Viva Jacquelina!

by L. A. Meyer

  Charlie pauses, picks up the pipe of his hookah, and takes a deep puff.

  “This match I would not mind, as I have found you, Chueng Tong, to be a rather fine fellow, and I compliment the Lotus Blossom on her taste. However, should I ever give up Sidrah, I have a rich Burmese prince in mind, much more advantageous to the House of Chen than a poor, penniless Brit, however charming he might be.”

  Sidrah cocks a knowing eye at her doting father, knowing full well he would never do anything to cause her any unhappiness.

  I nod, knowing that, in spite of all the kindness extended to me here, I will get back to Europe and I will find you, Jacky.

  Yours,

  Jaimy

  Chapter 29

  There is great excitement within the walls of the House of Goya, for today the bulls will run through the streets of Madrid, and stupid young men will run with them.

  After breakfast, I go to my room to change.

  Paloma is out doing up the other chambers, so I don’t have to explain to her just why I am climbing into this outfit. Doffing my usual serving-girl garb, I fold it and put it in my seabag. Yes, I had bought material last payday and had stitched up a new one, and am stowing all my meager belongings in it. Jacky Faber can be off and gone in five minutes has always been my watchword, and it has stood me in good stead many times. It is only when I forget to be prepared that I get in trouble.

  The one thing I do not keep in the seabag is my wineskin—that useful item I have filled with water and it hangs from a hook next to my bed, ready to grab should I have to run. I well remember how thirsty I got on the flight from Portugal to here.

  Since the bulls do not run until noon, I have some time to reflect on the past weeks...

  Yes, the work on the King’s portrait goes well, and in my role as spy, I am able to glean more information that might prove useful to British Intelligence—overheard conversations betwixt military types, ministers, and such. I do not judge the value of the content, I just send it on to Montoya. I certainly do not let any at the palace know that I am fairly fluent in French. It brings a smile to my lips to think that my dispatches might possibly get back to dear Higgins, since, as far as I know, he is still on the staff of General Wellesley and working closely with the spymaster and cryptographer. I put a tiny JMF in one margin just in case he might be watching.

  One thing has been a bit worrying in that regard, however. On two occasions when I was out to take my lessons with Django, I sensed that I was being watched. Turning around suddenly when I felt eyes upon me, I twisted about abruptly and thought I caught a glance of a black-robed figure ducking behind a corner. I could have been mistaken, but still I asked Montoya on our next meeting if he had his men out watching me and he replied that he did not. I have most of my men camped out beyond the city, muchacha, only a few here.

  Hmmm . . . Well, I must be careful, I’m thinking, as I have no wish to end up strapped into the embrace of el garrote, a particularly ghastly form of execution by strangulation employed by the Spanish. Considering this, I had Cesar deliver my packets to Montoya at his digs at Calle de Ocho. I gave him strict instructions:

  If you are caught, you tell them some foolish girl gave you five reales to take the package to a man at that address. You don’t know his name. You thought they were love letters. Do you understand, chico?

  Yes, my dearest one, but I shall not deny you! Never! I will die for the glory of Spain and for you, my heart! My last words shall be “Viva España, Viva Jacquelina!” I will die with your name on my lips!

  Geez, and I thought I was a hopeless romantic.

  Earlier, upon coming to live at Casa Goya, I had, of course, thoroughly scouted out the place. I noted that there are three levels—dank basement, studio and kitchen down, living quarters up. It faces on the grand plaza, but to the back and sides of it are narrow streets—alleys, really. And wrought-iron balconies extend over them, both from our building and the ones next to us.

  After I had taken some lessons from Django, it had become my habit to come out on the right-side balcony to play very softly upon my borrowed guitar, so as not to disturb anyone—not anyone in our house, nor the people across the street, who also like to sit upon their own balcony on a sweet warm night.

  One evening, as I sat out there strumming, I was pleased to see Amadeo come to join me. He had two glasses of Madeira, one of which he placed on the railing at my right hand, making it most plain that this was not a chance encounter.

  “Thank you, Amadeo,” I said. “You are very kind.”

  “My pleasure, entirely, Jacquelina,” he said, leaning on the rail and surveying the cobblestones below.

  I put the guitar aside, took glass in hand, and rose to stand next to him.

  “So that is where the bulls will run?”

  “Sí, Señorita. Right down there. It is quite a sight. Just you wait.”

  “I think it is stupid,” opined the hypocrite Jacky Faber, who had, in the past, given herself up to many a wild, chaotic night. “You have heard what I told Cesar?”

  “Sí. But he is only a boy and hopelessly in love with you. He may do as you say and not run with the bulls.”

  “But you and Asensio?”

  “We are not little boys like Cesar, Señorita,” he whispered. “And we do not think you will carry through on your threat... Not after you see the bulls coming. You are but a girl—a brave one, to be sure, but after all, still just a girl.”

  All this time, he has been angling his face ever closer toward mine.

  Hmmm . . .

  Amadeo is very handsome, and he has been very kind to me...

  He put his fingers under my chin and gently inclined my face upward.

