by L. A. Meyer
Jesus? Lord? You’ve finally come for me! Oh, yes, Lord!
I stretch my own arms out to Him, but then I blink my eyes and Jesus is gone. In His place is the trunk of an old, dead tree, its outstretched limbs withered and sere.
Must be the sun, I’m thinking, and not too clearly at that. I lean forward and duck my face into the cool water. I wish it had been you, Jesus. I’m sure You would have given me something to eat. I just know You would’ve ’cause you loves me . . . Manna from heaven, and this water turned into red, red wine, milk and honey, loaves and fishes, even, oh, yes . . .
It’s then that I see him. He’s right over there, ’cross a little stretch of water. No, no, not Jesus again, no . . . It’s a big, big ol’ bull, bullfrog. I peer through the reeds and see him right over there, across the shallow water, sitting on a hollow log—yes, he is a mighty bullfrog. A nice fat bullfrog. Must be a good two, three, maybe four pounds, if he’s an ounce. As I watch him, drool beginnin’ to pool in my mouth, he puffs up his big throat till it looks like a big shiny ball and then he lets out with a big . . .
BARRROOOOOOMMMM.
Shedding my pants and shirt, I flip them and my bag over on dry land and slip into the water. I find, as I move forward, the water betwixt the frog and me is about waist deep.
My mind, which is busy doin’ some real funny things, goes back to that time in the Caribbean with Joannie and Daniel on the Nancy B. with Jemimah Moses tellin’ her animal tales, and my crazy brain slips right into it . . .
Hello, Brother Frog. How you been?
The bullfrog brings his big googly eyes to look upon me.
Well, hello, Sister Girl. I been jus’ fine. Whatcha got on yo’ mind?
My mind is to eat you, Brother Bullfrog—legs, belly, croaker, and all, that’s what.
Hmmm . . . I might be havin’ a bit of a problem wi’ dat, Sister Jacky. What makes you tink you can ’complish dat t’ing?
It’s ’cause I’m low and cunning and powerful hungry and I’ll get it done, you’ll see, Brother. You be restin’ in my belly soon.
Y’know, Sister, I recalls that Brother Fox and Brother Bear tried alla time to eat Brother Rabbit but it never happened, no. And Brother Heron and Sister Crane alla time tryin’ to bag my skinny ass, too. Brother Black Snake give it a try or two, as well, but it ain’t happened yet, no Ma’am. Don’t ’spect it’s gonna happen here, neither.
Yeah, but I’m smarter and quicker and a whole lot hungrier den dose brothers and sisters and I’m afraid it is gonna happen to yo’ sweet self.
Ahhhh . . . uuummmm. We see.
Y’know, Brother Bullfrog, I done et up a bunch o’ froggy legs when I was in France, all fried up crispy and crackly, and they was right good, you bet. Yer legs’ll be good, too, even though I ain’t got nothin’ to cook ’em on.
I mourns for my poor French brethren, but this here’s Spanish land, Sister. You’ll find me a whole lot cagier than them other poor frogs. I got some gypsy frog in me.
We’ll see, Brother Bullfrog, we’ll see ’bout dat. You’ll notice I’m creepin’ closer and closer to your delicious self, movin’ smooth through dis water just like any Mississippi bayou gator.
My big googly eyes do see dat, Sister.
You jes’ sit still now, Brother.
Cain’t do that, Sister Girl. Been good talkin’ to you, but I gotta be off on my bidness.
With that, the frog gathers his strength and launches himself into the air above my head, chucklin’ to hisself.
I, however, gather my own strong legs and leap high out of the water and grab his slippery self right behind his big ol’ belly and wrap my hands around his nice, plump legs.
Got you now, Brother!
Oh, Lawsy, I think you does, Sister Girl! I’m one gone bullfrog!
That you is, Brother, that you is. Prepare to meet de Lord!
Just then a bunch of little frogs on the bank set up to peeping—peep peep, peep peep, our Big Daddy’s got hisself caught, peep peep!
Dat’s true, chillun, looks like yer Big Daddy’s goin’ off to heaven. He gon’ croak in dat Heavenly Choir! Hallelujah!
