Now a Miguel/Zafina fic. Translations and song information found below.
SAVAGE DANCES
PROLOGUE: GRANADA
"Gilipollas!" I shout after the wandering tourist, wiping the excess of spilt beer off of my jeans. The tourist briefly stops, looks up from his map and shrugs apologetically before walking away. I frown as I shake my head and kick my heel into the wall that is already burning my back. He's lucky I'm in some sombre mood, puto guiri, no respect. Other tourists hum past: the sky beats their skin into the colour of music that carries itself through the air. I gulp another mouthful of warm beer. A million tanned Granadas also sweat, hurry and buzz past me, pounding their unique flavour back into the floor of the city. This is not my city of birth, but I am fond of it nonetheless.
Maybe because this is not Buñol, the city of my birth and boisterous past. I'd like to think I have left that behind, but I haven't. All I have done is run away from the scene of so much anger and anguish. So maybe I like Granada for a different reason: maybe because the streets remind me of her.
Granada, tierra ensangretada
En tardes de toros,
Mujer que conserva el embrujo
De los ojos moros.
(Granada, land covered in blood
from the bullfighting afternoons,
woman who retains the spell
of Moorish eyes.)
My lips curve at the edges, like arms stretching out for the sun on a warm day. Good memories. Any irritation caused dissipates, and for a moment I forget all about the asshole tourist.
"Miguel! Play a song, eh!" Old man Alej calls to me as he takes out a ragged damp cloth to wipe down one of the wooden tables. I raise the bottle and nod before swallowing what little beer is left. Alej shakes his head, his chubby forearms glistening in the heat of midday.
"Did you see what that guiri did, Alej?" I begin to complain, throwing the empty bottle to him.
He just manages to catch it, "They bring in your wage, Miguel, a wage you won't see unless I hear you play something. So be good, mijo."
I wave my hand above my head as if I was swatting a pesky fly away, "Alright, alright."
Several of the bar guests turn to face me as I pick up my guitar and set it against my knee, slowly testing each string. They want to hear me play traditional Granada; they wait for me to pull the melody from the sully ground and give them a souvenir of this land for their travels home. Any populated place speaks of the people in it, and its people sing its song, each one a product of that moment and place. Granada is different, though; it permeates the grandiose legacy of the Moors who invaded here many centuries ago. Both the Catholic Monarchs and dark Sultans lusted for control of this land; pieces of their flesh still visible in the diverse architecture and districts left behind.
"Oh Miguel, why don't you play Atahualpa Yupanqui this time?" Eva, Alej's wife, suggests, her thin body leaning against the tavern doorway. Despite being a Spanish citizen on paper, she knows she will always be of old Argentinean blood. She often longs for the sounds of her homeland to squeeze her shoulders affectionately like her father used do when she was a little girl.
I shake my head. Just as speedily as the irritation had dissipated beforehand, Eva's request for Yupanqui quickly curls down the curves of my lips into a slight frown.
I like Yupanqui, but the only song I can play of his is the one I quietly strum during the night. Preguntitas sobre Dios. Questions about God. Questions I must ask God when my most painful memory lays alongside me in bed, quietly strangling tears from my eyes. Sometimes it seems no matter what bed I try to escape to, the memory always know where to find me: its death rattle hitting the walls of my skull as it constricts and chokes the happiness out of my brain.
As the sweat drips out from my burning forehead, the memory of my sister's own blood wedding seeps under my skin again, setting alight the furnace of my heart. I rub my eyebrow involuntarily remembering the soft Jota-styled song that was played from inside Buñol's biggest cathedral before the street celebration quickly burned into a crackling dirge. Olvídalo, olvídalo, I plead, let me rest for the hours of day at least. Even the down-right wicked and evil grow weary of Hell.
I sing my songs on the byways,
And when I'm in prison,
I hear the voices of the people,
Who sing far better than I.
Maria was always a better singer than me. When we were children, it was always her who sung whilst I accompanied her voice with quick fingers upon the Spanish guitar given to me by my mother's parents. Now there is no voice left, only echoes.
