Desire and Duende

Dearest reader

Thanks for being here. This is part three of three. You really need to read

parts one

and two

first. Endless gratitude to Mykymyk2 and KES for their advice, editing and feedback.

Happy reading!

T x

Barcelona: day fourteen

The thrum of the engine starting, the swaying of the bus as we pull away towards the final stop in Spain, rouses me from sleep.

Waking is wonderful. In the night, I've become the big spoon, Cristina curled into me, both her hands clutching my left, holding it to her chest, pulling my nose into the nape of her neck. The swaying of the bus nudges us into each other every now and then.

Smiling, I resolve to stay there as long as I can.

I must have dozed back off again, because Cristina shifting in my arms wakes me. Opening my eyes, I see her examining me again, seeking for answers to whatever she is wondering in my face. Her eyes keep flicking to my chest, where two modest bumps reveal my assigned birth gender. Our hands are entwined between us, yes, but I miss the close contact we had earlier. Not just miss it, but ache for it, yearn for it.

I've got it so bad, yet I know so little about her. This is crazy. Beyoncé crazy.

Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point.

She reaches up behind us, to the wall net, and gets her phone out.

Why do you hate your body do you want to be a man

Yeah. She barely knows me either. I compose and translate my reply.

I don't hate my body. I have no plans or desire to change it. But I don't like being judged for it, being told to display it in a certain way, that it must look like this and not like that. I hate that. But I don't want to be a man either. That's why I ask people not to call me "he" or "she". I don't want people to think of me that way. I want them to think of me as a person first, as Leila first, not as a woman or a man. Does that make any sense?

It's not the whole truth, really, but a simplified version of how I feel. I mean, how I feel can change weekly. But this is part of the truth. It'll do for now. I watch her eyes as she reads, the frown lines slowly smoothing out. Maybe she gets it? I add more.

Everyone knows racism is wrong. I am a foreigner in my own country, but mostly I am treated well and equally for that. Only a tiny percentage think it is okay to be racist but that is getting better.

But only a tiny number of people object to the common, everyday sexism that women have to face daily. At work, in the street, at school. We are paid less, insulted more, pressurised more.

I'd rather not deal with that. I can't change the world, but I can change myself. If I am not seen as a woman, I am not subject to this sexism. Or subject to it less at least. I was shocked when I first cut my hair and stopped wearing dresses how the world changed towards me.

She nods, serious. Her fingers flick out a response.

I understand I don't want to be always seen as a gypsy even though I love my family love our music our air I want to be seen as a person

I can't help but tap out the following reply.

In France, I think people would see you as a Spaniard, not a gypsy.

Her frown comes back.

I don't know nobody in france

You would know me.

Her intake of breath is so sharp, I feel it. Her eyes find mine.

"No hablo francés."

"No hablo español."

I return to my screen.

You don't speak English either, so you'd be starting from the same point. The difference is that you could legally live and work in France, but you can't in England. I can live and work in France. I speak French. I can teach you. But I could live in Spain too.

Her reply is quick.

teach me

I put down my phone and take her hand, our faces inches apart on the pillow.

"Salut," I say, "hola."

"Salu," she repeats.

"Je m'appelle Leila. Et tu?"

She looks at me quizzically.

I try again, slower.

"Je. M'appelle. Leila."

"Je m'appelle Cristina."

Smiling at her, I raise my hand to stroke her cheek. Hers goes to my waist.

"Tu es vraiment belle. Errr... Tu eres guapa. Tu es vraiment belle."

She repeats it back to me, more or less.

We shuffle imperceptibly closer, our noses nearly touching.

I continue with Cristina's French lesson.

"Je t'adore."

"Je t'adore."

Her breath on my lip. Her hand on my hip.

The bus lurches. There's a static squeal, and Joe's voice comes over the tannoy.

"Morning everyone! Breakfast break, about half an hour or so. We need fuel and I want to dump the waste water too. Rise and shine!"

I curse inwardly. That's the moment ruined.

* * *

It's a large rest stop, with a proper restaurant and a range of local produce on sale in the shop. A security guard trails Cristina and I around, not bothering to hide his close scrutiny of us as we move between the shelves, and I wonder whether it's my Arabic heritage or her being a Gitana that attracts his suspicion. It makes my skin crawl.

Cristina affects not to notice. Her pride is set in her face.

