Viva Jacquelina! (22 page)

“Cesar!” I scream over the mayhem. “To the wall! With me, now!”

I grab his arm and drag him to the side as the press of men and bulls is upon us. We stand, our backs to the stones and feel the crush—first of desperate men, then of crazed and maddened bulls, then, no men, just bulls, raking their murderous horns back and forth. There goes another man down, there is another badly gored, on his knees and clutching his belly.

Suddenly, I can see no more as a rough, heavy, barrel-chested and hairy body is pressed against my face.
Good Lord, I can't breathe, I can't . 
.
 .

The beast moves away, and I gulp down a breath. I still have Cesar by the arm and I screech at him, “We cannot stay down here! We'll be trampled! Follow me up!”

The bull, which had us momentarily pinned, stands stalled in front of us, pawing the ground in bullish frustration, unable to move forward because of the crush. I reach up, grab a handful of hair, and pull myself up to straddle his back, right behind the hump.

I thrust my hand down to Cesar and he grasps it, and I pull him up behind me.

“Watch your legs! Other bulls may gore you!”

He pulls his legs up high on the flanks of the bull, as do I—almost, my crazed mind remembers, jockey-fashion, and I am once again on the back of the Sheik of Araby, except that the Sheik liked me, and this bull definitely does not.

Before, the bull was merely snorting out his displeasure, now he bellows with rage at feeling us on his back. He charges forward, finding a hole in the pack and lunging through it, bucking madly.

“Hang on to me, Cesar! If you fall, you are dead!” Cesar glances back at the herd behind us and needs no further encouragement. He locks his arms around my waist as I clamp my legs as tightly as I can against the bull's heaving ribs.

We can't stay here forever. If we get to the plaza, the bull will have room to really buck and we will not be able to hold on! We will be lost.

I see the light from the open plaza at the end of the street and despair. But then I see something else—a long, low wrought-iron balcony looming ahead.

“Cesar!” I cry. “Stand up! On the bull's back! Put your hands on my shoulders. That's it! See that balcony? Jump up and grab it when we get under it! You jump first, and I'll grab the other end! Ready? Go!”

I feel him get his feet under him and then, yes! He leaps up and grabs the iron and swings away, out of harm's way.

My turn now.

As we gallop beneath the deck, I gather my strength and...
There! That loop of iron, there!

I leap, but while my fingertips touch it, I cannot make it and I fall back down on the bull, as we burst out into the square.

Sure enough, given room, the bull proceeds to buck wildly, swinging his great head back and forth, leaping in the air to come down on stiffened forelegs, using all his tricks to get rid of the annoying burden on his back.

Oh, Lord, I am lost! If I hit the ground, he will turn and gore me with his terrible horns, he will . 
.
 .

He won't do that at all, as salvation comes in the form of a
picador,
a man riding a thickly padded horse and carrying a spear.

“Up behind me!” the man shouts, and he brings his horse alongside.

I need no further instruction. I grab a strap on the back of his jacket and pull myself aboard.

Thank you, Lord, thank you,
I whisper as I lean my head into the man's back.

“Look,
chico,
” he says. “You are the hero! The one who rode
el toro!
See them cheer!”

I look out over the plaza and see other
picadors
rounding up the bulls and guiding them to an open gate at the side of the
corrida.
They are holding up their spears and waving them at me, shouting something. There are people leaning out of windows on the plaza, also cheering.

Viva, Viva el Rubio! Viva el Rubio!

The Blonde, herself, does not quite believe that she is still alive, let alone being cheered.

But, what the hell, I'll take it. I do love applause . 
.
 .

I direct my lovely
picador
to take me back down my street, and there we go. I make so bold as to struggle to stand behind my rescuer, smiling and waving at the crowd as we go.

Showoff? Yes. I'm afraid it's in my nature. Sin of pride, I know, but what can I do? I am helpless . 
.
 .

Eventually, we arrive under our balcony. I leap up, grab some iron, and soon am back on the balcony of Casa Goya.

