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Mondays PM. Free taster class available. Email, phone or PM to book. Children's Level 2 Tuesday - Hove. This Level 2 class is for children aged They were rapt, mesmerized by the jubilant recognition that Carmen Amaya was as good as her legend. No, better. That not only was she the best back then, but if she were dancing today none of us, forty years after her death, could have touched her.

I wished then that I were sitting with those other pilgrims who'd made flamenco's long journey, who understood as I did just how good Carmen was. I joined in the muttered benediction of oles, accent as always on the first syllable, that whispered through the theater; then I surrendered and let Carmen Amaya's heels tap flamenco's intricate Morse code into my brain.

Though I had willed it to never do so again, my heart fell back into flamenco time and beat out the pulses with her. Flamenco flowed through my veins once more. From the first, flamenco had been a drug for me, an escape from who I was, as total as any narcotic, and Carmen Amaya hit that vein immediately, obliterating despair, rage, all emotion other than ecstasy at the perfection of her dancing. The brief clip ended. We all exhaled the held breath and sagged back into our seats. An old-timer, white shirt buttoned up to the top and hanging loosely about a corded neck, no tie, battered, black suit jacket, appeared onscreen.

A subtitle informed us that he had once played guitar in Carmen's troupe. Blood, it was all about blood in flamenco.

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The withered guitarist went on. We used to say that she had the blood of the pharaohs in her veins back in the days when we still believed that we Gypsies came from Egypt. We don't believe that anymore, but I still say it. Carmen Amaya had the blood of the pharaohs in her veins. That blood gave her her life, but it also killed her. The doctor called it infantile kidneys. They never grew any bigger than a little baby's. La Capitana only lived as long as she did because she sweated so much when she danced. That was how her body cleansed itself. Otherwise, she would have died when she was a child.

Her costumes at the end of a performance? You could pour sweat out of her shoes. She had to dance or die. Dancing was the only thing that kept her alive. I had to start dancing again. The last few weeks had brought me too close to the alternative. For the first time, I was happy I'd agreed to teach.

But that was tomorrow. Tonight, it was essential that I be gone before the lights came up.

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I glanced at the exit and debated whether I should leave. When I looked back, though, a clip from one of Carmen's glitzy Hollywood movies was playing.

I settled into my seat; I would risk a few more scenes. Carmen was dancing in a nightclub in New York. She wore a short, cabin boy-style jacket and high-waisted white pants that jiggled about her legs as she pounded the wooden floor, creating an entire steel band's worth of percussion.

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Eighty years ago, Amaya's father, El Chino, put her in pants and Carmen broke the spell that had frozen the lower half of las bailaoras' bodies for all of flamenco's history. To show that we were insiders, we did the same, using Gypsy spelling and pronunciation whenever we could. Dancer, bailadora , became bailaora; guitarist, tocador , turned into tocaor; and once we'd gobbled the "d" in cantador, singer, it emerged as cantaor. The guitarist returned and stated unequivocally, "She never rehearsed. Never, never, never. The other dancers in the theater snorted at that statement.

We knew how ridiculous it was. It was like boasting about a Chinese child never rehearsing before speaking Chinese. We knew better. We'd read the biographies. Like all good Gypsy mothers, Carmen's had clapped palmas on her belly while she was pregnant so that her baby would be marinated in flamenco rhythms in utero. Carmen danced before she walked and was performing in cafes in Barcelona by the time she was six years old.

As the other dancers leaned their heads together to whisper and laugh, I wished I were sitting with them. We would all share our favorite complaint, the near impossibility of a payo, a non-Gypsy, ever being truly accepted in flamenco. Compared to Carmen Amaya, Gypsy on four sides, even those Latinas who believed they had an inside track were outsiders. I counted few of the dancers as friends. I knew this world too well.