Dat’s right, Frog, says I, hardenin’ my heart and tightenin’ my grip. I hears dey needs a good bass-o pro-fund-o up dere and you be just the ting, I’m t’inkin’.
Yo’ prolly right, Sister Girl, buts now I gots to say goodbye to my fam’ly . . . Ahem! You peepers be good to Big Mama now and help her when Big Daddy done gone off to his reward . . .
We do dat, Big Daddy, but oh, peep peep, we hates to see you go, peep peep!
. . . and you tadpoles swimmin’ ’round Sister Girl’s toes, you grow up big and strong and make yer Big Daddy proud, y’hear?
Hmmm . . . I do notice somethin’ messin’ about my feet, and bubbles, little purple bubbles, rise to the surface by my knees and each one pops with a peep when it bursts.
Peep peep, peep peep, the tads go, peep peep peep, please, Sister Girl, don’t take our daddy, don’t take our daddy . . . peep peep peep.
No, t’ain’t no use, tads. Sister Jacky has hardened her heart. Big Daddy gotta go, chillum. He bein’ called up yonder.
Oh, Big Daddy, please don’t go! Peep peep!
Oh, he’s a-goin’ all right, I says as I lifts him up, open my mouth, and bare the Faber fangs. He’s a-goin’ straight down inta my belly! Oh, yes!
Sister Girl, I gots one last request ’fore I goes off t’ join dat heavenly band.
And dat is, Brother? I say, takin’ his head outta my mouth and lookin’ in his big ol’ eyes.
I wants to give one last big croak so’s Saint Peter be knowin’ I’ll be showin’ up at the Heavenly Gates.
Awright, you do dat, Brother Bullfrog, but make it quick.
The frog huffs and swells up his throat till it looks like a big shiny ball again and then lets it out . . .
BARRRROOOOOM!
. . . right into my face.
Oh, Gawd, Brother, that is so foul! I say, gasping for breath. What the HELL have you been eatin’?
Oh, just the usual, Sister Girl, flies and moths and sluggly bugs. Hey, wait’ll you get to gnawing on my belly—lots o’ surprises in dere.
I fall to my knees in the shallow water and despair of my fate.
Peep peep, peep peep, the tads go, peep peep peep!
I’ll let you go, Brother Bullfrog, on one condition, says I, givin’ the rascal a good squeeze such that his eyes bug out even more.
And dat is, Sister Girl? he wheezes, unable to draw breath.
THAT YOU TELL THEM TO SHUT THE HELL UP AND GET OUTTA MY HEAD!
Peep peep, peep peep . . .
Awright, quiet down now, chillun, says Brother Bullfrog, and the swamp goes silent.
I gently return Big Daddy to his pond and watch him as he kicks slowly back to his log, not hurrying a bit, oh no, as that is plainly not his style. He then climbs back upon it, in the same spot where I first laid eyes on him.
Looks like you won, Brother, I says, still on my knees in the water with my head down. And I’ll prolly be joinin’ the heavenly band ’fore you, as I am feeling mighty weak right now, and I am gettin’ ready to slough off dis mortal coil and go be with the angels.
Now, Sister Jacky, don’t despair o’ dis world jus’ yet, says the Bullfrog, fixing me with his googly eyes and smilin’ all ’cross his face. Y’know, under the flat rock yo see over dere? Yeah, dat big shiny black one . . .
I looks over and sees the one he means.
Now, under dere you just might find some crawdaddies—yep, the very same smartass crawdaddies what have been pinching at Big Daddy’s webbed feet after I told ’em not to, and you know dat ain’t right, no. See you later, Sister Girl, you keep well now, y’hear?
Later, as I trudge along, my mind now clear, I spot some more of those mushrooms and I pick them. I don’t eat any more of ’em, oh no. What I do is spread them out on rocks to dry when I stop for a rest, and it don’t take long for them to shrivel and dry up real small, so’s I can st
ash them in my bag. Specimens for Dr. Sebastian, I tell myself. But who knows?
And, as I push on toward Madrid, I wonder just how much of the last hour was real. I dunno . . . But what I do know is that three nice crawfish tails now rest in my belly, giving me some sustenance, and three well-sucked heads now lie empty on the bank of the river.
