The Barefoot Queen

by Ildefonso Falcones

  “Who are you to come here, to Triana, to free anyone?”

  El Conde’s powerful voice interrupted the murmurs with which most of the gypsies in the alley had received Ana Ximénez’s words.

  Luisa spoke first. She forced her voice, which emerged hoarse, cracked: “We are those who suffered for being gypsies while you and yours were living here, in Triana, under the yoke of the payos. Rafael García: I didn’t see you in Saragossa fighting for your people, the ones you claim to represent as head of the council. That gold you wear”—she pointed with disdain at the large, shiny ring on one of the patriarch’s fingers—“shouldn’t you have used it to buy the freedom of some gypsy?”

  Luisa was silent for a few moments and stared at the heads of families who accompanied El Conde; one of them was unable to hold her gaze. Then she turned her back to them, and pointed a finger at the men of the alley.

  “I didn’t see any of you either!” she reproached them in a shout. “There are still many of us imprisoned!”

  Some of the people lowered their eyes as Luisa, Ana Ximénez and the other gypsy women looked at them with scorn.

  “What could we have done?” was heard from among them.

  Luisa waited for the murmurs of assent to end, arched her eyebrows and turned her head toward the corner where the question had originated. For a few moments the alley was overtaken by silence. Then the old woman gestured to the gypsies who were behind her to clear the alley, took Ana Vega by the arm and planted her in the middle.

  “This!” she screamed, tearing off Ana’s raggedy shirt.

  Ana was left naked from the waist up. Her breasts hung flaccid over ribs that proclaimed the hunger she had suffered.

  “Stand up straight!” muttered the old woman.

  The skin on Ana Vega’s belly didn’t even become taut when she obeyed, standing up tall and proudly challenging the entire alley.

  “This!” repeated Luisa, grabbing Ana and forcing her to turn around and show the dry welts that crossed her entire back. “Fight!” shouted Luisa. “That is what you should have done: fight, you cowards!”

  The old woman’s coughing was clearly audible in the reverent silence with which the alley took in her accusations. Ana thought she could see blood in her spit. Luisa struggled to breathe but couldn’t. The other woman took her in her arms before she collapsed and the others quickly surrounded her.

  “Fight,” Luisa managed to articulate. “You’ve done it, Ana Vega. I will die in my homeland. Now do your duty to your family. Triana is ours; it belongs to the gypsies. Don’t let them kill Melchor.”

  She coughed again and her mouth was filled with blood.

  “She’s dying,” confirmed one of the Vegas.

  Ana looked around for help.

  “Fray Joaquín!” she shouted. “Take care of her,” she added after he came over and knelt down, embarrassed, struggling to keep his eyes off Ana’s bare breasts.

  “But … I …”

  “It’s not your time yet,” Ana encouraged the old woman, ignoring the friar’s excuses. “Take care of her. Cure her,” she demanded, placing Luisa in his hands. “Do something. Take her to a hospital. Aren’t you a friar?”

  “I am a friar, but Our Lord didn’t bless me with the ability to revive the dead.”

  Luisa’s body, more slight and vulnerable than ever, hung inert in the friar’s arms. Ana was about to say her goodbyes when four words stopped her.

  “Don’t let her down.”

  That voice … She searched among the gypsy women. La Coja! She wasn’t among the women who had come with the Vegas. La Coja nodded to confirm what was going through Ana’s mind. I came to your aid, her eyes said, and I didn’t come alone.

  “Don’t let us down, Ana Vega,” she then said, as she gestured with her head toward the entrance to the alley.

  Ana, along with many others, looked where she indicated: two more gypsy women appeared at that instant. A whirlwind of feelings confused Ana Vega. Her breasts were still bared, showing her scars and her ravaged body beneath a radiant sun determined to highlight her among the crowd; she wanted to cry over Luisa’s death, go over to her before her body grew cold, and hug her one last time. They had suffered so much together! And, meanwhile, her father and her daughter’s fates were still in the hands of their bitter enemies, while gypsy women from all around had left their families to come help her.

