Alhambra

The last time I’d been in Claire Taylor’s house it had been ten years ago and it had been her seventh birthday. I didn’t speak to her for the entire afternoon because she was a girl.

You’d think the house would feel smaller now I was a teenager, but that wasn’t the case. I suppose in the hazy memories I have of the place it was crowded with people – the whole year group had been invited. Whereas now it was just me and her in the house, and every footstep on the bare wood floors echoed about the empty rooms.

Claire pushed open the door to her parents’ master bedroom and I hesitated for a heartbeat on the threshold before following her in.

While I waited nervously just inside the room, she strode confidently to the far side and unlocked a tall oak wardrobe with a tiny key which I’m sure she wasn’t supposed to have.

She came away with a scuffed black guitar case – nothing special to look at – and perched herself on the foot of the double bed. She had the case on her lap, and deftly flicked the two clasps open clack clack.

“Here it is,” Claire said.

Without realising it, I had overcome my aversion to entering her parents’ room and had drifted across the floor, mesmerised by the box, not quite allowing myself to believe what Claire had told me.

The open lid concealed the contents of the case, and I maneuvered myself so I was standing beside Claire so I could see in.

“It really is…” I whispered.

A vintage Ramirez guitar, easily the oldest I had ever laid eyes on. Heck, it was probably one of the oldest guitars anyone had laid eyes on outside of a museum. Made almost two hundred years ago, it must have been one of the first designs recognisable as a modern guitar. It had to be worth a fortune. Maybe more than the house.

“Did you think I was lying?” asked Claire.

I didn’t answer. In truth, barely registered the words, I was staring, transfixed, at the beauty before me.

“Touch it if you like,” Claire said.

And despite my trance, those words I heard.

Part of me was screaming that I shouldn’t, that it was an antique, that it was too perfect to be sullied by a vulgar hand such as mine.

But my hand, vulgar as it was, was already accepting the invitation. I found myself reaching out, and ever so softly I caressed the smooth, dark wood with my fingertips.

I think I might have been able to stay in that blissful state all night, but Claire’s high-pitched giggle whipped me back to my senses.

Suddenly I was painfully conscious of what I'd been oblivious to an instant before: the view down her half-open blouse, and her bare legs under the guitar case.

I snatched myself away, feeling the colour rise in my cheeks.

“Shall I play you something?” Claire asked.

I blinked.

“You can’t…”

She giggled again. She plucked the Ramirez from its case, grasping it by the neck like it was a common six-string from the flea market, and with a twist of her hips she dumped the case onto the duvet beside her.

She swept her fingers over the strings, leaving a blend of notes which hung in the air like scent.

“Why not?” Claire asked. “Because of the curse?”

I forced myself to laugh. In truth, the curse was exactly what was on my mind, but I was hardly going to admit that to her.

“It’s an antique,” I said.

Claire grinned, causing dimples to appear on her cheeks.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll be gentle.”

She moved her hand over the strings again, picking out an A and G.

“Only, they say the guitar is cursed. That’s why it’s forbidden to play it. You know what they say about it?”

Her hair had tumbled down over her face while she was playing with the strings. She jerked her head suddenly, sending her hair back, and locking me in a penetrating gaze.

She didn’t wait for me to reply, but went on, “They say that if you hear the music from this guitar, then you’ll know true love. But you’ll have only one single night of ecstasy and then…”

She made a choking noise, rolled her eyes back in her head, showing me the whites, and stuck her tongue from the corner of her mouth.

“But you don’t believe any of those childish stories, do you?” Claire said, eyes coming back, resuming her grin.

“So,” she said, watching me intently, fingers running up and down the neck of the Ramirez. “Shall I play you something?”

She sat, waiting for an answer. I wasn’t going to get off easily, passively letting the moment go by.

“Yes,” I said, eventually, throat dry. It was all I could manage to get out.

Claire cradled the guitar close to her, and her fingers began to move. Recuerdos de la Alhambra filled the room. She moved with a grace and a fluency which I wouldn’t ever have suspected could exist in someone with our mere years. I was split in two. One half of me wondering at the beauty which she could produce from thin air. The other half struck to the core by my own inadequacy, knowing that even if I practiced for the rest of my life, I might never produce anything nearly as wonderful.

The last notes faded away. Claire’s hair had fallen over her face again, and she brushed it back, slowly this time.

“Well?” Claire said with a sigh. “What did you think?”

I stammered, struggling to get any words out. I could think of only cliches, measly workaday words which wouldn’t do justice to what I’d just heard.

“I have to go,” I said.

Claire laid the Ramirez down across her lap. She looked wounded.

“But tonight… we have plans…” she said.

“I’m sorry.”

I turned and thudded down the stairs. I heard her calling my name after me, but I didn’t stop. I flung open the front door and escaped into the night.

It was cool outside, which came as a relief. I hadn’t realised how close the air had been in the house.

I continued to hurry away, feet crunching on the gravel of the driveway. My heart was pounding in my chest, so hard I honestly thought it might burst.

Taking deep gasps of air, I leaned against the trunk of the chestnut tree at the end of the drive.

The world spun, and despite willing myself to be calm, my heart only beat more ferociously and I felt pain spreading from my chest.

And then the sound of the guitar reached my ears. No song this time, just simple scales, but beautiful in their clarity and their simplicity.

Still leaning on the tree, I glanced back at the house. A single light was on upstairs. The curtains were drawn, but the window was open a crack, letting the sweet sounds drift out on the breeze.

I hesitated. Unsure if I would return or run home.