A Year in the World by Frances Mayes Read Free Book Online Page A

architecture. Vehement as they became about expelling the Arab rule from Spain, the Christians continued to retain, adopt, and adapt from Arab artisans, who had directly shaped the beauty of Andalucía from the eighth until the fifteenth century. The quotes from Arab design continue today. Layers and layers fused, and we have Andalucía.
     
    The small Plaza de Santa Cruz looks as though actors will emerge any second. Wrought-iron arches suround the plaza planted with orange trees, and vines run from arch to arch. The houses are all dream houses, quintessentially Spanish with their carved doors and iron balconies and proud facades. Through the damask-draped windows we glimpse lighted rooms with baronial furniture, sideboards laden with crystal decanters, and portraits in immense gilt frames. The smell inside must be the same as in my grandfather’s house—overripe fruit, wax, cigar smoke, and leather. In one of the mansions, now a restaurant, we dine on sea bass with almond vinaigrette, artichokes with black rice, and fig soufflé. This is grand. I’m turning Spanish. It’s late.
Olé!
    At one A.M. we find a taxi and show the driver a Triana address the waiter has written on our bill. In a few minutes we’re getting out in front of an unassuming white building that looks like where the Moultrie, Georgia Elks, or Legionnaires hold their pancake breakfasts. Inside, a few people gathered around tables facing a stage chat and visit. I’m surprised to see five or six small children and several elderly people. We find chairs near the front. The flamenco is about to begin.
     
    Afterward, at three-thirty in the morning, no taxi waits outside. We are about to begin the long walk home when the taxi that brought us pulls up. “I thought you might want to drive now.” He smiles and opens the back door. “I am sure you have enjoyed your evening.” We wanted to kiss him because we are both falling-over tired and overstimulated. The flamenco wrung us out. I have a pounding headache, and Ed is immensely thirsty. We’re thrilled straight through by the power of sharp, rhythmic hand clapping, the ear-splitting wailing, and the pained, ecstatic faces of the dancers. At times I felt I should not see the human face in that deep expression of private emotions. I felt the fascination of the voyeur.
Duende
was a word we threw around in graduate school: the summoning of a life-force spirit and the expression of that spirit. I see that we had no idea what it meant. Flamenco lights a brushfire in the blood. All those brightly dressed women twirling and clicking heel-toe, heel-toe, the men in black, thin as whips and vibrantly sexual, the play between them, and the stepping forth for solo dancing. Through the staccato clapping, which times and builds and emphasizes, hands become a musical instrument, powerful punctuation, and raw drive.
    “Can you dance flamenco?” I ask the driver.
    “Of course. Everyone in Sevilla is born knowing how to dance.”
    We sit back, looking out the windows. We’d expected a commercialized folkloric experience, all flash and polish. The waiter sent us to the right place. We felt and witnessed a layer of protection stripped away, leaving the dancers and audience, singer and guitarist engaged together in a blood ritual. This is a glimpse into the heart of Andalucía. I wonder if we will reach the core.
     
    Days in Sevilla. Days of sweet air like early spring, sky the same blue as the
azulejos
. I’m drawn to the Convent of San Leandro in Plaza San Idelfonso because the afternoon I happen to visit is Saint Rita’s Day, patron saint of lost causes. The church is filled with flowers and praying women, some clutching photographs. “Suffering mothers all,” I say to Ed. They kneel and weep and visit and hold each other up. In my life, I have never experienced the comfort of laying down my burden, down at the foot of someone to whom I say
I give up, help me
. And I can only wonder at the succor such an act