Under the Spanish Stars by Alli Sinclair Page B

of the plaza afforded the chance to take in the spectacular Alhambra, the Moorish citadel and palace, sitting high on the tree-covered hill. Oranges and yellows danced against the pale stonework, the shadows of early evening casting vibrant lines against the magnificent architecture. Charlotte’s imagination had run rife as she’d walked the narrow streets of neighbouring Albaicín that morning, listening to the many trickling fountains and trying to imagine what it would have been like in medieval times when the city was first settled. Her impression of Granada, so far, was that it was a potpourri of cultures that had arrived centuries ago and never left. Their presence had left an indelible mark both inside and outside the city walls, with remnants of their myriad ethnicities visible in the city’s architecture, its music, dance, food, fabrics, and on the faces of the people who call Granada home. No wonder the architectural gems like the Alhambra and Albaicín had made it onto the World Heritage List. Had Abuela ever sat in this plaza in her younger days and appreciated the beauty of this place, as Charlotte did now? When Abuela looked back on her days in Spain, did she miss it? Even just a teensy bit?
    The long shadows now snuck into the corners of the buildings, wrapping around the doorways and hugging the ancient walls. Her fingers itched to pull out the small sketchbook and pencils she always kept in herbag for those ‘just in case’ moments, but she refrained, refusing to give in to her desire. What was the point? She’d only end up with a jumble of lines that didn’t look anything like what she was once capable of. That talent had disappeared and she wished she’d never experienced it.
    â€˜I see Australians are like the English.’
    Charlotte glanced up, but the setting sun shone in her eyes, casting a bright haze around Mateo’s strapping silhouette. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
    â€˜You are on time.’
    â€˜I am guessing the Spanish think clocks are optional?’
    He laughed and reached for her hand, helping her up. His smooth skin and immaculate nails surprised her. She’d always thought guitarists had calluses. ‘Were you at the manicurist?’
    â€˜Pardon?’ He glanced at his hands. ‘Oh! Flamenco guitarists must maintain immaculate nails. We spend many hours filing them to the perfect length so we can perform. If the nail is filed at the wrong angle or length, even by a millimetre, then our playing will not be good.’
    Charlotte looked at her own chipped mess that she hadn’t bothered keeping neat since arriving in Spain. Putting her hands behind her back, she asked, ‘Are manicured nails really that crucial?’
    â€˜Of course! I use superglue and silk to keep them perfect for my playing.’ He cupped his hand next to his mouth and in a stage whisper, said, ‘No one wants to be responsible for a singer feeling like a victim, or have an irate dancer, because of misplaced playing from poorly maintained nails.’
    â€˜There appears to be a lot more to flamenco than meets the eye.’
    â€˜Yes, there is and I can bash your ears all the day with my thoughts on the subject but this is not going to solve your dilemma, no?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜First, we get coffee.’ He gestured towards a café and they strolled across the plaza. They sat and outside on white metal chairs. A blue-and-white-striped umbrella shaded them from the remnants of the hot sun while Mateo ordered two coffees and the waiter promptly returned with the goods.
    She sipped her coffee, surprised the aromatic flavours rivalled those at her favourite café back home.
    â€˜Thank you for offering to help me out, Mateo.’
    â€˜I have not made the offer to help yet. I must listen to more of your story then I will decide. So tell me, Charlotte Kavanagh, why do you believe the Giménez clan can