Dancing Stones

3: The Black Haired Boy

3

The Black Haired Boy

Teya was wolfing down her third empanada, trying to avoid Isandro’s probing eyes. They were sitting in a small restaurant, with red chequered tablecloths and flickering candles on the tables. A plate of empanadas lay in front of them, which Teya discovered were a kind of folded fried dough filled with delicious meats, herbs, spices and cheeses.

‘But where? Where did you go?’ Isandro searched her face, his brown eyes wide.

‘I’m sorry. It was stupid. I just wandered around, then I realised I was lost.’

‘It is my fault. I should not have left you alone on your first day here. Your mother will be so cross with me.’

‘No please. Don’t tell Mum. She worries so much as it is.’

‘But you, Querida, you were not well earlier. Perhaps you need a doctor?’

‘No really. I don’t want any fuss. I won’t do it again.’

‘How did you find your way back?’

Teya hesitated. For some reason, she was reluctant to talk about the mysterious boy who had rescued her. Perhaps because she didn’t want her uncle to think she was dumb enough to freely follow a strange man at night. But it was something else, too. She didn’t want to talk about it because it felt, well it felt kind of magical. How lame.

‘I just kind of backtracked. It was okay in the end.’ She poked guiltily at the empanadas. ‘Tomorrow I’ll look at the map and work things out properly. It was a dumb thing to do. I’m really sorry.’

‘It is nothing. You are my niece. Children are born to worry their elders. I have three children already, and now I have another. I shall soon have no hair left upon my head.’ He chuckled. Teya looked at his full, thick thatch of black hair and smiled.

‘Now tell me. Your mother says you are a wonderful gymnast. This is true?’

‘Well,’ Teya played noughts and crosses with her fork on the squares of the tablecloth. ‘I used to train after school most days. I don’t know. Lately I don’t really feel like it much.’

Isandro nodded.

‘I think I understand.’ He hesitated. There was clearly something on his mind. ‘I want to ask you something, but please, forgive me. I know your father, he loved you very much.’ Teya gripped her fork, its prongs scraping divots in the tablecloth.

‘He was very proud of his daughter, who is so wonderful, so brave. Although we had not seen him for a long time, I know this to be true. But tell me, your mother said you no longer will speak your father’s language Quechua?’

Teya stared fiercely at the empanadas on the plate in front of her, the muscles in her jaw tightening. She would not cry.

‘I’m sorry, little Teya. I did not mean to remind you of sad things. I am sad too. We will not speak of things that make us sad if that is what you wish. But I must tell you that my wife, Papan, she does not speak English. My daughters, they do only a little, as many of them do at school today. And you do not speak Spanish I think. So maybe there is a little problem? You see what my thoughts are?’

‘I guess so.’

‘What shall we do?’

Teya was quiet. This was a problem she hadn’t thought of. She shot a silent arrow of anger to her mother, who had probably planned it all as some kind of stupid therapy – to force her to speak the language so she would face her problems or something.

Thanks to Olin, her Quechua was very strong. It had belonged to them, was private. She could tell him anything in Quechua. It was as if all her awkwardness and shyness had fallen away, as if she’d been a different girl when she spoke it.

That thousands of people spoke this language every day – to go shopping, to have arguments, to discuss the weather – was inconceivable to her.

‘I don’t know. Maybe…maybe I’ll get a book. A Spanish book and learn some Spanish. Your family speaks Spanish don’t they?’

‘Yes. Almost everyone speaks Spanish in Peru, except for the mountain people.’ His look was uncertain. ‘I think this is a good idea - a very good idea. But perhaps a week is not enough to learn all you need? Next week we will fly to Cusco. But yes,’ he hurried on when he saw her expression. ‘A good idea indeed. Tomorrow we will buy you this book.’

The subject seemed to be closed for now, and to Teya’s relief they moved on to other things.

He told her all about his business in Cusco. His family had owned and farmed land there for generations, in fact dating back to the time of the Incas. But now he ran a successful business trading fine local crafts and artworks in Europe. He travelled often, and Buenos Aires was a jumping off point for much of his business.

He told her all about Buenos Aires, the history, the music, and most of all the Tango that had had its origins here.

‘It is wonderful, the Tango. You will love it,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow you shall see it, because on Sunday there is the famous Ferria, or flea market in San Telmo. There is much to see, music and dancing and crazy theatre, funny things to buy. You will see.’

He noticed her eyelids beginning to droop, and laughing, got up to pay the bill.

That night as Teya drifted off to sleep, images of a black haired boy walked from her thoughts into her dreams. He led her up a shadowed street. He held her hand in his, but as he turned to face her, his shining hair swung in a slow arc, and as it did it changed into the black feathers of a giant bird. With a rush and flurry of his huge wings, he took flight and was gone. Somehow, she knew that he was a condor, and not a boy at all.

Teya emerged from the bathroom in torn camos and boots. She threw on her warm down coat, softening the cut of her angular shoulders. She mentally gave Isandro top marks for not mentioning her scruffy appearance. Her mother would have, for sure. He simply smiled encouragement when she looked ready to go.

