Rapture of the Deep: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Soldier, Sailor, Mermaid, Spy (23 page)

"Oh, it's nothing, Higgins. I was just taught a lesson in love and trust by a twelve-year-old, is all."

"Ah," says Higgins, withholding comment on that. "And what will you wear tonight?"

"Oh, the blue! Definitely the blue! With the red wig!"

Heavy sigh from Higgins, as he sets to work making me look presentable, which ain't an easy task.

Ricardo Mendoza is a small, dapper gent, who wears perfectly tailored suits and rules over his establishment with a quiet but iron hand. Break one of his rules and you will never again step into Café Americano, which is a
very
popular spot. The rules are:

Do not ever provoke a fight.
Do not ever become a nasty or sloppy drunk.
Do not ever force your attentions on any of the women and girls in the place.

Do not ever cheat at the gaming tables (that one could get you killed as well).
Do conduct yourselves, always, as ladies and gentlemen.

Yes, Ric runs a classy joint, and I like it and feel right at home. There is a long, curving bar at the end of the large room, with many brightly colored liquors displayed and softly lit with lamps hidden behind the rows of bottles. There are tables all about that seat anywhere from two to ten people, and food, good food, is served by smiling young girls, modestly dressed.

The gaming tables are off to the left, the stage is in the center, and there are private rooms off a hallway that goes back to the privy.

In the center of it all stands Ricardo Mendoza, ramrod straight, greeting his customers with a quiet dignity.

"Buenas noches, Señorita Bouvier,"
he says, bowing. "It is very good to see you again. We very much enjoyed your performance last night."

"Good evening, Señor Ric," say I, dipping down into a medium curtsy. "I hope tonight will be as successful." He then leads me and my entourage to a fine table. The kids are beside me—carrying my guitar, fiddle, and concertina—and they are followed by Tink, Davy, and Higgins, all looking fine. I have my pennywhistle up one sleeve and my shiv up the other.

It's a good hour before the performance, so we order food and drink—delicious, spicy Cuban dishes, fine wine for me, rum punches for the lads, and straight rum, carefully sipped, for Higgins. Joannie and Daniel delight in the piles of sweetened tropical fruit placed on the table—oranges, grapefruit, pomegranates, passion fruit, bananas—and the drinks made from them, as well as a rice water and sugar mixture that they especially like.

At the end of the dinner, I lift my glass and say, "A toast to the Brotherhood ... and the Sisterhood of the
Nancy B. Alsop.
Long may all sail."

Hear, hear!

The toast is drunk and I look across all the riches laid on the table and say to Joannie, "A far cry from the old kip in Cheapside, eh girl?"

She nods, putting another breaded shrimp in her mouth, grinding it up, and washing it down with a slug of lemonade.

"But not too much, Sister, or you'll get sick," I say, dispatching a last shrimp of my own. "I know I ain't your mother"—and here I give her a big wink—"but we do have to sing for our supper soon." We have been practicing a few numbers together, and tonight will be the first time she performs in public. I know she is a little nervous about it.

She nods again, and slacks off a bit.

I pat my lips with my napkin and rise. "Come, Joannie, time to continue your education," I say, and head for the gambling tables, with her following behind.

I lose a little money at the chuck-a-luck wheel, explain the bad odds to Joannie, and then sit at a table where a version of poker is being played. I quickly pick up the rules, and even though I'm playing it straight, I manage to end up winning some. Joannie stands behind me, taking it all in.

It is a pleasant interlude, and I know it keeps Joannie's mind off the coming show. Or, rather, it is pleasant until an empty chair is pulled back and a certain Spanish naval officer sits down in it and fixes his mocking gaze upon me.

"Ah. It is Lieutenant Juan Carlos Cisneros, the pride of the Spanish Navy," I say in my coldest voice. "How good to see you."

"So. The
muchacha
Bouvier, simple sponge diver, is now found to be an acclaimed café singer, as well," he says, signaling for the deck of cards to be given to him. "And now I find her simple self sitting at a table with the quality of Cuba. How interesting."

