The stillness of Seville’s Plaza de España was punctuated only by the sound of a horse-drawn carriage circling the grand fountain, and the atmosphere felt like a painting from the 1800s. Few tourist groups could be seen, wandering in awe of the porcelain pillars and railings that lined the path around the fountain. The same traditional colors and intricate patterns could be seen in the lampposts and the walls of the plaza.
At the edge of the fountain, a beautiful gypsy danced Flamenco. She wore a red, flowing skirt with multiple overlapping frills, which billowed like a flame with each movement of her legs, an orange scarf with flowery patterns around her waist and a large rose in her jet-black hair. The view was breathtakingly beautiful, and each of the dancer’s movements were like a part of the eternal setting. Her dance was full of soul and passion, tenderness and caressing, jealousy and a fateful call of desire. Her soft young body hypnotized the onlookers with its rhythmic trance as the Flamenco guitar in the background told the ancient story of a man and a woman.
A man strumming a guitar growls with a sorrowful agony. New nuances come to the dance. The invitingly teasing challenge of a love game is now a passionate woman’s wail, constrained by her father’s prohibitions and her mother’s warnings. Her hips beckoning in dream, her mind willing to surrender all, escaping into the black night and forsaking her father’s house.
The song has many verses and in love happiness is fleeting and ephemeral, the slightest speck of sand grinding against dancing shoes and jealousy woven into the fabric of yearning. Suspicion stirs from the lip-smacking promises of the song, the woman’s hands deflecting, do you think I’m a cheap slut that can be had by cooing like a horny cat. Get out of my sight you rascal, be the dust on my feet and dissipate into the earth, the sky and eternity promise, so maybe I will come with you. The woman’s heels clatter fiercely against the cobblestones, rhythmically keeping time and the tempo changes like angry words.
The woman once so sweet hhas become a fiery gypsy with pride and her own will, her weapons an unrelenting rage and a blade tucked beneath her shawl. Jealousy crackles like a bolt of lightning in the frills of her skirt, suspicion a serpent that writhes through her dancing body.
Jealousy crackles like a bolt of lightning in the frills of her skirt, suspicion a serpent that writhes through her dancing body. The guitar soothes and flatters and promises lies. The singer’s voice breaks and its despair a deep well to drown in. Finally, the maiden yields, the feet that once accused come to a halt and a victorious smile lights up her face, but the hand still seeks a guarantee and offers a finger as if to take a ring.
And then the performance is done. The tourist crowd that has gathered is like a cackling flock of flamingos, and the enchantment shatters, it is time to fish a coin out of the pocket and put it on the red-checked tablecloth.
Markku Lindroos Novellit 