Viva Jacquelina! (21 page)

I nod in agreement, quite chastened.

“Sifu Loo Li will now show you the First Position, ‘The Opening Flower,' it is called.”

“A gentle thing, a flower,” he goes on. “It smells sweet, but beware what lies within.”

The lad comes up next to me and motions that I take my staff and...

. . . the instruction goes on for several hours... several grueling hours.

“When one learns through pain, Long Boy, one learns the lessons twice over,” says the Master, and I grit my teeth and endure both the pain in my body and the shame of the novice. “Now you must learn ‘The Strike of the Silver Snake'...”

At dinner, Charlie informs me that the ship bearing news of the fight against Napoleon has not yet arrived.

“Unfortunate, that,” says Charlie, eyeing the two of us, Sidrah and myself sitting across from him, she kneading my still-aching shoulders. “Perhaps it is time for you to return to the barbarian world, as I think your mind is in order now.”

“But, Honored Father, I believe Jai-Mee-San needs a bit more... rest,” says Sidrah softly.

Charlie snorts. “Ha! Rest! I am sure that is what he has been getting, the dog! But that is not what causes me concern.”

“And what is that, Honored Chen?” I ask, as Sidrah places a pink shrimp to my lips.

“I fear the wrath of Number Two Daughter, Ju-kau-jing yi, should Number One Daughter, Sidrat'ul Muntaha, enter into connubial bliss with Honored Guest,” he says, casting a knowing eye at the two of us. “And if he should never again return to side of The Little Round-Eyed Barbarian, I am certain she would demand the head of poor old Chops on a plate.”

Charlie pauses, picks up the pipe of his hookah, and takes a deep puff.

“This match I would not mind, as I have found you, Chueng Tong, to be a rather fine fellow, and I compliment the Lotus Blossom on her taste. However, should I ever give up Sidrah, I have a rich Burmese prince in mind, much more advantageous to the House of Chen than a poor, penniless Brit, however charming he might be.”

Sidrah cocks a knowing eye at her doting father, knowing full well he would never do anything to cause her any unhappiness.

I nod, knowing that, in spite of all the kindness extended to me here, I
will
get back to Europe and I
will
find you, Jacky.

 

Yours,
Jaimy

There is great excitement within the walls of the House of Goya, for today the bulls will run through the streets of Madrid, and stupid young men will run with them.

After breakfast, I go to my room to change.

Paloma is out doing up the other chambers, so I don't have to explain to her just why I am climbing into this outfit. Doffing my usual serving-girl garb, I fold it and put it in my seabag. Yes, I had bought material last payday and had stitched up a new one, and am stowing all my meager belongings in it.
Jacky Faber can be off and gone in five minutes
has always been my watchword, and it has stood me in good stead many times. It is only when I forget to be prepared that I get in trouble.

The one thing I do not keep in the seabag is my wineskin—that useful item I have filled with water and it hangs from a hook next to my bed, ready to grab should I have to run. I well remember how thirsty I got on the flight from Portugal to here.

Since the bulls do not run until noon, I have some time to reflect on the past weeks...

 

Yes, the work on the King's portrait goes well, and in my role as spy, I am able to glean more information that might prove useful to British Intelligence—overheard conversations betwixt military types, ministers, and such. I do not judge the value of the content, I just send it on to Montoya. I certainly do not let any at the palace know that I am fairly fluent in French. It brings a smile to my lips to think that my dispatches might possibly get back to dear Higgins, since, as far as I know, he is still on the staff of General Wellesley and working closely with the spymaster and cryptographer. I put a tiny JMF in one margin just in case he might be watching.

One thing has been a bit worrying in that regard, however. On two occasions when I was out to take my lessons with Django, I sensed that I was being watched. Turning around suddenly when I felt eyes upon me, I twisted about abruptly and thought I caught a glance of a black-robed figure ducking behind a corner. I could have been mistaken, but still I asked Montoya on our next meeting if he had his men out watching me and he replied that he did not.
I have most of my men camped out beyond the city,
muchacha,
only a few here.

