Bulla: ruckus, rise, noise
Let’s get the exciting announcement out of the way before we take a dive into the history of flamenco in Spain. Stick around until the end of this post for a bonus chapter from Garden of Shadows. Garden of Shadows will be released on October 29! This is assuming all goes well given the vagaries of the publishing world these days. I’ll announce the pre-orders and give the first glimpse of the cover here, so if you haven’t signed up, this a good time to get to it! I’m excited and nervous to share this next installment of Linnea’s adventures with you. As it is the second book in the series, our characters will be facing some difficulties.
As I’ve mentioned before, Garden of Shadows is set in southern Spain. Spain has always had a distinct pull. Its varied landscape and sense of identity intrigued me from the start. And one of the greatest sparks came from an Afropop Worldwide episode that aired not long after I visited Spain last. Flamenco “arose” during the mid-19th century in Spain, but it was there long before through cultural traditions of the Gitano and Moors that lived in southern Spain for centuries. So, how did flamenco, something people around the world, as well as the Spanish people, associate with their identity, come into popular acceptance?
This question sent me down a rabbit hole and specifically to the books Sonidos Negros by Meira Goldberg and Flamenco Nation by Sandie Holguín. Sonidos Negros gave me the center for Garden of Shadows. In the late 19th century, Spain, on the surface, seemed to be relatively stable, but beneath was a building storm that took the country into the turbulent 20th century. Spain had established the republic, taken some power away from the monarchy, but it was struggling to find its function. They suffered through a cholera outbreak and earthquakes. Their beloved king died, leaving behind a pregnant regent. And the colonies were failing, sending people fleeing back to the mainland. So, how does a simple fiction author capture that chaos? By using flamenco to guide me to the heart of my story.
In Voyage of the Pleiades, we see Matias trying to come to grips with his identity. What it means to be someone split across cultures. The theme continues in Garden of Shadows, but in this case, it is an entire country trying to figure out their identity.
“Flamenco came into being as a performance genre in the mid-nineteenth century, spurred by an intense desire on the part of the Spain’s cultural and political elite to defend their status as European- precisely by asserting Spain’s unique national identity, as personified by its last remaining Other (Moorish, Jewish, and Afro-descended Spaniards having long since “disappeared”): the Gitano.” excerpt from Sonidos Negros.
Flamenco was a form of performance that showed to the world that Spain was a kind of outlaw, not like the rest of Europe. Yet it was stolen off the back of the Gitano, just like they had done in the colonies.
The magic of writing historical fiction (at least for me), is weaving my research, the undercurrents of what was happening into the country, and my fictional characters into a story that is entertaining, not a lecture. If you look closely, you’ll find references to the parallel rise of flamenco and the underlying dissatisfaction in Spain within Garden of Shadows.
I’ve barely scratched the surface of this topic here in this post, so I highly recommend checking out these books and the Afropop episode to learn more.
When you are editing your book, hard choices have to be made. As we always say, you have to kill your babies. Something you love ends up on the cutting room floor because, above all, we bow to the flow of the story. And if it isn’t working, it has to go. This chapter is one of those babies. You get to enjoy it here as a subscriber.
Garden of Shadows bonus chapter:
The cessation in rocking startled me from dozing on Matias’s shoulder. Our carriage had halted on a dark, empty street.
Matias slid forward, reaching for the door handle. “We’ll walk from here.” He hopped from the carriage, offering his hand as I descended.
A constellation of scattered white buildings gleamed on the hillside. Moonlight bathed the structures of the Sacromonte where they clung to the slopes. A few points of human-created light shined out from the front-facing windows. Hooking my hand on Matias’s elbow, we proceeded up the solitary road that bisected the cave dwellings.
“On one of my walks during the early morning, I met an elderly man and joined him for a coffee. He wished to hear more about my travels. We spent hours talking. Before we parted, he invited me to visit his home. He said to arrive late at night when the moon was full. Tonight, we get to experience zambra, a form of flamenco.”
The road climbed a series of switchbacks that required focus to keep from stumbling in the dark.
