Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards (26 page)

“From doing this, no doubt.”

“No, they thought he was a Carlist. He was executed. Because of the Carlist leader who pretended to be a Cossack. Those were jumpy times, Rosana.”

“Well, they were mad, and he was a madman! And so are you!”

“I know!” he shouted with a happy laugh and kicked Conquistador into motion again. This time I raced after him, Lindo straining at the bit to be given his head and catch up with the bolt of lightning streaking before us, plumes of snow billowing up from his hooves.

At some point during that lovely, cold, kiss-drenched day, I remember asking Diego about the rebels. “Did you go to the north? The mountain bandits, I hear they're difficult to fight because they know their mountains so well. Anyone not from there is sure to be outdone.”

“Not quite true,” he answered, “but almost. They are ruthless, yes. But to look at it from their side, they've been wronged and abandoned for so long. Each time they are roped in to fight, in their minds they are fighting not for the centrist government nor for a king they never see, but for their
fuegos,
their traditional rights. That crucial element is forgotten at peril. It makes them cagey, because they are always being used. Mountain people see different things—not so far, perhaps, but deeper.”

This made sense. I nodded thoughtfully, reminded of the border patrol who had almost intercepted Matilde, Father Miguel, and me. And of the only other Spanish northerner I'd met: Pedro Coria.

“Afraid of bandits, my darling?” Diego smiled. “I'll protect you.”

“I'm afraid of nothing,” I said with a toss of my head, “not even you.” And to prove it—though I'd been about to—I didn't even tell him about my near accident in the theatre fly tower, nor my worries about the shadowy figure who'd attempted to kill me.

“Ah,” he whisked his mustache across my fingers, which he'd raised to his lips, “
la bandita.
That's who you are!”

He loved this sobriquet and used it often afterwards, particularly in the throes of passion, with my spurs laid on hard. He adored word games and naming things he cared for, as I was to discover.

The night before the fateful ball, Diego introduced me to a different love: He was a gambler, particularly cards. Of course, being in the army and often needing to while away the time, either between nerve-wracking bouts of fighting or idle, weary waiting, cards and dice had a long history with the men. But Diego took it beyond such a mundane occupation: He was crazy about it. I was sleepy and sated, trying to relax before our big event, but he glowed with energy. In his hands, the deck of cards flashed and spun; I could barely see how they came together in new configurations. His sweet-smelling little cigar was clenched between white teeth.

“I've always been lucky at cards—
ventiuna, écarte,
any kind. The higher the stakes, the better I'm pleased.”

“I find it unnerving,” I yawned.

“I could teach you.”

“I like to dice?” I offered.

“Dice takes no skill,” he responded. “No, in cards, it's all about equal conditions. Establishing them, keeping them. If your opponent is belligerent or overconfident, you must be so in return. You must keep control of the crowd, manipulate the outcome, so he doesn't gain advantage. And plan your ambush.”

“Ambush? Sounds like the bandits.”

“
Sí, Bandita,
now you're understanding. Dice is open, blind fate; you simply wait for disaster. Cards are concealed. That's the only advantage you can count on: your own skill and daring, all other conditions being equal.”

I rolled towards him and stroked his thigh, but he wouldn't rise. Or, he rose, but ignored it. This had become more important for some reason. He lay out a hand, showing all four suits.

“Concealment is an advantage?” I tried to follow.

“
Sí.
Like breaking in a wild horse. If you fall you get right back on, show no fear, or it will gallop away and never come back.” The cards whirled in a new dance.

I'd lost him. “And we're talking about . . . ? Love?”

“How to win,
Bandita.
Listen to me again: The fundamental principle is equal conditions. If your opponent is more powerful, or unscrupulous, prone to violence or clamourous distraction, if he's deceitful, can disturb your concentration by making you afraid or angry, if he can turn the crowd against you—then he means to destroy you, forever.”

I sat up then, since his words were frightening me. “You can't be talking about cards anymore, Diego.”

“In my opinion, it applies to everything,” he whispered, happy now that he had my full attention, and ready to tickle me again with his mustache. “Life
is
gambling.
Never
let them see your hand.” He reached across me with a muscled arm and picked up the candle, then blew it out. I felt him putting it back down again by the side of the bed, able only to see his shape in outline from the tapers burning in the other room. “Do you understand now,
Bandita?
” He could feel my hair and then my lips against his arm, where I'd turned to kiss it. “You must keep your head, trust your skill and your daring, and play hard, without fear. This is what I have learned, and what I believe.” He bent his head and kissed me. “All our lives depend upon it. Now, if we understand each other?” He leapt up and we were at it again.

By dawn, we lay in each other's arms, past sleep, the disquiet of impending action affecting us both.

“Have you killed many men?” I asked.

“Yes, I've killed. Only bad people, ones who were on the wrong side. By the way, I've seen your Cloud with the Silver Lining—enchanting. Espartero will be yours for the night, I guarantee. I'll try not to be jealous, for the cause.” One hand was on my breast, warm and heavy. I didn't
want to think of the man I had to seduce but rather concentrate on the one I was seduced by. Perhaps he guessed it. “Be brave, sweetheart
. . .
One night is not so long.” He sighed into my hair, then asked, “What are you going to do when you get out of this?”