I know I deserve whatever grief was bestowed upon me for the blood I willingly spilled in brawls, for spurning my father's most revered catholic Caballero blood. I also know my feud with my sister's chosen groom also deserved some punishment. But she didn't deserve to die for my choices in life. Her death was unnecessary, for whatever bad lay in my body and soul, she held the opposite. As if I carried on all the unruly blood of our ancestors and she preserved the good. Even the distant relatives who came to mourn from Málaga commented she was an angelic creature, Spain's own Beatrice.
My redemption is still fixed upon the axis of revenge that's incomplete. But there's nothing I can do about that now as Kazama is dead. So they say anyway.
"No! Albeniz's Granada song." Alej interjects. He has had to pick me out of the gutter enough times to realise I sing that particular Argentinean song in desperation. So Alej always makes me play Albeniz's Granada instead, because he thinks it can dull every man's personal sadness: a song as effective as six of the strongest beers, he said one time. Anyway, it's also one of his favourite songs. And as for whatever personal sadness he wishes to cast away, he never really divulges, he just says it's a song to make you feel proud of the land you walk in. Besides, we all enjoy the good amount of coins and notes given by the foreigners who sip at their drinks in response. A man has to gamble money with some sort of steady wage, after all.
The first notes of the song come tenderly from my fingertips.
I looked up to meet the glances of women who had now crowded the garden to watch me play. They were all beautifully dull; I had slept with enough to know they were mostly always of the same sort. Entranced by my smirk and dark looks, and filled with a longing to tame the beast that hid under the mile of skin. They soon learned, leaping away in the morning, unable to deal with my insatiable hunger. And it was because of this I knew despite all the love I had for this land, I was no miniature modern Spaniard. I was an exile trying to be King, and this was not to be my land just yet, no matter how much I sweated or tapped my feet to the flamenco buskers…
"So why did you come here after the tournament, then?" A tattered-sounded voice asks, cleanly interjecting my bullshit talk. It has been hours since I played my last song of the day for Alej's guests. The sun is now setting and I can just about see the crown of it behind the apartment buildings towards the West of the district. The sun's light spreads with the same colour and consistency as that of an egg yolk, and the colours of the sky: they take on the guise of some fauvist painting with all the reds, purples, blues and pinks. There's something about these sunsets that knock the breath out of me.
Granada, tu tierra esta llena
de lindas mujere, de sangre y de sol.
(Granada, your soil is full
of beautiful woman, blood and sunshine.)
I look into the face of the stranger I have openly been slurring some of my secrets to for the last half-hour. It is an old and beaten face. Skin the shade and texture of tanned leather. Different to Alej's jolly, round and festive features. I think that's why I've found it so easy to speak to him of these embarrassing things that still have such hold over me. He looks like he has walked through fire in his lifetime, like me. He is another immigrant, like Eva, but this time of Moroccan descent: I let him tell me that much before telling him of my experience in Granada and how it is different to the life I led in Buñol.
He opens a packet of cheap cigarettes and offers me one whilst waiting for an answer.
I shake my head and lazily run my hand up and down the cool glass of beer, "I met some woman out there. Of your kind, a moro…" I pause, that isn't right, "No, not a moro, a moura encantada." The words elongate dreamily as it escapes my mouth.
"A moura encantada, eh?" The Moroccan laughs, "Let me guess, she tamed you and led you here on the leash, eh?" A definite slur against my manhood, one I would have stupidly defended when younger, but I'm now old enough to know that there are better reasons to pull the fists from out of your pockets.
"Nothing of the sort! Tch, think any girl could tame something like me?" I argue, scratching into my wild mop of hair. I may be old enough to know there are better reasons for fights, but I'm still the same defensive street urchin underneath: always prepared to waste energy on verbally protesting against such meaningless taunts.
