Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards (16 page)

Unlike the rest of the travelling party.

The Jesuit and I tried to be civil at dinner, for the sake of appearances. He did not approve of my rubbing my hands together as we sat down at table. I was absolutely ravenous and anticipating the lovely regional food with glee. I told him that on the following evening I wished to wear one of my new gowns instead of going back and forth between the two I'd brought with me, but he wouldn't allow it.

“Save the gowns for the palace.”

“I won't spill food on them, if that's what you think,” I teased, but the joking fell on deaf ears. When I kept on about it, he intoned patronizingly, “We'll see,” as if I were a spoiled, naughty child.

“We'll see
you,
” I muttered, wishing him to the devil. After the first course, I'd had enough.

“No wine,” he told the waiter piously, his hand covering the glass.

“I'll have some,” I said, pointing. “In fact, I'll have that carafe.”

If anyone had been listening in on our conversation (such as it was), they must surely have wondered at the state of the newly married couple and guessed it would be a miracle for us to produce another child who was as happy and content as baby Matilde.

The dreaded moment could not be put off forever: retiring to the bedchamber. Up we went, the priest leading the way. Inside the room, Father Miguel de la Vega, with a very bad grace, lay a dark, musty blanket out on the floor and wrapped himself in it like a bat in its wings. The floor was very hard and the father very bony, so this must not have been pleasant—but then, when did the Jesuit ever desire pleasant? He lay as still as a post as I swiftly undressed and climbed into my sheets. I, in turn, lay still in the bed, listening suspiciously until he finally fell into an unhappy slumber. This I could tell from the sound of his breathing. Once he had dropped off, I began to relax and then fell asleep.

The next problem was that I have always enjoyed inventive dreaming, and my dreams are merry. I always have a starring role, am usually saving people from bad things or themselves, and often end up in a sumptuously appointed bed with a handsome young blade, as a
thank-you for my bravery. When that happens, I've been told that my dreams become quite boisterous. It's all a wonderful diversion and at times—when life has been difficult or I'm in trouble of one sort or another—I can take to my bed and sleep and sleep, just to escape the traumas of the current situation.

On that night I woke with a yell to find the Jesuit standing over my bed, a lit candle in his hand, and his eyes wild. “Stop it!” he cried, “Stop it I tell you or I shall go mad!”

I sat up in bed, clutching the blankets. “I'm not doing anything! I'm sleeping!”

“You're . . . talking! It's . . . I'm . . . aargh!”

In my half-awake state I struggled to understand. “I woke you up? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.”

“I can't sleep when you—when I am forced to . . . For the love of God, be quiet!”

“But you were sleeping, Father. I could hear you. Are you in pain? The floor is too hard? Perhaps we could trade places—”

“No, no,” he moaned. “You're a woman. I cannot.” And he began pacing back and forth in front of the window, the flame from the candle billowing and sputtering, hot wax running down his hand and falling in drops on the floor. Now, I know he was a man, and I know about most men, but this tortured priest? I suddenly realized that he must dislike me, for some reason, with every ounce of his bony being. Once upon a time I would have blamed myself, I would have hoped desperately to change his mind. I would have tried to do what he wished, or in other words, be meek and silent and afraid. But, well, I knew that was a waste of time, and frankly I had other things I wanted to prepare for: my début in
La pata da cabra,
meeting the Spanish princesses, being introduced to the tutor and fulfilling my assignment so that I could go home with my loot and my newly acquired skills. Father Miguel simply never entered into it; this journey and the charade were just an annoying interlude. So eventually I lay down again, rolled over, and tried to sleep. He fell into a chair by the window, staring through the darkness at me, and groaned, “Stop talking.
Nom de Dieu
.”

And this went on, night after night, as we made our slow way south. One night I couldn't stand it. I sat up and said, “Oh for heaven's sake! I'm not talking, I'm dreaming, and as far as I know there is no law or decree against that. I'm young and I won't be bullied into doom and gloom. Goodnight,
padre
.”

Not a sound from him.

Such odd, rather eerie nocturnal exchanges. Ridiculous, I thought.

At last, one day towards the third week of September, the outline of the city appeared—Madrid! During that whole day's travel, we watched it come closer. The Jesuit remonstrated with me for leaning out the window, letting in dust and collecting stares. I tried to quell my leg-jigging impatience by telling myself that soon I would be released from proximity with this melancholic, distracting myself further by wondering where I would be living, what my new acquaintances in the theatre would be like, and what the excesses and splendours of the Spanish court would reveal. Everything would fall into place, I knew it.

Sure enough, I was established in small but sufficient rooms near the Catedral San Isidro, not far from the theatre district. Matilde and the baby stayed with me the first night, then we all gathered the next morning to see her away. Father de la Vega passed over a pouch full of coins and gave her a blessing; I said goodbye with my grateful thanks. I had no idea where mother and child were going now, whether returning to France or staying in the capital, but I assumed that the Grimaldis had taken care of this detail as well as everything else. Then she was gone.

The Jesuit turned to me, bowed formally, placed his chilly hands in his (reinstated) cassock sleeves and said, “Today you are to meet my brother, Ventura, who will help you learn your duties at the Príncipe. The days will go quickly and very soon the princesses will come to the performance. You must be ready.”

“Never fear,” I told him curtly. “I can't wait to get started.”

“My eyes will be upon you,” he said, “where you least expect it.”

So Jesuitical! I turned away to roll my own eyes and cross my fingers. At least I have a private room, I told myself; a bed without the dark shape of the bat lurking at the foot of it. And my own role in one of Spain's most talked-about and lucrative productions of all times!

