A Passionate Life

Seville 1812

My name is Guillermo Antonio Cortés. And I am a Flamenco Dancer.

“Guillermo,” says Mercédès, my wife. “It is almost time, the crowd is waiting. Ándale.”

I look up at her from my dressing table. Her face is painted with a beauty the women on Alameda de Hércules can only dream of. Near-black eyes, shaded dark, deep-brown skin and full lips. Lines wrinkle her eyes: still they burn brightly. Soon, her long hair will be pinned up, tight over her head. Mercédès is an incredible dancer. Being with her again is painful.

And exhilarating.

“I was born ready, Señorita.”

Mercédès rolls her eyes at me, before disappearing back through the doorway. I watch her go, then my gaze returns in front of me. Bright bulbs line the cracked and dusty mirror - attached to a scuffed mahogany table - where I’d been preparing before my shows for the past few weeks.

My life rests on its tattered surface: heeled leather shoes, castanets, and a black fedora hat. Two switchblades sit nearby - unfurled - waiting menacingly, in the dimly-lit room. The suitcase at my feet is usually packed tight, ready to move, with every possession I have. But, tonight, my suitcase will remain empty.

I will not run.

This was the longest time I’d spent in a single place for many years. Usually, it was too dangerous to stay. Now, the crowd was accustomed to my presence. Swelling in numbers every sweltering evening. Cramming inside the small theatre - fighting for room - so they can see the stage.

I can hear them again this evening. Clapping their hands and stamping their feet. Shouting at one another. Scuffling in the heat. I can feel the ground shaking - all to watch the dance. Tonight, me and Mercédès will perform together. All of Seville will come out to watch us.

If I survive until the end of the song.

Word has reached me that a deal with France is coming. I am told they will relinquish control of Seville. Marshal Soult’s days are numbered: he will no longer control us. So, my days are running out, too.

“Puta,” I snarl.

I spit on the floor. I reach down to the ground and lift my dusty wine bottle. My teeth grip on the cork that juts out. I twist it from its nest. It escapes with a dull pop: I drink deeply. Its rich aroma fills the room and a deep taste warms my stomach. Enraging my broken heart.

All of us rebels will not see the sun rise. We know too much. We have done too much. Fighting in the hills and in the streets, to free our people. If we are not killing, we are laughing, drinking, and loving. And I dance, and dance, and dance. Showing my people we do not have to be afraid. They love me for it. But, now, they shed tears for what has been done.

And for what is to come.

I cannot run and hide. Never. All of Seville knows where I am. It is here that I was born. And I know, it is here, I will die. My destiny is assured. Ten years ago. Aged seventeen. Three cards were revealed to me on that fateful day: Knight of Swords; the Lovers; and Death.

The fortune teller considered me, with sadness in her eyes, as she turned over the final card. She said: Guillermo, you will live a life bereft of peace. You will never know comfort. Nor tranquility. But, you will love, live, and fight enough for ten men. A passionate life awaits. And then it will all be gone. As soon as it arrives…

A lover. A fighter. And a fool.

I face myself in the mirror now. Staring deeply into my green eyes. I look at my jet-black hair. It sticks to my perspiring forehead. A black shirt is loose on my muscular frame, underneath a matching waistcoat. A gold cross and chain hangs around my neck. My trousers are all-black, save for the pair of red stripes, which run down the sides of my thighs and calves.

The scar on my cheek flashes white against dark skin. It was the last thing the French soldier ever did: I still remember his screams.

The sound of the crowd snaps my head to the side. Rippling into my dressing room - dragging me up - onto my feet. I take my shoes and drop them to the wooden floor, with a clatter as they land. Sliding my feet into them, I stamp with my left. I stamp with my right. The heels shout loudly all around me. I lean forward, placing my knuckles on the table. Looking at myself.

I whisper, “Do you know the music of love, life, and death? It is the sound of Flamenco.”

Now, I am ready.

I grab my blades, placing them in my waistcoat pockets. I stand up tall and breathe in deeply, running my hands through my hair, slicking it back. Pressed in tight against my head.

I will not wait another moment.

I stride out through the doorway - immediately turning right - heels clacking behind me, along the narrow corridor. Where the walls nearly scrape against my broad shoulders. The sound of the crowd grows louder. The floor is vibrating more heavily beneath my feet. I turn left - entering another open doorway - bursting onto the stage.