  “Rafael García, give us El Galeote and his granddaughter!”

  The Ximénez matriarch’s emphatic order brought Ana back to reality and she rushed to her side. The other women, as if one, huddled around them. Fray Joaquín was left behind, holding Luisa Vega’s lifeless body.

  Rafael García stammered. “I have no intention …” he managed to get out.

  A string of insults rose from the gypsy women. “Dog!” “Let them go!” “Payo!” “Bastard!” “Where are they?”

  Someone from the alley revealed their hiding place in a whisper. “In a pit in the Garcías’ smithy!” repeated a voice, this time shouting.

  The group of gypsy women moved toward the forge, which was in front of them, pushing Ana Vega and Ana Ximénez. The matriarch lifted her staff when she was about to bump into the men. The shoving stopped to allow her to speak.

  “Rafael, you have the chance to—”

  “The vengeance belongs to Pascual Carmona,” El Conde interrupted her. “I shouldn’t …”

  “Vengeance belongs to us!” was heard from behind. “It belongs to the women who have suffered.”

  “To the gypsy women!”

  “Move aside, you son of a bitch.” Ana Vega spat out those words just one step away from the old patriarch, who looked for help among the other family heads, but they moved away from him. Rafael García lifted his eyes up to the window, in search of his wife’s support, and he sighed in disappointment when no one answered. Not even La Trianera dared to face up to these gypsy women.

  “Are you going to let them oppose a sentence set down by the council and allow a killer to escape?” he shouted nervously to the other gypsies of the San Miguel alley, most of them clustered to the sides and behind the women.

  “Are you going to kill them too, all of them?” replied someone.

  “You don’t care about avenging José Carmona’s death!” shouted a woman. “You just want to kill El Galeote!”

  El Conde was about to answer, but before he had a chance, he found the end of Ana Ximénez’s staff against his chest.

  “Move aside,” muttered the matriarch.

  Rafael García stood strong. “Don’t let them get in,” he then ordered his people.

  The Garcías, the only ones who barred their way into the forge, tightly gripped the hammers and other tools they had in their hands, and raised them up.

  The threat created an expectant silence. Ana Vega was about to pounce on El Conde when an old woman from the Camacho family came forward, approaching them from one side.

  “Ana Vega has paid enough for what her father did and what her daughter might have done. We all witnessed it! Luisa even died for the same freedom the Vegas demand. Rafael: move your people aside.”

  The old woman sought out and received a sign of approval from the head of her family before continuing.

  “If you don’t do it, we Camachos will defend them against your men.”

  A shiver ran through Ana Vega’s spine. The Camacho family, from the very San Miguel alley, were defending her and defending a pardon for her father! She wanted to thank the old woman, but before she could go over to her, two other women, these ones from the Flores family, joined the first one. And another, and another. All from different families, as their men looked on with resigned and relenting expressions. Ana smiled. Someone tossed a large fringed yellow kerchief over her shoulders just before she headed into the forge. No one dared to stop them.

  Ana hugged her daughter as soon as they managed to get her out of the pit, to the applause and cheers of the crowd that were squeezed into the forge. Dazzled by the sc
arce light that streamed in, Milagros heard her, felt her, smelled her and held her tightly. She asked for her forgiveness a thousand times; they kissed, stroked each other’s faces and wiped away each other’s tears, laughing and crying at the same time. Then Melchor insisted they untie and pull a bewildered Caridad out of the pit. As soon as she could see again, she went into a corner, followed by the curious eyes of those who didn’t know who she was. Finally, the gypsy who had gone down into the pit helped Melchor out.

  “Father!” shouted Ana.

  Melchor, stiff, let himself be embraced but was barely able to return his daughter’s displays of affection and he hastened to free himself from her arms, as if he didn’t want any other emotion to cloud his spirit. His actions made Ana’s blood run cold.

  “Father?” she asked, separating herself from him.

  The gypsy women’s applause and comments stopped.

  “And my knife?” demanded Melchor.

  “Father …”

  “Grandfather …” Milagros approached him.

