Viva Jacquelina! (20 page)

Montoya smiles and picks up one of my octopuses and places it in his mouth, his big teeth grinding on both the
tapa
and my insulting words.

“I was recovering from a bullet in my side,
mi guapa,
” he says, his eyes on mine. “My men dragged me away. I could do nothing for you then.”

“And what will you do for me now, Pablo? You see I managed to get here without your help.”

“I know you are a
muchacha
of great resolve. A fine piece of female flesh, but also tough as a strip of leather,” he says, and then hooks a thumb at the astounded Cesar. “Who is he?”

“He is a fine
Madrileño.
A brave boy, and a true son of Spain. Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of him.”

“Hmmm,” says Montoya, regarding Cesar with some doubt. “Very well, do you have anything to report to our superiors?”

“Only that I have gained entrance to the palace and have been in the presence of King Joseph and heard many things said by his ministers and generals that might be of interest to our... superiors.”

His bushy eyebrows go up.

“The very palace? You do have your ways,
chica.
”

“I have been told that before.”

“Bueno,”
he says, rising. “Write out what you have discovered and I will get it to our people. I will meet you here tomorrow at five—”

“At seven,
hombre.
”

“Seven, then. If we fail to meet, you can find me at 435 Calle de Ocho, Room 21. It is right around the corner.”

“I will do that, Montoya. Tomorrow then.
Adiós.
”

“
Adiós, compadres,”
he says, smiling on the both of us.
“Viva España.”

He straightens and strides to the door. On his way out, he puts his hand to his brow and says, “
Hola, Django.
It is good to see you again.”

I wonder about that as I settle back and begin to explain things to a very bewildered Cesar.

I put my hand on his...

Cesar, it is like this . 
.
 . I am not altogether what I seem to be . 
.
 .

Since we have a bit of a breathing spell from the palace—after all, even kings and princes cannot make paint dry any faster than it will—we return to our own pursuits.

In the studio, the chatter is all about the running of the bulls and the law that I have laid down concerning all that macho silliness.

I am sure that Carmelita would want to say something in regard to that, but since our confrontation in the hall, she has not said a single word to me. I wonder what she is about? Is she cowed, or is she up to something? One thing I do know—I must be careful.

As I go about setting up the palettes, I notice that there are only four taborets set out and one of the big canvases is up on a large sturdy easel. There is a green couch resting on the model platform. It has one high end—a bolster, like—and has several big pillows and sheets strewn across it. On the bed sits some folded clothing, as well.

Hmmm . 
.
 .

I look to Amadeo and raise my eyebrows in question.

“You will pose today, Jack-ie,” he says, blushing slightly. “Maestro wants you to put on those clothes there and then lie upon the couch.” He gives out a bit of a dry cough. “With the wig on,
por favor.
”

I nod and go to do it.

I have noticed that, since our torrid little dance at Café Central, Amadeo's glances at me have grown ever more warm.
Hmmm . 
.
 .

I take the clothing and duck behind the screen. I look at what I am to wear: a loose, somewhat transparent white gown with a low-cut bodice, a red satin sash to wrap around my middle, and a top that is gold brocade with filmy gold sleeves and black net cuffs. I sigh, drop my regular serving-girl garb—all of it—and put on the outfit. With all this
Maja
finery upon the Faber body and golden slippers on the Faber feet, Jacky Faber, model, steps out just as Maestro steps in.

“Good, Jacquelina,” he says upon seeing me properly decked out. “Please lie on the couch with your feet to this end.”

I go, place my silk-clad bottom on a cushion, swing my legs up and over, and then rest my back against the bolster. I look to Goya for further instructions.

“Yes, now slide a little farther that way... That's it. Tuck the dress between your legs. Good.”

Well, even though I'd rather be painting, the pose is easy.

“Now raise your arms above your head.”

Uh-oh . 
.
 . not quite so easy. Oh, well . 
.
 .

“
Bueno,”
says Goya, going to his canvas and picking up a stump of charcoal. “Look directly at me. That's it. Let us begin.”

 

As they scratch away, I pass the time thinking about the events of the past two days.

The first night after my surprise meeting with Montoya, I found some discarded paper and, by candlelight, wrote down everything I could remember from the overheard conversations at the palace, anything that possibly could be of value to Wellesley, or whoever else is in charge of British forces in Portugal and Spain. When given a task, I tend to do my duty, if I perceive the cause to be worthy, and, I suspect, the liberation of Spain is a worthy goal. I wonder if Amy Trevelyne would agree? And what would she think of my harem outfit? Ha! I have to suppress a smile.

My nose begins to itch, as it always does when I am not allowed to scratch it. I wiggle it around a bit, but that doesn't help.
Put your mind on something else, girl, for you will be holding this pose for a long, long time.

 

Yesterday, after I had passed the papers to Montoya and he had left the Dos Gatos, I spent some time with Django. We shared some wine and he showed me some more moves on the guitar. We talked, and he told me more stories of the
Roma,
the traveling people we call gypsies—tales of the great caravans, the beautiful women, the wild singing and dancing around blazing campfires in new and strange lands, always new places, always the winding road stretching out ahead of the brightly colored wagons. He laughed when he described it all, and I listened wide-eyed and rapt. The life of the Roma appealed to the wild side of my nature, that's for sure.

But how came you to be here, Papa? Why did you leave the road and all its charms?

Ah,
chica,
it was the stiffening of the bones. After I could not keep up, I had to leave . 
.
 .