Friend or not, I would be the subject of hot gossip and, since I'd been asked to teach at the festival, envy. There were those who believed that the honor had been bestowed out of pity. Pity—that was what would be the hardest of all to deal with. No, tomorrow would be soon enough to face them all. At least then, when I was teaching, I would have my flamenco armor on, my favorite long black skirt, my new Menke shoes from Spain with extra claves —tiny silver nails—tapped into the toes. On the screen, home movie footage from the fifties played.

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The colors of the old film had faded to sepia tones. A much older Carmen sat on the concrete steps of a porch and held her arms out to a chubby-legged toddler in sandals who staggered toward her. Offscreen, an ancient voice recalled, "Carmen couldn't have any children of her own so she asked us for our son. The air beside my head trembled as the secret beating in my chest recognized its double on that screen.

Carmen couldn't have any children of her own so she asked us for our son. The home movie ended and the speaker, an elderly Gypsy man identified as Carmen's nephew, appeared. The harsh light glistened off his bald scalp, sweating beneath a few wisps of ash-colored hair. His wife, portly and silent, nodded. Her husband continued speaking. He was as passionate as if he were pleading his case before a jury, though the incident had occurred half a century ago. It was like he was hers anyway.

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We were all one family anyway. Why did she need to adopt him? Simply because she wanted a child who was of our blood? A few dancers, those who knew the most, craned their necks searching the auditorium. When the other dancers discovered that she wasn't in the theater, the glances sought me out. I ducked my head, hiding until the bat-wing skitter of attention had dissipated.

When I looked up again, Carmen Amaya's funeral procession was winding across the screen. It snaked for miles down through hills thick with rosemary, leading from Carmen's castle on a bluff above the Costa Brava to her burial plot in the town of Bagur. This home movie footage was old and jerky, but rather than fading out, the colors had intensified into a palette of cobalt blues and deepest emerald greens. The devastated faces of thousands of mourners were masks of grief as profound as if each one had lost a sister, a wife, a mother.

The documentary returned to Carmen in the last year of her life. A clip from a Spanish movie played. The feral lines of her face were swollen with fluid her infantile kidneys could not eliminate. She was surrounded by Gypsy children as dirty, ragged, and hungry as she once had been. She began to tap the table. One knock,two. Just enough to announce the palo, the style. She told all the secrets her tribe kept from outsiders.

All the secrets they had translated into rhythms so bewilderingly beautiful that they lured you in like the honeyed drops of nectar hidden in the throat of pitcher plants. You never wanted to find your way out again. All you wanted was to burrow even deeper, to break the code, to learn one more secret. In that moment, watching Carmen, it was still all I wanted. Even after everything that had happened, all I wanted was one more sip of nectar.

I was groping in the dark, ready to escape, when the lights unexpectedly came up. I had missed my chance. I was scrubbing tears off my cheek when a hand grazed my shoulder. Thank God it was Blanca, universally recognized as the least bitchy of all the serious dancers. All the smoke from the forest fires. Blanca nodded.

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Really good. But Blanca was nice.

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I should have been friends with someone like Blanca instead of Didi. Her solicitous question was drowned out by the thunder of applause that erupted when the incandescent Alma Hernandez-Luna, director of the flamenco program, bounded onstage. Welcome, welcome, welcome to the more than two hundred students who are with us this summer from China, Germany, England, Belarus, Tokyo, Canada, and nearly every state in the union.

We welcome you all to the country that we will create for the next twelve days. The country of flamenco! She cannot be with us here tonight in body, but her spirit fills this hall! She created the first academic home for flamenco in the New World. Alma means soul, and Hernandez-Luna had been the soul of the program for years.

The festival was entirely her baby. Through her connections, she was always able to lure la crema del mundo flamenco to our little sunblasted campus. Whoever the reigning god or goddess of flamenco was, Alma would hunt them down and bring them to the festival to perform and teach. The night should have been a triumph for me. To start using my secret. Okay gang, the fun is over. Pray for rain, okay? Like Carmen Amaya, like all the members of the true inner circle, Farruquito was gitano por cuatro costaos. Alma gestured for the squealing girls to calm down.

We have a last-minute change in the lineup.