Spanish Dancers

Approaching the park this morning on my way back from the post office, I saw a tree trimmer in the morning light busy at his task of un-bearding the palms. In the distance were a man, a dog and a ball. Beyond them was a woman who appeared to be jumping in place. As I got closer and saw the profile of high-heeled shoes I recognized that she was practicing zapateado, the passionate, rhythmic foot-stomping component of Flamenco and Classical Spanish dance. As I got closer still my curiosity was assuaged. How could she practice on grass and dirt and still get that crisp sound? Ah, she had a 24 inch square of wood on which she was practicing. The sound and sight brought back a whole Gestalt of a period of my life when any flat surface was an invitation to practice mi zapateado. 

Apartment dwelling has its ups and downs. If you live on the top floor, you don’t practice zapateado unless you’re certain your downstairs neighbors are not home. I remember well, those apartment years.

Jose Fernandez, my teacher of classical Spanish dance, had touted me on a hole-in-the-wall shoe store in Echo Park where the proprietress had some old Capezio shoes for sale. They were RED, made in 1920, fit me perfectly and had steel rods through the 3 inch heels so they made a terrific sound. I still have those shoes and once in a while strap them on to practice on our hardwood floors… no worries now about downstairs neighbors.

It was the summer of 1965, end of Eleventh grade... just before the start of my senior year. A family, for whose kids I baby-sat, was moving away. Bob was an artist of some note; Ruthie a stay-at-home-mom and member of my dance class. They were selling their 1954 too fine, two tone Chevy… yellow and green with a chrome dash that must have been 14 feet wide. Only one previous owner… the proverbial little old lady from Pasadena, this was the car of my dreams! And only $150. Bob threw in one of his paintings of dried Indian corn. I was off! That car and I had many adventures, but that’s another story…

Friday nights would find me picking up Ruth and driving to Falcon Studios on Hollywood Boulevard. Sarah 5, and Amy 3, would want me to stay and read stories. We had many good times as I read aloud to them with (very) dramatic interpretations. But that too is another story!

When we got to the studio we’d invariably hear Magdalena and her husband Jose squabbling about money or the musicians – two guitarists played for us most nights. This night there was only Manuel. He was cleaning the short fingernails of his left hand with the incredibly long fingernails of his right hand. Those nails could coax magic out of his otherwise unremarkable guitar.

Jose clapped his hands and the half-dozen or so dancers gathered behind Magdalena to rehearse the piece we were to perform at Plummer Park in only two weeks time. Sibelius. Haunting. Jose’s choreography had us pounding down into the earth with feet and on our knees, slowly dragging one leg and then the other while the torso, arms and neck craned like birds forbidden the open skies… pining, yearning, straining to be free from earthly bonds. 

Jose told us that in old times classical Spanish dancers wore corsets with whale-bone stays sharpened to a point on top so that they didn’t dare let down or their breasts would be pierced. The story was evocative enough that Ruth and I kept our backs ram-rod straight and our shoulders back, heart centers open to that sky of freedom promised but withheld. No let down! No pierced breasts for us! 

Ruth was my roll model in this department. I had never met anyone so flat-chested as she was. My 32 triple A bra size had always been a cause of great concern. I kept expecting to grow… you know what they say… expectation is pre-meditated disappointment. I spent my entire adolescence sorely disappointed. “When is the magic going to happen to me? When am I going to grow breasts?” Ruth pointed out that although she was even flatter than I, she successfully nursed her two beautiful daughters. Flatness did not determine nor deter function. I remembered that when, as a new nursing mom I looked like Dolly Parton and had more milk than I could use for my babies so became a regular donor to a milk bank through our pediatrician in Hollywood.

Jose applauded us at the end of our castanet chorus. With tears in his eyes, with his best English, heavily accented by his native Castellano (Castilian Spanish) he told us, “That was excruciating!”  Magdalena corrected, “Exquisite!”

The castanuellas (castanets) that Jose had crafted for me out of teak were gorgeous and sounded delicate yet solid. By his own reckoning they were the finest pair he’d crafted. I had seen him in front of their garage sanding and working blocks of wood until they gleamed and shone in their scallop shell-like form. His emphysema was getting worse and he coughed until the tears came. His hands trembled as he fixed the ropes to my thumbs and had me play for him.

So, the day before the performance Jose calls me up and claims Magdalena’s castanets had gone missing and could she borrow mine and he’d loan me another pair until after the Plummer Park gig and I could hear her in the background telling him what to say. She was our soloist and most revered performer. With long flowing black hair she had the classic profile, high cheek bones and brow and the perpetual look of brooding so typical of Spanish dancers. She was also extremely possessive and jealous. Even with our spit curls, Ruth with her blue saucer eyes and hip length straight brown hair and I in my freckles and red hair couldn’t approach the look. We knew it was the right thing to do, but my hands trembled as I handed over my castanets to Magdalena.

The performance came of without a hitch, except that during one of her passionate earth-grinding zapateado solos, Magdalena’s petticoat worked its way down and with a graceful flourish of foot she kicked it off into the wings and kept on dancing. The audience cheered.

After the performance, Jose claimed that this pair of castanets had gone missing and that he’d make me another. Indeed he did start them… black ebony, filled with such promise. Alas, Jose sickened and died of his emphysema before he could finish them. I still practice sometimes with these clunky, un-tuned, un-polished castanuelas.  Perhaps I’ll take them down to the park one morning… along with my red shoes.