He led her up the street towards Plaza Dorrego, which seemed to be the centre of everything in San Telmo on a Sunday. Teya found herself clinging to her uncle’s arm. b****y hell. Everything was so loud, the people unashamed, exuberant and confident in a way she knew she’d never be.

Street dancers were coupling among the crowd to the strains of violins – the women, their necks stretched long and backs arched, rearing from their partners who pulled them close, then flung them away like silken birds.

How could those women, dressed in the tiniest, sheerest dresses, cavort and writhe against their pinstriped suited men in broad daylight? They were gorgeous, wild – these things surely belonged in the shadows?

‘The Tango. You see it?’ Isandro had to yell above the mash of sounds, of unfamiliar language, of guitars and violins and street bargaining.

Teya nodded dumbly. She felt weird looking at this stuff with her uncle beside her. It was embarrassing.

‘What’s over there?’ she asked to draw him away from the dancers.

‘Plaza Dorrego. The markets. We shall look?’

They drifted around for a while, pausing now and then to listen to the music, or watch the performances. Isandro bought three pairs of silver earrings.

‘Do you like these?’ he asked her.

‘Yeah, they’re great.’

‘Always I must bring presents for my daughters, or else I will suffer a dreadful fate. A pair each for the eldest two, and one pair it is for you. You are now my daughter also.’

Teya blushed. ‘No, please. They’re too expensive.’

‘Nonsense.’ He pressed the small paper package into her hand, smiling.

As soon as he turned away, Teya quickly brushed wisps of hair forward over her unpierced ears. She’d never had them done. She didn’t like jewellery on her. Jewellery was for girls who liked to be looked at, not girls like Teya.

But how kind he was. He didn’t even know her. She wanted to hug him and run away from him, all at the same time.

After lunch they wandered onwards, down a street lined with more stalls. Towards the end, where huge trees towered overhead, street sellers had laid their wares out on blankets. Isandro drifted ahead, his interest caught by some kind of antique machinery, and for a moment, Teya was left alone.

Something caught her eye; a bright blue something, nestled on a blanket. She felt electrified by it, and a strange thing happened. It was as if her body were no longer hers, as if she had no choice in its movement. She was drawn forward, toward the vivid blue thing, compelled as if it were a magnet and she a piece of tin.

It was a stone, set within a beautiful silver necklace. It lay among other pieces on a woven rug. She crouched down to take a closer look. She didn’t like jewellery. It didn’t suit her, wasn’t her thing. So why was she so fascinated? It called to her – she couldn’t look away.

The air pressure changed around her, squashing the breath from her lungs. She sloped sideways, pushed by someone’s eyes. She knew before she looked to whom those eyes belonged.

Her scalp prickled, and her heart began to thud in her chest. Blood was pounding in her ears, drowning out the bustling noises of the street. But then the sound of her heart changed, turned into the flurrying sound of feathers rushing towards the sky.

She was afraid to look up, but she had to. She suddenly wished she’d worn something nicer than torn camos.

When she did, her eyes fell headlong into those of the black haired boy.

He was sitting in front of her, his strong brown hands pausing from their work. He had been twisting and shaping strips of silver into delicate works of art.

A soft smile played at the corners of his lips and he looked calm – he’d been expecting her. Teya had never seen anyone more gorgeous.

‘Hola,’ he said in a low voice.

‘Hi.’

They stared at each other for what seemed a long time. Finally it was Teya who broke the silence.

‘This is beautiful.’ She pointed at the blue stoned necklace that had caught her eye. He picked it up and placed it in her hand, closing her fingers over it.

‘Para ti.’ His hand squeezed hers, making sure she understood that he wanted her to have it.

‘No no I couldn’t.’ She scrambled for her wallet, but he shook his head.

‘No senorita. Para ti.’ His smile widened, and she felt her breath catch in her throat.

‘Oh. Well thanks. I love it. I mean I like it… a lot.’

‘Come ti llamas?’ he asked.

She shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. No Spanish.’

He pointed to his chest and said: ‘Mateo.’ He pronounced it Mat-ay-o. ‘Come ti llamas?’ He pointed to her chest.

‘Oh. Teya.’

‘Teya.’ They grinned at each other.

‘You took me home the other night. I was lost. Thank you so much,’ she said.

He shook his head and smiled. He didn’t understand.

Teya didn’t want to leave, but they couldn’t stay like this forever, staring and grinning like idiots.

‘I am from Australia.’ She spoke clearly, hoping he would understand some of what she said.

‘Ah, si. Peru.’ He pointed to himself again.

No way. No way.

But it made sense. With his dark almond eyes, high cheekbones and angular jaw he looked much more Native American than Spanish. His skin was darker too, a rich chocolate.

It had been ten months since she had uttered a single word of Quechua. She had sworn she would never speak the language again, and the very thought of it made her sick to the stomach. But her desire to speak to him was overwhelming.

He noticed her distress, and his smooth brow furrowed.

She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t. That part of her was dead.