The other men at the table begin to look concerned when I rise, throw down my cards, take up my cash, and say, "I may not be of the quality, Señor, but all the same, I am not so low as to sit at the same table with a man who has abused me, who has put his unwanted hand upon me, and who has forced me to kneel to clean his boots!" At that they look downright shocked.

I spin around to head back into the main room, and to our table, with Joannie following. "It's time for me to get up on the stage. I'll take the guitar to start. Joannie, I'll call you up later." I put the guitar strap around my neck and lift my eyebrows to Señor Ric. He nods and mounts the stage, and the place falls silent.

"Señoritas y señores.
Ladies and gentlemen," he calls out, acknowledging the international character of his clientele. "Fresh from the United States, England, and France, may I present Mademoiselle Jacqueline Bouvier!"

There is applause and I mount the platform, strum a chord, then go right into a Spanish love song "Sólo Tú," which means "Only You," which I guess sums up the sentiments of most love songs in only two words.

I always figure it's best to start out slow and then get wilder. That song gets a very good response, and I pick up the fiddle and rip into "Spanish Fandango," and that gets 'em where they live. Hispanics are a much less reserved people than us English. They hear a tune they like and they are up on their feet, clicking castanets and swirling skirts and shouting
Ole!

I like this kind of audience—they certainly don't sit on their hands.

After that I do a few Anglo American fiddle tunes—"Billy in the Low Ground," then "Rabbit in the Pea Patch," and then I have a trembling Joannie come up and together we do a medley of "Sail Away Ladies" and "Old Molly Hare." She does well and gathers confidence with each sung note and, at the end, is glowing under the applause.

As she leaves the stage, I notice that Eduardo Santoro and his mates have come in and seated themselves near the front. I assume they came in with that damned Cisneros. I catch Eduardo's eye and nod, letting him know that I will be joining them at the break.

After that, I recite the poem "La Boca Dulce," "The Sweet Mouth," followed by some Galician tunes on the concertina. Then I end the set with "The Rocky Road to Dublin," a great Irish tune that seems to travel well across national borders.

I curtsy and leave the stage to resounding applause, which warms me to my soul, and I go over to the Spanish sailors' table and sit down next to Eduardo.

"So how are my fine and gallant Spanish sailors this lovely Caribbean evening?" I purr, settling in. I pat the hand of Mateo, the youngest of them, and he blushes quite pink. I don't think he has had his first shave yet, and I find him very ... well ... cute.

They inform me that they are in the finest of fettle, and I can tell that they are delighted to be seen having drinks with the star entertainer.

"Tell me,
hermanos,
what exactly is it that you do on the great and glorious
San Cristobal,"
I ask by way of innocent conversation. "Are you cooks? Stewards? Carpenters?"

Jesus looks at me with great disdain. "No,
mi corazón,
we are gunners ... great and magnificent gunners!" Jesus has had a few, I can tell.

"It is true," says Eduardo. "We can aim, fire, and reload our cannon in under ninety seconds. I should like to see the English match—"

All four of them suddenly shoot to their feet as I sense a presence behind me.

"So," says Lieutenant Juan Carlos Cisneros y Siquieros, in a low and sinister tone, "you are telling everything you know about the
San Cristobal
to this girl?"

"No,
Teniente,
your pardon," pleads a very white-faced Eduardo. "She is only a common
cantante.
What could be the harm?"

"She is not a common anything, fool. She has been pumping you idiots for information. Mondragon!"

There is another sailor behind Cisneros, probably a bosun's mate. He steps forward and says,
"Sí, Teniente?"

"They are all under arrest. Take them back to the ship."

"Sí, Teniente,"
says Mondragon.
"Vamos, hombres,"
and he leads the very chastened and unhappy four Spanish sailors out of the Café Americano.
Poor lads, what started out as a fine evening for you turned into something very dif
ferent. Looks like a long stretch of no shore leave for you fellows. Oh well, you're all good Catholic boys, so just offer it up—it will reduce your time in Purgatory, or so they say...

"As for you," says Cisneros, grasping me by the arm, "you will come with me. I have a room nearby and we will—"

I shake his hand off my arm. "We will do nothing,
perro,"
I say. "Look around you." He does and sees my lads standing up and staring hard at him. He knows there are weapons under those suits. Señor Ric, also, has noticed and is headed this way.
The Rules, Cisneros—surely you remember?

