However, the old woman spoke. “In a few days …”
Milagros moved to cover her ears.
“Inocencio will promise you in marriage to El Conde’s grandson.”
Milagros’s hands hadn’t yet reached her ears. Did she just hear what she thought she just heard? She leapt round. María forgot her speech when she saw the girl’s overjoyed expression.
“What did you say?” she asked, almost shrieking. Her high-pitched tone annoyed the old healer.
“You heard me.”
“Say it again.”
She didn’t want to.
“You are going to marry him,” she said eventually.
Milagros let out another high-pitched little scream and brought her hands to her face; she immediately pulled them down and extended them to the old woman, inviting her to share in her joy. She stopped when she saw the healer’s passivity. She cried and paced back and forth with her fists clenched. She twirled and shouted through her sobs. She stuck her head out of the window and looked up at the heavens. Then she turned toward María, somewhat calmer but with tears running down her cheeks.
“You can object,” the old woman dared to tell her.
“Ha!”
“I would help you, I would support you.”
“You don’t understand, María: I love him.”
“You are a—”
“I love him! I love him, I love him, I love him.”
“You are a Vega.”
The girl stood firmly in front of her. “Those quarrels were many years ago. I don’t have anything to do with—”
“It’s your family! If your grandfather heard you …”
“And where is my grandfather?” The shout was heard all the way to the alley. “Where is he? He’s never here when I need him.”
“Don’t—”
“And the Vegas, where are those Vegas you’re always talking about?” interrupted Milagros, angry, spitting her words. “There isn’t a single one left, not a single one! They are all in jail, and the ones that aren’t, like the ones we found with the Fernández family, prefer living with another clan than returning to Triana. What Vega are you talking about, María?”
The old woman didn’t know how to respond.
“That young man isn’t good for you, girl,” she chose to say, knowing her warning was useless. But she had to say it, even knowing how the girl would react.
“Why? Because he is a García? He’s not to blame for what his grandfather did! Because you decided so? Or perhaps because my grandfather decided it, wherever he is?”
Because he is a hypocritical scoundrel and a womanizer who only loves your money and who’ll make you miserable. The answer went through the old woman’s head. The girl wouldn’t believe it. And, yes, a García, the grandson of the man who sent your grandfather to the galleys; grandson of the man who brought death to your grandmother and misfortune to your mother.
“You don’t want to understand,” she lamented instead.
María left the girl with her reply still on her tongue. She turned around and left the apartment.
NOW MILAGROS, in the courtyard emptied of iron scraps, while the Carmonas and the Garcías congratulated each other and drank wine they’d bought with the earnings from her last night at the inn, was missing the old woman. She hadn’t seen her since then. Five days she’d spent asking after her. She had even dared to go to the settlement with Caridad, to no avail; then she had searched the streets of Seville, also without luck. Apart from Pedro, who had spent a few minutes with her before devoting himself to drinking, chatting and laughing with the other gypsies, and Caridad, Milagros felt strange among those people. They wore colorful clothes and ribbons and flowers in their hair; the gypsies were hungry, but they weren’t going to dress like payos. She knew them all, that was true, but … what would her life be like with them? What would her day-to-day be like once she had crossed the alley, into the building where the Garcías lived? She observed La Trianera, as fat as she was self-satisfied, moving through the people as if she were a true countess, and her stomach shrank. She wanted to seek Pedro’s support when the two patriarchs, Rafael and Inocencio, called for silence. And while the people milled around her, Rafael called his son Elías and his grandson Pedro to his side. The Carmona patriarch called for her.
“Inocencio,” announced Elías García loudly and in a formal tone, “as head of the Carmona family, I want to ask, on behalf of my son Pedro here, for the hand of Milagros Carmona, daughter of José Carmona. My father, Rafael García, head of our family, has promised in his name and in mine to pay for the freedom of Milagros’s parents, and with this expenditure we consider gypsy law fulfilled and the girl’s price paid.”
