Viva Jacquelina! (26 page)

“God is our Emperor, not that little man. Shall we proceed?”

I look about and see another red-robed figure at my feet, and yet another at a large cogged wheel. Lifting my eyes, I am able to dimly perceive a narrow balcony on which stand perhaps a dozen silent men, each in a similar red robe and hood, looking down upon me. Off to the left and affixed to the wall is what appears to be a large silver scythe.

“We must know more about the nefarious actions at the House of Goya.”

“What? We are an artists' studio! We paint pictures and sell them! Nothing more! I swear!” I say, desperate. “Please, you must let me go!”

“We know he has painted a picture of you.”

“Yes, he did. What of it?”

“He painted you naked.”

“Painted me naked? Señor, there are thousands of paintings of nude people. Check out the Vatican in Rome. I am a model. That's what models do. Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because Goya painted your sex, and you allowed him to do that.”

“My sex? Yes, I'm a girl. Ain't it plain? Half the world is, you know.”

“Yes, and that is a pity. However... that dirty old man, Goya, has offended us. He painted your sex and the painting will be shown to the public and base desires will be inflamed. For that reason, it is forbidden. There are no paintings like that, not in all the world—not the civilized world, anyway.”

I well recall the conversation with Amadeo, that day back in the studio.
I guess you were right,
mi amigo...
and I so wish you were here with me right now . 
.
 .

“What? You are talking about my maidenhair?” I demand of my Inquisitor. “
Incredible!
A few strokes of brown paint and you have me here for that? That paint is made out of burnt umber, which is a color taken from the earth, and oil. God's good earth, God's good oil. Nothing more. What is the matter with you? How can that be evil?”

“It is for us to decide, not you.”

“How do you know all this?” I ask, damned uncomfortable being laid out as I am and plainly getting the worst of this one-sided conversation. “You could not have seen those paintings. They were private and not for the eyes of such as you.”

He lays his hand on my forehead in an almost fatherly way. “Ah, you see, a good Catholic girl has shown us. Last Sunday, she let us in, and we gazed upon the wretched paintings and were aghast at what we saw.”

Carmelita! That's why she didn't go to Mass with us! She was the woman on the road, the one who betrayed me to these fiends!

“Yes, and we saw other things. Depictions of monsters, grotesque beings that could only have come from the mind of a heretic. Like these... Here's one of Satan biting off the head of a man.”

He holds a sheaf of papers before my eyes and I recognize them as Goya's. He had done so many of those dark drawings, he would not have noticed these few missing.

“Carmelita Gomez stole those!” I shout. “Damn her to hell for her treachery!”

“Ah, it will not be she who is going to hell, it will be you, minion of Satan,” he says. “But not before you tell us some things about Señor Goya. We must know more.”

“But why me? Carmelita must've told you all the lies you wanted to hear.”

“Ah, yes, she has told us many things,” he says. “But you see, we must have more testimony—more than just that of one young girl—to bring an important man like the despicable Goya to trial before the Inquisition.”

He nods to the man at my feet, who puts his hand on the great wheel and gives it a turn. The straps tighten and I am stretched out to my full length. He takes this opportunity to pull down the waist of my skirt.

“Yes, there it is, just like she said. The mark of the devil's pitchfork. And the heathen symbol on her neck.”

He pushes my head roughly to the side.

“Ah, yes, that, too! Good God, my fingers tremble at the touch!” he says, his voice full of loathing. “Now tell us, Whore of Babylon, everything that goes on in that place. Do you have a cabal? Is Goya the warlock? Are you one of his witches? Tell us and your pain shall end—your pain in this world, anyway.”

“No! I swear! We just paint pictures, that's all!”

“A quarter turn, Brother Bruno.”

The wheel is cranked and I am lifted from the platform and hang in the air. My elbows and knees cry out in pain.

“Yeow! Stop! Please!”

“We will stop when you admit your guilt and the guilt of those within that house of sin,” he says. “Will you do so? Did you see goat men prancing about, witches casting spells?”