Hmmm . 
.
 .
Well, I must be careful, I'm thinking, as I have no wish to end up strapped into the embrace of
el garrote,
a particularly ghastly form of execution by strangulation employed by the Spanish. Considering this, I had Cesar deliver my packets to Montoya at his digs at Calle de Ocho. I gave him strict instructions:

If you are caught, you tell them some foolish girl gave you five
reales
to take the package to a man at that address. You don't know his name. You thought they were love letters. Do you understand,
chico?

Yes, my dearest one, but I shall not deny you! Never! I will die for the glory of Spain and for you, my heart! My last words shall be “Viva España, Viva Jacquelina!” I will die with your name on my lips!

Geez, and I thought
I
was a hopeless romantic.

 

Earlier, upon coming to live at Casa Goya, I had, of course, thoroughly scouted out the place. I noted that there are three levels—dank basement, studio and kitchen down, living quarters up. It faces on the grand plaza, but to the back and sides of it are narrow streets—alleys, really. And wrought-iron balconies extend over them, both from our building and the ones next to us.

After I had taken some lessons from Django, it had become my habit to come out on the right-side balcony to play very softly upon my borrowed guitar, so as not to disturb anyone—not anyone in our house, nor the people across the street, who also like to sit upon their own balcony on a sweet warm night.

One evening, as I sat out there strumming, I was pleased to see Amadeo come to join me. He had two glasses of Madeira, one of which he placed on the railing at my right hand, making it most plain that this was not a chance encounter.

“Thank you, Amadeo,” I said. “You are very kind.”

“My pleasure, entirely, Jacquelina,” he said, leaning on the rail and surveying the cobblestones below.

I put the guitar aside, took glass in hand, and rose to stand next to him.

“So that is where the bulls will run?”

“Sí,
Señorita.
Right down there. It is quite a sight. Just you wait.”

“I think it is stupid,” opined the hypocrite Jacky Faber, who had, in the past, given herself up to many a wild, chaotic night. “You have heard what I told Cesar?”

“
Sí.
But he is only a boy and hopelessly in love with you. He may do as you say and not run with the bulls.”

“But you and Asensio?”

“We are not little boys like Cesar, Señorita,” he whispered. “And we do not think you will carry through on your threat... Not after you see the bulls coming. You are but a girl—a brave one, to be sure, but after all, still just a girl.”

All this time, he has been angling his face ever closer toward mine.

Hmmm . 
.
 .

Amadeo is very handsome, and he
has
been very kind to me...

He put his fingers under my chin and gently inclined my face upward.

“You have not forgotten that kiss, that very special kiss,
caro mio?
” he whispers, his breath hot on my face. “That kiss we shared that night as we danced and the world fell away, leaving us alone, just the two of us... and the music, the rose, the drop of your precious blood?”

“Ah no, Amadeo,” I breathe. “How could I forget that?”

“Then another little kiss,
chica,
on this warm and lovely night, one that was made for soft love and gentle kindness?”

Well, when you put it that way . 
.
 . why not?

Ummm . 
.
 .

 

As for Carmelita, who has yet to say a single word to me since our confrontation, rest assured that I'm watching her with a wary eye. She attends to her work, and is diligent in it. Her painting of me in
Maja
costume is competent and complete. It is cool and detached, and shows no inkling of the dislike I know she feels toward the model.
I am painting an insignificant girl, dressed up like the slut she is,
Carmelita was surely thinking as she worked away. I could see it in her eyes.

Fine,
I say.
Let her stay well away from me. However, there had been one other time . 
.
 .

