Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards (25 page)

“Just a moment,” I told him. “This isn't it.”

“This is better.”

“You've already found rooms for me? That's impossible.”

“Come and see.”

Did I guess? I was nervous and all aflutter at the same time. He looked sumptuous in the daylight, packed into that uniform, which he filled in all the right places, a broad sword swinging against one hip, a pistol on the other one. We proceeded up a wide, curving stairway and came to a door, which he opened with a key tucked in his trousers. I went in, he closed the door behind us demurely—and then swept me up in his arms, ran with me across the large, sparely furnished outer room and into a bedroom with a huge bed. He threw me across it and flung himself down after me:
¡Hola!
Our mouths came together like the Red Sea crushing the Eygptians, a voracious ocean in between that carried us away and drowned us, all afternoon.

In that first rush of exhilaration, we had no time to remove more than a hint of clothing—just the bits and pieces that were in the way. I was panting and laughing as he pushed up my skirts and wrestled with the waistband of his breeches, and he was laughing too. The madness of passion is a hilarious state, even while you're in the throes of it; at least, the sort of passion that leads to intense pleasure lends itself to that deliriousness. Wild kisses, hands everywhere, everything fast and deep and gorgeously full of sensation, that first time. Almost too fast. We rolled
away from each other, out of breath, feeling completely undone and yet still not satisfied. We lay on our backs, then Diego leaned up on one elbow to gaze at me and to gently circle his finger around my breast; we said sweet things, whatever came into our heads, to show our joy. After a short time, we were ready for more, and this time was slower; removing clothing, observing each other's bodies avidly, reaching out to touch and familiarize ourselves with the unknown terrain. He preferred to keep his boots on, I learned, which caused great hilarity when he and his trousers become entangled by them—but we swiftly managed.

Oh God, Diego de León could make a stone cry out! He had obviously acquired skills through a great deal of practice, but oh my, how he enjoyed himself. He was not one of those men who are absorbed with their own pleasure; no, it had to be mutual. His small, compact body was nimble and flexible and could contort like a cat's. I've mentioned his fingers, but what that man could do with a tongue! And with the correct positioning of a number of pillows, well! Once I'd recovered from my shock and delight (and from my third little death), I got down to the business of discovering what Diego's favourite dalliances were. And that's when I realized why he'd complimented me, as Cupid, for my athleticism. For that is where Diego's heart lay—or perhaps I mean other parts than his heart:
Action
was his meat and drink.

Like all Spanish men, he was in love with his uniform, so that garment featured strongly in many of our first (and ongoing) escapades. Spurs, too, were on the menu. He'd wear his boots (and nothing else), while I'd don his spurs. He loved a little pain; some men are like this. I think he fancied himself as a horse, in his most secret fantasies. Who knows what men are thinking as they are coming? I certainly wouldn't tell anyone what
I
am thinking in the same, private moments. Why should we? That is for our own soul; it feeds us and fills us with pleasures both describable and inexpressible—and then we return and thank God for each other, for the fulfillment and satisfaction that swells our hearts and blood vessels in the moments after. In the arms of a good lover, the world is made right.

He adored his mustache, and played with it constantly. He was rude, and made me laugh, when he'd say he could taste me on it for hours
afterwards. He was proud of his manhood—well, what man isn't?—referring to them as his “crown jewels.” As for me? Well, with Diego I understood why it is called a little death. Under his skillful touch, I could imagine myself as the hand inside a glove, and then the way that hand feels as the glove is swiftly slipped off: naked and free, for uncharted moments, shorn of everything but sensation. Such bliss . . .

I moved in with him, not caring whether Ventura approved nor whether Grimaldi would be angry from afar. I was angry with them, I thought defiantly, and anyway, Diego promised to smooth things with the playwright. Luisa Fernanda was sad that I was leaving, but she was young and her world constantly revolved, accommodating aristocratic relatives, royal functions, kittens and puppies, and her mother's absence. I promised we would dance together at the ball. “Very well,” she said, “I will anticipate that with pleasure.” Already more distant, already moving into her destiny. Already I felt like a traitor to her.

Isabel didn't notice my departure, but that was nothing new.

Carlota and I met briefly—she came to my room as the last of my trunks were being carried out. “I didn't mean that you must leave us immediately, dear. But perhaps it's for the best.” I almost told her then; I came so close to blurting it out. We're going to kidnap the princesses, by direct order of Cristina! Do you approve, do you know this is about to happen?

She must have sensed my turmoil, as she pushed a strand of hair back from my forehead and said in her matter-of-fact way, “You're lovely. I don't need to know, but be careful. Choose your friends wisely. Listen to your heart.” The servants bowed as they left the room for the final time. She turned to look about, checking their work. “We will be off, too, after the ball. Cadiz and Seville are restless; their father as well.” She moved to the window and gazed down into the courtyard below. “I feel a heaviness . . .” It was true, she appeared tired, those splendid features rather drawn. I didn't know what to say to her, her presence made me tongue-tied with admiration—the only woman I've ever met to cause such anxious yearning in my heart.

“Damn,” she suddenly cried. “Those shitheads have brought my favourite stallion out for Cadiz!” She yanked open the window and shouted, “Not on your life, boy! Get your turd-filled boots off that stirrup! You'll ruin his mouth!” She ran from the room, calling back, “I'll see you at the ball—as the Fires of Hell!” And she was gone.

Those next few weeks—waiting, and living with Diego—were some of the most whirlwind of my life. I had called him a dynamo and that is surely what he was. He went about his military business during the mornings; he was a general, after all, and highly regarded. The populace loved him for his bravery and swashbuckling charm. He'd fought heroically and gallantly in the Carlist battles, earning the loyalty of the people as well as the title of Count of Belascoain, a thank you from Cristina.