Thanks, Big Daddy.
Chapter 12
I enter the city of Madrid on its southeastern side, still following the River Manzanares. The banks of the river change from earth and mud to the stone walls of a canal as it wends its way into the heart of the city. I would find it quite beautiful if I weren’t still so damned hungry.
I eventually come to a large, open plaza that lies along the shore, and I see tall cathedrals in all directions, busy streets with many market stalls lining them. There are charcoal braziers smoking in some of the stalls and very good smells come from them. I am about to fall to my knees, ready to beg for something, anything, to eat. It’s been three days since the crawfish and they are now but a sweet memory.
No. You have come too far in this life. You will not beg. You have no whistle, you have no guitar, you have no paints, no brushes, you have nothing you can sell . . . nada . . . But no, there is one thing that you can sell, and that is your body, and that is what you shall sell . . . and you will do it now.
I duck into an alley and quickly turn back into a girl—black skirt and stockings on, vest in proper place over my white shirt, wig on head, with mantilla over that. Done.
When I had first come to the plaza, I had noticed an artist sitting before an easel, painting a picture of the river and the flowering bushes that grow along the banks. He is pretty good, I notice. He is wearing a white smock and a floppy straw hat to keep the sun from his eyes.
I go up to him.
“Your pardon, Señor,” I say, hands clasped behind me, all demure and respectful.
He looks up at me, suspicion writ plain on his face.
“What do you want, girl? I am busy.”
“My name is Jacquelina. I am a model, and I will pose for you in return for food and lodging.”
He looks me over with what I take to be scorn.
“What you are is a peasant girl run off from some dirty little farm,” he sneers. “But that does not matter to me. No. I only paint God’s green earth.”
“I am sorry to have disturbed you, Maestro,” I say, backing away.
I think calling him “master” softened him up a bit.
“Wait,” he says, as I walk away. He takes his brush and points to a house up a nearby street. “Go there. Go to la Casa del Sordo.”
I follow his point. What is it? A brothel? I am confused.
“I don’t understand, Señor. I don’t know what that means.”
“It is the house of the deaf man. Go to him. His name is Goya. He hires models to pose for him.”
I thank him and head for the doorway of the house he had indicated. Weak with hunger, I manage to get to the door, lift the knocker, and give it two sharp raps. I put my weary forehead against the heavy oak and wait.
Presently the door is opened a crack and the sharp, inquisitive face of a young woman pokes out.
“Qué quiere usted?” it asks.
“I wish to apply for work as an artist’s model. I was told to come here.”
She gives me the once over, then says, “No. You were told wrong. Go away.” The door begins to close.
I’m about to heave a heavy sigh and move on when I hear, “Wait, Carmelita. Qué pasa?”
I stick the Faber foot in the door to prevent its closing.
“I am Jacquelina Bouvier. I am a professional model, looking for work. Will I find some here?”
The door opens and a young man looks out at me. He says nothing, but only looks me over in an appraising way.
“Well, does your master hire models or not?” I persist.
“He does, but—”
“Where is he? I will speak to him.” I frost the young man with the full Lawson Peabody Look from under my black mantilla, which I suspect does not appear very impressive, given my current condition. Still, I push my way into the foyer. It is not in my nature to be rude and forward, but the gnawing hunger in my belly gives me the will to do this.
“He . . . he is in the studio.”
“Good. What is your name, young man?”
“A-Amadeo . . . I am Maestro Goya’s student.”
Even in my present state of near desperation, I see that he is quite the good-looking young lad—short-cut glossy black hair, liquid brown eyes, trim body . . . Hmmm . . . very handsome, indeed. A bit shy, too . . . all to the good.
“Very well, Amadeo. Introduce me to the great man, por favor,” I say, laying my hand on his arm and giving him what I can work up in a sultry stare. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”
Amadeo shrugs and leads me on. The girl, Carmelita, shoots a look of distaste my way, but I ignore it as I follow the student artist down the hall, through some doors, and into a large room illuminated with high windows and filled all around with canvases in various states of completion. There are many of a historical nature, many portraits . . . and some nude studies. Oh, well, everyone knows I am not shy in that regard, and if I were promised something to eat, I would pose starkers on top of a flagpole in the town square.