Nadine notices, using some sixth sense us non-white people have developed over the years I guess, and comes near to us, taking Cristina's arm, talking loudly in English to Mel as she does so.

"Let's get something in the restaurant. My treat, come on. I want something hot."

Cristina allows herself to be towed away, for breakfast of pan con tomate and tortilla. We try to involve her in the conversation, or rather Mel does, but she seems to be thinking, away in her head somewhere. I message her.

Are you okay? Was it too much before?

Her reply takes a while.

No before was lovely you are making me think I never thought to go somewhere else

Oh shit, wow, she's actually considering it.

I smile at her and message back.

I would also consider staying in Spain. That is also possible.

Thank you but what about the band

We'll work something out. Maybe I will need to fly off sometimes. Maybe you will come too. Once you have a passport.

This brings out a massive smile. I wonder what fantasies she is constructing in her head.

As we head back to the bus, she reaches for my hand. I give it a squeeze, and flash her a smile, which she returns. I slacken my grip, still holding her, but making it clear she can break the hold anytime. She deliberately threads her fingers, one by one, through mine.

* * *

"Fourth again! Mierda. I suck at this!" I chuck down the controller in disgust. Cristina, who won, Sam and Yuki laugh goodnaturedly.

"You take over Joe. Show them how it's done."

"Okay. Ready to get beat peeps?"

"Bring it," says Yuki. "You won't beat Cristina, she's a beast."

"Es verdad ¡Soy la bestia!" She high fives Yuki.

"Hey Leila fam, if you're done come and sit with us please," Nadine calls back.

"Sure." I make my way forward from the gaming area at the back, to the tables at the front. Kate gets up to make room for me, and I slide in next to Priya, opposite Mel and Nadine. Kate sits across the aisle.

I suddenly feel nervous. "What is this? An intervention?"

Priya and Mel chuckle.

"Well, kinda," Nadine admits.

"Okaaaay! Really nervous now."

"Nah, trust babe, not like that. It's all good, for real."

Nadine leans over and grabs my hands.

"Look, Leila, I think I've been a really bad friend-"

"What? No you haven't-"

"Nah, Leila, babe, let me explain, for real."

She pauses. I shut my mouth.

"Thanks babe. Nah, I have been a bad friend. I've been trying to make it, you know, and trying to be the boss, and make decisions, and be professional and everything, and I kinda lost sight of why I asked you to play with me in the first place, you know? 'Cos it's not because you're talented and brilliant, or, you know, it's not

just

because you're talented and brilliant, 'cos you really are, for real. Nah, I wanted you to play with me because I like you. We get on. I'm better with you around."

"You need to fucking stop Nade or you're going to make me cry!" It's too late: I pull one of my hands back and wipe my eyes. Priya gives me a sideways hug.

Nadine's eyes are wet too. "Look, right, you know how Priya, and Mel and Jenny, and yeah Kate and Tom too, all supported me? Not letting me pay rent or bills? Driving me to gigs? Being just generally awesome?"

I nod.

"For real, I wouldn't have got where we are now without them, trust." She's choking up. Mel slips her arm through hers. She's so stoical normally. I never see this side of her.

Now it's her turn to pull her hand back from where Priya has grabbed it, and wipe her eyes.

"So," she breathes out heavily, "as these lovely ladies won't let me pay them back, I - sorry we - want to pay it forward, you know? I wanna do the same for you as they did for me, you get me?"

"What? No, I-"

"Only, it ain't just me, 'cos when I told Mel, she wanted in, and so did Priya and Kate." They are all nodding.

"I don't under-"

"Six months Leila."

"Sorry?"

"We want to sub you for six months. Rent. Spanish lessons."

"What?!" I'm blindsided. I don't know what to say. "That's.... That's... I... You guys..." I eventually whine, before I burst into tears.

Priya's wrapping me up from one side, Kate squeezing my shoulder on the other and Nadine leaning over the table to hug me. I'm trying to gasp out thanks but all that is coming out are choked sobs.

"¿Qué pasa? ¿Está bien?" Clearly, my emotional state has not gone unnoticed by a concerned sounding Cristina.

"Sí, sí, I'm fine. Bien." I manage to choke out.

Mel climbs out from next to Nadine, and starts speaking Spanish to Cristina. From the gasp she emits, I guess she's explaining their offer.