One morning, as the church bells struck noon, he arrived with his comrade, General Manuel Gutérrez de la Concha e Irigoyen, another handsome, uniformed fellow, but taller and thinner—the other general Grimaldi had mentioned. Diego filled us in on the plan as he knew it.

“We are to kidnap the infantas on the evening of the ball, deliver them to the fastest coach we can muster, and head for the border. We need you, Rosana, to keep Espartero amused, distracted, while we get them away. At first he won't know what is happening—his office is only a few streets from the Oriente, and that is where you must get him to take you. By the time reports have come in and they've found him to tell him, it will be too late. We know a secret route over the border. We'll disappear.”

“But the girls will be frightened!” I protested.

“There's a woman coming with us. She'll be good with them, never fear.”

“They know me, they trust me. I should go with them.”

“Too obvious.”

A pang of jealousy shot through me. “May I see Grimaldi's instructions?”

“You don't doubt me, surely?” Diego grinned, then frowned.

“Of course not. But it seems dangerous.”

“It
is
dangerous!” He snapped his teeth and rolled his eyes at de la Concha, as if to say, Women . . .”

This made me angry. Did he think me afraid? I was determined to be as brave and as reckless as my athletic lover. Why shouldn't I be? Did he think I couldn't do it? Concha added a few soothing words: “The princesses will be safe, not frightened at all.” But neither of them would part with any further details.

This was the only wrinkle in an otherwise rhapsodic interlude of days and nights. Diego made love like a man dying of thirst. I realized he must have other women elsewhere; he was just built that way. But during this time he was almost constantly with me—and I didn't care, anyway. His spurs strapped to my ankles, digging into his sides, made him bleed: The crazy man shouted for more! When I'd pull them off and kiss his wounds with sorrow, he would roll me off the bed and then under it, amongst dustballs and centipedes, until I'd crawl out gasping and running for the other room, with him in aroused pursuit.

He took me to a yard where dozens of exquisite horses were being paraded up and down, all up for sale from a distinguished horse-breeding establishment in the Sierra de Guadarrama, northeast of Madrid. Diego's taste in horseflesh was as discriminating as his taste for the other pleasures; he knew exactly what he wanted. He settled on a sleek, black, three-year-old gelding with a white star on the brow and a white left foreleg. As we led the beauty through the frosty streets, I kept looking up at his large brown eyes (the horse's, not Diego's), listening to the soft breath through his nose. “Oh, he is gorgeous,” I said, taking the hand of the fine military man at my side. Diego stopped, grabbed my waist and hauled me to him, kissed me fiercely, and whispered, “He's yours.”

We stabled the gelding in the place where Diego kept his favourite stallion, Conquistador; a spacious, clean stall for each horse, fresh straw, sweet water, and only good feed to eat. Diego spared no expenses for “the most gracious and noble animals in the world.” Seeing the horse settled, he said, “At three, he's old enough to have experienced a few things, good and bad, and young enough still to be keen to learn. The act of gelding is barbaric, yes, but he won't be distracted. Conquistador is a terror sometimes.”

“Just like you,” I said into Diego's ear.

He stroked my black horse's neck, rearranging the thick mane with tenderness. “This horse loves to run, you can see it in his lines. He'll run until he drops if he's asked to. He's gentle, he's loyal; he'll keep you safe.”

“He is the most wonderful gift I have ever had, Diego.” And I meant it—even jewels, even diamonds, in that moment, could not hold a candle to the splendour of that living, breathing, beautiful beast.

“Call him Lindo.”

“I will.”

“For his calm, and his good nature. I can trust you with him. And he'll be right here for you, in case you need him.”

This seemed to be important, since he was very serious when he said it, and Diego did not allow himself often to be serious. I tried to question him further, but he shook his head. “That's enough about it. I'm glad you like him.”

This worried me, yes, and it also made me curious. But I was trying to live in the moment with this marvellous man, and so I told myself that the gift of Lindo, from one horse lover to another, was a pledge. And it was.

We rode together frequently in the days following, as I acquainted myself with the particular singularities of Lindo and improved my riding ability. I've always loved it; I have a good seat and am quite unafraid, though riding with Diego made me realize how much I still had to discover. One morning, after it had snowed prettily, inducing a frisson of celebration in the city, we headed out together to a flat field where the military men trained. Diego began galloping, creating circles in the fresh snow, Conquistador's hooves flashing as they kicked it up. “Watch this,” he called, and flung down the cap he was wearing. I pulled Lindo to a halt and rode off to the side. Diego was urging the stallion to go faster and faster, then finally he turned him swiftly and rode full tilt at the cap sitting small in the whiteness of the snow. Just as I thought the horse was sure to gallop over it, Diego swirled his body to the side—I thought he was falling, going under the animal's belly—and in a seemingly impossible move, he reached, plucked up the cap, and righted himself all in one smooth action. He gave a loud whoop, Conquistador laid his ears back against his head, and they dashed off in a riveting charge to
the edges of the field, racing nobody but themselves, the day, the hour, and their own might. I laughed when Lindo raised his head in the air and whinnied.

“What were you doing?” I called as they whirled to a halt beside us.

“I met a Cossack four years ago,” Diego grinned. “He'd left Russia and come south for the warmth, but he missed his savage sports. He used to practice this endlessly on a field near where he lived. I learned it from him.”

“And where is he now?”

“Oh, he's dead.”