Page 138 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt

‘¡Tiene resaca!’ cried one of the men, and the other looked at me and laughed.

My mouth was hideously dry. ‘Water?’ I asked, which elicited no response. I mimed drinking from a bottle.

‘Agua? Sí.’ One of the men pointed to a drinking fountain on the station’s platform, and I nodded gratefully.

By the time I had drunk my fill, the men had removed the statue and were in the process of wheeling it off the platform. I followed them, and stood pathetically by as they loaded the wooden crate onto a battered old truck with an open back.

‘Alhambra?’ I asked.

‘Sí, señor. Alhambra. Treinta minutos.’

‘Gracias,’ I managed to muster, before climbing up onto the truck.

Granada was a striking place. The city, made up of hundreds of whitewashed buildings, shone a brilliant white in the morning sun. Beyond the city walls was a towering mountain range. Upon closer inspection, the nearest hillside appeared to be punctuated by a vast number of caves in the rock. I held my gaze, and noticed some little figures, which moved about in front of them. Were the caves abodes?

Soon enough, we were on the approach to the mighty palace. The Alhambra’s ancient red towers rose up out of the dark green forest, and I was in awe of the architectural vision. The truck approached the great gate and stopped. The driver left his cab to speak to me.

‘Esto es lo más lejos que puedo ir,’ he said, shrugging. ‘No further,’ he managed in English, pointing to the keyholeshaped entrance, which led to a bustling square. I nodded, and jumped to the ground, my head still pounding due to the bottle of wine I had thirstily gulped down last night. As I walked through the gate, I was accosted by locals touting their wares, selling water, oranges and roasted almonds. Amongst the chaos, I saw a man in a linen shirt jogging towards me from another gate across the square. He pointed towards the truck.

‘Statue?’ he asked in French.

‘Sí,señor, statue. Monsieur Landowski.’

Two men in boiler suits helped to carry the statue into the centre of the square and remove the crate. After the layers of cloth had been taken away too, the Landowski statue stood proudly in the Alhambra.

‘She is superb! Better than I could have imagined,’ said the man in the linen shirt. ‘Monsieur Landowski is a genius. It is as if the young Lucía is here amongst us.’

‘Forgive me, I am not local to the area. Monsieur Landowski mentioned that Lucía won a dance contest? Is that right?’

The man chuckled. ‘TheConcurso de Cante Jondowas much more than a dance competition,señor. It was afiestaof music, flamenco andlifewhich took place in 1922. Four thousand people came to celebrate with us. It was a very special time.’

‘Clearly,’ I mumbled. ‘You’re still talking about it thirty years later.’

‘Señor, that night four thousand citizens witnessed before their very eyes the raw power of theduende. It lives inside Lucía,’ he said, touching the statue’s cheek.

‘Theduende?’ I asked.

‘Such a thing is hard to describe for those who do not understand our culture. Theduendeis a quality of passion and inspiration, which manifested itself in Lucía through rhythm and dance.’

Lucía sounded quite astounding. ‘I should love to meet her and tell Monsieur Landowski of her reaction to the statue.’

The man in the linen shirt sighed. ‘The last we heard, she had returned to America to dance and provide money for her family. Things have been so difficult after the war. No mercy was shown to thegitanosof Sacromonte.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It is why my fellow trustees wished to commission this statue.’

‘Forgive me,’ I said, embarrassed that I had to question another Spanish word I did not understand. ‘Gitanos? What does that mean?’

‘The Gypsy people, sir, once cruelly driven from the city walls.’ He pointed to the landscape beyond the gate. ‘Perhaps you have noticed their caves on Sacromonte mountain.’

‘Ah,’ I nodded in realisation. ‘By the way,señor, I wonder if you have any recommendations for a tourist in Granada? Now Lucía has been safely delivered, I find myself at a loose end.’

The man thought for a moment. ‘A trip to the central plaza is essential. There is always something going on there.’ He shook my hand.

‘Gracias,señor.’ I turned and walked back out of the Alhambra, hoping the journey down the hill would begin to cure my significant hangover. The smell of the cypress trees and the light breeze on the hillside transpired to be just the ticket, and by the time I arrived at the plaza, my head was finally beginning to recover.

I took a moment to appreciate the most impressive of the plaza’s buildings – an old cathedral with an open bell tower – then I walked across sleek, shiny tiles to the grand fountain in the middle of the square. Peering within, I saw that the bottom was covered in pesetas, each representing a wish of its former owner. I reached into my pocket, faced away from the fountain, and threw a coin over my shoulder. Needless to say, I silently prayed that I would find Elle.

The day was getting hotter and hotter, and I was in need of something cooling. I wandered down one of the alleyways leading away from the plaza in search of a café. Sure enough, I came across a little place which sold ice creams of every conceivable colour, and seemed to be doing a roaring trade with passing tourists. As I approached, I spied a dark-haired young girl leaning against the wall, kicking her heels and staring dreamily off into the distance. I think I managed to catch the general gist of the conversation that followed:

‘You want one,señorita?’ asked the café’s proprietor from behind the big freezer that displayed the ice creams.