Viva Jacquelina!

by L. A. Meyer

  “We used to.” Asensio sneers. “But now the Master paints the French invaders. We will go there next week to paint King Joseph of Spain! Napoleon’s brother! How Spanish is that?”

  “Now, Asensio,” warns Señor Manuel Garcia from the head of the table. “We will have none of that, young man! No politics at this table!”

  But Asensio will not leave it be.

  “Pardon, Señor,” he says, his eyes burning. “But must we put up with the insults of the Afrancesados? Is it not enough that French soldiers march on our streets? Abuse our citizens? That—”

  This is too much for another of our number. Carmelita speaks up, “Napoleon brought some good things to Spain! He has abolished many of the old bad ways! He should be thanked for that, at least! No more will people be burned at the stake!”

  “True, Carmelita,” retorts Amadeo. “Now they will merely be tied to that same stake and shot. Same sorry end.”

  “Bastante! You will all stop this talk or you shall be sent from this table, and the Maestro will be informed! Do you hear me?”

  It is plain that Señor Garcia is angry, so the voices at the table subside, as does mine.

  Eat your mush and hush, Jacky, and stop stirring up trouble!

  Chapter 18

  It is a Saturday afternoon and things are quiet at Estudio Goya. There are no classes, but there is some work to do. I have been shown how to stretch and prepare canvases for future paintings, and I work at that through the morning hours. After what proves to be a light lunch, I am left on my own and I coax Paloma—please, Sister, just a little while—into the empty studio, to start on a small watercolor portrait of her. I put her in a pose very much like the one I had just sat for, but just the beginning outline sketch is all I get done, for I perceive she is anxious to be off to enjoy her brief few hours of freedom. It was, after all, payday, and I myself have eight reals warming in my vest pocket.

  I had noticed many small brushes standing about in pots and had asked Amadeo if I might make use of some of them—with the watercolors only, Amadeo, of course, never the oils, oh no . . .

  I manage to get the basic stuff down—shape of her head, slope of shoulders, some background color—then I lay the paper aside to dry, thank her, and wave her off to the town. She is gone in an instant. As would I be, Paloma, were I in another place, in another town.

  After I wash the brushes—an easy thing to do with the watercolors, not so easy with the oils—I wander around the studio and look at the works-in-progress that sit on five of the easels. Goya was so pleased at the drawings the students had done of me that he directed each of them to do a painting of the same pose—except this time, he set up a canvas of his own and had me put on a more elaborate top with my mantilla over my head and draped around my shoulders. They have been at it for the better part of a week and most are almost done.

  As I walk around, I give the paintings my own critique. Cesar’s is coming along, a little weak in the shadows of the face, but then he is young. Carmelita’s is competent, but I find it is rather cold, emotionless—perhaps it helps if one actually likes what one is painting. Asensio’s is excellent, with good vibrant color, but Amadeo’s is the best of all the students’—perfect resemblance with a mischievious glint in the subject’s eye. I get the feeling he liked painting me. When I first assumed the pose in costume, he said, “Olé, Jack-ie! You are now at least half a Maja!”

  He says “half,” I know, because, from the neck up, I am dressed in the style of a Spanish lady, but down below, I am still in Lawson Peabody serving-girl rig. I mean to change that condition, however, as soon as I put some more money together.

  Half a Maja, but all a tramp, I heard Carmelita mutter while the others laughed and I grinned in appreciation of Amadeo’s wit, if not hers.

  I stand now for a good while in front of the Master’s work. It is, of course, the best of all and already completed—perfectly composed, it glows with life. I feel honored, somehow. Wherever I go in this world, whatever happens to me, this will shine on some wall and bring pleasure to those who gaze upon it. And some of them will wonder, Just who was that girl?

  . . . and that girl will have been me.

  Turning from the world of art, I grab a guitar and settle on the couch for a little practice. I do some of the finger- picking rolls Solomon Freeman taught me back on the Mississippi, and I am softly singing “The Bad Girl’s Lament” when Cesar comes in to sit next to me.

