By the crumbling castle walls of Salobreña, sat an old gypsy, blind from birth, his body bent and broken by abuse and poverty. Above him sunlight filtered through overhanging butterfly bushes, their roots clinging to the ancient stones and keeping them in place. The profusion of deep blue blossoms, together with the flaking whitewashed walls, gave the old man an unearthly cold blue pallor. He cradled a guitar in his over long arms, fingers caressing the strings, as a grandmother might caress a lock of a grandchild’s hair. His fingers did not move and he played not a sound. Across the narrow cobbled street, which fell steeply down and along the foot of the castle walls, Sigñor Mayordomo closed the iron gates to the Villa. Lifelong servant to the Vizcondesa Maria de la Salobreña, Mayordomo paused for a moment, before crossing the cobbles, looking down the street at the shafts of sunlight, and the angled shadows they made, he watched the last wisp of the morning’s mist rise and vanish in the light. Shading his eyes, he looked at the weeds and bushes on the broken battlements above and he may have shaking his head, if his years of service had not taught him to hide such feelings. He crossed the street pausing to survey the old man, whilst giving the impression he was looking elsewhere. Inside the taverna, Miguel, the owner, greeted him, “Sigñor Mayordomo, please, a seat. I’m honoured... welcome again to my...”
Mayordomo held up the palm of his hand, “A glass of orujo.”
Miguel brought the drink and Mayordomo said, “Sigñor, in the Spring I came to you, concerning...” he paused to lick the sharp, sour taste of the orujo from his lips, “...concerning the blind gypsy.”
patron of my taverna, servant to Captain Courtise, Chief of Police. He told me that the Chief of Police was adamant, the old man must be allowed to remain here, as he desires to spend his last days by the castle walls and the Chief of Police would like the old man's wishes to be respected. Courtice's man explained that the gypsy had performed some service for the Chief of Police’s late wife, the Consuela Courtise. The lady Consuela, having known the gypsy as a youth, had arranged for him to be released from an institution in which he had been kept for many years. I seems the gypsy played his guitar at Courtice's house, soothing the Consuela Courtise in her last days. But I have never heard the old man play a note. In fact, I believe...”
With studied patience Mayordomo waited, but seeing no end to Miguel’s tale, he interrupted, “The situation, concerning the blind gypsy, has changed. At my last visit the Vizcondesa Maria had considered, following my suggestion, that the old gypsy opposite the Villa, and by the castle walls, her former estate, was an affront to the late Conte’s memory and that his removal should be arranged. Since then the Viscondesa has become gravely ill, the priest now constantly by her side. She has received a visit from the Chief of Police Courtice, concerning his late wife and personal childhood friend of the Viscondesa. Appreciating the gypsy’s service to her friend, the Viscondesa now wishes the Gypsy to attend her at the Villa, with his guitar... to play for her.
“Sigñor, I’ve never heard the gypsy play. I do not think he can anymore, he is very old and his fingers... It is said he waits here in anticipation of repaying some old debt. I have heard say that Gypsies always repay their debts...one way or another. Who the old man wishes to repay, I do not know. And neither am I aware whether this repayment will be of benefit, or otherwise, to the recipient. Gypsies are renowned for harbouring grudges. And, it is said, even from one generation to the next but then... what could a blind crippled gypsy do? Maybe he just...” Miguel waved his hand around in the air. “a crazy. There are other musicians, very reasonable, I could...”
“No! The Vizcondesa was very precise in her request,” Mayordomo made a discrete movement of thumb and fingers, hinting at a financial arrangement. Miguel held up a hand, feigning embarrassment and saying nothing.
“Nine o’clock tomorrow then,” said Mayordomo.
***
Miguel, together with the Chief of Police’s servant escorted the old gypsy through the gates of Vizcondesa Maria's house. The gypsy bent double, almost on all four limbs, the guitar hanging in a blue blanket from his shoulder, made his way through the black oak doors into the drawing room. Shutters permitted a few shafts of light from the courtyard to illuminate patches of the dark blue floor tiles. The Vizcondesa Maria, in black satin, sat upright in her chair, not moving. Months of pain had drained her face. That morning’s morphine had not begun to ease her pain but she showed no emotion. Courtise’s man, Miguel and the house servants positioned the old man on a small rug, unwrapped his instrument, then, along with the priest, they left the room, leaving just Mayordomo by the doorway. Sitting cross legged and holding the guitar upright, the old gypsy’s hand slowly moved towards the neck of the guitar, his cold fingers trembling like white feathers stretching for the strings.