  “Rafael!” shouted Melchor, pushing aside both women.

  El Galeote tried to walk, but his legs failed him. When his daughter and his granddaughter tried to help him, he let go of their hands. He wanted to stand up on his own. He finally managed it and took a step forward. His blood was flowing again and he took another.

  “Where is your grandson?” howled Melchor. “I came here to kill that mangy dog!”

  Ana Ximénez, who stood in front of him, moved aside; the other women followed suit and opened up a passageway to the alley. Ana and Milagros hesitated, but not Caridad, who ran after her man.

  “Cachita,” Milagros begged her, brushing one of her arms with her hand.

  “He has to do it,” declared Caridad without stopping.

  Mother and daughter rushed to follow her.

  “Where is your grandson? I told you I came to kill him,” said Melchor to Rafael García, who hadn’t moved from in front of the door to his house.

  Caridad clenched her fists and teeth in support of the gypsy’s words; Ana Vega, on the other hand, only noticed the arrogance with which El Conde received his threat. Without the gleam of a knife blade in his hand, her father looked small and defenseless. The years had taken their toll on him as well, she lamented. The women exchanged glances. What determination in the morena’s face, thought Ana, so different from the last time she saw her, fallen on the ground, innocent, covered as always with her straw hat, as Ana begged her to take care of Milagros! Her daughter had changed too. She turned toward her; where …?

  “I thought you would run away amid all these women,” she heard Rafael García reply just then, in a powerful, sarcastic voice.

  Between El Conde’s response and her not being able to find Milagros, Ana felt terribly dizzy. Where …? She feared the worst.

  “Father!” she shouted when she saw that Milagros was already crossing the threshold that led to the courtyard of the Garcías’ apartments, a few steps past the door to the forge.

  Ana set off after her daughter before Melchor understood what was going on. Some women followed her. Milagros had reached the gallery of the upper level when Ana entered the patio.

  “Milagros!” she called out, trying to stop her.

  Milagros jumped over the remaining steps. “Where’s my little girl?” She pushed two old García women and made her way along the gallery. “María!”

  Bartola’s head peeked out of the door of one of the apartments.

  “Bitch!” Milagros screamed at her.

  From the stairs, Ana saw her, dressed in black, running and entering that apartment. “Quickly!” she urged the women who followed her.

  When they crowded into the apartment, the women found the girl, who was crying and struggling, in the arms of a beautiful young gypsy. Milagros, in front of them, panting and with her arms extended toward her daughter, had frozen when she saw the cold looks Bartola and Reyes, La Trianera, gave her, as if she were afraid that taking another step could put little María in danger.

  “She is my daughter,” whispered Milagros.

  “Give her her child!” Ana ordered the young woman.

  “She won’t do that without the father’s consent,” objected La Trianera.

  “Reyes,” growled Ana Vega, “tell her to hand over the girl to her mother.”

  “To a whore? I will not—”

  La Trianera couldn’t continue. Milagros pounced on her, roaring like an animal. She pushed her with both hands and they fell to the floor, where she began to hit her. Ana Vega didn’t waste any time: she went up to the young woman and grabbed María from her without any resistance. The little girl’s crying and Milagros’s shouts filled the room and reached the alley. Ana held María close to her and watched the beating that was Milagros’s revenge for years of torture. She did nothing to stop her. When the people piled up in the door and Ana sensed the presence of some men, she went over to Milagros and knelt down.

  “Take your daughter,” she told her.

  They left the room just as Rafael García was reaching the gallery. They passed each other. Milagros tried in vain to calm the little girl down. Her hands were shaking and she was out of breath, but her gaze was so bright, so victorious, that El Conde grew alarmed. He dodged them, worried, and quickened his step toward his house.

  “Show her to your grandfather. Put the girl in his arms. Run, my daughter. Maybe that way we can avoid tragedy. When we did that with you, years ago, it worked.”

  While Ana was trying to keep Melchor from challenging Pedro García to a duel, La Trianera, sitting bruised on the floor of the room, was condemning the old gypsy.

