‘I found it at Sheila’s antiques shop, but I sanded it downand gave it a new coat of paint. Thought that photo should have a proper home.’ He nods to the picture on my desk.
I try not to buckle under the realisations that hit me. First, that Luca noticed the picture, second, that he created something to protect it, and third, that for the first time ever, we’re talking about my brother.
‘Thank you,’ I say, not quite able to meet his eyes. I take the photograph and attempt to slide it into the frame, but my hands tremble so much I almost drop the glass. A second later, Luca wraps his hands around mine. He holds me, while I hold Hamza. Neither of us lets go.
We sit like this until my fingers stop trembling, until my breathing falls in line with his. He gently unclasps my grip, and I watch as he reassembles the frame. When light catches the skin on the back of his fingers, fine hairs appear and shimmer like the crest of a wave. They’re barely visible and only cover the first bone on each of his fingers, a soft patch of grass in the valley between his knuckles. I wonder if I could feel them if I touched his fingers right there.
I’m mesmerised, until Luca hands me back the frame. When I place it on the desk, Hamza looks at us with smiling, crinkled eyes. I thought I’d be sad, seeing him stuck in the past like that, but instead his smile makes the heavier days a little lighter.
‘I have something for you too,’ I say, my voice raspier than usual. ‘But first, promise you’re not going to judge.’
‘I don’t judge,’ he says.
‘Not out loud. But you make a face.’
‘I don’t make a face!’ he protests, and when I stay silent, he adds, ‘Fine, I promise. But I’d never judge you.’
‘Well, you haven’t yet heard my dark family secret.’
‘How dark can it be?’
‘Hmm. Murder?’ I take a book of postcards from my desk drawer, but rather than the typical images of the Alhambra castle, they show something else.
‘How is a flamenco dress connected to murder?’ Luca asks, staring at the cover.
‘It’s not the dress. It’s what comes after.’
He keeps leafing through and finally reaches the section that shows colourful men’s garments with intricate embroidery.
‘These are stunning,’ he says, and traces the artful stitching with a finger.
‘They’re my abuelo’s clothes. He used to wear them for bullfights in the arena when he was young.’
‘Your grandfather was amatador?’
‘Yup. Tío Andrés said that my abuelo and his brothers used to kill bulls for money and fame. They stopped when one very angry bull returned the favour and violently ended the life of one of the brothers. Abuela threatened to divorce him if he kept putting himself in danger. And she’s a devout Catholic.’
Luca stares at me with horror in his bright blue eyes.
‘We are talking decades ago,’ I clarify. ‘Anyway, my family still has a collection of traditional costumes gathering dusk in the attic, but a few years back this photographer turned it into a postcard set that’s sold in shops around the city.’
‘That’s so cool. The clothes, I mean, not the animal cruelty.’
‘My cousins made me try this one on,’ I say, and showhim a blacktraje de lucesadorned with so many silver leaves it gives the effect of armour.
‘Please tell me you have pictures.’
‘Sorry, I don’t,’ I say, and feel my neck grow hot. The clothes are very form-fitting, leaving little to the imagination. I both do and don’t want to see Luca’s reaction to the pictures.
‘Are you lying? You’re lying. You know I have your cousins’ socials. I’ll just ask them.’
‘I’m offering you a piece of my ancestry and that’s how you repay me?’
He sulks for a few seconds, looking far too cuddlable with his bottom lip stuck out and his hair up in tufts, before he drops the attitude.
‘All right. Thank you.’
The sincerity in his voice fills my chest with warmth, slows my frantic heart. I can think of nobody I want to share my history with but him. Unlike his grandparents, my abuelos can’t be found online. In my family, stories are passed on as night-time tales and dinner talk, a gift from one generation to another. I want to let him in on the lore, whisper it like secrets into his ear.
