The Barefoot Queen (64 page)

A pocket watch. That was the trophy she won that night, and it passed quickly into La Trianera’s hands, who weighed it and hid it among her clothes. Milagros allowed the winner to take her hand and brush his lips on the back of it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a woman with a large gold bow at her neckline that matched a number of other small bows adorning her hair, which was caught up in a bun; she was being congratulated by some of her companions as she gestured in an offhand manner, as if to make light of the fact that her husband had just given away such a jewel.
They enjoy it,
thought Milagros: affluent nobles, courtly and civilized, united by marriages of inclination.

The gypsies continued playing their guitars, clapping castanets and palms, and Milagros sang and danced for the nobles. They would keep it up until Don Alfonso and his illustrious guests grew weary, although seeing the soups, cakes, sweets and chocolate that the servants continued to serve, Milagros knew it would go on for a long time. And it did: the party lasted until dawn, long after she had grown exhausted and had given up her spot to the women who accompanied her, who struggled in vain to emulate her.

La Trianera, who was dozing on her throne, got up for the first time in the whole night when Don Alfonso brought the party to a close. The old gypsy woman woke up instinctively the minute the count directed a barely perceptible look toward his butler. The count had to pay them, although it was he who decided on the price. Many guests had already retired. Among those who remained, some had lost their noble bearing
owing to the liquor. Don Alfonso, the bag of money in his hand, didn’t seem to be too drunk and neither did the man with whom he approached the group of gypsies.

“An enjoyable evening,” the count congratulated them, extending the bag.

Reyes ripped it from his hand.

“An interesting night,” added his escort.

Without paying attention to La Trianera, Don Alfonso addressed Milagros. “I believe I have already introduced you to Don Antonio Heredia, Marquis of Rafal, here visiting in Seville.”

The gypsy observed the man: old, powdered white wig, serious face, open black dress coat, narrow and embroidered on the cuffs, waistcoat, lace tie, britches, white stockings and low shoes with silver buckles. Milagros hadn’t noticed him; he hadn’t been one of those who had besieged her.

“Don Antonio is the Chief Magistrate of Madrid,” the count added after giving the gypsy a few seconds.

Milagros acknowledged his words with a slight bow of her head.

“As Chief Magistrate,” Don Antonio then explained, “I am also the exclusive Judge Protector of Madrid’s comic theaters.”

Before the Chief Magistrate’s expectant expression, Milagros wondered if she should act impressed by his revelation. She arched her eyebrows to signal her lack of comprehension.

“I was impressed by your voice and”—the Chief Magistrate turned a couple of fingers in the air—“your way of dancing. I want you to come to Madrid to sing and dance in the Coliseo del Príncipe theater. You will form part of the company—”

“I …” the gypsy interrupted him.

Then it was the count who arched his eyebrows. The Chief Magistrate lifted his head. Milagros was silent, not knowing what to say. Go to Madrid? She turned toward the gypsies, behind them, as if waiting for some help from them.

“Woman …”—the count’s voice sounded harsh in her ears—“Don Antonio has just made you a generous offer. You don’t want to offend the Chief Magistrate to His Majesty?”

“I …” stammered Milagros again, having lost all traces of the haughtiness she had shown throughout the night.

Reyes took a step forward. “Please excuse her, your excellencies. She
is just overwhelmed … and confused. Your worships will understand that she is not used to such a great honor. She will sing in Madrid, of course,” she declared.

Milagros couldn’t take her eyes off the Chief Magistrate’s face, whose rigid features gradually relaxed as he listened to La Trianera’s words.

“Excellent decision,” he said.

“My secretary and Don Antonio’s will take care of arranging everything,” the count then added. “Tomorrow …” He stopped, smiled and looked at one of the large windows through which the first rays of light were already coming in. “Well, today,” he corrected himself. “You are expected before nightfall.”