  There is a house in New Orleans,

  They call the Rising Sun.

  It’s been the ruin of many a poor girl.

  And me, oh Lord,

  For one.

  “That is very beautiful, Jack-ie,” says Cesar. “Please, play some more.”

  I do. I sing the rest of the verses and end with...

  I’m going back to New Orleans,

  My race is nearly run.

  I’m going back to end my days

  Beneath that Rising Sun.

  “So beautiful, Señorita. So sad sounding. What is it about?”

  “Oh, it’s just a song about a place I used to work in,” I say, idly strumming another chord and leaning back against the couch. “I know lots of songs, but mostly in English. I wish I knew more in Spanish.” I give him a look. “Do you know any you could teach me, Cesar?”

  “Oh, no, Jack-ie. I would love to do that for you, but I have the voice of the toad,” says the lad. “Sometimes my throat squeaks and sometimes it croaks and I have no control over it.”

  I look over and give him a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry, Cesar, it will soon even out and you will have a rich, deep, macho voice that will cause all young female hearts to flutter. I promise.”

  The boy looks doubtful about that but goes on. “However, I do know a man you could listen to, and learn. He knows many songs.”

  “And who is that?” I ask, the Faber eyebrows upraised and very interested.

  “He is an old gypsy man. He sits and plays in a taberna right around the corner. On La Plaza Major. Would you like to go there?”

  “Does a bear poop in the woods, chico? Does a sailor long for the sea? Does Romeo pine for Juliet? Does Jacky long for the warmth of a good, cozy tavern? Of course I want to go!” I exult, leaping to my feet.

  Then I calm myself. “But are we allowed?”

  “Sí. We are not prisoners here. We have only to tell Señor Garcia where we are going.”

  “Hoo-ray!” I crow. “Then let us be gone! Come, my gay caballero, you shall be my gallant escort!”

  “Sí, Señorita,” says Cesar, rising and extending his hand. “However, I do not understand the thing with the bear.”

  “Never mind, mi estimado. Let us be off to the merry dance!”

  “It is not a fancy place, Jack-ie, I am sorry,” says Cesar as we approach the door of the establishment. A sign above the entrance proclaims La Taberna de Dos Gatos. Hmmm... sounds familiar.

  “Do not worry, mi querido,” I say, patting his arm, which is entwined with mine. “If I am with you, to me it will be the veritable Palace of Versailles.”

  His chest puffs out a bit at that. I know he enjoys walking along this grand street with me on his arm. Although he is barely fourteen and I am seventeen, we are about the same height and so we do not stand out in the crowds that throng the grand plaza.

  Before we left, he had dashed upstairs, then reappeared dressed grandly in brocaded jacket, frilly white shirt, and tight black pants that had silver conchos running up the leg. I, dressed still in my Lawson Peabody serving-girl best with mantilla on top, dipped down in a fine, full curtsy upon seeing him in his finery. He blushed with pleasure and managed a nice bow in return.

  I did notice with some concern, however, that he had a sword swinging by his side. Hmmm... The aforementioned Romeo was also only fourteen when he, too, armed in the same way, ventured out into the life of a city, and we all know what we got then, don’t we—a whole pile of dead kids is what, Juliet included. But, still, it is only a late Saturday a
fternoon and what could happen? Besides, men will be men, boys will be boys, and Majos will be Majos, so what can I say? I’m just a stupid girl who doesn’t usually rely on swords.

  “It is a place where only the common people go. I go there because it is cheap and Amadeo and Asensio will not take me with them to the Café Central.”

  “Oh, and where is that?”

  “Across the plaza. Over there.”

  I follow his gaze and see a crowd of people outside of what has to be a very popular place. Although it is over a hundred yards away, I can still hear the laughter and song and general hilarity that comes from the place. I also note that there are many French soldiers in full uniform scattered about.

  “Never mind, Señor Cesar Rivera. Let them have their fun. I am sure this place will suit me just fine. Let’s go in.”

