Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards (39 page)

I told him about my newly invented dance, based on the tarantella and, joy of joys, he announced that he had the score of the original folk dance, a souvenir of his travels.

“I will speak with Lumley. I'm sure he'll consent to meet with you. And after that, he won't be able to resist you. We must get you working—you must set yourself up. I am sorry for that, but . . . Do you mind, my dear?”

I remembered Carlota's words, that I should waste no time in finding my own way. “No, I don't mind. I wish it.” And I really did.

A few days later, I met with the impresario. My raven hair, dark blue eyes, and long, shapely legs made a favourable impression, so Howard reported later.

“He said you had something piquant and provocative about you, and so he will allow himself to be ‘taken in'—something I must let you know he very rarely does. He keeps rooms for dancers from out of town, and he'll find a place for you there. Of course Lumley realizes that you are a complete novice—”

“I am not!”

“—as a dancer, but it doesn't matter. You have something, and that something can bring in money. That's what counts.”

The earl rubbed his hands together energetically and beat a happy tattoo upon his thighs. “He is scheduling your stage début for the third of June, when you will dance between the acts of a gala performance of
The Barber of Seville.
Is that not fitting? The queen's uncle, the ancient king of Hanover, will be there; London's bejeweled elite are expected to attend. The tickets are rushing out the door. It will be stunning, Lola Montez!
You
will be stunning.”

I screamed and ran around, jumping up and down.

So, it was done, I had an engagement. It was to happen.

Now I had to dance. And that's when I realized: I'd spent so little time actually learning the basics, learning the techniques! Should I find another instructor? No, I decided, I would simply have to capitalize upon my innate enthusiasms and acrobatic body and continue to refine the dance through which I had seduced the Spanish prime minister. I called it
El Oleano,
a nod to the pretty, scented flowers which proliferate on the hardy oleander bush, flourishing in flinty, barren, unwelcoming ground. As I vowed to do.

Lumley found an empty studio for me, and I began to practice in front of the enormous mirror leaning against one of the end walls. Then I hired a rehearsal pianist from the money the impresario advanced me, and began my experiments in earnest. I added embellishments, thanks to the little princess, Luisa Fernanda. Tell a story. A young girl, a nest of spiders, a frenzy . . .

During the following weeks, word of the executions of the Spanish generals filtered into London and hit the newspapers. In my little room, I read them avidly, soaking the pages with my tears. The people had begun to turn Diego into a folk hero. His uniform—the one he and I had put to such delicious and unofficial use, now with six blood-stained bullet holes across the chest—was becoming a symbol of the government's corruption, and some were talking of putting it on display in protest. The cigars he'd handed out to the firing squad were to be added to the display—they hadn't been smoked; the soldiers honoured his gesture too much. Little by little, it seemed that public outrage was growing and spreading—Diego's final political act.

Shockingly, I also read that Grimaldi and his family were about to return to Spain so that he could take a position as statesman. Espartero's government had toppled, partly due to the people's disgust at the summary executions of de León and de la Concha. General Narváez, Cristina's choice, had now taken the reins, and she'd be returning to Madrid in triumph any day now. So I risked my neck, and Diego and Manuel lost their lives, for nothing, really. For a nervous mother's whim. A rich, powerful, twitchy mother's whim.

This is the way the world wags.

I thought often of Juliana de Porris during these weeks, and badgered the earl to write to her on official parliamentary stationary, but nothing came. It was her succour, above all, which saved my life when I was most in danger of losing it, and I pray she has not been made to pay for that generosity. I have added her name to my chosen one, proudly borne: Doña Maria Dolores de Porris y Montez!

As I rehearsed,
El Oleano
became an outlet for my fears and furies. The young girl enters, as if dancing gaily across a meadow of flowers, bending to sniff, and pick, and smile at the blossoms. This dance of joy section takes about five minutes, give or take my enthusiasm for the pastoral on any given day. Then, the girl discovers that she has stepped upon a spider's nest. There are little spiders everywhere, and not only are they little spiders, but they are little tarantula spiders! The sting of a tarantula, as everyone knows, can cause spasms, convulsions, and death. And think how many have leapt up her skirts! She grabs the ends of
her skirt, whirling, shakes it up and down vigorously—thus revealing more and sometimes
more
of her legs, though she is moving so fast that naturally it is never a lewd or scandalous display. Besides which, she is a young girl, and every honorable man knows it is morally depraved to slaver over innocent children. Just as it seems that the poor young thing is about to succumb to poisonous convulsions, the little spiders run down her legs, off into the meadow. The girl, exhausted, breathless, spies the parental spider, standing hairily on the nest. The girl rushes over to it, begins stamping—take that! And that! It is the very poetry of avenging contempt.

And very curative.

I think my pianist wondered what on earth he'd gotten himself in to. But then Howard would come to watch, sitting with aristocratic hands braced on his spread knees, laughing uproariously, clapping immoderately, and the musical crosspatch would shrug to himself: whatever pays the rent.

Lumley cranked his publicity machine into action on my behalf. Malmesbury also did everything in his power: His circle of opera friends were all enjoined to purchase seats and bring others along. These friends were rich, and many of them were minor European royalty: Germans, various Saxons and Teutons, plus assorted former-barbarian toadies. One afternoon, about three weeks before the date of my début, Lumley sent along a friend of his own to watch my rehearsal. This friend was a critic from the
Morning Post,
who was to write me an advance piece. He was, therefore, a Very Important Person. I chatted him up, made him laugh a few times (cocking my head at the pianist to warn him to keep his eyes in his head thank you very much), and once the critic was sufficiently buttered, I danced for him.

