Viva Jacquelina!

by L. A. Meyer

I see a dressing screen and head for it, saying, “In the States we call it ‘blackmail,’ chico. You shall see.”

  I duck behind the screen and begin shedding clothes. When I am down to my skin, I pull on the pants—oh, yes, good and tight, just the way I like it—and button the high waist over my frilly white shirt. Then the short jacket—nice fit around the shoulders, yes, the woman has a good eye for sure—pumps on feet and hat on head, and I step out.

  “Ta da! Viva el matador!”

  Cesar’s jaw drops, as does the jaw of the shopkeeper.

  “Madre de Dios!” she whispers, shocked.

  “Madre de Dios!” echoes Cesar.

  “Cuanto para todos?” I ask, prancing around, preening.

  It turns out, the price is right and Cesar carries my bundle for me as we head back to Estudio Goya. I even have some money left, and so I push Cesar into La Taberna de Dos Gatos for a treat.

  I signal for wine and tapas, nod at Django, who sits playing quietly off to the side, and settle in.

  When the barmaid brings the food and drink, I order a glass for Django as well, and he nods in appreciation and begins playing “Los Bilbilicos,” which he knows is my favorite.

  “So what is this ‘blackmail’ of which you speak, my heart of hearts?” asks Cesar, not to be denied an explanation.

  I pop a nicely marinated baby octopus in my mouth, chew, and drop it down the throat before replying.

  “You see, pepito, it is like this. When you know something about a person, something that person does not want to be generally known, you send him a letter saying that you will expose him if he does not do as you say. Hence, the ‘blackmail.’ It usually is a demand for money, or position, or some desired action. Like ‘You’d better leave my daughter alone or I will tell the world that you absconded with the church funds and have been copulating with goats!’”

  “That is terrible and awful, but what does that have to do with us, mi querida?”

  “Simply this, my heart. If you and Amadeo and Asensio run with the bulls, then so will I, and I cannot run in a dress. Simple, eh? Why should you boys have all the fun?”

  “But you cannot,” he protests. “You are a woman! It is not allowed!”

  “We will see what is not allowed, my sweet little puppy,” I retort, placing my finger on his nose. “But that is the deal nonetheless: You run, I run. Sin duda!”

  “Jacquelina, it is...”

  Suddenly a shadow falls over us as a man, a large man, comes up beside us and pulls out a chair.

  Startled, I look up, and Cesar reaches for his sword and goes to rise. The man puts his meaty paw on Cesar’s head and pushes him back down.

  “Calm yourself, little man,” growls the intruder. “My business is not with you.”

  “Montoya!” I exclaim, recognizing the solid and very dusty guerrilla.

  “Sí, Señorita,” he says, smiling through his thick mustache. “It is, indeed, I.”

  “About time, Señor,” I say, miffed. “Where the hell have you been? You were supposed to deliver my poor self to Madrid and you disappeared when there was only a little bit of trouble, leaving me on my own. Some macho strongman... Ha! I have known better men among urchins on the streets of London!”

  Montoya smiles and picks up one of my octopuses and places it in his mouth, his big teeth grinding on both the tapa and my insulting words.

  “I was recovering from a bullet in my side, mi guapa,” he says, his eyes on mine. “My men dragged me away. I could do nothing for you then.”

  “And what will you do for me now, Pablo? You see I managed to get here without your help.”

  “I know you are a muchacha of great resolve. A fine piece of female flesh, but also tough as a strip of leather,” he says, and then hooks a thumb at the astounded Cesar. “Who is he?”

  “He is a fine Madrileño. A brave boy, and a true son of Spain. Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of him.”

  “Hmmm,” says Montoya, regarding Cesar with some doubt. “Very well, do you have anything to report to our superiors?”

  “Only that I have gained entrance to the palace and have been in the presence of King Joseph and heard many things said by his ministers and generals that might be of interest to our... superiors.”

  His bushy eyebrows go up.

  “The very palace? You do have your ways, chica.”

  “I have been told that before.”

  “Bueno,” he says, rising. “Write out what you have discovered and I will get it to our people. I will meet you here tomorrow at five—”

  “At seven, hombre.”

  “Seven, then. If we fail to meet, you can find me at 435 Calle de Ocho, Room 21. It is right around the corner.”

  “I will do that, Montoya. Tomorrow then. Adiós.”

  “Adiós, compadres,” he says, smiling on the both of us. “Viva España.”

  He straightens and strides to the door. On his way out, he puts his hand to his brow and says, “Hola, Django. It is good to see you again.”

  I wonder about that as I settle back and begin to explain things to a very bewildered Cesar.

  I put my hand on his...

  Cesar, it is like this . . . I am not altogether what I seem to be . . .