They all see me now as I tower over the front row. And their sound crescendos into a thundering roar. I pirouette three times, to the very front of the stage. I stamp with my right foot. And then stand perfectly still. Arms stretching high into the air.

The crowd screams and cries, reaching for my legs. Still, I do not move. My gaze roves across the rows of people.

Arabs, Andalusians, Gypsies, and Moors. Outcasts amassed from around the world. The people who shaped my art. Stamping their feet and jumping for joy. Standing directly in front of me, and hanging from the rafters, piled high along the sides. Those in the lofty seats look down from above. Craning forward as far as they can go, spilling red wine on the people below, who catch the intoxicating liquid in their open mouths.

It is a frenzy like no other.

Except for the men to the far right of the stage. No one crowds around them - they have their own table - hands tucked into their pale blue jacket pockets. Gold lapels shining brightly and wide-brimmed hats fixed tightly. Those French officers are waiting for me to finish my dance. Then, I know, they will come for me.

The crowd’s deafening clamour subsides into a steady hum. Occasional whelps and whoops are still audible, the excitement, as yet, unrestrained. Somewhere behind me, my singer wails softly, crooning sadly - the cry of my people - of all people.

A strumming swiftly follows, from my guitarist.

Starting the Flamenco song.

My left foot begins to move, slow and deliberate. My heel strikes at the wooden stage, like a throbbing heartbeat. The guitar grows louder - punctuated with precise strikes - of a palm against the wooden base. The singer's wail becomes sharper.

I stamp my feet. Faster. Faster. Faster. In time with the music, that accelerates without stopping. My fingers click relentlessly; my heels batter the ground; and my shouts meet the crowd’s own screams of delight.

Suddenly, I spin to the right, landing at the edge of the stage. Arms cast out wide - facing the lone table - staring at the Frenchmen. The crowd roars! Anger flashes in the soldiers’ eyes. They spit and scream at me - one of them stands up, brandishing a polished sword.

But, he does not strike at me. He does not dare.

I leap backwards. Legs dancing and stamping, my upper body ripples, as I twist and turn, to the heart of the stage. My arms fall down to my sides. And the audience falls silent. Quieter than ever - the music stops - all I can hear are footsteps behind me.

I turn towards the noise.

It is Mercédès.

She is there in a long sapphire dress - the deepest blue I have ever seen - red lipstick renders her mouth full and bright. A pink flower fixed to her hair. My wife’s breathing is deep, her chest rising and falling. She clutches the folds of her dress, as if holding back a storm.

The air thickens with longing. The crowd holds their breath.

We slowly step towards each other. Once. Twice. Until we are just inches apart.

I cup my hand gently, under her chin, raising her head up. We stare deeply into each other’s eyes. Our wedding day comes back into my mind. Laughter, hope, happiness, and joy. A day free from pain.

Many years ago.

The music starts again.

She spins away from me. To the front of the stage. The crowd is captivated as she stands there, bowed, but unbroken. She sways in time to the music. Clapping her hands, with her eyes shut. She spins fluidly. Again and again. I look at the soldiers, who are mesmerised by her.

Mercédès turns back towards me - I walk up to her and pull her close - she wraps her arms around my neck, a leg around my waist. I drag her across to the other side of the stage.

Our bodies radiate heat. Our breath mingles as one.

Mercédès unwraps herself from me and steps away. I see her glance at the soldiers, who are leaning forwards - gripping their sword handles tightly - frustration and rage on their faces.

She stares at me and her eyes shimmer. She knows it is too late to change a thing.

Sapphires glisten in the darkness, absorbing the light, and tears slide down her cheeks. Her dress flashes as she turns away, hips swaying, as she walks across the stage.

Pausing at the open doorway.

Mercédès looks into my eyes for a fleeting moment.

And then she is gone.

Cries from the crowd reach my ears. Louder than the sobs escaping my lips. My cheeks are wet. I can feel the soldiers, looking at one another. Knowing that my performance is drawing to a close.

And theirs is about to begin.

My suitcase is still empty. And I will not run.

My singer wails softly. My guitarist strums steadily. I have heard these chords a thousand times before; echoes from my past. And yet I am hearing them for the very first time. Finally, understanding what it all means.

When it is far too late.

It is all coming to an end, now. Only a few moves remain. Until the song stops.

I will make the crowd roar one last time. They will shout for me, for the music, and for Spain. Tonight, I shall give them everything: my love, my life, my death.

And they will call it Flamenco.