I look up, blinking to clear the tears from my eyes. Cristina has her hands over her mouth and her own eyes are shining. How will she take this?

"Quick, Mel tell her there's no expectation here. There's no pressure on her."

Mel quickly translates.

"Girls this is so lovely of you but-"

"We know," Nadine interrupts, "but I don't want to see you... We want to give you the choice. You don't need to take it now."

"Thank you. Thank you all. I appreciate it."

I don't know what to say. I don't know what to say to them. I don't know what to say to Cristina. Before I was just fantasising. Now it could happen.

Cristina seems to understand. As the others move away, to try to give us some space in the very limited privacy the tour bus offers, she sits opposite me and wordlessly takes my hand over the table.

We're in a hotel tonight and tomorrow, Nadine splashing out a bit for us all. For a moment I entertain some literotica fuelled fantasy of the hotel being fully booked and Cristina being forced to share with me, as we finally find some privacy. But I know Mel will have emailed ahead to amend the booking the day Nadine decided to invite Cristina along.

We don't talk, we don't text, just gaze at each other, eyes travelling over each other's face but always coming back to each other's eyes, as if trying to read the omens there, wondering if we are worth risking our presents for our futures.

More and more, I think I would. I think I want to be her moro.

* * *

Joe takes back over driving duties as we near Barcelona. The hotel is near the venue, the Sala Apolo, almost in the very centre of the city. Getting there is fun, Joe swearing and sweating the whole way. But he manages it.

We unload our bags and the gear we don't want to leave in the bus. Mel's booked the bus into a secure parking facility, so no need for James and Joe to stand guard. They'll get some time off too.

Cristina just has the one bag, so offers to take my trumpet for me, but rather than taking my hand, skips ahead to talk to Mel. It leaves me a little flat.

"Everyone, get out anything you want washed and stick it in these bags: blue for colours, white for white, black for delicates, okay. I'll get them to get a laundry load today. Right, hand over passports, I'll get us checked in."

We hand our passports and ID to Mel, then flop into chairs in reception to sort our washing, while she goes to the desk, Cristina sticking to her side.

Wow, I wasn't expecting her to ignore me.

"It's Sant Jordi today," Sam says.

"What's that?" Priya asks.

"St George's day. 23rd April. He's the patron saint of the city."

"Huh! He got around then."

"Anyway, there's a huge fair on Les Rambles. Books and flowers. Wanna go check it out after we get checked in?"

We all nod.

Suddenly, Cristina is shoving clothes in the bags then pulling me to my feet - "vamos, Leila" - and dragging me to the lift. She hands me a key card. 312.

In the lift, she stares at me, almost defiant, but I swear I see fear behind her eyes. What has she done?

She drags me down the corridor, counting the numbers out loud, before we get to 312. I guess she's going to drop my trumpet off for me. I wonder what room she's in?

Then, to my surprise, she tries to unlock the door with her key card. But she can't quite figure it out. I move to do it, but then the light finally goes green and she pushes the door open.

A hot shiver rolls over me. Are we sharing a room?

I just catch the door with my foot and stop it closing, before following her in.

She's standing in the middle of the room, mouth open, eyes wide. It's a perfectly nice room. Nothing special. En suite, of course, with a large balcony outside sliding glass doors. My eyes quickly take in a TV, mini-fridge, double bed.

Double bed! My brain catches up and that hot wave rolls over me again. Was this what she was talking to Mel about?

She drops her bag on the bed next to my trumpet case, and bounces up and down. She's acting like this is a palace, touching everything, admiring the generic art on the walls, flicking on the table lamps, examining the complementary tea service.

I suddenly wonder whether she's ever stayed in a hotel before, and I think I know the answer.

I need to seriously start checking my privilege.

She slides back the door to the balcony, and steps out into the warm spring air. Sounds of drums and music drifts in on the breeze. I dump my bag and guitar case in the wardrobe, and go out to join her.

She's leaning over the balcony, looking up and down the street, I'm suddenly reminded how young she is, just nineteen. At twenty five I'm hardly ancient, but it's still a gap, especially in terms of experience. In art she's my equal, but in other ways it's not a level playing field between us.

Turning towards me, she starts speaking. She is hesitant, her accent breathy. "I never in Barcelona before."

"¿Nunca has estado aquí?"

She smiles and shakes her head. "Primera vez. First visit. Is correct, no?"

"Yes. That's correct. Tu primera vez: your first

time

."

