Under the Spanish Stars by Alli Sinclair Read Free Book Online Page B

started with a short melody, the falseta , the high, rapid notes setting the mood for the piece, while Katarina held her back straight, her head high and breathed deeply, centring herself in readiness.
    This was what she lived for.
    When the crowd grew quiet, a cloud of electricity wove between the milling bodies as Hernán’s fingers danced across the strings. Stepping onto the stage, her heels clicked against the floorboards and every molecule of her being buzzed with excitement. No two performances were ever the same. Marking her steps, Katarina made the call, the llamada , for Salvador to begin the singing component, his deep, smooth voice filling the room. Feeling the rhythm swelling within, Katarina clapped out the twelve beats of the soleá por bulerías, one of her favourite styles of flamenco.
    Arching her back, she slowly brought her arms above her head, palms and fingers imitating flames reaching for the sky. Kicking her right leghigh, the long green skirt rose and fell, the hemline grazing the battered floorboards. Salvador’s hypnotic voice fuelled her steps, and the moves she’d once struggled with now came with ease. Katarina silently thanked Julieta for being so tough all those years ago. She missed her teacher immensely, but with every dip, every turn, Katarina knew Julieta was there, encouraging her to do better, to stretch further, reach higher, to tap into the passion, to search for the duende that still eluded Katarina.
    She suspected duende hadn’t surfaced because she’d had to tone down her dancing in order to remain alive. Since Franco had come into power he’d lorded it over the people, his unwavering belief in Catholicism influencing daily life, regardless of socio-economic status. His dictatorial hands had gripped flamenco, ripped it apart and moulded it into everything it wasn’t—women had lost their heroism and men had became more macho. Franco had abused and shoved flamenco onto the world stage and it was now a pathetic, weaker version of itself. Katarina’s heart ached every time she had to step back from fully expressing herself in public, but what could she do? If Franco’s men—and they were everywhere like rats in a sewer—ever saw a female dance in the traditional flamenco way, she would be arrested. She refused to believe the rumours about dancers being killed as a result of not adhering to Franco’s laws but Franco was capable of many things and she didn’t want to be the one to prove the rumours true. Katarina had suffered enough over the years and, despite her desire to break free, she had to save herself, and that meant dancing to the official line and conforming to Franco’s ridiculous ideals.
    One day. One day it will change.
    Hernán picked up the pace with his guitar, Katarina’s feet hit the ground hard, her hands and feet creating a perfect rhythm. They worked as a team, his masterful skills on the guitar guiding her one way, then another. Grabbing her skirt, she flicked it to the left then the right, taking control of the stage only for it to change once again when Hernán took the challenge and played faster. She danced furiously, the energy bubbling from within, although a tiny niggle of doubt restricted Katarina’s movements in a way that no one, not even Salvador or Hernán, could notice … it was the doubt about some of the choices she’d made in the past had been growing at an intense rate over the last year.
    Despite her internal hesitation, Katarina’s pulse raced, her adrenalinebuilding. When it was her moment to take control again, she commenced the escobilla and used her body and footwork to create clockwise circles and diagonal patterns, travelling across the stage. Sweat poured off Hernán as he worked the guitar and Salvador’s strong and hypnotic tone spurred her on. Making the llamada , she closed the sequence by signalling her salida , her exit, as she slowly made