“Be a dancer, and be famous,” I said pertly, then faltered. I wanted to be truthful with him; I loved the courage he gave me to be true. “Well, that's what I'd like. What are you going to do?”

“Leave the army. Settle down with a wonderful woman and have twelve children.”

I laughed and said, “I don't see myself with many children. So it won't be me then.”

“I think we both know that,
Bandita
.”

That made me suddenly sad. And regretful. So I told him about the little girl I'd once had, my fears for her, and my hopes. Why I'd given her up. How lonely I'd been, and then how angry. About my mother's ways, and how I couldn't bear the idea of being anything like her. Even Grimaldi's threat of blackmail and the decorated box and how it applied to my daughter—I actually said the words, and they thrilled and frightened me: my daughter. I felt absolutely safe in the warmth of Diego's arms, speaking of love and true, honest things, no need for prevarications or lies. He was a man who would take me as I was. I was so happy.

“Truthfully,” he said when I'd finished my story, “I can't see you settling for any one man. Perhaps as truthfully as I can't see myself with any one woman. But I think I should try.”

We both laughed at that one, and let it pass. Diego's cries of ecstasy often included prayers in favour of his seed, or of women about to go into labour—a bit strange or religious, but somehow endearing. Spaniards take their faith seriously, all aspects of it, like medicine.

He returned to business. “I warned you to say nothing to the Infanta Carlota of Naples.”

“I remember. And I haven't.”

“She's too impetuous, always has been. Thinks she can solve everything herself if she just behaves arrogantly enough. Cristina expressly forbid her sister from knowing the plan for that reason. They had a falling out.”

“Really? Why?”

“Carlota thinks Cristina's a silly cow for actually falling in love after the king's death. Visibly pregnant much too soon. The people were screaming, ‘Death to the whore!'”

This chilled me then, and chills me now. Why are women always made to pay for their passion? And it reminded me again of the princesses.

“Diego,” and I propped myself up on one elbow to look him in the eye, helped by the sun beginning to peek through the curtains. “You need to assure me that the infantas, Luisa Fernanda and Isabel, will be in no danger. That they will be absolutely safe on their journey to Paris. Do you promise me?”

“As much as I can promise anything,
Bandita.
Even I am not in the know about the full repercussions. Other moves are in the works, apparently. General Narváez, who had to flee Spain when Espartero took over the government, has been living in Paris. He is greatly admired by María Cristina. She's advocating a movement to get Espartero out of office and Narváez into it. Again, I know no more than this—and even this I shouldn't have told you.” He kissed the hollow at the base of my throat. “Life is gambling. A new hand, a new chance—throw it up in the air, see where it lands.”

I thought about this for a moment, and when I looked over, he was asleep.

Ventura's hopes had come true: People had gone mad for tickets and the event was sold out. Cunningly, these masked balls are reviewed, exactly like a theatrical production: Attendees are commented upon in the papers, and this whips ticket holders into a frenzy of competition over costumes and masks.

The entire ballroom now resembled the Piazza San Marco in Venice, tricked out for a public, midnight event, as if taking place during that watery city's
carnivale.
I stood with Ventura, our arms linked, wondering what the night would bring.

“Madrileños dread the abstentions of Lent. It's perfect timing,” Ventura said proudly. “We're setting up the conditions for
carnivale
behaviour, Rosana. Bent on pleasure, excited revellers believe anything can happen—murder, mayhem, even revolution!”

“And then it will,” I added softly, and with new dread.

“I didn't hear that,” he said and pulled his arm away. Like all of us, he was nervous. It had come down to this: He had his role and I had mine, and we must go ahead and play them without further distractions.

Diego had kissed me as I'd been about to leave that morning, with warm lips and sleepy eyes. “I will see you tonight in your finery. And then, who knows when?”

“I'm nervous, Diego. What if the prime minister doesn't—?”

“Have no fear on that score. Don't think of us for a second while you're with him. Concentrate all your forces.”

“I will, of course.” I felt foolish, but said it anyway. “Will you be jealous?”

“No. But I will find you; I will make sure nothing bad happens to you,
Bandita.
Believe me.”

“I love you.” The words fell out before I realized they were true. “Be careful.”

“Always.”

Then, just as suddenly, it was upon us.

I'd hired a clever woman to do my coiffure. My black hair, washed in rosewater the night before, was piled with elaborate abandon on the top of my head. I had the seed pearls that had popped off Isabel's mermaid costume; dozens of the beautiful things hadn't even been missed. I'd gathered them up and now had the hairdresser distribute these tiny pearls amongst my tresses, with ingenious little pins. The effect was gorgeous.

My makeup I effected myself. At twenty-two, not much can go wrong. All you need do is highlight what's there; the stage of covering and concealing has not yet arrived. I thought about this while darkening my brows with a pencil and outlining my lips. Diego's words about life as a gamble were haunting me; I'd never really thought of it that way. He was in his thirties, he was used to making tactical decisions; I was
young and had always been rash. Maybe he was right: You had to play the game with skill, not just luck. Not just beauty and youth. Not even fueled only by anger or the need to “show them.” I looked myself in the eye, pencil in abeyance. Beneath these more sober, mature reflections, I was also excited with that shivery joy of performance ahead. I wanted to shine, to prove my skill, to have Diego take me in his arms afterwards, ride each other all night, and make him shout that he loved me. But I told myself I would be careful, too.