“No! Nothing like that!” I shout. “Please don't—”

“Another little turn, Brother Bruno.”

Screeeech! No! Oh!

“It is time for our Vespers, brothers. Let her stay here and reflect upon her sin. Brother Ignacio, you may release the scythe.”

The red-robed monks file out of the room, heads down, hands in sleeves. Brother Ignacio is at the end of the line, and as he exits the pit, he pulls a lever. The others, who stood on the balcony, also file out, chanting an ominous chorus.

 

Dies irae, dies illa
Solvet saeclum in favilla,
Teste David cum Sybilla.

 

Quantus tremor est futurus
Quando iudex est venturus
Cuncta stricte discussurus.

 

Tuba mirum spargens sonum
Per sepulcra regionum
Coget omnes ante thronum.

 

In my misery, I hear a
swoosh
ing sound and look up to see...
Horror!
There is a great crescent-shaped blade on a long pendulum that swings slowly back and forth. It describes an arc of about twenty feet and takes about five seconds to complete its passage from one apex to the other. At its low point, it passes about six inches above my belly.

Whoooosh!

There it goes again, and I swear it is closer to me than on the last pass. The monks did not find my shiv when they strapped me down, but, though I twist in the bonds and try to get it, I can't... I can't... !

Whoooosh!

I am right in thinking that it comes closer with every swing. I sight on a point on the far wall, and, sure enough, I see that the blade has, indeed, come closer to my poor self. It must be on a ratchet, such that it drops down a half inch on each pass.

Whoooosh!

I can see the blade close up now, and it looks sharp as a razor. It fairly whistles as it goes by, now a scant three inches above me.

Whooosh!

Another pass, and I squirm under the sweep of the pendulum. If I could only get to my shiv, but I cannot, I cannot! The straps hold me too tight.
Oh, I fear I am done!

Whooosh!

The blade now clears my stomach by a mere two inches... Now one inch, now one half, now... Oh, Lord, now it slices through the waistband of my skirt, and it is so sharp that the fabric does not even shudder as the razor cuts through it.

Whooosh!

The sides of my skirt fall away, destroyed, and my stomach lies white and bare and defenseless before the relentless descent of that awful blade.

I cannot stand it, and I scream, “I am a good girl! Oh, God, save me! My belly is supposed to have babies in it, not a cruel knife! Oh, please, God, do not let it happen!”

Whooosh!

Screech!
I look down and there is a thin red line of blood across my middle! And, as the scythe swings to the side, I can see a smear of my blood on its edge.
Oh my God! I am going to be gutted! I—

But no, that is not going to happen, not just yet. Even worse things are in store for me.

Fra Gilberto comes back into the pit and stands by my side.

“Brother Bruno, please stop the pendulum.”

Bruno grabs the lever, and the scythe comes to rest against the far wall, ready, at any moment to swing again. The former occupants of the balcony once again take their places.

Fra Gilberto leans over me and whispers, “Come now, girl, tell us. Did you see horrible, devilish things happening at Goya's house? Did you yourself copulate with goats, did you—”

“No, no nothing like that, please, no!”

He turns aside in disgust.

“I see that you are still in the grip of the Horned One. Brother Ignacio, please bring the cleansing water.”

I feel the rack on which I am lying lean back and my feet are raised high above my head.
What is going on? Cleansing water . 
.
 . What?

Brother Ignacio appears in my vision, grinning and holding a pitcher of water.

“Proceed, Brother,” says Fra Gilberto. “Let the Holy Water of the Mother Church shrive her soul.”

With that, Brother Ignacio lifts his pitcher and pours the water into my nostrils.

I buck and gag and try to rise, but I cannot. I can only choke and beg for mercy.

“Please... please... stop!”

Fra Gilberto nods again and more water is poured into my nose and a hand is put over my mouth.

Oh, Lord, I am drowning and it hurts, it hurts, I can't stand it! Please take me! Take me now! Oh, God, please!

The hand is removed from my mouth and water streams out as I hack and cough.

