The Barefoot Queen (14 page)

Milagros was about to reply, but her grandfather’s shout stopped her.

“Come on, Negress, we’re leaving!”

Then she was the one who kissed Milagros.

AFTER CARIDAD
’
S
departure, the girl felt lonely. Since her engagement had been announced, Caridad had become the person who patiently listened to her complaints. She wasn’t able to follow the advice she had given her on her departure.

“I won’t marry Alejandro,” she assured her mother, practically every other day.

“You will,” Ana would answer without even looking at her.

“Why Alejandro?” she would insist other times. “Why not—?”

“Because that’s what your father decided,” her mother would repeat in a weary tone.

“I’ll run away first!” she threatened one morning.

That day, Ana turned on her daughter. Milagros sensed her features would be pinched, serious and icy. She was right.

“Your father gave his word,” muttered her mother. “Be careful that he doesn’t hear you say that; he’s liable to chain you up until your wedding day.”

Time passed slowly with mother and daughter angry with each other and constantly arguing.

Milagros couldn’t even find comfort in her friends on San Miguel alley, many of whom were also engaged to be married. How could she admit to Rosario, María, Dolores or any of the others that she didn’t like the man who had been found for her? They didn’t do it either, despite the fact that most of them, before learning of their fate, had freely criticized the boys they would later be promised to. Milagros wasn’t exempt from such guilt. How many times had she mocked Alejandro? Now they all lied to each other, kept each other at a distance; it was as if their innocence had suddenly ended. It wasn’t that they were growing up or coming of age, it was simply that with their fathers’ decision—a word, a simple agreement made behind their backs—what had been true the night before meant nothing at sunrise. Milagros missed the spontaneity of those conversations with her girlfriends, the whispering, the laughter, the knowing looks, the dreams … even the arguments. The last one had happened the night she danced with Pedro García. Most of her friends were horrified when she declared her intention to do it. She was a Vega, Melchor El Galeote’s granddaughter, she would never be able to get that boy, they all knew it, so … why get involved? But Milagros paid them no heed and threw herself into her dance, until her mother intervened and slapped the boy. Who among the gypsy girls in the alley didn’t long for Pedro García, El Conde’s grandson? They all did! And yet now, after her engagement, it would be a serious affront to the Vargas family if Milagros encouraged Pedro García to pursue her. Alejandro would have to defend her and his father and uncles behind him; the Garcías would respond and the men would pull out their knives … But Milagros couldn’t stop sneaking glances at the boy whenever she saw him walking down San Miguel alley, rambling slowly, as purebred gypsies did, haughty, proud, arrogant. Then she missed Caridad, with whom she could have spoken freely about her longing and misfortunes. They said the young man had inherited the
age-old gypsy wisdom for working iron, that he knew instinctively when to begin each of the processes, when the iron was ready for forging, cooling, soldering.… So much so that the elders sometimes consulted him. And yet she was tied to Alejandro. Even Fray Joaquín had wished her the best in her engagement! The friar had given a start when Ana mentioned it to him near San Jacinto. He let out an “already?” And Milagros had listened, crestfallen, to how the clear, sharp voice with which he intoned his sermons had cracked when it came time to congratulate her.

“Caridad, I need you,” the girl whispered to herself.

SHE WASN
’
T
paying attention! Beyond the group of girls busy with the countess, Ana glared at her. What was she doing? Why was she hesitating?
She’s distracted,
thought her mother when Milagros dropped the delicate white hand the countess’s daughter had extended to her and faked a coughing fit. Milagros couldn’t remember what it was that she had predicted for her the last time she read her fortune. The little countess and her two girlfriends who encircled the gypsy moved aside with a disgusted expression at the hacking the girl was using to buy time.

“Are you feeling poorly, my daughter?” asked her mother, coming to her aid. Only Milagros noticed the harshness in her tone. “Excuse me, your excellency,” she apologized to the countess, addressing the group of girls. “Lately, my girl has had a cough. Let’s see, my lovely,” she added after replacing her daughter and grabbing the young woman’s hand without ceremony.