She stood, her eyes shifting away from him to hide the pain. In a smooth agile movement, he was on his feet as well. Neither of them seemed to know what to do, both of them aware that something had changed. A barrier greater than language had sprung up between them.

She began to back away. He took one step toward her, but at this she turned and fled.

Isandro was trotting up the street as she ran toward him, a lumpy package under his arm.

‘I have found a wonderful thing. A very old camera with all its lenses. Perfect! We can make some photo. Just like the old ones.’

He noticed her face, and his jubilance evaporated.

‘My dear, something is wrong? Someone has upset you?’

Teya couldn’t speak.

‘Now now, little Teya. We will go home. Do not cry.’

He guided her gently down a side street, away from the crowds.

Teya would never see this boy again, never even talk to a Peruvian. She realised she must go home to Australia, that the experiment had failed. She would not trouble Isandro and his family. She would cause no more problems for anyone. She would shrivel up and die.

‘What is it, Teya?’ Isandro asked when he had got them home. She shook her head in silent misery. ‘Shall we call your mother?’ She shook her head more emphatically.

‘I cannot understand, I’m sure. My daughters, they tell me this always. My littlest one, she is two. She is a mystery to me. The other two, they are eleven and fifteen, my goodness. Always they yell this. ‘Papa, you do not understand!’ And then they cry. I am such a burden to them, I know.’ Isandro looked so comically crestfallen that Teya couldn’t help the smallest smile.

‘So you see, I am lucky to have such teachers. They will be patient with me, I hope. And now you too must be patient with me. Poor men, we are such simple creatures.’

Teya realised he was being silly to cheer her up, and she allowed him another little smile. Her breathing was slowing, and on the surface, she did feel more composed. She’d let herself spin out for a second, had exposed the mess inside.

But now she had it under control, and she took a deep breath, determined to harden herself. It was crazy. One minute she was high as a kite, the next she was suicidal. She would have to work harder to keep her feelings restrained.

The stupid therapist her mother had forced her to go to had talked to her about expressing her feelings, about ‘unpacking her sadness’ so that she could move on. How dumb. This was what happened when she allowed her feelings out. Everything went wrong. Teya knew she had to hold on as tight as possible. It was the only way to get things back to the way they were before.

She took a deep breath and tried for a big smile. Isandro smiled back, but sadly, as if he’d seen what was missing in her eyes.

It was then that Teya felt the sharp object clutched in her hand. She looked down and realised she was still holding the necklace the boy had given her. Isandro followed her gaze.

‘But what is this?’ he asked. She handed it to him and he examined it with professional interest.

‘The blue stone, it is Lapis Lazuli. And the design has elements of classical Inca work. Look at these circular plates, the way they are linked together, and the Chakana at the centre. I have seen ancient pieces that are similar. But it is quite contemporary as well. Very fine workmanship. The Lapis is of very good quality too. Where did you get it?’

‘The markets.’ Teya still couldn’t bring herself to mention the black haired boy. It was too painful and strange.

‘This would sell very well in Europe. How much did you pay for it?’

‘Well, nothing.’ Teya hesitated. ‘It was given to me.’

Isandro’s thick eyebrows shot up like two surprised caterpillars. ‘But who?’

‘A boy I met. I’m not sure why. He just wanted me to have it.’

‘You must be careful of strangers here. Did you arrange to meet him again?’

‘No. I’ll never see him again.’

‘That is good. Still it is a shame I did not meet him. He is a very talented artist, if he truly made this himself. You are lucky to have it.’ He gave it back to her and smiled. She wrapped it in a scarf and zipped it into a side pocket of her bag.

‘Now perhaps you can excuse me for a few hours?’ Isandro said. ‘I have many emails to make. This week I have much work to do, meetings and so forth. So I will not be around much. Will you be all right by yourself?’

‘Of course,’ said Teya. ‘I have some books to read. I’ll probably just hang around the apartment mostly, maybe go for some walks. But not far,’ she said as he started to protest.

‘I hope you will not be bored. There will be plenty of adventures for you in Cusco, and also Machu Picchu once you get there.’

When he had left, she sat on her bed and stared at the window.

She could feel it, the insistent tapping inside her head, the sharp pecking of the black stone against her will. It wanted her, and she wanted it.

Tap tap scrape. Tap tap scrape. It was calling her. And then she couldn’t resist it anymore, and she scrambled through her backpack until she found it. The smoky little shard of obsidian lay cool and hard in her palm, sharp as a bird’s beak. Her fingers closed around it, squeezing until the edges bit painfully into her flesh.

She wanted to. She wanted to so badly. Her anger and disappointment did battle with her resolve. Everything felt so much better when the skin parted and the pressure was released, the red haze of physical pain a soothing wash for the other, darker pain.

The nearly healed scabs on her thighs prickled with anticipation, and she could almost taste the rush of salt in her mouth, the sweet and temporary calm she knew would flow over her after it was done.

But at the last moment she flung the thing across the room. It bounced and skittered along the carpet to rest, hard and still against the skirting board. No more of that. Never again.