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, 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 out of 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, wheeling, 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 got 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.
‘Se?orita – 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 deeply 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 could hear 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 in pleasure at his solicitousness and concern.
In ten minutes, they reached the church of Santa Rufina, which abutted the main square of Arazuelo. The place was deserted, as most of the village were up on the hillside, revelling in the music and the manzanilla they had rolled up in barrels as a gift to their host. Olive and Isaac turned back to see the fireworks which had begun to explode in the sky; red and green and orange, gigantic sea urchins, falling fountains. Isaac forced the door of the church and slunk in, and Olive followed – frightened now, choked by the smell of stale incense. The moonlight came through the window, touching the beeswaxed pews, the baleful saints, set into the wall. She felt Isaac’s hand slip from hers, and heard his footsteps padding away up the nave.
‘Isaac—-’
The gunshot rang out beyond the pews from where she stood, and then another, then another. Olive was too terrified to scream. Beyond the walls of the church, the fireworks continued. She was rooted to the spot, cowering in terror. Suddenly, Isaac was next to her, his hand on her arm.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘We have to go.’
He took her hand and they fled. ‘What have you done?’ she hissed. ‘Was the priest – Isaac, what the hell have you done?’
They ran all the way back to the finca. Olive had to kick off her shoes and go bare--footed, the skin on her feet tearing on the occasional stone. At the gates, they stopped, breathless. The fireworks were still exploding, and she could smell the sulphuric tang of gunpowder.
She collapsed against the gate. ‘Am I an accessory to murder?’ she whispered. ‘Jesus, I’m not even joking.’
Isaac put his hand on her face. ‘For Adrián,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
He began to kiss her, cupping her face with his hands, scooping her by the waist. Olive felt the pride he had in her in the way he was clasping her hair, running his lips along the side of her neck, down on to her chest, under the emeralds which had heated with her skin. She’d proved herself to him, at last.
Isaac ran his fingers over the emeralds. ‘Where did you get this?’