Obsession: A Guitarist In Spain by Hill J.D

Author:Hill, J.D.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Unknown
Published: 2014-01-12T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Four days after the party, Ant walked into the peña to play for Ana María’s class as usual. Alejandro was behind the bar, tinkering with the capricious coffee machine. The counter around it was spattered with coffee grounds and puddled water. Alejandro was poking into the machine’s innards with a screwdriver, cursing softly. Ant greeted him with a cheery ‘Buenos días’. Alejandro didn’t turn around or acknowledge Ant’s presence at all. Putting this down to one of Alejandro’s moods – he and the coffee machine were a perfect match – he carried on through to the back, across the patio, and into the dance studio, where the class was just starting. Ana María was barking out a choreography using her own in-house coded system: ‘Up, turn, pick the apple, dig the ground, off to the side, and clack, clack, boom.’

As he walked into the class, he noticed there was no chair next to Paco’s for him to sit on. He turned and started to go back into the main room of the peña to fetch one, but as he did, Ana María said, ‘It’s best if you don’t come here any more.’

The class carried on practising their steps, ignoring Ant. Paco was playing on his chair, but shifted his body round to face slightly away from Ant.

‘What do you mean?’ said Ant.

‘Just what I said. It’s best if you don’t come here any more, Ant.’

‘Why?’

‘Go to calle Francos and take a look.’

‘Calle Francos? Why?’

‘You’ll see.’

Ana María wasn’t looking at him. She clapped her hands and marshalled the class to begin their routine again. Ant’s heart sank, but he wasn’t about to keep standing there being stiffed. He turned and walked out of the peña and headed for calle Francos. As he crossed the Plaza del Arenal, lined with bars and restaurants, nobody called out to him as they usually did. He felt like a ghost.

Old Domingo was seated outside his favourite bar in a passageway off the Plaza del Arenal with a breakfast of toast, olive oil, pork pâté and brandy in front of him. Ant stopped.

‘Hi, Domingo. How’s things?’

Domingo stared into space, munching his toast and pâté with a tranquil, bovine air.

‘Domingo!’

The silent, oblivious munching continued.

‘Hey!’

The old man swallowed his bolus of breakfast and said to the air in front of him, ‘Go to calle Francos,’ then started to spread pâté onto a fresh slice of toast.

‘What the hell is going on, Domingo?’

The old man turned his chair away from Ant, just as Paco had done.

Panic rising in his throat, Ant plunged down the remaining two streets to calle Francos, then slowed and walked along it as he arrived. Nothing seemed to be happening. What was he supposed to look out for? It was a narrow street with just enough room for cars to pass in single file. One passing car carelessly bumped its wing against his guitar case and the driver said from his window, ‘Careful, Englishman.’ Ant changed the case to his other hand and kept walking, feeling the oppression of the four-storey buildings along the chokingly narrow street.

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