Viva Jacquelina! (15 page)

I did notice with some concern, however, that he had a sword swinging by his side.
Hmmm
... The aforementioned Romeo was also only fourteen when he, too, armed in the same way, ventured out into the life of a city, and we all know what we got then, don't we—a whole pile of dead kids is what, Juliet included. But, still, it is only a late Saturday afternoon and what could happen? Besides, men will be men, boys will be boys, and
Majos
will be
Majos,
so what can I say? I'm just a stupid girl who doesn't usually rely on swords.

“It is a place where only the common people go. I go there because it is cheap and Amadeo and Asensio will not take me with them to the Café Central.”

“Oh, and where is that?”

“Across the plaza. Over there.”

I follow his gaze and see a crowd of people outside of what has to be a very popular place. Although it is over a hundred yards away, I can still hear the laughter and song and general hilarity that comes from the place. I also note that there are many French soldiers in full uniform scattered about.

“Never mind, Señor Cesar Rivera. Let them have their fun. I am sure this place will suit me just fine. Let's go in.”

We duck in and my senses are assailed with the smell of hundreds of years of spilled wine, whiskey, and ale... and the oh-so-good smells of simple cooking. Yep, just my kind of place.

Cesar raises a hand, and a young girl comes over to take our order.

“So, Cesar,” she says, looking me over briskly, “what will you have?”

I'm looking about for the reputed musician and say, offhand, “Some wine for me,
por favor.
”

“Uh, Jack-ie,” says Cesar, pointing to the rows of huge casks lined up along one wall. “This is Spain. We have many wines.”

“Uh, red and dry,” I say. I go to dig in my pocket to pay, but think better of it. It would un-man him, and we cannot have that, no, we cannot.

“Vino rojo seco para la señorita, y grappa para mi.”

The girl walks off, swinging her hips, to get the drinks. Somehow I get the feeling that Cesar's reputation as a ladies' man has just gone way up in this establishment. Good for him. Glad I could help.

Ha. There he is.
An old man, stooped and halting in his walk, has made his careful way to a chair in the corner. A guitar leans against the wall and he picks it up, puts his fingers to the strings, and begins to strum.

He starts out slowly, humming softly over the melody, then he brings up the tempo. There are not many people here—just several old couples and one table of some younger ones. It is not a big room, but the man knows how to work it, I can see that.

He has an open guitar case in front of him, and there are only a few centavos in it. He goes into his next song. It is “
Malagueña Salerosa,”
which I already know, but he does an excellent job on it, especially with the guitar, and I count that as a good sign.

I dig out a
real
and say, “Please, Cesar, let me pay for the next round. I need the change.”

He nods and signals for our glasses to be refilled. The girl returns, our wine is brought, and my
real
is broken down into smaller bits of coin. She also brings us plates of
tapas,
small snacks from trays laid upon the bar. Like all “free lunches” I have partaken of around the world, they are very good—marinated olives, baby octopus, smoked sardines, jerked beef—and
very
salty... The more to make you thirsty, the more to make you drink, for that is where the money is in a tavern.
There is no such thing as a free lunch,
wisdom well-learned from Mr. Yancy Beauregard Cantrell, back on the
Belle of the Golden West,
where we laid out many a salty
tapa
and served many a quenching drink.

After the next song, I creep over and toss some
centavos
into the case and catch the eye of the musician.

He assesses me, then says, “Your request, Señorita?”

“Sing your favorite song, Maestro,” I say. “For me.”

He nods and I retreat to our table. He tunes a string, strums a chord, and then begins:

 

Los bilbilicos cantan
Con sospiros de amor
Mi neshama, mi ventura
Estan en tu poder

 

It is one of the loveliest songs I have ever heard. I
must
get next to this man. I have enough Spanish to know that the words mean:

 

The nightingales sing
With sighs of love
My soul, my happiness
Is in your power

 

“Cesar. Come, let us go to a closer table,” I say, already up and moving over next to the man who had sung that beautiful song.

He runs the backs of his fingers over the strings and is about to start singing again as I kneel down beside him.

