The Return by Victoria Hislop Read Free Book Online Page A

pure arrogance. From the back a quiet voice said ‘ Olé ’. It was Corazón; even she was moved by her husband’s display, his total absorption in the moment. Then there was silence.
     
    After a moment or two, Maggie broke it by applauding rapturously. The rest of the group clapped but with less enthusiasm.
     
    Felipe’s face broke into a smile, all traces of arrogance melting away. Corazón came out in front of the audience and challenged them.
     
    ‘Flamenco? Tomorrow? You want?’ she enquired, flashing her yellowing teeth.
     
    Some of the Norwegian girls, slightly embarrassed by this display of naked emotion, turned to chat to one another; meanwhile the taxi dancers were looking at their watches to see whether their time as hired hands was nearly over. They did not plan to do overtime.
     
    ‘Yes,’ said Maggie. ‘I want.’
     
    Sonia felt uncomfortable. Flamenco was so very different from salsa. From what she had seen in the past twelve hours, it was an emotional state of being as much as a dance. Salsa was carefree, an emotional escape route and, moreover, it was what they had come to improve.
     
    By now the rest of the class had dispersed and Sonia needed fresh air.
     
    ‘ Adiós ,’ said Corazón, packing up her bag. ‘ Hasta luego. ’
     

Chapter Four
     
    IT WAS ONE o’clock. The dance studio did not have glamorous neighbours and the workaday side street in which they found themselves offered little more than a car parts depot and a key cutter. As they walked to the end of the shadowy street and turned into the main road the atmosphere changed and they were dazzled by the glare of sunlight and deafened by the crazed cacophony of lunchtime traffic, brought to a standstill.
     
    The bars and cafés were now crammed with builders, students and anyone else who lived too far out of town to get home for their lunchtime siesta.All the other shops - greengrocers, stationers and the plethora of hairdressing salons - were firmly shut up again, having opened for just a few hours since Sonia and Maggie had last passed. Their slatted metal grilles would not be raised again until some time after four.
     
    ‘Let’s stop at this one,’ suggested Maggie, outside the second bar they came to. La Castilla had a long, stainless-steel bar and several tables down the side of the room, all but one occupied. The two Englishwomen quickly went in.
     
    The smells were intense and mingled together to form a distinctive aroma of Spanish café life: beer, jamon , stale ash, the slightly sour smell of goat’s cheese, a whiff of anchovies and, wafting across it all, strong, freshly ground coffee. A row of uniformly blue-overalled manual workers sat up at the bar, oblivious to everything but the plates in front of them. They were intent on sating their hunger. Almost simultaneously they put down their forks, and clumsy hands reached for packets of strong cigarettes, generating a mushroom cloud of smoke as they lit up. Meanwhile the patron manufactured a row of café solos . It was a daily ritual for them all.
     
    Only now did his attention turn to his new customers.
     
    ‘ Señoras ,’ he said, coming to their table.
     
    Reading from the board behind the bar, they ordered huge crusty bocadillos to be filled with sardines. Sonia watched the bar owner preparing them. In one hand he wielded a knife, in the other a cigarette. It was an impressive juggling act and she marvelled as he ladled crushed tomatoes from a bowl and squashed them on to slabs of bread, fished sardines out of a bucket-sized tin and all the while took regular drags on his Corona cigarette. If the process seemed unconventional, the end result was by no means disappointing.
     
    ‘What did you think of the lesson?’ asked Sonia, between mouth-fuls.
     
    ‘The teachers are wonderful,’ answered Maggie. ‘I love them.’
     
    ‘They’re life-enhancing, aren’t they?’ agreed Sonia.
     
    She had to raise her voice above the clatter of falling coins