It turns out I don’t have to do that. Not right now, anyway.
The painter sits at an easel, apparently touching up the background on a medium-size portrait of a young blond girl, about ten years old, very richly dressed, and very well done.
Maestro, indeed.
Goya is a man of late middle years, broad of build, wearing a blousy white shirt. He seems intensely concentrated on his work. He does not turn around at our approach.
“The Maestro cannot hear. He can speak, but you must write out anything you wish to say to him.” Amadeo nods toward several small slates scattered about the studio. There is a large one on an easel, as well. Chalk dangles on a string from that one.
Amadeo motions for me to follow him into the painter’s field of vision. When we enter it, the artist glances up from his work, looking not at all pleased.
“What is this, Amadeo?” he asks in a low, growly voice.
I take my cue and go to the large board and pick up the chalk to write.
“My name is Jacquelina. I am a model. Will you give me work?”
He puts down the brush and looks me over. I have been looked over a lot today, I reflect.
“You have worked as such before?”
I nod, and say, “Sí, Señor.”
“Desnuda?”
“Sí, Señor,” I say, and apply the chalk once again. “For a sculptor, Maestro Simms, of Boston, un ciudad en los Estados Unidos de America.” I do not mention that old Simms was a woodcarver whose main business was in providing ships with figureheads, rather than being a true sculptor. But I did pose for him. And in the altogether, as it were . . . or was.
“You are from there?”
“Sí, Maestro.” I write por favor in big letters with two exclamation points on the board and put on the full woeful-waif look.
He looks doubtful. I know I am not very large in certain of the usual female attributes. Voluptuous is a word seldom associated with the Jacky Faber frame, but I do have an ace in the hole, and I play it.
Reaching up, I pull off both my mantilla and wig, then hold up my face such that the light falls on the planes of my features. The blind Shantyman, Enoch Lightner, once told me I had good bones as he ran his knowing hands over my face that night in my cabin on the Lorelei Lee. I hope he was right.
Goya shows a bit of shock. His eyes play over my hopeful countenance and shorn head. Then he smiles and says, “Yes, you may stay. You shall help around the studio. You’ll sweep up and you will grind paints. And you will pose. Amadeo, take her away and acquaint her with her duties—”
“Oh, gracias, Señor!”
“And get her something to eat. She looks like
she could use it.”
Oh, glory!
Chapter 13
“You eat like a pig,” snorts this Carmelita, gazing down upon me with complete disapproval, her arms crossed on her chest, her eyebrows drawn down into a frown. She is thin, dark, and, as far as I can tell, about my age. She was assigned to see that the new member of Estudio Goya got something to eat, and she plainly did not like being given that task.
We are in the kitchen of Casa Goya, and I have been given a spoon and a bowl of delicious stew. She stands over me as I eat.
Oh God, thank you! It may not be your manna from your heaven, but it’s so awfully good!
I take my nose out of the wonderful bowl of greasy broth swimming with chunks of meat and dumplings long enough to glare at her and say, “I have not eaten anything in three days. You try it sometime, Carmelita. You’ll find it does nothing for your manners.” I stick the nose back in the stew and commence shoveling it into my mouth and down my neck. Oh, this is so good!
“To you, girl, I am Señorita Gomez. You have been hired as a servant and as a model, nothing more. It would be well for you to remember that.”
“Very well, Señorita Gomez, as you will have it.”
I reflect that, once again, Jacky Faber is being told her place in this world—well, so be it. I am reminded of my welcome to the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls by my old enemy, and sometime ally, Clarissa Worthington Howe. She put me in my place, that’s for sure.
“You are merely a model,” continues Señorita Gomez. “You debase yourself by taking off your clothes in front of men.” She draws herself up and looks down her nose at me. The nostrils of that nose, I notice, are dilated and quivering in a high degree of disgust.
But whereas Clarissa had a rod of steel rammed up her backbone, I sense that this one has not. Neither inner strength nor class, and Clarissa had class up the ass, that’s for sure, and sometimes class does tell.