The Moroccan taunts me, but underneath the banter I know he has respect for me. All those who have had the misfortune to travel through that dark fire have the ability to recognise a fellow fire-walker. The Iron Fist Tournament was full of them. The real con is to trick others in believing you have never seen tragedy: that way they don't scourge your body like vultures, looking for chinks in your armour to pull out the meat of your soul. The way I trick them is by pretending all I am is a good-for-nothing angry drunk, and that's all there is to me.
But there is so much more. So, so much more. A good century's worth of ballads that are caught underneath my nails like dried blood.
"So your boyhood dreams of being a torero had nothing to do with it then?" The Moroccan teases, taking a drag of his cigarette. His foreign accent is quite distinguishable now.
I forgot I'd told him that, "No, no. Weren't you listening Moro viejo, eh? I told you already, that takes years of training and strict discipline. Me? I have no discipline. I'm like Dioniso when it comes to the bullring," I lift the glass of beer he bought for me out of gratitude, and I down the bitter liquid in one long gulp to prove my point, "Ahh… lover of the atmosphere rather than the art."
The old Moor half-snorts, half-smiles at my apparent ignorance and reclines back into his seat. Our silence brings to my attention other conversations that take place around us. Most of it I don't understand, many vowels and consonants being thrown about like the red fruit revellers throw at each other during La Tomatina festival. These scraps of chatter splatter against my ears, restricting access to more scraps of conversation, leaving me feeling half-deaf.
I toy with the empty glass in my hands and watch as the suds of beer froth travel round and round. I'm on my way to being quite comfortably drunk.
"Do you want to go?" The Moroccan enquires, watching me dumbly handle the glass. I can tell he is thinking about his daughter; he briefly mentioned his family when I gave him the opportunity to talk about himself. I know he is hoping she does not find herself in trouble this evening when walking against a tide of drunken men in order to go home.
"No." I answer without any regard for whether the Moro wants to leave or not; he owes me one anyway for defending him against some vicious ataque racista outside another student cafe. Besides, if I leave now I'll only end up in another bar with no one to talk honestly to and then end up gambling; cause some trouble because of how lonely I feel on such evenings like this. And talking to this man has made me feel a little lighter so far. Confession always leaves me feeling better and I still have much more to confess to this particular Moroccan immigrant before going to sleep.
The bones have been excavated, but the gored pieces of muscle and fat have still yet to be sewn back on to my narrative.
He too understands my story is still unfinished and relents, "Want another beer, then?"
I smirk, "You read my mind, señor."
He takes the empty glass from my hands and walks to the bar and out of my immediate vision. Left with nothing to hold, I absent-mindedly crack the knuckles of my right hand and look down upon a fist that has been marred by so many fights. Most of those fights were against some vicious cabrón or another, but they never scarred me too badly. It's good that the scars that have really wounded me cannot really be seen by anyone else.
"Here," the Moroccan says, placing the fresh glass of cold beer on the table in front of me.
"Gracias…"
"So this mujer encantada… She's with you now?" He asks as he takes his seat again.
I wag my finger at him in response, my head too busy to steady my mouth as I take a good swill from the beer given to me.
"So what then?" He frowns. I spoke fondly of her, and he's sharp to realise any deep anguish I feel will not yet be on the expense of any woman past my own sister, but still he asks, "She left you?"
"Nah, never gave it that long."
"You stopped lusting after her then. Grew bored of her, did you?" The dark-skinned man is more than interested now.
I grin, and the man raises an index finger and cocks his head as if to say I knew it. He employs the same gestures I use, but he dances a victorious celebration too soon. I don't smile because he guesses correctly. I take the opportunity to lean over and softly murmur "Jamás."
"Ah!" The man lightly hits the flat surface of the table with the palm of his arm in disappointment.
"Yo siempre lujuria para ella." I comment before taking another swig. Good beer. "You asked me why I came here after the tournament, and I'll tell you now. This woman, she was exactly like… uh…" The right words never come as quick when alcohol is involved, "…diosa-virgen de la caza y de la luna, yeah? And for six whole weeks she was my own Perséfone…"
"A delicate flower, eh."
