The Barefoot Queen (73 page)

The buildings where Madrid’s aristocracy lived weren’t like the Sevillian noble houses, which had been erected at the height of the trade with the Indies and whose backbone and soul were their central courtyards filled with light and flowers and surrounded by columns. Except for a few exceptions, the many noblemen who settled in the capital—those whose titles had their roots in Spain’s history were the most exalted by the new Bourbon dynasty—lived in stately homes with austere exteriors that differed little from the many others that made up eighteenth-century Madrid.

Philip V, grandson of the Sun King and the first Bourbon monarch—cultured and refined, timid and melancholic, pious, brought up in the submissiveness befitting the second son of the French royal house—spoke Latin fluently but took years to learn Spanish. He never liked the Royal Alcázar, which until his arrival had been the residence of his predecessors to the throne: the Habsburgs. How could that sober Castilian fortress squeezed atop a Madrid hill compare with the palaces that young Philippe had lived in during his childhood and youth? Versailles, Fontainebleau, Marly, Meudon, all surrounded by immense and well-tended forests, gardens, fountains and labyrinths. The Grand Canal built in Versailles, where young Philippe sailed and fished in a royal flotilla served by three hundred rowers, had more water by volume than the miserable Manzanares River
that snaked at the foot of the palace. Surrounded by French servants and courtesans, the King alternated stays at the Castilian fortress with the Palace of Buen Retiro, until on Christmas Eve 1734 a fire started in the drapery of his court painter’s room devoured the entire Alcázar and led to the royal family moving definitively to the Buen Retiro. Despite the fact that Philip V himself had ordered a new palace to be built on the site of the fortress, some of the affluent followed the monarch’s footsteps toward the area around the Buen Retiro and the avenues that developed in the adjacent fields. Still, most of the noblemen continued to live in what had been the epicenter of the city: the surroundings of the new royal palace whose colossal stonework was already visible by 1753.

It wasn’t the first time that Milagros had been to one of those stately homes in the last few months. For a long time she had refused the invitations she received, telling herself that the money would only support her husband’s dalliances, until there was one she couldn’t refuse: the Marquis of Rafal, Chief Magistrate of Madrid and Judge Protector of the theaters, ordered her to sing and dance in a party that he was organizing for some friends.

“You can’t turn down this one, gypsy,” Don José, the director of the company, warned her, after communicating the marquis’s wishes.

“Why not?” she asked haughtily.

“You would end up in jail.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong. Refusing to—”

The director interrupted her with a swipe of his hand through the air. “There is always something that we are doing wrong, girl, always, and even more so when it depends on the decision of a nobleman whom you have scorned. First there would be a few days in jail for something petty … a rude remark to the audience or a gesture they consider inappropriate. And when you got out of jail, they would invite you again, and if you continued to decline, it would be a month.”

Milagros’s features shifted from the initial scorn to intense fear.

“And they will insist again as soon as they free you again; noblemen never forget. For them it will be a game. Your obligation is singing and dancing in the Príncipe. If you don’t do it or you intentionally do it badly, they will jail you; if you do it well, they’ll find something they don’t like—”

“And they will send me to jail,” said Milagros before he had a chance to.

“Yes. Don’t make your life any harder than it is already. You will end
up singing and dancing for them, Milagros. You have a young daughter, isn’t that right?”

“What about her?” she spat out angrily. “Don’t you start—”

“The jails are full of women with their little ones,” he interrupted her. “It’s uncivilized to separate a child from her mother.”

Milagros accepted; she had no choice. The mere possibility of her daughter going to jail horrified her. Pedro’s eyes sparkled when he heard the news.

“I’ll go with you,” he declared.

She tried to object. “Don José …”

“I will talk to him; besides, weren’t you the one who said that you needed protection? I will find guitarists and gypsy women; the musicians at the Príncipe don’t understand what those people want, they don’t have the spark.”

