by L. A. Meyer
“But I do, young Galahad! Oh, how you parried their thrusts with the mighty swings of your singing sword till that coward caught you with a low blow from behind! May he rot in hell for his perfidy!”
“But—”
“And seeing the bold hero laid low, the scum took fright and ran off. Amadeo and Asensio came upon the scene and carried you back here, on your very shield, as it were.” I lean forward and place a kiss upon his brow. “And that is how it happened.”
“I... I think I love you, Jack-ie,” he says, reaching up to grasp my hand.
“Of course you do, Cesar.” I laugh, giving his hand a squeeze. “I have found that pretty young boys find it very easy to love me. But I am also very easy to forget, so put me out of your mind, as I am not worth it. Ah, here’s Amadeo, and I must be off to Mass. You rest up, you.”
With that, I rise, place another kiss on his forehead, and follow Amadeo out the door.
The Basilica de San Francisco el Grande is unlike other magnificent churches I have been in. It’s much larger than either Notre Dame, in Paris, or St. Paul’s, in London. It is built lower to the ground, more like a fortress, and its dome is much larger. Three chapels at the sides make it even more impressive. Regardless of its size, the interior is comforting with its soft light and illuminated windows. There are large paintings on the walls, generally depicting rather gloomy things—crucifixions, floggings, flayings—but I suppose that suits the Spanish character.
I have decided to pass for Catholic—don’t want to give that Carmelita any more arrows for her anti-Jacky bow. And being seen as a Protestant heretic in Catholic Spain is probably not the most healthy of conditions.
I have been to church often enough with Annie and Betsey back in Boston, and with Jean-Paul de Valdon in Paris, to know the basic moves—kneel now, stand now, up-and-down, up-and-down, sing now, pray now—and with my mantilla draped in front of my face, my mumbling lips are obscured from inquiring eyes, like those of Carmelita, for she is certainly intent on watching me.
At any rate, there was no roar of heavenly outrage as I knelt to take the Host on my tongue, nor as I took a sip of the sacramental wine. No, I went back to the pew, head bowed in prayer, hands clasped before me, a beatific expression on my face, having just been washed in the Blood of the Lamb, as it were. After all, we take Communion in Church of England services, too, so I imagine everything was all right, liturgically speaking.
Before we leave the Basilica, Amadeo says to me, “Come, Jacquelina, and I will show you something.” Mystified, I follow him into a small chapel off to the side. There are paintings on the walls, but we pass them by as he leads me to stand before a particularly fine one.
“It is a painting of Saint Bernardino de Siena done by our Master, twenty years ago. Do you notice anything?”
I look up at it. It portrays the saint standing on a rock, bathed in golden light, preaching to the multitudes that are gathered about him.
“Well, it is beautifully done, of course,” I say, peering closely. “And there must be a hundred people there. But what... ?”
“See the man to the right?” answers Amadeo, pointing at one of the figures. “That is the Master’s portrait of himself.”
And so it is. It is a younger Goya, but it is he, all right. While all the others in the painting gaze up at the saint in adoration—and there is a crowned king among them—the Master does not. He stares straight out at the viewer as if to say, Yes, this is a holy saint and there is a crowned king kneeling at his blessed feet, but I am Maestro Francisco José de Goya, by God, and I painted this!
There is a certain amount of cheek in that, I’m thinking, as we walk out of the chapel.
We emerge, blinking, back into the light of a brilliant day, and Amadeo offers me his arm and I take it, with some surprise. Asensio offers his to Carmelita, and she accepts it, but I can feel her eyes burning into my back.
As we wind our way through the narrow streets on our return to the studio, I prattle gaily on, pointing out this, inquiring about that, laughing and leaning into Amadeo as I do it, just being, in general, insufferably cute. I know, sometimes I should be more careful, but it does not seem to be in my nature.