“That was beautiful, Señor,” I say, breathless. “Please permit me to speak.”

He nods, continuing to strum as I go on.

“I am but a poor American, but I very much want to learn the Spanish songs. I have some skill with the
guitarra.
I want you to teach me that one and any more you know. I will pay.”

With that, I pull out another coin and put it in his case.

He smiles down at me. “I am willing to do that, child,” he says. “But that was not a Spanish song. It was written by the Sephardim before they were thrown out of Spain. That was a pity, for they were good at songs.” He looks off. “They threw out the Arabs, also, and they were good at many things, too. The Spanish are good at throwing out things.”

“And you, Señor?” I ask. “I heard you were a gypsy man. Did they throw you out, too?”

He throws back his great head of gray hair and laughs. “They tried to throw us out, too, but it didn't work. It never does. We are too tough, too clever. And yes, young one, I will teach you gypsy guitar. Name the times and we will do it.”

 

Later, Cesar and I emerge from La Taberna de Dos Gatos and blink in the setting sun.

“It's best we get back in time for supper, Miss,” says Cesar. “Señor Garcia might be mad.”

“Aye,
chico,
let us go,” I say, giving him a hug. “It was a
most
fine day, and I thank you for it!”

“I believe I see Amadeo and Asensio coming across the plaza,” observes the lad, looking over the vast space.

I shade my eyes and see that it is, indeed, the two.
Ha! You may be high and mighty
Majos, but you are still poor art students and not anxious to pass up a free supper, are you? And won't you find it charming that young Cesar has a fine escort today, has beaten your time, as it were, won't you—

No, they won't. Not now, anyway.

For now Cesar and I find four French soldiers, fully armed and plainly quite drunk, standing in front of us, barring our way.

“Pretty little thing you have there with you, boy,” one says in French. “I think she is much too pretty for you, little man. What do you think, Gaston?”

“Much too pretty.” Gaston burps, unsteady on his pins.

“I think she should come with us, boy. There is a nice cozy alley over there. What do you say, hmmm? Here's a nice coin for her.” He flips a copper coin onto the street, where it tinkles before it slips into a crack between the cobblestones.

Cesar does not understand much of this, but he takes its meaning, oh yes, he does. He steps back and pulls out his sword and snarls, “Back, French pigs! Back! She is not for you! Back, I say!”

“Whoa! The boy has a pig-sticker!” The biggest brute laughs. “Let's see how he can handle it!”

Cesar holds his sword up before him, but I can see it's not going to serve. I look over and see that Amadeo and Asensio are still too far away to help.

“Away with you,” says Cesar. “Go! I will—”

But he will do nothing. He thrusts at the nearest soldier and the man steps aside, laughing, while Gaston lays the butt of his musket to the side of Cesar's head. The boy falls to the ground, senseless, and says not another word.

Oh, Cesar, no!

The head brute reaches out to grab my hand, but he does not get it. Instead, that hand reaches down to grab the hilt of Cesar's fallen sword and hold it up in front of the soldier.

“En garde, cochon,”
I snarl, putting the point of the blade on a line between our eyes and assuming Position Four.

He looks startled for a moment and then he laughs. “
Un femme?
Ha! Take this, girl!”

He makes a clumsy thrust. I parry it and slip into Sixth Position. I retreat and then advance forward in Four, with my eye on his chest. He tries another thrust, and I engage in an envelopment parry, which puts his sword helplessly to the side and our faces close together.

“Un femme?”
I spit. “
Oui. La Belle Jeune Fille Sans Merci, s'il vous plait.”

I come out of the parry and put the point of Cesar's sword to the man's throat.

He looks suddenly doubtful.

Amadeo and Asensio have come upon us, both with swords drawn and looking ferociously enraged.

“Do you wish to die, soldier?” I ask of the brute. “Or would you like to go back to your barracks and fight another day? Eh? What would you like,
soldat
?”

The French soldier looks about, weighing his odds, and decides it's not worth it.

He spits out some curses, thrusts his sword back in its sheath, and then calls his men off. They disappear into the darkening evening.