  Chapter 27

  Since we have a bit of a breathing spell from the palace—after all, even kings and princes cannot make paint dry any faster than it will—we return to our own pursuits.

  In the studio, the chatter is all about the running of the bulls and the law that I have laid down concerning all that macho silliness.

  I am sure that Carmelita would want to say something in regard to that, but since our confrontation in the hall, she has not said a single word to me. I wonder what she is about? Is she cowed, or is she up to something? One thing I do know—I must be careful.

  As I go about setting up the palettes, I notice that there are only four taborets set out and one of the big canvases is up on a large sturdy easel. There is a green couch resting on the model platform. It has one high end—a bolster, like—and has several big pillows and sheets strewn across it. On the bed sits some folded clothing, as well.

  Hmmm . . .

  I look to Amadeo and raise my eyebrows in question.

  “You will pose today, Jack-ie,” he says, blushing slightly. “Maestro wants you to put on those clothes there and then lie upon the couch.” He gives out a bit of a dry cough. “With the wig on, por favor.”

  I nod and go to do it.

  I have noticed that, since our torrid little dance at Café Central, Amadeo’s glances at me have grown ever more warm. Hmmm . . .

  I take the clothing and duck behind the screen. I look at what I am to wear: a loose, somewhat transparent white gown with a low-cut bodice, a red satin sash to wrap around my middle, and a top that is gold brocade with filmy gold sleeves and black net cuffs. I sigh, drop my regular serving-girl garb—all of it—and put on the outfit. With all this Maja finery upon the Faber body and golden slippers on the Faber feet, Jacky Faber, model, steps out just as Maestro steps in.

  “Good, Jacquelina,” he says upon seeing me properly decked out. “Please lie on the couch with your feet to this end.”

  I go, place my silk-clad bottom on a cushion, swing my legs up and over, and then rest my back against the bolster. I look to Goya for further instructions.

  “Yes, now slide a little farther that way... That’s it. Tuck the dress between your legs. Good.”

  Well, even though I’d rather be painting, the pose is easy.

  “Now raise your arms above your head.”

  Uh-oh . . . not quite so easy. Oh, well . . .

  “Bueno,” says Goya, going to his canvas and picking up a stump of charcoal. “Look directly at me. That’s it. Let us begin.”

  As they scratch away, I pass the time thinking about the events of the past two days.

  The first night after my surprise meeting with Montoya, I found some discarded paper and, by candlelight, wrote down everyth
ing I could remember from the overheard conversations at the palace, anything that possibly could be of value to Wellesley, or whoever else is in charge of British forces in Portugal and Spain. When given a task, I tend to do my duty, if I perceive the cause to be worthy, and, I suspect, the liberation of Spain is a worthy goal. I wonder if Amy Trevelyne would agree? And what would she think of my harem outfit? Ha! I have to suppress a smile.

  My nose begins to itch, as it always does when I am not allowed to scratch it. I wiggle it around a bit, but that doesn’t help. Put your mind on something else, girl, for you will be holding this pose for a long, long time.

  Yesterday, after I had passed the papers to Montoya and he had left the Dos Gatos, I spent some time with Django. We shared some wine and he showed me some more moves on the guitar. We talked, and he told me more stories of the Roma, the traveling people we call gypsies—tales of the great caravans, the beautiful women, the wild singing and dancing around blazing campfires in new and strange lands, always new places, always the winding road stretching out ahead of the brightly colored wagons. He laughed when he described it all, and I listened wide-eyed and rapt. The life of the Roma appealed to the wild side of my nature, that’s for sure.

  But how came you to be here, Papa? Why did you leave the road and all its charms?

  Ah, chica, it was the stiffening of the bones. After I could not keep up, I had to leave . . .

  I had observed Django trying to walk upright and straight, without limping, and failing at it. Poor man, I thought, for I knew, from my time with Dr. Sebastian, that it was creeping arthritis and there was nothing to be done about it, except suffer its presence. Well I remember Jemimah Moses, my cook back when I ran the Nancy B. down to the Caribbean, how she would grind her fist into the small of her back and groan, “Oh, my Lord, when Uncle Arthur comes to visit, he don’t never go home.”

  But I was fortunate, Jacquelina, in that it only affected my legs and not my hands, so I am able to play the guitarra and sing and make my way for whatever time I have left in this world.

  He put his fingers on the strings and played a piece I had not heard him do before.

  I have never heard anyone play as beautifully as you, Django, with as much . . . feeling . . . so much soul.

  He put up his guitar and looked upon me, fondly, I believe. He chuckled and reached into his vest pocket.

  You are a good girl, little one. Here, take this.

  He handed me a smooth chip of wood, about two inches square. On one side is carved a symbol, something that looks like a J contained in a circle. Into the carved grooves is rubbed a yellow pigment, and it is all smoothly glossed with oil.