The noise of the countess’s silk hoop skirt rustling was clear in the large hall when she decided to approach curiously; the little countess’s two girlfriends closed the circle and Milagros moved a few steps away. From there, forcing herself to cough every once in a while, she heard her mother skillfully hoodwink the little countess and her two friends.

Men? They would marry princes! Riches, of course. Children and happiness. A few problems, a few illnesses—why not?—but nothing they wouldn’t overcome with the devotion to and help of Jesus Christ and Our Lady. With her hand on her mouth and her mother’s familiar routine in her ears, Milagros shifted her attention toward the countess’s chambermaid, standing beside the doors to the hall, making sure that neither of the gypsies pocketed anything; later, in the kitchens, they would also
have to read her palm. Then she looked back at the group of women: her mother, barefoot, dark-skinned, almost black, wearing colorful clothes and with silver beads around her waist; large hoops hanging from her ears and necklaces and bracelets tinkling as she gesticulated and passionately declared the future of those women white as milk, wearing dresses with silk hoop skirts, all decorated with endless embroidery, bows, flounces, ribbons.… What luxury there was in those clothes, in the furnishings and vases, in the mirrors and clocks, in the chairs with golden arms, in the paintings, in the shiny silver objects placed all around!

The Countess of Fuentevieja was a good client of Ana Vega’s. On occasions she would have her called in: she liked to listen to her telling fortunes, she would buy tobacco from her and even some of the baskets that the gypsy women from the settlement made.

Milagros heard one of the little countess’s friends giggle nervously, instantly joined by restrained, affected exclamations of joy from the other two and some delicate applause from the countess. The lines of her hand seemed to predict a promising future, and Ana talked at length about it: a good husband, rich, attractive, healthy and faithful. And why didn’t she say the same to her, her daughter? Why was she doomed to marry a clod, just because he was a Vargas? The chambermaid, beside the immense doors, jumped when Milagros tightened her fists, furrowed her brow and stomped on the floor.

“Are you feeling better?” her mother asked her with a hint of sarcasm.

The girl answered her with a new, loud attack of coughing.

The evening was becoming unbearable for Milagros. Ana Vega, not worrying about the time, displayed all of her gypsy wiles for the three girls. Then, when they left, satisfied, whispering amongst themselves, she directed her efforts at the countess.

“No,” she objected when the aristocrat suggested that Milagros wait in the kitchen, where they would look after her. “She’s better here, isolated, we don’t want her to infect your ladyship’s servants.”

The new sarcasm infuriated Milagros, but she contained herself. She put up with the long hour that her mother spent talking to the countess; she put up with the farewells and the payment, and she put up with the attentions she then had to pay to the chambermaid and some members of the staff, who bartered tobacco and fortune telling for some food pilfered from the count’s larder.

“Are you feeling better?” mocked her mother when they were out on the street, on their way back to Triana, with the summer sun still highlighting the colors of their dresses. Milagros snorted. “I trust you are,” added Ana, ignoring the insolence. “Because tomorrow night we are going to sing and dance for the count and countess. They have some guests from abroad, they’re … English, I don’t know … French or German, who knows! But they want them to have a good time.”

Milagros snorted again, this time louder and with a touch of peevishness. Her mother continued to ignore her and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

SHE SMILED
at her, inviting her to respond in kind. She didn’t do it for the Count and Countess of Fuentevieja or for the dozens of guests they had brought with them, who were waiting expectantly in the garden that sloped down to the river, in one of the largest homes in Triana where the count had decided to hold the party. Ana smiled at her daughter after arching her arms over her head and swaying her hips as the first note on the guitar sounded, before the dance had begun, preparing to launch into it once the men were ready. Milagros, facing her, held the invitation without blinking, still, with her arms at her sides.

“Beautiful lady!” one gypsy complimented the mother.

Let’s get started!
her mother seemed to be saying with an affectionate pout on her lips. Milagros frowned, making her beg. Another guitar was being tuned. A gypsy woman rattled her castanets.
Come on!
Ana urged her daughter, raising her arms again.

“Lovelies!” they heard the people say.

“My pretty girl!” the mother shouted to her daughter.