I snort, "More like the serpent underneath it. No wonder most of you musulmáns now keep your wives directly under your thumb. She was some zorra fríoa at times, I'll tell you that."
"This still doesn't explain why you've come here," He comments, tearing out another cigarette from the case in his shirt pocket.
"I came here, Moro viejo, because I still have this insatiable lust for her. I need more Semillas de Granada to remember her by and quell some of the thirst I feel… Where else but here? Where her ancestors once conquered mine."
De sueno, rebelde, gitana
Cubierta de flores,
(A dream-land, a rebel, a gypsy,
Covered with flowers)
The Moro raises an eyebrow before lighting his cigarette, "Turning soft already, are you?"
I brush the taunt off again, "There was nothing soft about it. She may not have had sully skin like you or me, but she was something filthy erotic. Dark kohl'd eyes…" I began to describe, circling a finger around my eye to emphasise how she elegantly held the night in her face. I run my fingers across my lips to remember the feel of hers…
Y beso tu boca de grana,
Jugosa manzana
Que me habla de amores.
(And I kiss your scarlet mouth,
Juicy apple
That tells me about love affairs.)
"But any beautiful woman is replaceable, eh? You look around any market stall around here and you'll see the same Arabian delicacies, if that's your sort." The Moroccan reasons.
I sigh, "That's the thing, old man. I thought maybe another exiled Persian princess or some Spanish counterfeit could do the job. In the past year I've tried to replace her sabor agridulce, but the girls around here are too saccharine, enough to rot your teeth away. All coke and no Jack, no kick in the back of my throat… I don't want a woman who'll take away my bite, you know?"
The man nods, looking a little defeated as if his own wife had been successful in filing down his teeth.
"They just don't have it in them." I finish my beer off.
Through local women and late afternoon walks, my lust is only ever temporarily satiated here and needs something more. Though this is as close enough to her lands that I am willing to live in. Maybe somewhere in Andalusia there is a street that sings to my feet like this place does for Alej. Or maybe when I have lived more years, I'll be able to happily settle back into the hills of this district like an infant grasps hold of its mother. But, for now, this place would have to do; it would have to do its best to hold the likes of me and all my brutish youth; all my brutish desires.
"You sad about it?" He asks.
My nose crinkles to one side, "Nah, I'm better off alone… She's been the only woman I ever respected past my own mother and sister though, so far anyway."
"Why's that? What makes her different to the others?" The old Moroccan enquires.
I scratch the back of my head before leaning into the soft seat, "You know how some people walk through the fire?"
He nods expectantly.
"Yeah well… she danced."
And how she savagely danced ensnared me completely.
Spanish-English Translations (in written order):
- Gilipollas: jerk/asshole/stupid
- Puto guiri: fucking tourist
- Mijo: my son (contracted form)
- Olvidalo: forget it
- Moro: term that refers to people of Arab or Berber descent from North Africa.
- Moro viejo: 'old man'
- Moura encantada: 'Enchanted Moor woman', a supernatural being found in Portuguese folklore.
- Dioniso: Spanish term for the Greek God Dionysus - God of wine and revelry.
- La Tomatino: the festival of tomatoes that takes place every year in Buñol
- Ataque racista: racist attack
- Cabron: bastard
- Mujer encantada: enchanted woman
- Jamas: never
- Yo siempre lujuria para ella: I will always lust for her
- Diosa-virgen de la caza y de luna: The Virgin-Goddess of the Hunt and the Moon (Artemis in Greek Mythology)
- Persofone: Persephone, another Greek Goddess. Tricked into being the wife of Hades (God of the Underworld) when she ate pomegranate seeds
- Musulmans: muslims
- Zorra frioa: cold bitch
- Semilias de granada: pomegranate seeds
- Sabor agridulce: bittersweet flavour and taste
* Granada lyrics (given in both Spanish and English) are taken from the Russell Watson version.
* The stanza about 'better singers in prison' is taken from Atahualpa Yupanqui's song 'Questions about God'.
