BLACK MAGIC WOMAN by SANTANA. Story by Martina Medica

Autocamp Stoja, Pula, Croatia
August 1999

We lounged in the dwindling twilight, fingers greasy and bellies full of cheesy pizza. Stars were appearing, strung between trees like fairy-lights. It was still summer in northern Croatia, but the crisp evening gave away the approach of autumn, and I shivered in my thin summer dress. Eventually, one of the Spaniards lit a fire, and I sighed in relief as its crackling warmth wrapped itself around me.

Conversations swirled around me, in Italian, Spanish, Portuguese. I listened with care, stopping every now and again to painstakingly pick through the jumble of languages in my brain for the words to join in. But by the time I was ready, the conversations had moved on. And so, I kept listening, the rhythms of the three languages melding into a lovely, lilting lullaby.

“Musica!” the Italian exclaimed after some time, and everyone agreed with the kind of enthusiastic handwaving that only southern Europeans can pull off. Lying there with the night stretching and settling over me, I agreed too – though I kept my hands to myself.

There were other Italians there, and other men. But where the rest were nameless and faceless to me, he was the Italian. Demi, they called him; part of his surname, but I added a silent “god” every time I heard it. He was every Fellini cliché I knew –  handsome and charming, dark and mysterious, and very, very well-dressed. He was a guitarist, he’d told me, and I’d grabbed his hand to feel for the callouses that would tell me the truth, keeping my smile tucked away when my fingers found them.

I watched him stroll – with just a lick of swagger – over to his car and slip a CD into the stereo. As the first few familiar guitar notes of Santana’s Black Magic Woman floated across the fire, I concentrated mostly on pretending I wasn’t watching, my fingers absent-mindedly pulling out the pine needles sticking through my dress as my eyes followed him from beneath my lashes.

He was dancing his way back from the car, hips swaying and hands twirling, lips parted in an easy smile. I looked around waiting for his mates to laugh or poke fun. Where I went to school, boys – men – didn’t dance. Not unless they were full of whisky bluster or beer bravado, anyway, and certainly not the way he was, his lithe body a study in confident, soft, expressive masculinity. But nobody said anything; nobody even noticed, really.

Well.

Except me. I certainly noticed.

Still dancing, he made his way over. There was enough light that I could see his eyes wander from my face to the hemline of my dress, which had climbed while I was picking out pine needles. His gaze skimmed lightly over my legs; tickled my bare, dusty feet before skipping back up to my face. He held out his hand, and without even meaning to, I reached up and let him pull me into his dance.

The thing is, I don’t dance, either. Not even when full of whisky bluster or beer bravado. But he spun me around, once, twice, then back again, and I stayed on my feet somehow, and laughed delightedly as if I was used to that kind of thing.

“You like Santana?” he asked as we swayed, his accent full of strong coffee and cigarettes. “Si,” I nodded. He began to sing along quietly in my ear, arms loosely around my shoulders.

 Got your spell on me, baby
You got your spell on me, baby

His breath tickled my ear as he sang, and I shivered.

I need you so bad, Magic Woman
I just can’t leave you alone.

Crimson heat blossomed across my chest, tendrils reaching up my neck, and I prayed to all the Roman gods I knew that it was dark enough that he wouldn’t see it rise to my face. I closed my eyes and let him dance, sway, twirl me around the fire, holding my breath and hoping I wouldn’t fall.

When the song was finished, we collapsed onto the ground, laughing until there was no breath left, while the others clapped and softly cheered.

Moments later, we made our excuses to his friends and disappeared into his tent.

Within days, I was on a plane bound for Australia. We’d said goodbye and promised to write – which we did, once or twice – and see each other again – which we didn’t, except on Facebook many years later. It was not a lifelong romance. But it was the start of a lifelong love affair with Italy, with Santana, and with men who dance with abandon.

Now, I still don’t dance. But if Black Magic Woman ever comes on the radio…. You may catch my hips swaying just a little, a smile on my lips and crimson in my cheeks.

Stereo Story #612

Martina is a member of the Stereo Stories band, which will be performing at The Memo Music Hall, St Kilda on Sunday  afternoon 14 November. Tickets now available, folks. (Will Black Magic Woman be on the set list? Time will tell…)

Stereo Stories band members Martina Medica and Laura Sheridan. Photo by Peter Weaving, courtesy of 2021 Bendigo Writers Festival.

Martina Medica

Martina Medica is a writer, linguist, mother, singer and songwriter living in the foothills of the Dandenong Ranges, Victoria. And a member of the Stereo Stories band!