  What is it, Maestro?

  He took a sip of wine and said...

  Keep that with you always, Jacquelina. If you are in trouble sometime and the Roma are nearby, show that to them. It was my sign when I was chief of a great caravan, before I was brought low. They will recognize it. Trust me.

  I will, Jefe, and thank you.

  I stood and placed a kiss on his forehead and left to go back to the studio. I was walking along, somewhat subdued, thinking on what Django had said, when I was startled to see Carmelita come striding along on the other side of our street. I ducked back around a corner to watch.

  Hmmm . . . Carmelita almost never goes out—except to Mass with the rest of us. She looked a bit furtive as she swept by and entered the studio, and I leaned back against a wall and wondered...

  Where did she go? She had no packages under her arm, so she did not go shopping . . . and why did she not take one of the lads with her? Most girls in Spain don’t go out without escorts, not girls of Carmelita’s class, anyway. Where was she coming from?

  I looked down the street and saw, way down at the end of it, across the plaza, the Basilica de San Francisco el Grande.

  Could she have gone there? To pray, to offer Confession, to say the Act of Contrition for being such a miserable... Nay, much more likely she was praying for the salvation of her precious soul and the damnation of mine.

  “Break.”

  I stand and stretch, and rub my traitorous nose with the palm of my hand, and then walk about to ease my poor joints and to check out the progress on the paintings.

  The students are using velos—open frames of wood on which are stretched black cords to make a grid. The velos, which are proportional to the canvases on which they are working, are set up on separate easels a few feet from each student. They have made use of T-squares to pencil in similar squares on their canvases, and so are able to transfer the reality—me lying there in all my supposed glory—to the two-dimensional surface of the canvas. Like, in the top right square is part of my face and so they put that part in, and then the next square, and so on and so on. I have been told velos have been in use since the Dark Ages, and I find them fascinating. When I set up my own studio, I shall employ them. Anything to make life, and work, easier is all right with me.

  Goya, of course, does not use the velo but charges right on in. He is, after all, the Master.

  I pause at Cesar’s and he looks up and I give him a bit of a wink. The other day, after our first encounter with Montoya, I had to tell the lad that I was a freedom fighter, giving my all for the liberation of España, which was not quite true, but he ate it up and has been filled with patriotic zeal ever since. You and I, mi apasionada, we shall fight together in the cause of libertad! I swear him to secrecy and he promises to button his lip. I thought to tell him of my credo, “Oftimes it seems to me, ‘patriotic’ rhymes with ‘idiotic,’” but I don’t bother. He is much too fired up.

  I review Amadeo’s and Asensio’s drawings, compliment both, and then...

  “Pose, please.”

  Heavy sigh as I mount the platform yet again.

  Anyway, Jaimy, as I was saying . . .

  Chapter 28

  James Fletcher

  Somewhat Bruised

  House of Chen

  Rangoon

  I Don’t Care What Date

  Jacky Faber

  In Spain, as close as I can figure

  But it could as well be Zanzibar, if past history is any clue

  Dearest Jacky,

  Tonight, before dinner, I lie face-down on a mat while the lovely Sidrah kneels by my side. I try to suppress a groan as she rubs the aromatic and very soothing unguent into my poor abused muscles.

  The young Shaolin monk Sifu Loo Li was presented to me today in an open green field close by the Buddhist temple. Master Kwai Chang made the introductions, we all bowed to each other, and Master Chang left the field.

  Sifu Loo Li carried with him two bamboo sticks, each as long as we were tall, and about one-inch thick. He handed me one, bowed again, and stepped back about ten yards. He whipped his stick around himself in very fluid motions and ended up in a position very much like the “lunge” movement in our own Western sword technique, except that his staff is tucked under his right arm, while his other arm is extended straight out, palm open before me.

  I suspect this is the ready position, the en garde, as we barbarians know it. Well, we shall see, China boy...

  I take my staff in both my hands, sort of like what I have seen in paintings of the knights of old, with their two-handed broadswords, my left hand lower on the stick, my right hand higher, and advance toward him.

  When we get about six feet from each other, he whips his cane from under his arm and whirls it around over his head. I lunge forward, using my training in the saber, and seek to strike him on his open left side.

  I don’t even get close.

  His stick is a blur as he brings the end down, turns completely around, and brings it up under my staff, to lay it hard against my chin. Had he put any force into it, he would have broken my jaw.

  He bows again, steps back, and assumes his original position.

  I hear a chuckle behind me and, slightly bewildered, I see Master Chang reappear, leaning on his own staff, coming to sit on the grass to the side.

  “You see
, Long Boy, it might be a bit more complicated than you originally thought, eh?”

  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.”