When Lumley arrived a few days later to see the dance for himself, he reported his press friend's reaction: “He found you a sparklingly brilliant creature, Señora Montez, his very words. His advice, however, is that we must discourage viewers from comparing you with the classically trained French-Italian ballerinas; rather, we must insist that you are in a class by yourself, you are something that the English public has never yet seen: a bona-fide, purely Spanish, danseuse. Now let me see what we have.”

I danced. Lumley was astonished, and went away, I think, happy.

The next day, the earl also brought along a pal to see the rehearsal. This pal was one of the minor royalty types, a German relative of Queen Victoria's, prince of a tiny little duchy or some such called something like Lohenstein-Abershof. His risible name was Prince Heinrich the LXXII. How do you have seventy-two male scions, all called Heinrich? Like ducks in a shooting gallery! Royalty is impossible! Listening to the silly middle-aged booby gas on about his castle and about life there with the bucolic peasants, I thought the entire place sounded demented. But far be it from me to insult a man's love. He stammered and flirted like the shy, red-headed bumbler he was, ending by inviting me to visit him in Lowerstummy-Avershoof (or whatever it was) any time, to view firsthand the life of a bachelor prince. Sounds exciting, I thought. In your dreams, freckled chum. He nearly wet himself watching my rehearsal. It was somewhat embarrassing, even for Malmesbury, who usually finds great amusement in such observational moments.

Finally—just a few nights ago, unbelievable!—I was given access to the orchestra for several run-throughs of the dance. They, too, seemed thunderstruck; bodes well, I thought. I am something brand new!

Then. Two nights before the début, I awoke with a startled shriek. I'd been dreaming of Emma, seen a bloody knife held to the side of her little, dark head. After that, it was impossible to sleep; all I could do was mull over what this could mean. In the morning, I hastened to the best jeweller and purchased an elaborately decorated jewel box. I went home, pulled my beloved peridot earbobs from my ears, and placed them inside: the only things I cared about which I'd managed to bring out of danger—my little girl, keep out of danger. I sent them posthaste to Aunt Cat and Uncle Herbert's address in Durham, with Emma's name on the outside and a note on the inside: “I hope you enjoy these for many years. I am told—I believe—that they bring luck. I think of you, my dear little one, very often, and of your dear ears. Believe me, I am yours. Aunt Eliza.”

And as soon as I'm out of this dusty black hole of a room, away from the Cockney and the dour little European—oh God keep me safe—I
will travel to Durham to see her for myself, to hug her and hold her and become part of her life. I swear it.

It's true, that dream had me rattled. It's easy to be bold in the middle of the day, surrounded by life and activity and an approaching large event which is consuming your entire focus. But darkness is a different story. The priest, the hellhound—I could no longer force the fear down. Where was he? His wound, had it healed? Was it slowing him down or making him crazier? I'd heard him whimper. He would never forgive that, I thought. That night, two nights before my début—just two nights ago!—I locked my door carefully and placed a chair under the door handle. And I sat back down on the bed, shaking. Looking at the handle, studying it. Holding my trembling fingers still in my lap and thinking. I could almost imagine a whiff of cigar smoke and the stable, a hint of the warmth of Diego's brown skin: “The only advantage you can count on is your own skill and daring, all other conditions being equal.” A twirl of the mustache. “Never let your opponent gain power, turn the crowd, cause distraction by making you angry or afraid, or he'll destroy you utterly.” Oh, Diego. Let me love you again. “Keep your head, trust your skill and your daring, and play hard, without fear. Do you understand me now,
Bandita?
”

And suddenly I did. I removed the chair from under the door handle.

Courage. And shuffle the cards.

And so that is that. I danced my début. In my moment of triumph, the hideous voice denounced me: “That's not Lola Montez!” That voice, that spidery, attenuated shape—I danced it out of the theatre!

Then I clambered to my feet. Backstage, a new kind of chaos was erupting. The opera singers, stagehands, all seeming not to know their next moves. The stage manager finally hustled over, grabbed me by the shoulders and hissed, “Get the bloody hell to your dressing room, young vixen. Get off my stage.”

Passing into the wings, no one would look at me. A group of excitable men in evening clothes, circling someone, whispering and
gesticulating fiercely—circling Lumley, the impresario. I heard: “You'll be embarrassed, no, you'll be
excoriated
for perpetrating a fraud!” “—drag members of the nobility into a much worse scandal—” “I remember this young woman, she—” “Apprehend her!”

Run, Lola! Get to your dressing room, change into street clothes, grab your pistols. I hurried down the corridor, threw myself into the room, closed and locked the door, turned—and uttered a little scream: the earl of Malmesbury, his face red and sombre.

“My dear, what have you done?” He took a long swallow from the bottle of champagne clutched in his fist.

“It's the demon, the murderous devil who—!”

“What about this apparition?” He sounded tired.

I grabbed his hand, stopped him from taking another glug. “Is
here,
in the theatre! How or why I don't know but—”

The earl sank onto the settee. “Don't be preposterous.”

“Here, I tell you! Coming to kill me!”

Malmesbury put his face in his hands, murmuring, “You know and I know, Lola sweet, Eliza mine, that the whole sodding Spanish story, though entertaining, can't be true.” He raised bleary eyes at me, head wobbling. “You made it up, for me, for my delight. And it
was
delightful. But it's over now. You've gone too far, dear. I'm exhausted, can't keep it up.”

I was flabbergasted, horrified. He hadn't believed . . . ?

As if he'd heard my shocked thought he added, “There
are
a number of nasty gentlemen out there, and many seem determined to pull down nobility who may, somehow and unknowingly, have become amorously entangled.” His eyes all bloodshot, hair a rumpled mess, he suddenly looked much older than his years. “My wife is the rich one, you know. I am the lucky beneficiary of her bounty.” What in God's name was he talking about? I took a hopeful step towards him.