  “Go and find Pedro,” she told her husband. From the window, she had heard Melchor’s threat. “Have him fight El Galeote. He should have an easy time of it with that old man. Tell him to kill him, to tear out his eyes in front of his family, to rip out his guts and bring them to me!”

  Below, on the alley, Melchor didn’t want to touch the little girl.

  “Pedro will kill you, Father. You are … you’re much older than he is.”

  Milagros brought the girl over to him again. Caridad was watching from a certain distance, still and in silence. The gypsy didn’t even stretch out his hand.

  “Pedro is evil, Grandfather,” she pointed out with her arms extended, showing him the girl, who was still sobbing.

  Melchor made a face before answering. “That son of a bitch still has to meet the devil.”

  “He will kill you.”

  “Then I’ll be waiting for him in hell.”

  “Father, we are all alive,” interjected Ana. “We’ve found each other again. Let’s make the most of it. Let’s leave here. Let’s live …”

  “Tell him not to do it, Cachita,” begged Milagros.

  Ana’s eyes joined Milagros’s plea. Even Ana Ximénez and some other women who were listening attentively to the conversation turned toward Caridad, who remained in silence until Melchor fixed his gaze on her.

  “You taught me to live, gypsy. If you don’t challenge Pedro, will you feel the same when you listen to me sing?”

  His silence was answer enough.

  “Finish off the bastard then. Don’t be afraid,” she said with a slight sad smile. “Like I told you, I’ll go down to hell with you and I’ll keep singing for you.”

  Ana bowed her head, defeated, and Milagros hugged her daughter against her chest.

  “Galeote!”

  El Conde’s shout, as he stood at the entrance to the courtyard, silenced all conversations and made everyone stop in their tracks.

  “Here!” He tossed a knife at Melchor’s feet. “When he gets here, you’ll have your chance to fight my grandson.”

  Melchor bent down to pick up his knife.

  “Clean it well,” added El Conde, seeing how he rubbed it against his red jacket, “because if Pedro doesn’t finish you off, I’ll do it myself.”

  “No!” objected Ana Ximénez. “Rafael García, Melchor Vega: t
his fight to the death will end it all. If Pedro wins, no one should bother the Vega women …”

  “And the girl?”

  “What do you want Vega blood in your home for?”

  El Conde thought for a few moments and finally nodded.

  “The girl will stay with her mother. No one will seek further revenge on them! Not even your grandson, understood?”

  The patriarch nodded again.

  “Do you swear? You swear?” insisted the matriarch at the simple nod with which he wanted to seal his commitment.

  “I swear.”

  “If it is Melchor who wins …” Even she hesitated at her own words, and she couldn’t help a pitying glance at El Galeote, as did many of the women present. “If Melchor defeats Pedro, the sentence will be considered fulfilled.”

  “The vengeance belongs to the Carmonas,” El Conde then declared. “And Pascual isn’t here to swear on it.”

  Ana Ximénez nodded thoughtfully. “We can’t all wait here for him to return. Gather the council of elders,” she said then. “Including all those from the Carmona family.”

  THAT VERY afternoon, the matriarch represented the interests of the Vegas in an emergency council meeting. The family heads attended, along with the Carmonas, many of the gypsies from the alley and some of the gypsy women who had come from other towns. Others wandered through Triana and the ones who remained stayed with Ana and Milagros, crying over Luisa’s corpse, which up until then Fray Joaquín had been taking care of, and they settled it in one of the courtyards.

  It was a long courtyard that opened up between two rows of small, single-story houses. There soon rose from it a constant wail from the gypsy women. Some of their displays of grief were restrained but most were overwhelming. Exhausted by the long torment she had suffered since Pedro had stolen her daughter from her in Madrid, Milagros sat on a stone well attached to one of houses, and there she sought refuge in the girl she had just got back, cradling her and staring into her face with love. As she felt María falling asleep in her arms, relaxed, tranquil, trusting, she forgot all her suffering. She didn’t want to think about anything else until, from between the long skirts of the women gathered, she recognized Fray Joaquín’s sandals and habit standing before her. She lifted her face.