 

I was out on the side balcony one night, in the cool of the evening, strumming my guitar softly, when I happened to glance down and notice Carmelita emerging from a side door below. She gazed furtively about, then headed off in the same direction I had seen her come from before... But this time she had a folder beneath her arm, like a small portfolio. What was she up to? Selling artwork on the side? Can she have purloined some of Maestro's discards to peddle them off for her own profit? I don't know, but, certainly, I will watch.

 

Oh, well, enough idle thoughts.
Into the tight toreador pants with you, girl, and yes, the frilly white shirt and the neat little top.
I pull my black embroidered skirt from my seabag and pull it on over my trousers. No sense in scandalizing anyone more than I have to. If the lads are good, it will stay on, if not...

I go down to join the others on the balcony, to watch the Running of the Bulls.

They are all there, the students, the staff, Goya, yes, and even his wife, Josefa, in a wheelchair, poor thing, but still seeming to enjoy the excitement of the day.

Cesar comes over next to me, his gaze hot.

“You will not let me do it, Jack-ie? You will not let me prove myself a man?”

“You are already a man, Cesar,” I say, lifting my skirt a bit to show him the cuff of my trousers below, with its implied threat. “You do not have to prove yourself to me.”

He says nothing to that, but I sense his frustration. So young, so full of bravado, to be denied release...
Oh, well, it's for your own good, lad. Maybe next year.

I look over at Amadeo and Asensio. They are both dressed in
Majo
splendor, in outfits similar to mine, with red sashes about their waists. Paloma, also dressed in her best, has placed out trays of snacks and glasses of wine, and I go over to help pour.

Amadeo lifts his glass to me. “To love and beauty,” he says, taking a drink. I lift my own glass and return the toast.

“To love and happiness,” I say. “And to the health and safety of those about me.”

All around drink to that, but Cesar does not miss the glances that are exchanged betwixt Amadeo and me. No, he does not, and he is not at all pleased.
Rest your mind, Cesar, it is nothing. You'll see, my dear little fellow, you'll see . 
.
 . It is just a harmless dalliance betwixt good friends, that's all.

Looking across the street, I see that the balcony opposite us now contains three
Majas,
all dressed in the finest of garments. As I watch, I see that they are joined by two young men, dressed very
Majo,
and very
macho.

They look across and bow.

We bow back, and then...

. . . then there is a tremendous trumpet blast!
“The bulls are coming! The bulls are coming!”

I look up the street and see, at the far end, a crowd of young men running down the street, laughing and shouting. Behind them is a wall of bull—hump-backed bulls, red-eyed bulls, black-faced bulls, bulls snorting red steam out of their nostrils. Well, it sure looks red to me, anyway, as I stand trembling on that balcony.

My attention is diverted by another movement across the street. The two young men on the opposite balcony have vaulted over the railing to land in the street. They turn and bow to the ladies above them. The girls cheer and clap and throw roses down on their lads.

I feel Amadeo quivering beside me.

“Don't do it, Amadeo,
please!
For me!”

One of the young men, his lady's token rose now in his red sash, looks up at my own lads and calls out, “
Vamos, hermanos! Vamos! Arriba! Arriba! Ándale! Ándale!”

When Amadeo and Asensio stay standing on our balcony, the man below changes his tone. “Ha! Weaklings! Cowards!
Maricóns!
”

It is too much, to be called that. Too much for Amadeo and Asensio, who quickly strip off their jackets—and even too much for Cesar.

Damn stupid male pride!

The three jump down into the street as the mob of bulls and men draws ever closer.

Well, they asked for it!
I fume, as I unloosen my skirt and whip it off.
Just a girl, eh? Well, we'll see!

I whip off my wig and toss it to the astounded Paloma, and then I, too, am over the rail and standing in the street next to Cesar.

The crowd of men running to the front of the bulls has reached us, and Asensio and Amadeo disappear in their midst. I notice that some of the bull runners have flattened themselves against the side walls, and after seeing some men stumble in front of the advancing pack and fall beneath the hooves of the bulls, I figure that's the safest option.