I have been hurt before, but nothing like this.
Mercy!

“Will you tell us now, to save your soul? If you confess, we will end your suffering.”

“Anything... anything...” I manage to gasp. “Please just stop.”

“Describe the obscene rituals you have observed. Did the heretic Goya lead them?”

“What? No.”

Fra Gilberto again signals Brother Ignacio and he tilts his jug.

“No!” I scream. “I mean, yes! Whatever you say! Yes, rituals! Dancing! Blasphemies! The Devil himself! Goya, too! Yes, all of us!”

“Good. That is very good, girl. You have confessed. You might just have saved your very soul,” says the monk. “You will find out very shortly. Brother Bruno, begin the auto-da-fé. Let the blade take her.”

The sonorous chant from the gallery above begins again as Bruno walks toward the lever that will free the scythe.
Oh, Lord, I am coming . 
.
 .

But Brother Bruno does not pull the lever. In fact, he does little else in this world.

There is a splintering crash from the door behind me and I hear shouts... then shots, and Brother Bruno falls to the ground. I am suddenly surrounded by grim-looking men—men with bandoleros across their chests, men with guns and knives in their belts—and one of them is Pablo Montoya.

“Kill them, brothers,” he shouts, and they do it. Brother Ignacio is cut down, screaming, by a sword thrust through his gut. The water jug crashes to the floor.

More shots ring out and several of the figures in the choir slump over, and they sure ain't singing anymore, no they ain't. They're too busy dying.

“Hold that one,” orders Montoya, pointing at a very stricken Fra Gilberto, who still stands by the side of the rack. “Help the boy get her loose. Hurry. Some of those up there got away. They will spread the alarm.”

One of the men pulls the rachet on the rack's wheel and it relaxes its grip on me.

Oh, thank you, God!

In my daze, I realize that someone is fumbling with my wrist straps and muttering curses.

“Rotten bastards! May they all rot in hell!”

“Cesar? Is it really you?”

“
Sí,
Señorita.
When they took you, I followed them to the Basilica and then ran for Montoya. I am sorry we took so long getting here, but he had to gather his men,” says Cesar. “Oh,
pobrecita,
what agony you must have endured!”

The last of the bindings is removed and someone sits me up. I am groggy, but I manage to get up and throw my legs over the side.

“Yeeeow!” I cry when I stand and the pain hits my joints. Cesar catches me on my way to the floor.

“Pick her up,” orders Montoya, and Cesar gets one arm under my useless legs and the other under my shoulders and lifts me. I put my face against his chest and sob, all strength and pride gone.

Montoya looks up at the blade hanging ready.

“Anselmo, Fernando. Put him on his foul machine and strap him down.”

“Sí, Comandante,”
say the men, taking the suddenly comprehending Fra Gilberto and putting him on the rack. When the straps are around his wrists and ankles, Montoya goes to him and rips open the front of his red robe.

He leans down and speaks into the Inquisitor's stunned face. “You will now go to your god, false priest, and you will be judged. Augustin! Pull the lever.
Vamos, compadres!
”

As I am carried through the door, I hear a very familiar sound...

Swoooosh!

. . . followed by a very long scream.

 

“We must flee the city,
chica,
” says Montoya over his shoulder. “They will be after us.” I have been put up behind him on his horse and we clatter through the darkened streets.

“Yes, Pablo, but not yet,” I say, clinging to him. “I must go back to Casa Goya. There are things I have to get... and something I must do.”

“Very well, girl, but you must be quick about it.”

My mouth is set into a grim line.

Oh, I will be quick, all right . 
.
 . very quick.

Cesar and I burst into Estudio Goya to find an astounded Master, Amadeo, and Asensio. My strength had returned to me on the way here, and the pain in my joints has lessened.

“Carmelita has betrayed all of us to the Inquisition, especially you, Maestro,” I say, my chest heaving. “Where is she?”

“Upstairs,” says Amadeo, perplexed. “But I don't understand.”

“You will,” I say, as I bolt up the stairs. “Cesar will explain.”