The Vizcondesa Maria closed her eyes as her pain died away in a warm glow. She heard the water in the courtyard fountain... and then the music of a guitar drifting, gently, sweetly... She felt faint and would of called for her fan but did not want the moment to end. She heard waxen fingers sliding over frets of the guitar... Her pain continued to fade washed away by the stream of music... she felt herself rising, floating, drifting...
The blue mist of years unrolled, she was young again, the last of her childhood summers. It was now all so familiar, not so long ago, the music, the cool draft which filtered through the crystal water of the courtyard fountain... and there was Consuela, her dearest friend, who had later married that policeman. Married beneath her. Fancy, a policeman! But she was such a dear friend. At least she, unlike herself, had found a husband, perhaps even love. Consuela danced around the fountain, whilst the young, blind guitarist played... such beautiful music...Tremolos echoed the sunlight and the fountain droplets, arpeggios built images of her family’s beautiful Moorish castle and it’s long lost pools of shimmering goldfish.
Suddenly the music stopped, the guitar rang out as it hit the ground. Her stepfather Ernesto, newly returned from Granada, stood over the fallen blind boy, who whimpered and scrabbled over the floor for his guitar. Ernesto’s riding boot crushed the instrument. “I’ll teach you to come into this house, filthy gypsy. I spit on gypsies, I spit on you.” He kicked the remains of the guitar through the gate, then turned his boot on the boy, kicking, first his legs as he tried to rise then his chest and finishing with his head, sending droplets of blood over the courtyard blue stones. “Get out!”he repeated. But the boy could not move. He moved in to administer another kicking. Consuela ran to help the fallen boy and Maria turned on Ernesto, “Leave him. He is my guest.”
“Silence your tongue, girl.”
“I am no girl, I am the Vizcondesa now. My mother threw you out before she died. You raised your hand to her but you’ll not bully me! Now, you get out! Go back to Granada. There is nothing here for you.” He raised his hand to strike her but her mother's butler, a young Mayordomo, stepped between them. He was young, tall and powerful. He held up a palm against the rage and Ernesto backed away.
Vizcondesa Maria felt tears rising at the memory and now the guitarist was no longer young, as old as her and he was playing again for her. He had been waiting... and she had tried to have him removed... Now, at her time of greatest need... how exquisite he played.
She thought to open her eyes, but feared it might be just a dream and would vanish... She wanted so much to dance again around the fountain as she had all those years before. Her over-shadowing pain had lifted... she tried to open her eyes, the sky no longer blue but white, white, whiter and whiter... The guitar slowed towards its final cadence, the wonderful modulating cadence into the major key and...and...
The priest returned at Mayordomo’s signal and after a few moments, making the sign of the cross announced, “the Vizcondesa Maria de la Salobreña, she is with the angels.”
***
“Sigñor Mayordomo, a glass of orujo?”
Mayordomo pointed his chin towards the empty spot by the castle wall, “The old gypsy?”
“He’s a gone.”
“Dead?”
“No, no, he was seen on the road to Granada, why Granada?..." Miguel put the tray and bottle down, straightened his back and said, "Sigñor Mayordomo, it was a great honour to help the gyp... the old man to attend and play music for the Vizcondesa Maria, in her final moments.”
“Play music...” Mayordomo paused, to lick the sharp taste of the orujo from his lips, “The gypsy never played any music... not a single note. The Vizcondesa Maria left this world with dignity and will be deeply missed... but she left it in silence. Music seemed beyond the old man."ñor Mayordomo, it was a great honour to help the gyp... the old man to attend and play music for the Vizcondesa Maria, in her final moments.”
“Play music...” Mayordomo paused, to lick the sharp taste of the orujo from his lips, “The gypsy never played any music... not a single note. The Vizcondesa Maria left this world with dignity and will be deeply missed... but she left it in silence. Music seemed beyond the old man."