I had observed Django trying to walk upright and straight, without limping, and failing at it. Poor man, I thought, for I knew, from my time with Dr. Sebastian, that it was creeping arthritis and there was nothing to be done about it, except suffer its presence. Well I remember Jemimah Moses, my cook back when I ran the
Nancy B.
down to the Caribbean, how she would grind her fist into the small of her back and groan, “Oh, my Lord, when Uncle Arthur comes to visit, he don't
never
go home.”

But I was fortunate, Jacquelina, in that it only affected my legs and not my hands, so I am able to play the
guitarra
and sing and make my way for whatever time I have left in this world.

He put his fingers on the strings and played a piece I had not heard him do before.

I have never heard anyone play as beautifully as you, Django, with as much . 
.
 . feeling . 
.
 . so much soul.

He put up his guitar and looked upon me, fondly, I believe. He chuckled and reached into his vest pocket.

You are a good girl, little one. Here, take this.

He handed me a smooth chip of wood, about two inches square. On one side is carved a symbol, something that looks like a
J
contained in a circle. Into the carved grooves is rubbed a yellow pigment, and it is all smoothly glossed with oil.

What is it, Maestro?

He took a sip of wine and said...

Keep that with you always, Jacquelina. If you are in trouble sometime and the Roma are nearby, show that to them. It was my sign when I was chief of a great caravan, before I was brought low. They will recognize it. Trust me.

I will,
Jefe,
and thank you.

I stood and placed a kiss on his forehead and left to go back to the studio. I was walking along, somewhat subdued, thinking on what Django had said, when I was startled to see Carmelita come striding along on the other side of our street. I ducked back around a corner to watch.

Hmmm . 
.
 .
Carmelita almost
never
goes out—except to Mass with the rest of us. She looked a bit furtive as she swept by and entered the studio, and I leaned back against a wall and wondered...

Where did she go? She had no packages under her arm, so she did not go shopping . 
.
 . and why did she not take one of the lads with her? Most girls in Spain don't go out without escorts, not girls of Carmelita's class, anyway. Where was she coming from?

I looked down the street and saw, way down at the end of it, across the plaza, the Basilica de San Francisco el Grande.

Could she have gone there? To pray, to offer Confession, to say the Act of Contrition for being such a miserable... Nay, much more likely she was praying for the salvation of her precious soul and the damnation of mine.

 

“Break.”

I stand and stretch, and rub my traitorous nose with the palm of my hand, and then walk about to ease my poor joints and to check out the progress on the paintings.

The students are using
velos
—open frames of wood on which are stretched black cords to make a grid. The
velos,
which are proportional to the canvases on which they are working, are set up on separate easels a few feet from each student. They have made use of T-squares to pencil in similar squares on their canvases, and so are able to transfer the reality—me lying there in all my supposed glory—to the two-dimensional surface of the canvas. Like, in the top right square is part of my face and so they put that part in, and then the next square, and so on and so on. I have been told
velos
have been in use since the Dark Ages, and I find them fascinating. When I set up my own studio, I shall employ them. Anything to make life, and work, easier is all right with me.

Goya, of course, does not use the
velo
but charges right on in. He is, after all, the Master.

I pause at Cesar's and he looks up and I give him a bit of a wink. The other day, after our first encounter with Montoya, I had to tell the lad that I was a freedom fighter, giving my all for the liberation of España, which was not quite true, but he ate it up and has been filled with patriotic zeal ever since.
You and I,
mi apasionada,
we shall fight together in the cause of
libertad! I swear him to secrecy and he promises to button his lip. I thought to tell him of my credo, “Oftimes it seems to me, ‘patriotic' rhymes with ‘idiotic,'” but I don't bother. He is much too fired up.

I review Amadeo's and Asensio's drawings, compliment both, and then...

“Pose, please.”

Heavy sigh as I mount the platform yet again.

Anyway, Jaimy, as I was saying . 
.
 .

James Fletcher
Somewhat Bruised
House of Chen
Rangoon
I Don't Care What Date

 

Jacky Faber
In Spain, as close as I can figure
But it could as well be Zanzibar, if past history is any clue

 

Dearest Jacky,

Tonight, before dinner, I lie face-down on a mat while the lovely Sidrah kneels by my side. I try to suppress a groan as she rubs the aromatic and very soothing unguent into my poor abused muscles.

The young Shaolin monk Sifu Loo Li was presented to me today in an open green field close by the Buddhist temple. Master Kwai Chang made the introductions, we all bowed to each other, and Master Chang left the field.

Sifu Loo Li carried with him two bamboo sticks, each as long as we were tall, and about one-inch thick. He handed me one, bowed again, and stepped back about ten yards. He whipped his stick around himself in very fluid motions and ended up in a position very much like the “lunge” movement in our own Western sword technique, except that his staff is tucked under his right arm, while his other arm is extended straight out, palm open before me.

I suspect this is the ready position, the en garde, as we barbarians know it.
Well, we shall see, China boy...

I take my staff in both my hands, sort of like what I have seen in paintings of the knights of old, with their two-handed broadswords, my left hand lower on the stick, my right hand higher, and advance toward him.

When we get about six feet from each other, he whips his cane from under his arm and whirls it around over his head. I lunge forward, using my training in the saber, and seek to strike him on his open left side.

I don't even get close.

His stick is a blur as he brings the end down, turns completely around, and brings it up under my staff, to lay it hard against my chin. Had he put any force into it, he would have broken my jaw.

He bows again, steps back, and assumes his original position.

I hear a chuckle behind me and, slightly bewildered, I see Master Chang reappear, leaning on his own staff, coming to sit on the grass to the side.

“You see, Long Boy, it might be a bit more complicated than you originally thought, eh?”