This night, after we have seen to Cesar being bandaged and tucked in, we go down to dinner and discover that the Maestro will be taking his evening meal with us. He usually eats with his ailing wife, but I have heard that sometimes he breaks bread with us. This is the first time I will be in attendance for one of his visits and I am looking forward to his company.
We all stand at our places and await his arrival. Señor Garcia has taken Carmelita’s place at the foot of the table, leaving the spot at the head open. Carmelita stands next to me, seething, I’m thinking, with resentment. The tale of last night’s escapade has already been related at great length, and much to my advantage.
I blush and protest that the French were simple soliders and not used to fighting with swords.
“But you are, Jack-ie?” says Amadeo with a smile.
“Well, I admit I have had a sword in my clumsy hand before, once or twice, but it was merely for play and I have no real skill at it,” I reply modestly. “If you and Asensio had not come up, I would have been in real trouble.”
“It seems to us that you were holding your own,” says Asensio, giving me a look. “And you seem to speak French quite well, too.” He has a slate in hand and is assiduously writing upon it as Maestro Goya enters the room, dressed a little better than usual. When he is working, he is not a neat man. He nods a greeting to all of us and then sits. We follow suit, the grace is said, and we all fall to.
“So what were you all talking about when I came in?” he asks. “High art, no doubt? Poetry? Literature?”
“I am afraid not, Maestro,” says Asensio. He sits next to Goya and holds the tablet up for him to read. Asensio has been with the Master the longest and has worked out a kind of shorthand to quickly communicate with him. With that, and some simple gestures, the story of last night’s fracas is told.
Goya, munching on a carrot, reads and then glances at me. I blush and look down, all demure.
“So, young perros. You were all out looking for trouble and you found it, no?” he says, looking around the table. He is plainly not amused. Carmelita puts on a righteous look and shakes her head—No, not me, Maestro—but the rest of us look slightly abashed.
“Well, listen to this,” he says, pointing his fork at each of us miscreants. “I go to the palace in two weeks to paint the portrait of King Joseph...”
There is a sharp intake of breath around the table.
“... and I cannot have any trouble with that. Do you understand me? Good.”
We all listen with bated breath. After a few more bites, he goes on.
“Yes, I know that our royal family has been sent off by Napoleon and that his brother King Joseph has been set on the Spanish throne. You know it, too, and it wounds me as much as it wounds you. But we need the money, the patronage, if our studio is to survive. Entiende? You will not provoke the French soldiers anymore. If you do, I will send you back home to your families. Do you take my meaning?”
We... gulp... do.
“Good.”
Goya returns to his dinner, as do we all. Now that we have been chastised, Carmelita looks smug and satisfied.
The dinner is lamb chops with mint jelly and roasted potatoes. It is very good, and I give Ramona a wink of appreciation. After a bit, Goya takes a rib from his mouth and points it at me and says, “Explain.”
I remove from my own mouth the succulent rib upon which I have been avidly sucking and look to Asensio. He cocks an eyebrow at me and takes chalk in hand and waits.
I tap napkin to lips and say, “Maestro, I have some small skill with the guitarra. I told Cesar that I wished to learn more Spanish songs and he said that he knew of a gypsy singer, named Django, who played in a nearby bodega. We went there and listened and, yes, the man was very good at the guitar and the songs, and Señor Django agr
eed to give me lessons. When we left there, the trouble arose. It was no fault of ours. Certainly not Cesar’s. He is a good boy and a credit to your studio.”
Asensio taps away with his chalk, no doubt distilling my many words down to a few. Goya glances over and says, “You speak the French language? Just what have we welcomed into our midst?”
Before Carmelita can offer her opinion on that, I say, “I learned in America, Maestro. At school. It was required.”
More scribbling by Asensio.
“Umm,” says Goya, considering. “You, Jack-ie, may continue to take the guitar lessons. Amadeo, Asensio, you will be careful. And watch out for Cesar—you have been lax in that regard. Any more trouble and you will all be confined to the house. Understood? Good.”