Before Inocencio could answer, Milagros gave Pedro a nervous glance. He smiled at her in encouragement. His serenity managed to calm her down.
“Elías, Rafael,” she heard Inocencio respond, “the Carmonas consider sufficient the price of the payment to obtain the freedom of one of our family members and his wife. I present you with Milagros Carmona. Pedro García,” added Inocencio, addressing the young man, “I am bestowing upon you the most beautiful girl in Triana, the best singer that our people have ever had. A woman who will give you children, who will be faithful and will follow you wherever you go. The wedding will be celebrated as soon as the new year comes in. May you be happy with her.”
Then Inocencio and Rafael García went forward and publicly sealed the pact, face to face, in a long, vigorous handshake. At that moment, Milagros felt the strength of that alliance as if each of the two patriarchs were gripping her body. And what if María was right? She was overcome with doubt. Never forget that you are a Vega. The words her mother had wanted to convey to her went through her head like a flash of lightning. But she didn’t have time to think about it.
“May no one dare break this engagement!” she heard Rafael García exclaim.
“Damn any who try!” added Inocencio. “May it live on in the heavens as on earth!”
And with that gypsy oath received with applause, Milagros knew that her fate had just been decided.
IT WAS the first party celebrated since the liberation of the gypsies from the arsenals and jails. The gypsies of the San Miguel alley brought the little food and drink they had. A couple of guitars appeared, along with some castanets and tambourines, all broken and worn. In spite of that, the men and women made an effort to get into the spirit, scratching on their instruments until they got music out of them that compared to the music they used to make so long ago. Milagros sang and danced, cheered on by all, tipsy from the wine, stunned by the succession of congratulations and advice she kept getting; she danced with other gypsy women and several times with Pedro, who instead of moving to her rhythm, accompanied her with short, dry movements that were proud and haughty, as if instead of dancing for the gypsies who clapped their hands he was shouting out to all of them that this woman was going to be his and only his.
As night fell, La Trianera began an unaccompanied debla that went on and on until her cracked voice brought tears to the women’s faces and the men raised their forearms to their eyes to hide theirs. Milagros was no stranger to those painful feelings that surfaced in them and she trembled like the others. On several occasions she thought that Pedro’s grandmother was challenging her. Up until now your success is nothing more than the fruit of the silly, cheerful tunes you sing in a wretched inn, she seemed to be spitting at her. And what about the pain of the gypsy people? La Trianera challenged her. What about the heartbreaking, deep songs we gypsies keep to ourselves?
Milagros accepted the challenge.
The long wail that sprang from her silenced the applause that had broken out as soon as La Trianera’s voice stopped, as if its sudden hush were a consolation. Milagros sang without even placing herself in the center of the circle, with Caridad and gypsy women at her sides. She didn’t feel free! In fact, the voice of old Reyes had managed to transport her to that evening on the riverbank, in front of the chur
ch of the Virgin of Bonaire, and her grandfather down on his knees. Where are you, Grandfather? she thought as her voice broke in her throat and emerged tormented, like a ragged, rough lament. Keep going until your mouth tastes of blood, María had told her. And the old woman? And her parents? Milagros thought she could taste that blood just as La Trianera hung her head in defeat. She didn’t see her do it but she knew, because the gypsies were silent for a long time when she was finished, waiting for the reverberation of her last sigh to disappear from the alley. Then they cheered her the way the Sevillians at the inn did.
In the clamor, Pedro García told his grandfather in an aside, “I’m leaving.”
“Where to, Pedro?”
The young man winked an eye.
“Today is not the day to—” he tried to object.
“Say that you sent me on an errand.”
“No, Pedro, not today.”
“For a Vega?” the young man flung into his face. Rafael García gave a start as his grandson sweetened his features and smiled before continuing. “You were just like me, isn’t that right? We are the same.” Pedro draped an arm over his shoulders and pulled his grandfather to him. “Are you going to keep me from having my fun just to keep up appearances in front of a Vega?”