Don José consulted with the marquis, who not only agreed to Pedro’s suggestion but accepted it enthusiastically. Don Antonio, the Chief Magistrate, remembered how Milagros had inflamed the audience gathered in the Sevillian palace of the Count and Countess of Fuentevieja, and that was exactly what he wanted from her: the voluptuous gypsy dances that the censors banned in the Príncipe, the lascivious
zarabandas
so reviled by the pious and the puritanical, and those other rhythms that Caridad had taught her to understand and above all to feel, Guinean dances, Negro dances that were daring and provocative in their celebration of fertility:
chaconas, cumbés
and
zarambeques.
No member of the theater company formed part of that group, not even Marina, despite Milagros’s insistence, nor the great Celeste, with whom Pedro had broken the last ties. Except for Marina, who accepted her excuses, the decision earned Milagros the antipathy of the rest of the company, but Pedro didn’t listen to her complaints. “You are the one the audience at the Príncipe cheers,” he argued.

And it was true: people came to the theater to see her, and when the
tonadillas
ended and Celeste and the others appeared to perform the third and final act of the comedy, most had left and the comic players found the place half empty and distracted.

After that first performance at the request of the Chief Magistrate, there were many occasions when nobles, the wealthy and high-ranking officials required the presence of the famous Barefoot Girl at their many
parties. Don José sent them directly to Pedro, who accepted all the invitations, and Milagros, after her performance at the theater, went to those stately homes at night to indulge the sensuality of the civilized dignitaries of the kingdom and their wives.

That was why, on that spring night of 1753, Milagros ignored the anodyne appearance of the house’s exterior. She knew that inside it would be crammed with luxury: huge living rooms, dining room, library, music and games room, sitting rooms, high-ceilinged parlors with spectacular crystal chandeliers that illuminated furniture embellished with mother-of-pearl, marble, bronze, painted glass or inlaid exotic woods, all against walls, almost always with a table in the center accompanied by a few chairs at most; cornucopia mirrors that reflected the light from the oil lamps on their arms; carpets, statues, paintings and tapestries with motifs that had nothing to do with the Bible or mythology like those she had seen in Seville’s noble homes. The same could be said of the fireplaces. In Madrid the large Spanish-style mantels were no longer fashionable. They preferred the French type, of marble and with delicate lines. The taste for French things reigned, to undreamed-of extremes.

In addition to the rooms, furniture, and the endless stream of servants, there was also a profusion of objects and decorations in gold, silver, ivory or hardwoods; porcelain china sets and rock-crystal cups that vibrated shrilly above the din when clinked together, raised in toasts around a competition of silks, velvets, moirés and lamés; feathers, flounces, tassels, bows, ribbons and blond lace; perfumes; extravagant hairdos on the women, powdered wigs on their companions. Luxury, ostentation, vanity, hypocrisy …

Milagros appeared indifferent to all that show. She didn’t even wear the dresses she flaunted in the Príncipe, but her simple, comfortable gypsy clothes, combined with colorful ribbons and beads. Since she had been forced to visit the homes of the nobility, she had received gifts, some of them valuable, although they had done no good to those who tried to flatter and seduce her. All the gifts and money she earned for the performances went into Pedro’s hands, who unlike her had significantly upgraded his wardrobe. That night he wore a richly embroidered bolero jacket, in the style of the
manolos,
silk stockings and shirt and shoes with silver buckles that he forced Bartola to polish time and again. Milagros,
seeing him so splendidly turned out, elegant and dazzling, felt a stab of something. She wasn’t sure if it was pain or rage. Pedro, in true gypsy form, addressed the Marquis of Torre Girón as an equal: they chatted, laughed and even slapped each other on the back, as if they were old friends. She could tell that many of the ladies there whispered with their gazes brazenly fixed on her husband. Even the Frenchified dandies who courted the ladies seemed to envy him!