The Maestro rises from his chair and is gone.
Looks are exchanged around the table, mostly directed at me.
What? What’d I do?
But never mind. The dinner is cleared, the dishes cleaned, and I go back to working on Paloma’s portrait.
“All right, Paloma, we are almost done... Just a few more highlights on your lovely hair... there.”
Paloma, meaning “dove” in Spanish, is so suited to her gentle nature. She smiles and dimples up, and I expect her to actually coo in appreciation when the painting is finished.
When the job is done to my satisfaction, I show it to her and she says, “Oh, Jack-ie, that is so beautiful! Oh, if I could—”
“Of course you shall have it, Paloma,” I say, blowing on the last application of watercolor. “And when you are old and gray, you will show it to your grandchildren and they will look at it in wonder and say, ‘Grandmother, you were so beautiful.’”
She blushes and shakes her head at the notion, and I say, “I will give it to you tomorrow, after it dries and I can find a suitable glass and frame around here. Now, off with you, Paloma. There are still a few more hours in the day, and did I not see you with a likely lad at La Taberna de Dos Gatos last night? I think I did.”
I give her a wink, and she gives a bit of a giggle and is off.
Ah, boys and girls together, it is what makes the world go round.
As the door closes behind her, I regard the portrait.
Not too bad, I’m thinking. This plan might go well. But we shall see...
I turn the thick paper over, blow upon it, and when it is dry enough, I take a piece of charcoal from an easel tray and begin a quick sketch on the back.
I draw a jolly little pig, and he is dancing a merry jig and has a pennywhistle to his lips. Yes, he is the very image of the piglet on the Pig and Whistle sign that hangs outside that beloved tavern back in Boston.
When I am done with him, I slide the whole thing up on a shelf where no one will find it until it is time for me to bring it out.
That done, I head upstairs to prepare for bed.
Dear Jaimy,
I hope you are well and I pray your condition is improving.
I, myself, am not in a bad place, for a change—I am learning many new things and I have made some new friends, and, yes, it must be said, one enemy, too, but isn’t that the way it always goes? Them’s that likes me, really likes me, and them’s that don’t . . . well, they really, really don’t. Strange, ain’t it?
I am in nightshirt and snugged down under the covers and wishing you were in here with me, oh, yes, I do.
Ah, well, maybe someday, Jaimy. But I dunno . . . things do seem to work against us somehow.
Be well.
Yours forever,
Jacky
Chapter 20
We are in the studio.
There is a new model, a young boy, probably fourteen, I guess from the amount of fur on his slim body. He is not at all shy about being up there like that, so he must have done it many times before. He probably figures it’s better than some nasty outside work, and it is my opinion that he’s undoubtedly right.
Under Goya’s direction, the boy is posed contrapposto, weight on one leg, opposite shoulder higher than the other. He holds a panpipe to his lips, so this will plainly be a fanciful work—a satyr gamboling about some mythical sylvan landscape. There are strings on straps wrapped around his wrists that run up to pulleys on the ceiling to help him hold the pose, else his poor arms would soon falter and droop.
Preliminary drawings are started, and I continue at my work, which is grinding more paint. The Maestro obviously has something major planned for two large canvases, about three feet by six feet, that have been stretched and primed— well I know because I was the one to prepare them.
Amadeo had to help me with the long, six-foot stretches—he pulled while I tacked—and as we did it, he locked eyes with me and asked, “Asensio and I are going to El Café Central tomorrow night. Will you come with us?”
“With ‘us’?”
“With me.”
“Why do you not ask Carmelita?”
“Because she will not go. She says a lady would not go to such a place. Besides, I want to go with you, not her.”
“I am glad she cannot hear this, Amadeo. She hates me enough already.”
“Forget her. What is your answer?”
“Very well. I will go... but only if Cesar can go with us.”
“Sí. He can come. He has proved himself.”
“Bueno. I look forward to it.”