The aristocrats allowed her no more time than that. They bade the gypsies farewell, and with one man resting his hand on the other’s shoulder, chatting, they headed toward the room’s large double doors. The count’s belly laugh woke Milagros from her shock; they were the only ones left in the parlor, except for the butler who was watching them and a couple of servants who, as soon as the echoes of laughter died down in the halls of the great palace, moved away from the walls where they had been standing solemnly still. One sighed; the other stretched to loosen his muscles. The sunlight and the candles that were still lit in the grand chandelier revealed a room begging to be returned to the splendor it had received them with: the furniture was jumbled; there were glasses here and there, cups stained with chocolate, trays, little plates with leftover food and even fans and articles of clothing left by the women.

“Madrid?” Milagros managed to ask then.

“Madrid!” La Trianera’s voice reverberated against the room’s high ceiling. “Or do you plan to offend the Chief Magistrate and cause another rift between us and the illustrious of the kingdom?”

Milagros frowned at La Trianera. Yes, I will go to Madrid, she convinced herself.
Anywhere that’s far from you and yours,
she thought.

THEY PREPARED
to leave for Madrid in a large wagon that traveled between Seville and the capital once a week, covered with a canvas awning and pulled by six mules. The wagon was designed to transport fifteen passengers and their respective luggage, and they gathered around it that March morning of 1752.

This time, the gypsies were going to leave Triana with all their permits and passports in order, signed and sealed by as many authorities as were necessary, and with the safeguard of none other than the Chief Magistrate of Madrid himself, as stated in the letter his secretary had issued the day following the party—though not before he’d expressed his surprise at the old gypsy woman the Garcías tried to include in the retinue. “Otherwise who will take care of the girl while she sings for his excellency?” had argued Rafael the patriarch. The secretary had shaken his head, but he didn’t really care how many gypsies went to Madrid, so he agreed. However, he was quick to correct the reference made to his master.

“Make no mistake,” he warned. “The woman will not sing for the Lord Chief Magistrate; she will do so in the Coliseo del Príncipe for all those who attend the comedies there.”

“But some day his excellency will attend, right?” Rafael García winked an eye at the functionary, trying to make him complicit in the story that Reyes, his wife, had exaggerated when telling of the scene in the count’s palace.

The secretary sighed. “And even the King,” he said sarcastically. “His Majesty, too.”

Rafael García’s face fell and he held back his reply. “How much money will the Lord Chief Magistrate pay her?” he asked instead.

The secretary smiled maliciously, annoyed at having to deal with gypsies. “I don’t know, but I’m sure she won’t take the leading lady’s place. I suppose she will receive a wage of some seven or eight reals per day she performs.”

“Seven reals?” protested El Conde. The pocket watch Milagros had been given the night before was worth a hundred times that!

The other man’s smile widened. “That’s the way it goes. New girls don’t receive a regular salary,” he explained at the gypsy’s confused expression, “paid whether they work or not. She will be paid only for the day’s work … Yes, seven or eight reals.”

Rafael García couldn’t stifle a disappointed look. His son and the other two gypsies who accompanied him also showed their discontent.

“In that case …” The gypsy hesitated, but ended up making the threat. “For that wage Milagros won’t go to Madrid.”

“Listen,” announced the other seriously. “She wouldn’t be the first player who ends up in jail for refusing to accept the orders of the Chief
Magistrate and the council that governs the theaters of the capital. Madrid isn’t measured in reals, gypsy. Madrid is …” The man fluttered his hands in the air. “There are many players in traveling companies and smaller theaters all over the kingdom who lose money when they are called to Madrid. You choose: Madrid or jail.”

Rafael García chose, and a month later his grandson Pedro watched smoking as Milagros loaded the few family belongings into the wagon and Bartola, her nanny, held their daughter in her arms.

Between bags, Milagros looked at the little girl. She was just like her mother, some said, while others were sure she took after her father and some looked for resemblances with the Garcías. No one mentioned the Vega family. She wiped the sweat from her brow with a sleeve. She didn’t dare to baptize the girl with the name Ana. Many gypsies brought news of the imprisoned in Málaga, but none for her. She never asked them to talk to Ana Vega. She couldn’t bear another response like the one she had received when she sent the Camacho! Perhaps someday … Meanwhile, she knew nothing about her mother, and that tormented her. However, she had baptized her daughter with the name María, in secret homage to the old healer who had been replaced by Bartola, who was going to accompany the family in their journey to the court.