“Go and have fun,” the patriarch gave in quickly.
“To the church. Say that I went to pray a rosary,” joked the young man, already on his way out of the alley.
When Pedro was near the Plaza del Salvador, after crossing the pontoon bridge and entering Seville, his grandfather had no choice but to go over to Milagros: the girl had obviously been looking around for her fiancé for some time.
“He went to talk to the Santa Ana parish priest about your baptism,” he said to reassure her.
Not even Milagros was going to believe that Pedro had joined one of the more than a hundred processions that went through the streets of Seville singing Hail Marys and saying the rosary! But Milagros knew she would have to be baptized; Inocencio had mentioned it when he told her that she must sing carols in the parish church at Christmas. It was one of the conditions for freeing her parents. And just as Pedro was crossing the Plaza del Salvador and reaching Carpintería Street, she accepted El Conde’s excuse and went back to join the party.
Hidden in the corner of the Plaza del Salvador, Pedro studied the street where the carpenters lived, some of whom had become luthiers, before crossing it to reach the house where the exuberant but unsatisfied wife of an artisan was waiting for him. A tiny piece of yellow fabric left behind the bars of one of the workshop windows told him when she was alone. His heart beat wildly and not only with desire: there was a risk that her husband would show up, usually drunk—as had happened once; he’d had to hide until his wife could get him off to sleep—and that increased both of their pleasure. Pedro smiled in the dark, remembering the last time. He’s going to show up now, the woman had shrieked nervously as Pedro mounted her frenetically, her legs lifted, hugging his hips with her thighs, he’ll open the door and we will hear his footsteps, she laughed, panting, he’ll catch us and.… Her words were drowned in a long moan as she reached orgasm. That night the carpenter didn’t show up, remembered the young man with another smile when the shadow he was watching vanished beyond Cuna Street and Carpintería Street was left empty. Then he rushed down it.
He left the house an hour later and walked the streets distracted, with the touch, taste, smell and moans of the woman still clinging to his senses, until he reached a retablo dedicated to the Virgin of the Forsaken painted on that street.
“Disgusting dog!”
The insult surprised him. He hadn’t seen the shrunken shadow beside the retablo. Old María continued speaking.
“Not even on your engagement day are you able to suppress your … your lust.”
Pedro García looked the old healer up and down. She stood arrogantly, expecting a respect that … She was alone on a remote street of Seville, in the middle of the night! What respect could she be expecting, no matter how old she was?
“I swear by the blood of the Vegas that Milagros will not marry you!” threatened María. “I’ll tell her …”
The gypsy boy stopped listening. He trembled at the very thought of his grandfather and father, who would be enraged if the girl refused to marry him. He didn’t think twice. He grabbed the healer by the neck and her voice muted into an unintelligible gurgle.
“Stupid old hag,” he muttered.
He squeezed with just one hand. María gasped and sank her atrophied fingers into the arms of her aggressor as if they were hooks. Pedro García ignored her hands. How easy it was, he discovered as the seconds passed and the old woman’s eyes threatened to pop out of their sockets. He squeezed more, until he felt something crunch inside the old woman’s neck. It was simple, fast and silent, tremendously silent. He let her go and María collapsed into a small, wrinkled pile.
The brotherhood that took care of the retablo’s altar would deal with the corpse, he thought before leaving her there, and they would tell the authorities, who would exhibit her, or perhaps not, somewhere in Seville to see if anyone claimed her. Most likely she would be buried in a mass grave, paid for by gifts from pious parishioners.
The Santa Ana parish, in the heart of Triana, had the largest congregation in Seville—more than ten thousand—and was served by three parish priests, twenty-three presbyters, a subdeacon, five minor clerics and two tonsured monks. But despite the large number of faithful and priests, Santa Ana made Milagros tremble. The building was a solid rectangular Gothic construction with three naves, the central one narrower and taller than the others, interrupted in the middle by the choir. It had been erected in the eighteenth century by order of King Alfonso X to show his gratitude to the mother of the Virgin Mary for having miraculously healed his eye.