"First

time

," she repeats. Her bottom lip disappears under her teeth. "Quizás, hoy sería mi first time contigo."

Bits of my body respond without further instruction. That hot wave returns with a vengeance, my skin flashing, my mouth goes dry, my palms sweaty and my hair stands on end.

Her pupils go wide: fear or desire?

She needs to make the first move.

"Whenever you want. You have the power. You have the control Cristina. You have my heart."

I quickly take out my phone and tap that out: this is not a time for mixed messages or language barriers to create confusion.

She smiles as she reads it, and nods to herself, as if owning my heart was her right and her due. Leaning in, she kisses me on the cheek.

"Gracias. Pero no ahora. Huelo mal. Tengo que ducharme."

And with that she moves back into the room, leaving my heart hammering, my blood pumping and an imminent need to change my underwear.

She takes some things from her bag and heads into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. I have to fight back the urge to join her in the shower. We can't rush this. I flop down in one of the balcony chairs, close my eyes and dare to dream.

She comes out of the bathroom, braless in a simple red dress that clings and clutches to her stomach and thighs, hair up in a turbaned towel displaying her sinuous, sexy neck. Resisting the itchy need to touch her is almost more than I can manage.

"Tu turno."

Yeah. I think I need to make it a cold one.

After a wash and rinse, I realise I've forgotten to bring fresh clothes in with me, so wrap a towel around myself and step out.

Cristina is sitting on the bed, damp hair down her shoulders, flicking through her phone. Her screen is quickly forgotten as her eyes roam over me, her lips parted. If she's this excited by my shoulders, arms and calves, dare I hope she'll like the rest?

Maybe it's time to find out.

Holding her eyes, giving her time to move, or close them, or tell me to stop, I slowly start to unwrap my towel. Luckily, I have no hang ups about my body. Well, around other women at any rate.

Her pupils are so wide that her eyes look black, but they keep staring back at me. The way her breasts rise and fall rapidly on the edge of my vision is quite distracting, but I keep my eyes on her face as I show myself to her.

Throwing the towel onto an armchair, I stand there in front of her, naked. It's not cold, but goosebumps rise over my skin.

After what feels like an age, but is probably only a few seconds, I start to move towards my bag.

"Espera," Cristina whispers, "please?"

I stop. I wait. She continues to look at me. At all of me. Her gaze thrills me.

She rises to her knees, still on the bed and moves forward to where she could touch me if she wanted. It's what I want, oh my God it's what I want, surely she can see that?

"¿Puedo?" she asks, extending her hand, fingers inches from my skin, eyes on mine, seeking permission.

I swallow and nod, desperate for her. "Sí. Por favor."

Bang, bang, bang. A rapid knocking on the door makes us spring apart, and I grab up the towel, clutching it to me.

"Leila? Heading out to Les Rambles in ten minutes? You coming? Salimos en diez minutos a Las Ramblas Cristina. ¿Vais a venir?"

"Yes, we'll be there!"

"¡Sí!"

"Okay. Meet in reception."

I swear there is disappointment in Cristina's eyes, as I quickly pull on boxers, my black chest binder, shorts and a T-shirt.

I send her a text:

We have all of tonight. And tomorrow. And all the tomorrows that you want to share with me.

Her smile returns. She takes my hand, kisses it and leads me to the lift.

* * *

"Photos for the socials!" Mel calls. It's been the catchphrase of the tour.

We dutifully line up for another selfie. We've already done one at the hotel, another in front of the venue, and now she wants one on Les Rambles, which is a challenge given the crowds.

To be fair, it's quite a sight. All down the famous tree-lined avenue, gothic quarter to the north, are book stalls, open to the air, interspersed with flower sellers. Red roses in particular seem popular. It's packed with people in slow moving queues, passing up and down, or pausing to browse.

"Last one! Smile! Gin tonic!" She takes the snap. "Okay, great and... it's up! Okay, cool."

"Meet back at the hotel reception at 7:30 if you want to join us for food and booze," says Nadine, "though no worries if you'd rather have a night to yourselves."

Everyone does an excellent job of not looking at Cristina and me.

"I'm buying, by the way," adds Kate, "a thank you for letting me tag along. In case that helps you make up your mind."

Priya relays this to Cristina, who gives a gracious "gracias" to Kate, who smiles back. I suspect that means we'll be there.