  We duck in and my senses are assailed with the smell of hundreds of years of spilled wine, whiskey, and ale... and the oh-so-good smells of simple cooking. Yep, just my kind of place.

  Cesar raises a hand, and a young girl comes over to take our order.

  “So, Cesar,” she says, looking me over briskly, “what will you have?”

  I’m looking about for the reputed musician and say, offhand, “Some wine for me, por favor.”

  “Uh, Jack-ie,” says Cesar, pointing to the rows of huge casks lined up along one wall. “This is Spain. We have many wines.”

  “Uh, red and dry,” I say. I go to dig in my pocket to pay, but think better of it. It would un-man him, and we cannot have that, no, we cannot.

  “Vino rojo seco para la señorita, y grappa para mi.”

  The girl walks off, swinging her hips, to get the drinks. Somehow I get the feeling that Cesar’s reputation as a ladies’ man has just gone way up in this establishment. Good for him. Glad I could help.

  Ha. There he is. An old man, stooped and halting in his walk, has made his careful way to a chair in the corner. A guitar leans against the wall and he picks it up, puts his fingers to the strings, and begins to strum.

  He starts out slowly, humming softly over the melody, then he brings up the tempo. There are not many people here—just several old couples and one table of some younger ones. It is not a big room, but the man knows how to work it, I can see that.

  He has an open guitar case in front of him, and there are only a few centavos in it. He goes into his next song. It is “Malagueña Salerosa,” which I already know, but he does an excellent job on it, especially with the guitar, and I count that as a good sign.

  I dig out a real and say, “Please, Cesar, let me pay for the next round. I need the change.”

  He nods and signals for our glasses to be refilled. The girl returns, our wine is brought, and my real is broken down into smaller bits of coin. She also brings us plates of tapas, small snacks from trays laid upon the bar. Like all “free lunches” I have partaken of around the world, they are very good—marinated olives, baby octopus, smoked sardines, jerked beef—and very salty... The more to make you thirsty, the more to make you drink, for that is where the money is in a tavern. There is no such thing as a free lunch, wisdom well-learned from Mr. Yancy Beauregard Cantrell, back on the Belle of the Golden West, where we laid out many a salty tapa and served many a quenching drink.

  After the next song, I creep over and toss some centavos into the case and catch the eye of the musician.

  He assesses me, then says, “Your request, Señorita?”

  “Sing your favorite song, Maestro,” I say. “For me.”

  He nods and I retreat to our table. He tunes a string, strums a chord, and then begins:

  Los bilbilicos cantan

  Con sospiros de amor

  Mi neshama, mi ventura

  Estan en tu poder

  It is one of the loveliest songs I have ever heard. I must get next to this man. I have enough Spanish to know that the words mean:

  The nightingales sing

  With sighs of love

  My soul, my happiness

  Is in your power

  “Cesar. Come, let us go to a closer table,” I say, already up and moving over next to the man who had sung that beautiful song.

  He runs the backs of his fingers over the strings and is about to start singing again as I kneel down beside him.

  “That was beautiful, Señor,” I say, breathless. “Please permit me to speak.”

  He nods, continuing to strum as I go on.

  “I am but a poor American, but I very much want to learn the Spanish songs. I have some skill with the guitarra. I want you to teach me that one and any more you know. I will pay.”

  With that, I pull out another coin and put it in his case.

  He smiles down at me. “I am willing to do that, child,” he says. “But that was not a Spanish song. It was written by the Sephardim before they were thrown out of Spain. That was a pity, for they were good at songs.” He looks off. “They threw out the Arabs, also, and they were good at many things, too. The Spanish are good at throwing out things.”

  “And you, Señor?” I ask. “I heard you were a gypsy man. Did they throw you out, too?”

  He throws back his great head of gray hair and laughs. “They tried to throw us out, too, but it didn’t work. It never does. We are too tough, too clever. And yes, young one, I will teach you gypsy guitar. Name the times and we will do it.”