“Well, now,” I say to the astounded members of Estudio Goya. “That was a little bit of all right.
Olé?
”

Hoo-ray, it was payday again! And the job at the palace was done! King Joseph had pronounced himself pleased with his portrait, so Estudio Goya packed up and decamped from El Palacio Real, gold
escudos
in the Master's hand. When we got back, all were given an extra packet of coins, and the freedom of the day as well.

Of course, I was off shopping, with Cesar by my side, me joyous, and him, I noticed, moping a bit.

I gave him a poke. “So why the long face, Cesar?”

“It is you, Jacquelina,” he stammered. “I fear you love Amadeo and will go off with him. I could not stand that.”

I gave him a knowing look... and a smile. Then I put my arm around his waist and held him to me.

“I am going off with nobody, my fine young lad, and though it is true that I
like
Amadeo very much,” I said, planting a kiss on Cesar's frowning face, “it is you that I
love,
my bold
toreador.
And even though you disobeyed my wishes and ran with the bulls, I shall always remember how your strong arms came about my waist when we were on the back of that raging beast and how you held my frail self firmly to keep me from falling 'neath those awful hooves.”

He looked at me a bit dubiously, as if he was recalling that time somewhat differently.

“... and it is my hope you have gotten that nonsense with the bull running out of your system forevermore.”

He flushed with pleasure and said, “That was a grand thing, and I shall remember it always.” He paused, and then went on. “But the next time I run with the bulls, it will
not
be at the side of the now famous
El
Rubio.
No, I shall stand on my own, as a man worthy of you, heart of my heart.”

I gave him a look and a poke. “How you do go on, Cesar Rivera! In truth, I have never met your equal in the laying on of the words of love.”

Except maybe for Amadeo . 
.
 . and that Flaco Jimenez . 
.
 . Hmmm . 
.
 . Maybe it is part of the Spanish character. They do say that “Spanish is the Loving Tongue, Soft as Music, Light as Spring,” and I do believe it to be true.

We went into a goldsmith's shop, where I picked up a light gold chain on which to place Django's safe-passage charm. My other chain, the one that holds Jaimy's ring, is back in the seabag that Higgins holds for me, and a good thing, too—had I been wearing it when I was ambushed by those French deserters, I surely would have lost one of my most cherished possessions.

Having gotten the chain, I threaded it through the hole at the top of the talisman and hung it around my neck.

“Clasp me up, Cesar,” I said, leaning over such that he might do it. I feel his fingers, then I sense his lips on the back of my neck, somewhere in the vicinity of my Golden Dragon.

Oh, Cesar, you are such a hot little fellow! When you are grown, I fear for the reputation of any woman within your reach!

“Now, now,
caro mio,
” I said, straightening up and adjusting the necklace. “Enough of that. Let us be off to Dos Gatos for refreshment... and some music, and maybe dance. Would you like to dance with me,
mi corazón?
”

 

But that was yesterday, and yesterday's done.

Today, after breakfast, I go into the studio to find that blank canvases are already on the easels, the exact doubles of those set up for
La Maja,
the painting I had just posed for. I look around... Again no canvas for me, just the five—the big one for Goya, the smaller ones for Amadeo, Asensio, Carmelita, and Cesar.

There is a fire in the fireplace, when there has not been one before. It is warm in here and I think I know why. I go about putting out the charcoal sticks they will use to start the painting, and wait.

Presently Goya comes in and looks about. “All ready? Good. Jacquelina, the same pose but...”

I am halfway to the dressing screen when he completes his sentence,
“ . 
.
 . desnuda, por favor.”

I knew it was coming, but still it gave me a bit of a shock to finally hear it.
Oh, well, girl, that is why you were taken in and given shelter and food, it is what you were hired for, so go do it. Remember, you have always said you are not shy about this sort of thing, and now is the time to prove it.

Behind the screen, I doff my wig, hang it on a hook, then pull off vest and shirt, unfasten skirt and drop it to the floor. I toe off shoes, pull down drawers, and replace wig. Taking the red robe from where it hangs over the screen, I put it on, tying the sash about my waist. After giving my cheeks a bit of a pinch to pink them up, I step out.