  “You have not forgotten that kiss, that very special kiss, caro mio?” he whispers, his breath hot on my face. “That kiss we shared that night as we danced and the world fell away, leaving us alone, just the two of us... and the music, the rose, the drop of your precious blood?”

  “Ah no, Amadeo,” I breathe. “How could I forget that?”

  “Then another little kiss, chica, on this warm and lovely night, one that was made for soft love and gentle kindness?”

  Well, when you put it that way . . . why not?

  Ummm . . .

  As for Carmelita, who has yet to say a single word to me since our confrontation, rest assured that I’m watching her with a wary eye. She attends to her work, and is diligent in it. Her painting of me in Maja costume is competent and complete. It is cool and detached, and shows no inkling of the dislike I know she feels toward the model. I am painting an insignificant girl, dressed up like the slut she is, Carmelita was surely thinking as she worked away. I could see it in her eyes.

  Fine, I say. Let her stay well away from me. However, there had been one other time . . .

  I was out on the side balcony one night, in the cool of the evening, strumming my guitar softly, when I happened to glance down and notice Carmelita emerging from a side door below. She gazed furtively about, then headed off in the same direction I had seen her come from before... But this time she had a folder beneath her arm, like a small portfolio. What was she up to? Selling artwork on the side? Can she have purloined some of Maestro’s discards to peddle them off for her own profit? I don’t know, but, certainly, I will watch.

  Oh, well, enough idle thoughts. Into the tight toreador pants with you, girl, and yes, the frilly white shirt and the neat little top. I pull my black embroidered skirt from my seabag and pull it on over my trousers. No sense in scandalizing anyone more than I have to. If the lads are good, it will stay on, if not...

  I go down to join the others on the balcony, to watch the Running of the Bulls.

  They are all there, the students, the staff, Goya, yes, and even his wife, Josefa, in a wheelchair, poor thing, but still seeming to enjoy the excitement of the day.

  Cesar comes over next to me, his gaze hot.

  “You will not let me do it, Jack-ie? You will not let me prove myself a man?”
r />   “You are already a man, Cesar,” I say, lifting my skirt a bit to show him the cuff of my trousers below, with its implied threat. “You do not have to prove yourself to me.”

  He says nothing to that, but I sense his frustration. So young, so full of bravado, to be denied release... Oh, well, it’s for your own good, lad. Maybe next year.

  I look over at Amadeo and Asensio. They are both dressed in Majo splendor, in outfits similar to mine, with red sashes about their waists. Paloma, also dressed in her best, has placed out trays of snacks and glasses of wine, and I go over to help pour.

  Amadeo lifts his glass to me. “To love and beauty,” he says, taking a drink. I lift my own glass and return the toast.

  “To love and happiness,” I say. “And to the health and safety of those about me.”

  All around drink to that, but Cesar does not miss the glances that are exchanged betwixt Amadeo and me. No, he does not, and he is not at all pleased. Rest your mind, Cesar, it is nothing. You’ll see, my dear little fellow, you’ll see . . . It is just a harmless dalliance betwixt good friends, that’s all.

  Looking across the street, I see that the balcony opposite us now contains three Majas, all dressed in the finest of garments. As I watch, I see that they are joined by two young men, dressed very Majo, and very macho.

  They look across and bow.

  We bow back, and then...

  . . . then there is a tremendous trumpet blast! “The bulls are coming! The bulls are coming!”

  I look up the street and see, at the far end, a crowd of young men running down the street, laughing and shouting. Behind them is a wall of bull—hump-backed bulls, red-eyed bulls, black-faced bulls, bulls snorting red steam out of their nostrils. Well, it sure looks red to me, anyway, as I stand trembling on that balcony.

  My attention is diverted by another movement across the street. The two young men on the opposite balcony have vaulted over the railing to land in the street. They turn and bow to the ladies above them. The girls cheer and clap and throw roses down on their lads.

  I feel Amadeo quivering beside me.

  “Don’t do it, Amadeo, please! For me!”

  One of the young men, his lady’s token rose now in his red sash, looks up at my own lads and calls out, “Vamos, hermanos! Vamos! Arriba! Arriba! Ándale! Ándale!”

  When Amadeo and Asensio stay standing on our balcony, the man below changes his tone. “Ha! Weaklings! Cowards! Maricóns!”

  It is too much, to be called that. Too much for Amadeo and Asensio, who quickly strip off their jackets—and even too much for Cesar.

  Damn stupid male pride!

  The three jump down into the street as the mob of bulls and men draws ever closer.

  Well, they asked for it! I fume, as I unloosen my skirt and whip it off. Just a girl, eh? Well, we’ll see!

  I whip off my wig and toss it to the astounded Paloma, and then I, too, am over the rail and standing in the street next to Cesar.

  The crowd of men running to the front of the bulls has reached us, and Asensio and Amadeo disappear in their midst. I notice that some of the bull runners have flattened themselves against the side walls, and after seeing some men stumble in front of the advancing pack and fall beneath the hooves of the bulls, I figure that’s the safest option.

  “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?”

  Chapter 30

  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 Pala
cio 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.