Read The Return for Free Online Page A

rehearsal.
     
    Four doors led from the hallway. Two were open, two shut. From behind one closed door could be heard the sound of thunderous stamping. A herd of bulls charging down a street would not have made more noise. It stopped abruptly and was followed by the sound of rhythmic clapping, like the patter of raindrops after a thunderstorm.
     
    A woman bustled purposefully past them and down an unlit corridor. Steel heel- and toecaps clip-clopped on the stone floor and music burst through a briefly opened door.
     
    The two Englishwomen stood reading the framed posters advertising performances that had taken place decades earlier, slightly unsure what they should do. Eventually Maggie got the attention of a skeletally thin and tired-looking woman of about fifty, who seemed to run the place from a dark cubbyhole within the reception area.
     
    ‘Salsa?’ said Maggie, hopefully.
     
    With a perfunctory nod, the woman acknowledged their presence. ‘ Felipe y Corazón - allí ,’ she said, pointing emphatically to one of the open doors.
     
    They were the first in the studio. They put their bags in the corner and changed their shoes.
     
    ‘I wonder how many of us there will be,’ mused Maggie, doing up her buckles. Her statement required no response.
     
    A mirror ran across one end of the room and a wooden bar ran down another. It was a clinical space with high windows that overlooked a narrow street, and even if the glass had not been opaque with dirt, little daylight would have entered the room. A strong smell of polish seeped from the dark wooden floor worn smooth by years of wear.
     
    Sonia loved the slightly musty smell of age and usage that emanated from the walls of this room, the way that the cracks between the boards had filled with dust, grime and wax. She noticed the way fluff had mounted up between the segments of the ancient old radiators and saw silvery cobweb threads wafting gently from the ceiling. In each layer of dust there was another decade of the place’s history.
     
    Half a dozen other people drifted into the studio. There was a group of Norwegian students (mostly girls) all doing Spanish Studies at university, and then a few additional men in their early twenties appeared, all of them locals.
     
    ‘They must be what are called “taxi dancers”,’ Maggie whispered to Sonia. ‘It said in the brochure that they hire them in to balance up the numbers.’
     
    Eventually, their instructors appeared. Felipe and Corazón were both raven-haired and as lean as young calves, but their weathered skin betrayed that they were well into their sixties. Corazón had evenly spaced rows of deep lines on her bony face, not etched there just by the passing of time, but through expressiveness and the unashamed exaggeration of her emotions.Whenever she smiled, laughed and grimaced it took its toll on her skin. Both were dressed in black, which accentuated their slimness, and against the whiteness of the room, they stood out like silhouettes.
     
    The group of twelve had spread themselves out, all of them facing their instructors.
     
    ‘ Hola! ’ they said in unison, smiling broadly at the group lined up expectantly in front of them.
     
    ‘ Hola! ’ chorused the group, like a class of well-disciplined six year olds.
     
    Felipe carried a CD player, which he set down on the floor. He pressed ‘play’ and the space they shared was transformed. The joyful sound of a trumpet introduction pierced the air. The class automatically mirrored Corazón’s movements. It did not take a word from her, it was simply obvious that this was her intention. For a while the class warmed up gently, turning wrists and ankles, flexing heels, stretching necks and shoulders, and rotating hips. All the while they kept their eyes fixed on their teachers, fascinated by their pipe-cleaner bodies.
     
    Though they had grown up in the flamenco tradition, Felipe and Corazón had seen which way the wind was blowing. In teaching terms,