh along the stone
streets and to window shop. Miguel
had a comedic sense of timing and
would act out dramatic parts. One
moment he’d be a boisterous, angry
Spaniard jamming his hand into the
bend of his elbow. Then he’d drop his
voice several octaves and become a
gravel-voiced old man.
Rounding a corner, they came upon
Segovia’s multi-spire, sixteenthcentury cathedral where the
spotlights illuminated and spilled into
the Plaza Mayor and over its ornate
wrought-iron bandstand. Absorbed by
the beauty of the city, Miguel and
Leah missed the tolling of the Town
Hall’s hourly bell. When they finally
checked bus and train schedules, it