"You have sent away your men, Lieutenant, but mine are still here. Do you see? Good. Now get yourself gone, you."

His face turns a dangerous shade of red. Then he hits a brace, clicks his heels, bows slightly, and says, "I will take you. Count on that. I swear it."

He turns and leaves the place, his heels clicking on the hardwood floor.

I look over at my boys and see that they are sinking back into their chairs. I give them a nod and slight smile of thanks, and then remount the stage for the second set.

As I am putting my bow to the Lady Gay, a group of masked revelers, mostly men, but some women, too, enter and are seated. The one who sits at the head of the table wears a white half mask with red tassels to either side, and he seems to have taken a keen interest in me. But I am the leading entertainer, so why should he not? The masks are not unusual—it is Carnival, after all, and, besides, there are many times a gent likes to be anonymous, especially when he is out on the town and with a woman who is
not
his wife. They call for drinks and I welcome them, and then I lower the bow and take off into the opening number.

After all is said and sung, I bow and take the applause, then head for the hallway that leads to the back rooms, as if I were going to my dressing room. I do like to keep up the illusion that I am a class act. Actually, I'm going back to the privy.

On my way, I notice that the group of revelers who had come in during the break had left. Too bad. They seemed most appreciative of my performance and I expected some good tips from them.
Oh, well, stiffed again, girl.

My violin case is left open on the stage, and people are tossing coins into it. From the corner of my greedy eye I can see that, while most of the coins are silver, some are gold.
Ah yes, how I love it—loud applause and gold to boot.
Joannie has instructions to close the case and bring it back to our table after the last coin falls.

I nip into the hall and go past the closed doors to the private rooms, and into the privy. In there I find an old attendant, who hands me a damp cloth and opens the inner door for me. The latrine consists of a hole in the floor, at the bottom of a shallow masonry funnel. On either side are flat places to put your feet as you squat down over it to answer Nature's call. I drop drawers, hike skirts, and do it, put the damp cloth to good use, and then toss it in a nearby receptacle. Pretty neat, I'm thinking. Least I didn't have to sit down on something nasty. Up drawers, down skirts, and back out to the anteroom to check my face in the mirror while the attendant whisks any dust off my shoulders with her brush. Satisfied that all is as well as it could be with my appearance, I give her a good tip—
Muchas gracias, Señora—
and go back out to rejoin my mates.

I don't get there.

As I stride by the second door on the left, it opens and a hand snakes out to grab me by the neck and pull me in.

A strong hand is clapped over my mouth, and I am unable to cry out for help. My arms are pinned to my sides, preventing me from drawing my shiv.
If this your work, Cisneros, you will pay for it!
I squirm and kick, but it avails me nothing. As I am carried across the room, I can see that I have been taken by that bunch of masked revelers.

"Aquí, Capitán.
Take her!" says the brute who has me by the neck and who flings me now into the lap of the man seated at the head of the table.
"Mucho gusto!"

There is laughter all around. Well, let 'em laugh at
this.

I whip out my shiv and put it to the throat of the whitemasked man.

He merely chuckles and reaches up to pull off his mask. "It is good to see you again, my sweet little English pirate. Let us have a kiss."

I sit astounded.

Flaco!

"Flaco!" I cry, and fling my arms around his neck. "Flaco Jimenez! You devil! Well met, oh, so very well met!" Once again I gaze fondly upon my old comrade-in-piratical-arms. Same long black hair braided in thin strands that end in brightly colored beads and ribbons, same thin mustache and pointed chin beard, teeth gleaming white in his tanned face as he smiles upon me. The very picture of a dashing buccaneer.

"So good to see you again, Jacky Faber, my little English pirate. Let us have a kiss."

I look around the table at the various scarred and furrowed faces, some grinning, some not, and cry out, "Jorge! Moto! Not yet hanged, you jolly banditos! I am so very glad! And there's Serpiente and Coyote, and young Perrito, too! Lift your glasses!" A serving girl goes by with a tray of wine goblets and I snag one and hold it up. "To the waves and to the foam and to the Red Brotherhood. Let us always stand onboard as brothers!
Salud, dinero, y amor!"