The guitars began to play in unison. Several pairs of castanets rang out and Ana straightened her posture more stiffly before Milagros, clapping her hands.

“Come on, girl!” she goaded.

The two women started in sync, turning and flipping their skirts in the air, and when they faced each other again, Milagros’s eyes were sparkling and her teeth gleamed in a wide smile.

“Dance, Mother!” shrieked the girl. “That body! Those hips! I don’t see them shaking!”

The Carmonas, who had come to the party, joined the girl in her goading. The count and countess’s guests, either French or English, it didn’t really matter, were left with their mouths hanging open when Ana accepted her daughter’s challenge and twisted her waist voluptuously. Milagros laughed and followed suit. In the night, with the Guadalquivir’s water shimmering silver, in the light of the torches arranged throughout the garden, among honeysuckle and four o’clock flowers, orange and lemon trees, the guitars tried to adapt their rhythm to the frenzied pace set by the women; the handclapping echoed powerfully and the male dancers were overwhelmed by the sensuousness and daring with which the mother and daughter danced the
zarabanda.

Finally, both sweating freely, Ana and Milagros came together in an embrace. They did so in silence, knowing that it was merely a truce, that the dance and the music opened up another world, that universe where the gypsies took refuge from their problems.

One of the count’s footmen broke up their embrace. “Their excellencies want to congratulate you.”

Mother and daughter headed toward the chairs where the count and countess and their guests had watched the dance, as the guitars were strumming in preparation for the next one. Honoring them as his equals, Don Alfonso, the count, stood up and received them with a few courteous claps of his hands, seconded by the other guests.

“Extraordinary!” exclaimed Don Alfonso when the women reached him.

As if out of nowhere, José Carmona, Alejandro Vargas and other members of both families had taken their places behind the women. Before beginning the introductions, the count handed Ana some coins, which she weighed with satisfaction. Ana’s and Milagros’s hair was disheveled, they were panting and the sweat soaking their bodies gleamed in the flickering light of the torches.

“Don Michael Block, traveler and scholar from England,” the count introduced a tall, stiff man whose face was tremendously pink where it wasn’t covered by a neatly trimmed white beard.

The Englishman, unable to tear his gaze off Ana’s damp, splendid breasts, which rose and fell to the rhythm of her still jagged breathing, stammered out a few words and offered his hand to her. The greeting
went on longer than strictly necessary. Ana sensed that the Carmonas, behind her back, were stirring restlessly; the count did as well.

“Michael,” said Don Alfonso in an attempt to break the moment, “this is Milagros, Ana Vega’s daughter.”

The traveler wavered but didn’t release Ana’s hand. She narrowed her eyes and shook her head imperceptibly when she realized that José, her husband, was taking a step forward.

“Don Michael,” she then said, managing to capture the Englishman’s attention, “that which your lordship is set on already has an owner.”

“What?” the traveler managed to ask.

“Exactly what I said.” The gypsy woman, with her left thumb extended, pointed behind her, sure that José would have already pulled out his huge knife.

The pink hue in the Englishman’s cheeks shifted to pale white and he let go of her hand.

“Milagros Carmona!” the count hastened to announce.

The girl smiled languidly at the traveler. Behind her, José Carmona arched his brows and kept his knife in view.

“The daughter of the man behind me,” interjected Ana then, again pointing toward José. The Englishman followed her gesture. “His daughter, do you understand, Don Michael? Daughter,” she repeated slowly, stressing the syllables.

The Englishman must have understood, because he ended the greeting with a dramatic bow toward Milagros. The count and countess and their guests smiled. They had warned him, “Michael, the gypsy women dance like obscene she-devils, but make no mistake, the moment the music stops they are as chaste as the most pious virgin.” Nevertheless, despite the warnings—the count knew it, the guests knew it, the gypsies knew it as well—that music and those dances, which were sometimes joyful and sometimes sad but always sensual, made those watching them lose all trace of common sense; there were many run-ins with
payos
inflamed by the voluptuous dancing, who had tried to go too far with the gypsy women, and had seen those knives much closer than the Englishman had.