Harlequin Espa¤ol [better] Access

And then all the captive harlequins laughed. And the monastery laughed. And the moon laughed. And El Duende—he laughed too.

Lola’s hands trembled as she touched the fabric. “And you?” harlequin espa¤ol

“What can we do?”

But Lola did not stop. She sang louder. The black-and-white suit blazed like lightning. And then, from behind her, Mateo appeared. And then all the captive harlequins laughed

“You have the Deep Laughter,” El Duende said. “I want it.” And El Duende—he laughed too

And then Cristóbal vanished—some say into the mountains, some say into the mirror of his own dressing table. But his suit remained on El Duende. And El Duende learned, to his horror, that he could not remove it. Worse: whenever a harlequin was born—somewhere in a gypsy cave in Granada, in a fisherman’s hut in Galicia, in a coal mine in Asturias—the suit tightened. The diamonds pulsed. And El Duende felt a laugh bubbling in his hollow chest like acid.

Lola didn’t answer. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth. And she sang.