Four more canvases have also been made up, in half-size, eighteen by thirty-six inches. I suspect those are for the students, and it later turns out I am right in thinking that.
The break is over and work resumes, and as I grind away at the paints, I muse upon my condition at Estudio Goya. Having been here for about three weeks now, I have received pay on three occasions and have been out on the town, buying some small things—castanets; a better skirt, embroidered with colorful thread about the waist and hem; a frilly black shirt, also decorated. Cesar, who has fully recovered and accompanies me on these outings, pronounces me to now be a true Maja, and I am pleased by his praise.
I have also bought, for a few centavos, a flageolet, a fipple flute very similar to my dear old pennywhistle. I never want to be without somesuch again stuck up my sleeve, like I was on that rough trek from the border to Madrid, for I can always warble away on any foreign street corner and generally collect enough tossed coins to appease the insistent Faber belly.
After that purchase, I played a quick medly of jigs for Cesar when we got back on the street and he proclaimed himself amazed at my ability. But then, he is an easy audience, because it seems that anything I do is all right with him. Still, I like to hear it.
Sometimes there are gypsy dancers at La Taberna des Dos Gatos. Actually, the place turns out to be quite the gypsy hangout, I find. “El flamenco,” Django calls it. “Both the music and the dance, little one.” I have been studying the dancers’ moves, which is why I bought the castanets. Yes, some fans, too. They do a lot with those fans.
I have been enjoying my lessons with Django, and he pronounces himself pleased with my progress in the flamenco. Using thumb and first two fingers to up-pick, the rhythm goes like this: DUM dum dum, DUM dum dum, DUM dum dum, all the while changing chords with the left hand, mostly in minor keys, and then followed by mighty and most dramatic downward strums of the nails across all of the strings. It is most exciting and goes perfectly with the movements of the dancers. I go every chance I get to take more lessons, and Django is always there for me.
The announcement “Break!” brings me back to the present. The boy model unstraps his wrists and stretches his arms. The students also step back from their work to limber up and move about. Goya goes over to a sideboard upon which stands a flagon of red wine and pours himself a glass. He waves his hand, inviting his students to join him in refreshment. They do, with murmurs of thanks.
The Maestro has been rather kind to me of late, reaching out his hand sometimes and ruffling my hair and calling me “little mouse” and other terms of mild affection. He motions for me to take a glass, too, and I do it, coming u
p close to his side. I decide to make my move.
I had stuck my small painting of Paloma into my open vest, and after I pour my own wine, I pull it out to show it to him.
Ah, but I do not show him the painted side, no I do not. Instead I dangle the charcoal drawing of the little pig before his eyes. To the right of the drawing I had written the words, Es la verdad? I put on a questioning look and wait.
Carmelita sucks in her breath, shocked at my temerity, but Goya merely takes the paper and looks at it.
“Is it true, you are asking, little rabbit? The tale of the pig drawn on the wall?” he says, smiling. “Well, it makes for a good story, no? So we shall let it stand, whether it is true or not. Suffice it to say, I came from humble beginnings and I am not ashamed of that. Nice cartoon, though, chica.”
He goes to hand it back to me, but I fumble in reaching for it such that it lands on the sideboard with the portrait face-up.
“Hmmm. That is our Paloma, is it not?”
I nod, then look down, all modest and shy.
He cocks his head, still looking at the painting. “That is not at all bad. I could show you some things,” he says, plainly musing.
He looks over at the grinding table. “You have done enough of that for now. Set yourself up an easel.”
I knock back the rest of my wine and joyously go get drawing board, paper, and easel.
“Pose, please,” says Goya, and the boy gets back in position.
“Now, guapa, you must first get the gesture,” instructs the Master, putting his charcoal to the paper. “You see how the line of the shoulders is a slope like this, and opposing it is the set of the hips. Now...”
I may be a mere model and chambermaid . . . but now I am also a student of Maestro Francisco José de Goya!
