the fretboards. People cheered when they heard it, and someone lifted the needle off the gramophone, scratching the record. There was a moment’s worried hush, but Harold, very drunk by now, roared with approval and shouted, ‘Let them play! I want to hear this magic! ¡Quiero oír el duende!’
At this, the party seemed to surge as one. The father and son who’d brought the guitars knew flamenco songs as well as the popular canciones, and they played a couple, a wide ring of people around them, before a woman in her sixties stepped forward, and began to sing, opening her mouth to let forth a soaring sound of pain and freedom. For a second time that night Olive felt the hairs on her neck rise up. The woman had the room under complete control. She sang, clapping her hands in a fast, percussive rhythm, and there were shouts around the room of ‘¡Vamos!’, people stamping their feet and crying out in admiration.
Gregorio whirled two little girls around the room, and they screamed with delight as the guitars and the singing grew ever more fevered. The woman’s voice was like an ancient sound come to life, and Olive stood up, drinking down a fifth glass of fizz – except no, this wasn’t champagne, this was a spirit of some sort, a firewater that set her insides burning. The woman’s voice was rough and plaintive and perfect, and outside the night deepened, and moths flickered to die amongst the lanterns. In this room of strangers, Olive had never felt more at home.
Her father was calling that it was time for the fireworks. ‘Fuegos artificiales!’ he bellowed in a terrible accent, and Olive’s eyes roved the room for Isaac. She spied him slipping through the door. The crowd began to move into the back of the house, out onto the veranda to watch the fireworks exploding over the orchard. Olive stopped, dazed by the flow of people in the corridor. Then she saw him going in the other direction, crossing the hallway and out of the front door. She was mystified – why was he running away from the centre of the world?
She began to follow him, stumbling onwards, away from the light of the house and into the pitch dark of the February night. Above her, the sky was soaked with stars. The moon was high but she lost sight of him, and her blood was quickly cooling, but on she went, out of the rusted main gates onto the dirt path towards the village, stumbling on stones, cursing that she had been idiotic enough to come out in heels.
A hand clamped on her mouth. An arm locked round her neck and dragged her to the side of the path. She wriggled and kicked, but whoever had her pinned had a strong grip. Olive brought up her hands and began tugging; she opened her mouth to bite hard on the fingers that wouldn’t let her breathe.
‘Mierda!’ said a voice, and Olive was released.
‘Isaac?’
They stood, panting, both bent over in disbelief.
‘Señorita – I thought someone was following me.’
‘Well, they were. Me. Jesus bloody Christ!’
‘Are you hurt?’
‘I’m fine. How about you?’
‘Please, do not tell your father—’
Olive rubbed her neck. ‘Why would I tell him? Do you make a habit of jumping out at people like that?’
‘Go back to the party. Please.’
Olive could tell he was agitated. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
‘Nowhere.’
‘That’s a lie.’
‘Go back. It’s dangerous for you.’
‘I’m not scared, Isaac. I want to help. Where are you going?’
She couldn’t make out his expression in the dark, but she sensed his hesitation, and her heart began to pound harder.
‘I am going to church,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘To confess your sins?’
‘Something like that.’
She put out her hand and reached in the darkness for his. ‘Lead the way,’ she said.
Later, when Olive was lying awake and going over everything back in her bedroom, she supposed it was the alcohol that did it. When Isaac was painting her, she couldn’t stand it. She didn’t feel enough of a satisfying subject, and she couldn’t match her mother. But here, she and Isaac were equals, not watcher and watched. In the dark she could be her real self, a woman who took men by the hand and forced them onwards, down the path.
‘You must be cold,’ he said, and she could hear that he was quite drunk too. When he took off his jacket and put it round her shoulders, Olive’s skin sang, her whole body almost dipped