“How do you know where to go? There are so many houses.”
“Anatolie drew a map.” He released my arm to unfold a small piece of parchment, tilting it toward a nearby window.
“After the next bend, his home is on the right.”
As we ascended the final steep section, a very faint thrum of music came from behind the door. We patted the dust from our clothing before Matias pounded on the sturdy wooden portal. An elderly woman, pipe clasped between her lips, glared at us through the gap.
“Buenas noches, señora. Anatolie nos invitó. Me llamo, Matias Ward.”
She examined us, head-to-toe, chewing on the stem of her pipe. Her hair was bound in thick, grey braids that circled her head twice. Smoke floated around her like fog clinging to the mountainside. We must’ve passed her examination. With a perfunctory nod, she swung the door ajar.
I forced myself not to gape at the interior of the cave. The normal house facade was just a threshold for a magical space. Firelight turned the whitewashed walls pearlescent. It was as if we had entered a giant abalone.
Comfortable chairs with plush cushions were grouped around the hearth, opposite twin dark portals cut into the walls. Music came from the one on the left, a vibrational pounding of hands and feet. Motioning us toward the corridor, the old woman settled herself into a chair.
We emerged from the narrow hallway into an elongated room that buzzed with energy. Dancers whirled at the center, the music spiraling toward a crescendo. Matias tugged me beside him onto the benches that lined the walls. Every bone in my chest seemed to reverberate with the percussive impact of the dancer’s feet. Two women faced each other, twirling and stomping in syncopation to the clapping. The fringed ends of their bright shawls spun in the air, mirroring the shapes carved by their hands. It made me think of hawks ascending on the updrafts of wind. With a final note, the guitars went silent. The dancers halted for a moment before sauntering to the benches near the musicians.
Matias leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Anatolie said that the zambra flamenco is unique to the Sacromonte…”
Guitar chords echoed off the walls, ceasing the buzz of conversation. A musician played a few solo lines before settling into a sharp refrain. Everyone on the benches clapped along. One by one the dancers rose, milling around the center of the space with hips canted. With an out-turned stomp, the first woman began the dance.
As the music escalated, my body responded in a visceral way. My heart hammered against my breastbone to the beat. Blood swished through my veins with the swirl of the performers. Eyes burning with intensity, I couldn’t glance away from their expressions, the movements of their hands. Transfixed, I lost track of time, of Matias’s presence, of the strangers on the benches. One song merged with the next, dancers rotated from the floor. The cave was so narrow that we could see the perspiration and feel the heat emanating from their skin.
In the cave, clocks ceased to matter, there were no windows to measure the passage of the night. Women danced; guitarists played. At some point, Matias passed a communal cup of sweetened tea. Finally, the leader took a break to mop his face with a handkerchief and set aside his guitar, signaling the end of the performance.
My joints were stiff when I unfolded from the bench. It took a few moments to reorient before following Matias. Everyone filed past the old woman, still in her chair, smoking her pipe. Outside, the first hint of sunrise turned the sky into a watercolor wash of gentian. Anatolie, Matias’s friend, leaned on the outside of the house, watching everyone leave. Matias lingered for a moment to say hello. I hardly marked the experience; I was hypnotized by the lingering sensation brought on by the flamenco. Watching the predawn city pass beyond the window, I thought over the last several weeks. The emotional turmoil that had been swirling inside was a cyclone of confusion. I traced a pattern on the glass of interlocking circles. Finding a way to express my emotions was difficult for me. I didn’t have the words. Tonight, as I watched the dancers, though, something rose from the pit of my soul. My stomach? Like a wild horse fighting the bit, I was fighting the inevitability of change. To move forward with Matias, with my career; something had to give. I couldn’t continue to thrash around in this liminal space. I turned toward the interior of the carriage. Matias’s eyes glinted from the opposite side of the seat. I intertwined our fingers. As we passed over the River Darro, I cast out a wish that I would find a path forward before I lost Matias, or myself.
so thrilled to hear your news!