>We arrive in Plasencia after hours on the road, a journey from east to west, over the bull’s back, leaving the sun behind us.
We are met by a town without sun, but also missing was the rain that had been forecast. The cherry trees were in flower in the Valle del Jerte, a valley formed by the river of the same name and whose source can be found on Calvitero, one of the peaks in the Sierra de Gredos mountain range, touching on the provinces of Cáceres, Salamanca and Ávila. Looking towards the Atlantic Ocean, it’s a valley that bathes in a temperate climate and where crops not otherwise common at these latitudes can be found. The cherry trees and their many symbolisms: the omen of good fortune; the emblem of love and affection for others; but the one I ilke the best is that they are a lasting metaphor for the fleeting nature of life.
With these thoughts in my head, I enter the walled city through its many gates, one after the other, and I start to wander the streets. This city was founded by King Alfonso VIII as a fortress town. This year is the 800th anniversary of his death. The winding streets snake through the old quarter until I finally stumble across the hotel.
Our host explains to us that under Arab domination the city became a pocket of Berber settlers from North Africa. The Jews would arrive later, after the ‘reconquista’, and this was long before the King of Castille would grant ‘fueros’, or local autonomy, to the town in the 12th Century. ‘La Mota’ is a guesthouse situated in the area we know today around the Iglesia de Santo Domingo, near the ‘Parador’ Hotel, which I would visit after lunch. It was here that the Great Synagogue was built; it came to be known as the ‘greatest and largest in all Extremadura’. Steps lead up the narrow street from Calle Coria towards the ‘Parador’ and it was here that one of the gates to the ‘aljama’, Jewish Quarter, could be found.
Walking these streets I see the plaques opposite the houses that once belonged to the Jewish community here. Names and family names; dates; and even the number of people who used to live at that address. Images come to my mind of those Jews and Christians who for centuries lived together on these streets: the Rabbi Moshé Caçes; Yuçé Haruso; Abraham Cohen; Judas Caçes; Isay de Oropesa; Isay Pachen; Abraham Lozano; Jacob Lozano; Levi Alegre; just some of the names that have become more real to me being in this place. Names that deserve to be remembered. For being able to perform here, thanks must go to the city’s culture department.
Rain starts to fall and I can hear my shoes, light and better suited to the spring weather, telling me to make for the hotel, pick up my concert dress, and head for Santa María.
We’re met by Laura, who would make sure to take good care of us for the duration of our stay. Built in the 17th Century by Nuño Pérez de Monroy, what originally served as a hospital today houses the Santa María Cultural Centre. The glass doors give us a view of the classrooms belonging to the School of Fine Arts, and the endless comings and goings of the students, jumping over the puddles as they do, and the more fortunate among them with umbrellas deployed. This is Calle Trujillo, in the heart of the old Jewish Quarter.
The time soon passes, and the hour of the concert is upon us, and we wait patiently to begin our musical journey through the Sephardic history pf this place. Jota Martínez leads the group, impeccably dressed in black as always; Eduard Navarro’s pipes breathe life into the story of this ancient land; Aziz Samsaoui is a testament to the delicacy of his instrument, the kanoun, and to respect for all men, whatever their crede; and Joansa Maravilla who cements the base of piece, giving us an unwaivering rhythm. In the heart of the old Jewish Quarter, the songs can be heard once again. Songs that talk of the joy at the upcoming wedding of a daughter; the bartering between the mother and the mother-in-law over the dowry; the pain of a mother singing to her baby boy of the unfaithful father. For a time, in this place together, the musicians and the audience are at one with the music; but almost before we realise, it’s all over, the lights go up, and it’s time to return the instruments to their cases. The curtain falls.
Outside it’s still raining. There’s a glimpse of the musicians in the puddles on the dark street. The doors of Santa María close behind us but still inside the concert hall, the memory of the musical notes that transported us to the past. A cherry flower; a lasting metaphor for the fleeting nature of life.
Thanks go to Marisol, from ‘El Brocense’ Cultural Association; to Laura Tirado; and to the Diputación Provincial de Cáceres. — en Plasencia.