Well, Jacky, if you like being the center of attention, you sure got it this time.

I go over to the sofa and, facing away from them, undo the robe and let it slide off my shoulders. I turn around and face them as it falls to the floor with a thump.

A
thump?
Cloth does not fall to the floor with a thump.
What . 
.
 . 
?

I look over to see that poor Cesar lies crumpled on the deck.

“Que caramba!”
exclaims Asensio. “He has fainted!” Asensio quickly dashes to the sink and comes back with a wet cloth to hold to the boy's flushed face. “Ah, Cesar.
Pobrecito.
All the blood has gone to your head!”

“It is not to his head that the blood has gone,” laughs Amadeo.

Goya, too, laughs at Cesar's distress. “Jacquelina, your beauty has brought our lad low. Are you not sorry?”

If there had been a certain amount of tension in the room, it is gone now. Knowing that he cannot hear, I merely lift my palms heavenward and shrug, then give him my best foxy grin.

It seems to please him as he puts his arms about himself and shakes with laughter.

Asensio gently applies the wet cloth to Cesar's face. “Come,
muchacho,
in your life as an artist, you will see many such as her. She is merely your first. Come now, pick up your implement and let's get to work.”

More roars of laughter from Amadeo. “His
implement!
Bad choice of words there, Asensio,
mi hermano!
Oh, yes, how he would so devoutly wish to pick up his
implement!
”

Boys, I swear . 
.
 .

“Please, please,” says the Maestro. “Enough. Let us get on with it. The fire wanes and we do not wish for our
Maja Desnuda
to get cold, do we? Amadeo, throw another log on the fire.”

I am for that, as it is getting a mite chilly in here. Maybe at my best, I am somewhat presentable, but certainly not if I'm all covered in goose bumps. I turn to the couch and put a knee on it, to climb into position. Carmelita is situated nearby on the left, and as I mount the sofa, I contrive to make sure she gets a good look at my bare tail as I climb on—a good, close look.
Take that, Carmelita. I hope you enjoy.

Cesar is brought back to his senses and propped up at his easel again. I settle into the cushions and raise my arms above my head, as I had done before in the clothed version of this pose.

Perhaps emboldened by all the ribald humor flying about, the evil wells up in me. I catch Carmelita's disapproving eye, then I take a deep breath before thrusting out my chest a bit more and give a bit of a wiggle as if settling into the pose.
How do you like them, Carmelita? Are yours as pert and saucy?

Well, if she didn't like them, someone else certainly did.

The partially recovered Cesar gasps, backs up from his easel, and bolts from the room, hunched slightly over.

Amadeo and Asensio are convulsed with laughter.

Goya, too, is amused, but after a few moments, he says, “No, we must proceed. Get to work, the rest of you. And, oh yes, you may leave off the tattoo.”

I sneak a look at Carmelita, and she glares at me with such a level of unremitting hatred that I must look away... and I suddenly realize that I have been reckless and must now be good.
No more foolishness, girl—no sense in making your enemies more bold than they already are.

After a bit, Cesar comes back in, shamefaced. He picks up his charcoal and commences working away with the others.

I settle in with a sigh...

 

Dear Jaimy,

You'll never guess what I'm doing right now, and maybe it's good that you don't. Someday I might tell you about it—but I probably won't, your being so set in some of your ideas of propriety. But then again, perhaps someday, when the world has come to its senses and is at peace, you and I will take the Grand Tour of Europe, and maybe in some magnificent museum in Spain or in Italy or some other lovely place, we will stand before Goya's painting and you'll say, “That looks rather a bit like you, Jacky,” and I'll say, “Awww, go on with you, Jaimy. You've got too much imagination, you have. Who would hire such as me for a model?” I hope I'll be able to suppress a blush. “Let's move on . 
.
 . What's this? A painting by Amadeo Romero. Oh, it is very fine . 
.
 . and another naked lady, too. Naughty, Jaimy, to be looking at pictures like that, and here's another by . 
.
 .”