Milagros passed before them with her nose in the air, as if challenging them. She knew the courtship game. Marina had explained to her that most of the ladies who filled the boxes at the Coliseo del Príncipe weren’t accompanied by their husbands, but rather by the
chevaliers servants
who were courting them.

“And their husbands allow it?” she had asked, surprised.

“Of course,” answered Marina. “Every evening they escort them to the theater and pay for a good seat,” she commented in the dressing rooms, “although sometimes the lady prefers to mingle with the women on the balcony, hidden beneath a good cloak: when she is in mourning, for example, and it isn’t appropriate for her to be seen enjoying herself in the theater or listening to the gossip of the vendors. In that case the suitor still has to buy her ticket and wait for her at the exit. Take a closer look!” she urged Milagros. “I’m sure that even though they are covered up you can recognize them.”

“What else does the suitor have to do?” asked Milagros, her interest piqued.

“Well, he has to please the object of his affections,” explained Marina. “He can only talk to her, not to any other woman, even when his lady is not present. Early in the morning, he has to go to her bedchamber to wake her up, bring her breakfast, help her to dress and converse with her while the hairdresser does her hair; then they go to mass. In the evenings, he escorts her here, to see the comedies.” Marina listed the suitor’s obligations, counting on her fingers. “Then, they take a long stroll through the San Jerónimo meadow in a fine open carriage, and at night it’s time for gatherings, card games and contradances before dropping her off at home. Basically, the suitor must have permission from his lady for anything he wants to do.”

“That’s all?” asked the gypsy in a mocking tone.

But, to her surprise, Marina continued. “No!” she responded, exaggeratedly stretching out the vowel. “I was just catching my breath.” She laughed with feigned affectation. “That is what he should do. Then there’s what he should pay for: the hairdresser, the flowers he has to send her every day and, above all, her clothes and accessories. There are some ladies who, before splurging, agree on a maximum amount for all those expenses with the suitor, but those are the cheap courtships. The true suitor has to open up an account at the best shops so that his lady can dress as is befitting, and he must also be up to date on the latest court style and everything arriving from Paris so he can offer it to her before everyone else is wearing it …”

“They must go bankrupt,” commented Milagros.

“Madrid is full of suitors who have lost their fortunes courting a lady.”

“Poor wretches.”

“Poor wretches? They enjoy the smile and company of their ladies, their conversation and their confidences … even their scorn! What more can a man aspire to?”

Remembering those words, Milagros revealed a smile that was misinterpreted by one of the young dandies invited to the marquis’s party.
How much money do you have left?
she was tempted to ask him just as a couple of bold ladies separated from the group and approached the marquis and Pedro flirtatiously. Milagros hesitated over stepping into their path. He was her man! Wasn’t he? There were more and more nights when he didn’t even come home, but those foolish women who surrounded her in a cloud of perfume as they passed by her didn’t need to know that. She did nothing. She turned her head and lost her gaze in the reflections of a large crystal chandelier as the two women launched their attack on Pedro.

With a party for almost two hundred guests, the Marquis of Torre Girón was celebrating the fact that the King had granted him, as a grandee, the privilege of keeping his head covered in the monarch’s presence. Milagros sang and danced with the same passion as she did in the theater. In those moments she was the queen. She could feel it; she knew it! Dukes, marquises, counts and barons surrendered to her voice, and in their eyes, then stripped of titles, money and even authority, she perceived nothing more than desire, the yearning to possess that sensual, lustful eighteen-year-old body as she danced and swirled about. And what
about the ladies? Yes, the same ones who had gone after Pedro. They lowered their eyes, looking at their own hands or feet, some at their corseted breasts, probably lamenting how they fell flaccid as soon as they were released from their constraints. Even the youngest among them envied Milagros, aware that they were unable to use their charms the way she did. How could they emulate her, match her, in grotesque, ceremonial contradances? they thought. Not even in the privacy of their bedchambers would they dare to spin around and shake their hips like that.