I let out a shaky breath.

“Pick him up,” I say to Amadeo and Asensio. “Let us go back to the studio. We will tell Cesar that he defended me to the end, which is what he did. Got that? Good. Let's go.”

Soon we see the façade of Estudio Goya, and it looks very good to me.

It is Sunday and we are all going to Mass at La Basilica de San Francisco el Grande—all of us except for Cesar, who is ordered to his bed to recover from his clubbing.

“My bold, bold protector, Cesar Rivera,” I gush as I apply the cool, damp cloth to his forehead. “My gallant Spanish knight who stood up to armed French soldiers in defense of my sacred honor!” He has quite a bump there, but he will recover. He looks up at me with big brown eyes.

“I... I don't remember much, Senorita, I—”

“But I do, young Galahad! Oh, how you parried their thrusts with the mighty swings of your singing sword till that coward caught you with a low blow from behind! May he rot in hell for his perfidy!”

“But—”

“And seeing the bold hero laid low, the scum took fright and ran off. Amadeo and Asensio came upon the scene and carried you back here, on your very shield, as it were.” I lean forward and place a kiss upon his brow. “And that is how it happened.”

“I... I think I love you, Jack-ie,” he says, reaching up to grasp my hand.

“Of course you do, Cesar.” I laugh, giving his hand a squeeze. “I have found that pretty young boys find it very easy to love me. But I am also very easy to forget, so put me out of your mind, as I am not worth it. Ah, here's Amadeo, and I must be off to Mass. You rest up, you.”

With that, I rise, place another kiss on his forehead, and follow Amadeo out the door.

 

The Basilica de San Francisco el Grande is unlike other magnificent churches I have been in. It's much larger than either Notre Dame, in Paris, or St. Paul's, in London. It is built lower to the ground, more like a fortress, and its dome is much larger. Three chapels at the sides make it even more impressive. Regardless of its size, the interior is comforting with its soft light and illuminated windows. There are large paintings on the walls, generally depicting rather gloomy things—crucifixions, floggings, flayings—but I suppose that suits the Spanish character.

I have decided to pass for Catholic—don't want to give that Carmelita any more arrows for her anti-Jacky bow. And being seen as a Protestant heretic in Catholic Spain is probably not the most healthy of conditions.

I have been to church often enough with Annie and Betsey back in Boston, and with Jean-Paul de Valdon in Paris, to know the basic moves—kneel now, stand now, up-and-down, up-and-down, sing now, pray now—and with my mantilla draped in front of my face, my mumbling lips are obscured from inquiring eyes, like those of Carmelita, for she is certainly intent on watching me.

At any rate, there was no roar of heavenly outrage as I knelt to take the Host on my tongue, nor as I took a sip of the sacramental wine. No, I went back to the pew, head bowed in prayer, hands clasped before me, a beatific expression on my face, having just been washed in the Blood of the Lamb, as it were. After all, we take Communion in Church of England services, too, so I imagine everything was all right, liturgically speaking.

 

Before we leave the Basilica, Amadeo says to me, “Come, Jacquelina, and I will show you something.” Mystified, I follow him into a small chapel off to the side. There are paintings on the walls, but we pass them by as he leads me to stand before a particularly fine one.

“It is a painting of Saint Bernardino de Siena done by our Master, twenty years ago. Do you notice anything?”

I look up at it. It portrays the saint standing on a rock, bathed in golden light, preaching to the multitudes that are gathered about him.

“Well, it is beautifully done, of course,” I say, peering closely. “And there must be a hundred people there. But what... ?”

“See the man to the right?” answers Amadeo, pointing at one of the figures. “That is the Master's portrait of himself.”

And so it is. It is a younger Goya, but it is he, all right. While all the others in the painting gaze up at the saint in adoration—and there is a crowned king among them—the Master does not. He stares straight out at the viewer as if to say,
Yes, this is a holy saint and there is a crowned king kneeling at his blessed feet, but I am Maestro Francisco José de Goya, by God, and I painted this!