Twelve more people got into the wagon after them: several couriers loaded down with packages; a Frenchified dandy who looked with disgust at everything around him; a timid girl who was going to the capital to work as a servant; a man who said he was a fabric vendor; two friars and a married couple. None of the gypsies had ever traveled in a wagon, and except for the couriers, who came and went between cities, it was clear that none of the other passengers had either, such was the aversion to travel in that period. The wagon was full and they all tried to get comfortable in a space without benches, among the piles of diverse merchandise and belongings they carried with them, on a floor that wasn’t made of planks like the carts Milagros was familiar with, but instead of a network of strong cords on which the people and their baggage were randomly jumbled. They had to travel lying down, as the young woman saw one of the couriers do. Amid the pushing, the two gypsy women extended the straw mattresses they were carrying along one side of the wagon and sat down on them with their backs precariously resting against the straw mats that served as railings.

In such a way, accompanied by a cart transporting olive oil and another muleteer at the head of a train of six animals loaded down with merchandise, they faced the long journey. Milagros took a deep breath when the carter cracked the whip over the mules and they began their march, pulling the heavy wagon behind them. Then she let herself be rocked to sleep by the jingling of the animals’ harness and the metal clatter of the pots and pans that hung outside the wagon. Every tinkle of those bells took her a bit further from Triana, from El Conde, from La Trianera, from the Garcías and from the misfortunes that had destroyed her life. Every once in a while, the crack of the whip sent the animals lurching forward for a few moments, until they resumed their apathetic gait. Madrid, she again thought. She had come to hate the capital when she found out about her grandfather’s capture, but when a month later another courier arrived with the news that he had escaped, she, amid the swearing and cursing of the members of her new family, had been reconciled with that city. Would it be the same in a Madrid theater, beside professional actors and musicians, as in the inns and parties of Seville? That uncertainty was the only thing that worried her. She remembered what torture it had been for her to sing Christmas carols in the Santa Ana parish, with the choirmaster reprimanding her constantly and the musicians looking down on her, and she feared that the same thing would happen. She was just a gypsy, and the
payos
 … the
payos
were always the same with gypsies. Yet despite everything, Milagros was willing to suffer that ridicule, a hundred times over if need be, to get Pedro away from his family in Triana, from his indolent life and his nights spent … She’d rather not know where. She closed her eyes tightly and squeezed her little one against her chest. In Madrid, Pedro would only have her. He would change. What did she care about the money that the Garcías seemed so concerned with? Without it there would be no wine, no taverns, no bars, no … women.

Pedro had strongly opposed moving to Madrid, but El Conde had not budged, even for his favorite grandson. The freeing of gypsies had been suspended not long after José Carmona was freed; many trusted that someday the King would reconsider their situation. And they were fighting to achieve that. “It’s the Chief Magistrate of Madrid!” El Conde had shouted at his grandson. Then: “Listen, Pedro,” he’d continued in a different tone, “we are all getting closer to the
payos.
Soon, a few months at the most, we will present the rules of what will become the Gypsy
Brotherhood to the Archbishop of Seville; we have chosen as its seat the monastery of the Holy Spirit, here in Triana. We are working on it. Gypsies with a religious brotherhood!” he added as if it were madness. “Who could have ever imagined it? And we aren’t just the Garcías, but all the families in the city, united. Do you mean to spoil that … for all of us, with a person as close to the King as the Chief Magistrate of Madrid? Go there. It won’t be forever.”

The gypsies had made such progress toward the Church, which was capable of jailing or freeing people, that even the friars who went to Triana to hear general confessions had noted, over and above the other citizens, the piety and religious spirit of those who had come to confess.

“Refuse!” urged Milagros one day in the face of her husband’s constant complaining. “Let’s go; let’s run away from Triana. I married you against the will of my family—you can rebel too. Who is your grandfather to decide what we should or shouldn’t do?”