  Later, Cesar and I emerge from La Taberna de Dos Gatos and blink in the setting sun.

  “It’s best we get back in time for supper, Miss,” says Cesar. “Señor Garcia might be mad.”

  “Aye, chico, let us go,” I say, giving him a hug. “It was a most fine day, and I thank you for it!”

  “I believe I see Amadeo and Asensio coming across the plaza,” observes the lad, looking over the vast space.

  I shade my eyes and see that it is, indeed, the two. Ha! You may be high and mighty Majos, but you are still poor art students and not anxious to pass up a free supper, are you? And won’t you find it charming that young Cesar has a fine escort today, has beaten your time, as it were, won’t you—

  No, they won’t. Not now, anyway.

  For now Cesar and I find four French soldiers, fully armed and plainly quite drunk, standing in front of us, barring our way.

  “Pretty little thing you have there with you, boy,” one says in French. “I think she is much too pretty for you, little man. What do you think, Gaston?”

  “Much too pretty.” Gaston burps, unsteady on his pins.

  “I think she should come with us, boy. There is a nice cozy alley over there. What do you say, hmmm? Here’s a nice coin for her.” He flips a copper coin onto the street, where it tinkles before it slips into a crack between the cobblestones.

  Cesar does not understand much of this, but he takes its meaning, oh yes, he does. He steps back and pulls out his sword and snarls, “Back, French pigs! Back! She is not for you! Back, I say!”

  “Whoa! The boy has a pig-sticker!” The biggest brute laughs. “Let’s see how he can handle it!”

  Cesar holds his sword up before him, but I can see it’s not going to serve. I look over and see that Amadeo and Asensio are still too far away to help.

  “Away with you,” says Cesar. “Go! I will—”

  But he will do nothing. He thrusts at the nearest soldier and the man steps aside, laughing, while Gaston lays the butt of his musket to the side of Cesar’s head. The boy falls to the ground, senseless, and says not another word.

  Oh, Cesar, no!

  The head brute reaches out to grab my hand, but he does not get it. Instead, that hand reaches down to grab the hilt of Cesar’s fallen sword and hold it up in front of the soldier.

  “En garde, cochon,” I snarl, putting the point of the blade on a line between our eyes and assuming Position Four.

  He looks startled for a moment and then he laughs. “Un femme? Ha! Take this, girl!”

  He makes a clumsy thrust. I parry it and slip into Sixth Position. I retreat and then advance forward in Four, with
my eye on his chest. He tries another thrust, and I engage in an envelopment parry, which puts his sword helplessly to the side and our faces close together.

  “Un femme?” I spit. “Oui. La Belle Jeune Fille Sans Merci, s’il vous plait.”

  I come out of the parry and put the point of Cesar’s sword to the man’s throat.

  He looks suddenly doubtful.

  Amadeo and Asensio have come upon us, both with swords drawn and looking ferociously enraged.

  “Do you wish to die, soldier?” I ask of the brute. “Or would you like to go back to your barracks and fight another day? Eh? What would you like, soldat?”

  The French soldier looks about, weighing his odds, and decides it’s not worth it.

  He spits out some curses, thrusts his sword back in its sheath, and then calls his men off. They disappear into the darkening evening.

  I let out a shaky breath.

  “Pick him up,” I say to Amadeo and Asensio. “Let us go back to the studio. We will tell Cesar that he defended me to the end, which is what he did. Got that? Good. Let’s go.”

  Soon we see the façade of Estudio Goya, and it looks very good to me.

  Chapter 19

  It is Sunday and we are all going to Mass at La Basilica de San Francisco el Grande—all of us except for Cesar, who is ordered to his bed to recover from his clubbing.

  “My bold, bold protector, Cesar Rivera,” I gush as I apply the cool, damp cloth to his forehead. “My gallant Spanish knight who stood up to armed French soldiers in defense of my sacred honor!” He has quite a bump there, but he will recover. He looks up at me with big brown eyes.

  “I... I don’t remember much, Senorita, I—”