He walked me to the theatre later that morning, sourly answering my questions about the production.
La pata da cabra
did not enjoy the father's approval. It was too frivolous. He gave me a little lecture on the
La pata
phenomenon: Apparently, the late King Ferdinand had made it difficult for theatres to function by bogging them down in bureaucracy, so canny impresarios (of whom Grimaldi was one) had experimented, importing translations of popular French plays, then eventually operas from Italy, complete with Italian tenors and sopranos. The repressed Madrileños had gone crazy, scrambling for opera tickets, imitating the songs, gestures, hairstyles, and dress of the Italians. Grimaldi then wrote his own clever adaptation of a once-popular French
comedia de magia,
calling it
La pata de cabra.
He designed it to have everything—magical effects, disappearances, comedy, colossal costumes, lavish sets and set-changes—to satisfy the populace's craving for excess.
La pata de cabra
had been in revival for over a decade; it was known in theatrical circles as the “golden calf.” Father Miguel finished the lesson by sniffing, “It is unfortunate that my associate should have sullied himself with such slop, though it is the main source of his wealth and enables his patronage of our cause.”

He left me at the stage door when his brother came to greet us. They bowed rather formally to each other, I thought, and the priest slipped away. Ventura de la Vega was a short, strong-looking man with dark skin and sleepy eyes, who seemed bone weary. He apologized for not meeting me the day before, but his wife had just had their third child and they were kept busy with its arrival. I was amazed at the difference in appearance between the two men; I would never in a million years have believed they were related. Ventura's appearance told of his love for the good things in life—wine, women, and the arts—although I soon came to know that he worked like a dog to keep his household afloat. His fingertips were black with the ink stains of his writing.

“We were only made aware of your impending arrival yesterday,” he told me. “Of course we'd known you were on your way, but not
exactly when to expect you. When the message came . . . It was slightly awkward, but we managed it.” How mysterious. What did he mean? Manage what? He was whisking me along the corridors, saying that everyone was exhausted; they hadn't had a break from the show for several weeks because ticket sales had been so good. No one was pleased to have had to gather for a morning to meet the new
deus ex machina.
I told him I was determined to be fleet and fiery (my heart in my throat, courage high, and my best walking boots on). We passed the dressing rooms and finally emerged onto the stage itself where the actors waited. A quick glance around showed me that the theatre was a long and narrow rectangle, with seating below and three tiers of balconies surrounding the three sides above. On the stage was a permanent facade consisting of a two-story house, with openings for entrances and exits on both floors.

“Company, here she is.”

One by one I was told their names and roles. The young leading man and woman were sweet, both from the provinces (Seville and Granada) and obviously excited to have been invited to join the Príncipe, in the capital, for this latest revival. I was introduced to the great Antonio Guzmán, who had originated and maintained the virtuoso role of Don Simplicio. There were many other characters, played by men and woman who changed roles numerous times throughout the performance—and costumes as well, I was to discover, in an absorbed frenzy, while swearing at top volume. Introductions blurred past, I bowed and smiled, pretending to understand who, what, and where everything was but not understanding anything. Then Ventura turned to Guzmán and said, “She's all yours.”

Señor Guzmán, chivalrously requesting that I call him Antonio, was directing operations for the day. The others smoked and waited, not so patiently, while he explained. “Señor de Grimaldi has ascertained that you are unafraid of heights?” he began.

“Um, heights? Yes, of course.”

How
high, I wondered, just as he directed my eyes upwards. “The fly tower,” he explained. It seemed abnormally vaulted. I gulped, then met his amused gaze.

“That's lucky,” he said softly. “Our last one had a bad fear of it. Probably what caused the problem in the first place.”

“Problem?”

“He'd grown too fat, even for a stock Cupid. The fly men were complaining. We had to hire extras, one each side, and even then it was difficult. And he kept missing the platform, very distracting.”

“Wait. You said Cupid?”

“That is the character you are playing. Not many lines, but a great deal of business.” His eyes watched me kindly, his sensitive face alive to what was going on inside of me—nervousness, surprise, disappointment.

“I was told
deus ex machina.
I'm the divine intervention?”

A hand on my shoulder, he began to walk me around the stage, to ensure that we were out of earshot. “Yes, Cupid is who he meant. My dear, I am not quite sure why Señor de Grimaldi has decided on this change of gender for our Cupid. Audiences are accustomed to chubby
putto
in the role, not slender slips of girls. But, Grimaldi usually knows best, and,” his eyes crinkling, “I have no doubt you will manage to sell even more tickets once the audience gets a look at you. We will practice your stunts together, by ourselves, this afternoon.”

He wheeled me around again and we came to a halt in front of the lounging, yawning actors. “Let me be clear, señoras y señores. We have been joined by Señorita Gilbert, who will be our new Cupid. She will be with us in performance tonight, so please unite with me in welcoming her.”

Tonight!
My inner alarm bell clanged.

“What about Emilio?” someone called.

“Emilio is in no danger. He is in hospital but will recover; it's only a broken leg.” Antonio shrugged and held up a finger. “It was an accident last night. That is all. He was careless.”

“No accident,” someone else muttered.

“How did we manage to get another Cupid so fast—and a woman? Why wasn't it one of us, moved up from the
duennas?
” This came from an aggressive-looking female standing at the back with her arms folded.

“
Silencio, por favor,
” Antonio told her mildly. “Señor de Grimaldi's orders. He knows what he is doing. Until tonight, then, friends.”