Alegrias
Pio taught only private lessons. He stood in the center of the studio like a ringmaster at a circus while around and around the little studio I went, holding my long skirt off the floor with both hands, doing his heel work exercises, and feeling my legs fall off.
For two weeks I did nothing else. Pio pounded his cane and called the counts. If I slowed down, he yelled, "Rápida, rápida, más rápida." If I had trouble turning a corner, he yelled, "Rápida, rápida, más rápida." If I stayed in one spot, he yelled, "Rápida, rápida, más rápida."
My sweat came out of the walls.
But at the end of my two weeks, I could charge up my unthinking heels, pick them up and put them down on the right dime, move out faster and faster. My heelwork became a texture of sound. Not a machine gun, but musical, lace patterns laid out on the floor in birds, leaves, lovers, and Gypsy stories.
Pio then pronounced me ready to learn the Alegrias, the most joyous dance in the flamenco repertoire.
There are many types of joy. There is the full blown sort, bursting out in overbearing laughter; there is the silent, inside joy that glows in the darkness. There is also a giggle in the soul, for no one but one's self.
And there is Gypsy joy.
Pio, in pain, no money, no self-respect, sad behind the eyes, could still dance the Alegrias with a spark of light going up his spine and out his smile.
At night in the bars he danced in small, tight spaces the width of his own body. But his heels went down to the center of the earth.
Other bodies stood close to his, breathed the same air. They let his energy fire up the night for them. He became big in their moment, connecting them to the joy in themselves.
Pio's dance was angular, taut; his knees and elbows bent like broken matchsticks.
But he could imitate the woman's dance, the coiling movement of the female body, her hips rolling, arms wrapping around her torso, her fingers calling the night birds from the trees.
I learned the Alegrias by imitating Pio.
He used his shirttails to teach me on which hip to hold my heavy skirt, switch it quickly from side to side. How to kick it high with my knees so the ruffled petticoats showed, then catch it in the air with two fingers.
He stood beside me, his hand cupping my elbow, as I followed his heelwork. Like a horse, picking up speed, from gait to gait to gallop. The sharp thrust of accents broke the rhythms into fresh patterns. Oh, so difficult to copy.
But Pio could be the soul of patience, "Dolore... Listen. Watch me. No...use the other foot for that accent. Trust me." I trusted him and found the sudden syncopated hiccups that moved me into a joyous counterpoint with the guitar. The long repeated passages of the heelwork became as intricate as the winding streets of Sevilla. I'd get lost, "Pio...I can't remember." "That's all right, Dolore... From the beginning--again."
At the end of the heelwork section, the rhythms came faster, like blood racing. Then suddenly--the cessation of all sound. Except a single heel beating out the life pulse.
The lyrical section, the silencio, of the Alegrias was next. Pio would hum the melody, "Ta...ta...ta...." And I would follow him as he moved diagonally, quietly; we were sidewinders without our rattles.
He would measure out the distances, so much for this step, so much for that. "Dolore. Curl the end of the silencio..." he'd say, "...like a cat's tail..."
I followed Pio in the perfect emptiness, the next move, like the next thought, always unknown. I copied his steps, pouring all my energy into them, as if they were my last drink of water.
When Pio finished teaching me his Alegrias, he pronounced it "great," and himself, "genius."
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