To Milagros it was a dark place filled with golden retablos, statues and paintings of sorrowful, wounded Christs, saints, martyrs and virgins who scrutinized her and seemed to be interrogating her. The girl was trying to shake off that oppressive feeling when she noticed that her bare feet were walking on a rough surface; she looked at the floor and jumped to one side, holding in a swear word that came out as a snort: she was on top of one of the many stones beneath which rested the remains of the church’s benefactors. She pulled closer to Caridad and they both remained still. A priest appeared beneath the arch of Our Lady of Antigua, in the nave of the Gospel, behind which was the sacristy. He did so in silence, trying not to disturb the faithful, who were mostly women praying and commending themselves to Saint Ann for nine days in a row, either to achieve their desired fertility or to protect their obvious pregnancies; it had been known in Triana and throughout Seville since ancient times that the Holy Mother of Mary interceded for women’s conception.
Milagros observed the priest and Reyes whispering a few paces from them; Reyes pointed at her again and again, and the priest looked at her with disapproval. La Trianera had come to replace Old María in her life. Where is that stubborn old woman? Milagros asked herself again, as she had done a thousand times in the last few days. She missed her. Surely they would be able to forgive each other—why not? She tried to banish the old woman from her mind when the priest made an authoritative gesture for her to follow him: María wouldn’t have liked her being there, entrusting herself to the church and preparing her baptism; surely not. When she passed Reyes, La Trianera tried to move Caridad aside.
“She comes with me,” said Milagros, pulling on her friend so she wouldn’t stay with Reyes.
After Old María’s disappearance and until her parents returned, Cachita was the only person she had left, and the girl sought her out more than ever, sometimes even at the expense of meeting Pedro. She was forced to admit that since the two families had agreed on the wedding, her young fiancé’s attitude had changed, albeit subtly: he still smiled at her, talked to her and let his eyes drop in that tender gesture that thrilled her, but there was something … something different in him that
she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
The priest was waiting for her beneath the arch of the Virgin of Antigua.
“She comes with me,” repeated Milagros when he too was about to object to Caridad.
The reproachful expression with which the man of God took in her words indicated to the girl that perhaps she had been too harsh in her tone but, still, she went into the sacristy with Caridad. She was starting to be tired of everyone telling her what to do; María didn’t do that, all she did was complain and grumble, but Reyes … she went everywhere with her! At Bienvenido’s inn she even wrote down the songs she should perform. She tried to object, but the guitars obeyed La Trianera and she had no choice but to submit to them. Fermín and Roque were no longer part of the group, nor was Sagrario. They had all been replaced by members of the García family, and only the Garcías took part. La Trianera had even forbidden Caridad from joining in with the songs and dances. What does a Negro know about clapping fandangos and seguidillas? she spat at Milagros. And during the performance, Caridad stood motionless, as if attached to the wall of the inn’s kitchen, without even a bad cigar to put in her mouth. Reyes had taken over the management of all the money they made. She handed it over to Rafael, the patriarch, and unlike Old María, El Conde didn’t seem willing to reward Caridad with papantes.
The only moment when Milagros could escape La Trianera’s control was at night, when she was sleeping. Inocencio had refused to let her move into the Garcías’ part of the alley until the wedding was concluded, and she and Caridad remained in the old, desolate dwelling she’d grown up in. However, La Trianera had saddled them with an old widowed aunt to keep an eye on Milagros. Her name was Bartola.
“What are the commandments of the Holy Church?”
The question brought Milagros back to reality: they were both standing inside the sacristy in front of a carved wooden table. The priest sat behind it, interrogating her with a stern expression. He didn’t have the courtesy to invite them to sit down in the chairs. The girl had no idea about those commandments. She was about to admit her ignorance but then she remembered a piece of advice her grandfather had given her once when she was very young: “You are a gypsy. Never tell payos the truth.” She smiled.
The Barefoot Queen Page 35
