Viva Jacquelina!

by L. A. Meyer

  A beatific look comes over his face and he whispers, “When you smile like that, pepita, I want to... I want to... lick your teeth.”

  Wot?

  Before I can turn my face, I feel his tongue run across my upper tusks, and then thrust deep into my mouth.

  Ummph!

  I push him back, giggling in spite of myself. “Amadeo, you must stop with that!” No use telling him to get ahold of himself, ’cause that ain’t gonna happen for a while yet, I know.

  He spins away from me, laughing. “Oh, Jacquelina, when we kissed, I felt the earth move! Did you feel it too, guapa? Did you feel the very earth move under us?”

  “Well, maybe a little, Amadeo, but—”

  “The stars! The stars! They fall down upon me as the gentle rain from heaven! I must feel them all over my body!”

  ’Tis plain he’s listening to the gods and not to me, as he reaches for the buttons on his trousers, unfastens them, and pulls both pants and underwear down and off. He stands naked in the moonlight, and in all his glorious young manhood.

  “You must feel them, too, Jacquelina!” he exults, coming back to grab my shoulders. This time I keep my apparently quite lickable teeth hidden behind pursed lips and he merely places a wet kiss on my forehead.

  However, the lickability of my teeth is not his demented intention this time, oh no. As was my usual practice when not modeling in the studio or off on the town, I had worn this day my Lawson Peabody serving-girl rig, except that I had left off the rib-hugging vest, as the evening was warm.

  “Jacquelina, Jacquelina, how the name trips off my unworthy tongue!” he says, as he pulls the flimsy blouse I wear off my shoulders and down to my waist. I gasp as that unworthy tongue finds itself on my breastbone.

  “Amadeo! You cannot!”

  “Yes, I can, my heart,” he breathes. “Ah, thy breasts, there before me, on either side... two white doves, two perfect white doves with pink noses. I shall kiss their rosy little noses now.”

  “No, you shall not, Amadeo,” I say, drawing back and stifling a laugh. “You shall calm yourself. We must get back, we must—”

  “No, mi querida, what we must do is fly up to the stars and become one with them!” he shouts, standing straight and pointing heavenward. “We shall ascend to the cosmos and become a new constellation, a new sign in the Zodiac! We shall be the Jackamadeo constellation and our Sign shall be Two Hearts and Bodies Entwined and we will rival Aquarius and The Mighty Hunter Orion and The Bears and The Ram and, oh let us fly, fly up to the sky!”

  With that, the holy fool begins dragging me to the edge of the roof with the full intention of the both of us leaping off and upward.

  “Amadeo! Stop! I am not yet ready to be a constellation!” I yelp as we approach the edge of the roof. There is a rail about the perimeter of the roof, but it is only about waist high and it certainly doesn’t look very sturdy.

  “No, Jacquelina, we must go! Lovers throughout the ages will look up and admire us and sigh and swear eternal promises of love everlasting! I shall go first and you will follow!”

  He lets me go and runs to the edge, his thighs against the railing, his arms raised and ready to take flight. I leap after him, grab him about the waist, and hang on.

  “Please, Amadeo,” I plead, looking down at the hard pavement three storeys below, for I know that is exactly what he will fly to if he does launch himself off the roof. I sink to my knees for better leverage in holding him back, my arms tight around his thighs. I bury my face into the small of his back. It is slick with sweat, but I hang on and say, “Amadeo, for me... for Jacquelina... please turn around and stop this.”

  He still seems intent on leaping and I redouble my pleas. “Amadeo! Your paintings... the ones you have not yet finished... the one of me... the ones you have yet to paint... the others this world wants to see! Amadeo...”

  He shakes his head and turns, confused.

  Ha! He is probably coming down a bit, maybe . . .

  He looks down at me.

  “Jacquelina... ?”

  “Yes, Amadeo.” I sigh, relieved. While Amadeo’s body is very smooth overall, he does have a nest of hair on his lower belly, and into that I thankfully press my face. “It is me, and...”

  . . . and just then others burst on the scene... The house has indeed been roused. Asensio is suddenly beside us and...

  Oh, Lord, how this must look!

  I get off my knees, climb to my feet, and pull my shirt sleeves back up onto my shoulders.

  “Asensio,” I manage to say. “Please see Amadeo back to your room. He has had an... interesting evening.”

  Asensio gives me a searching look and goes to Amadeo. Recognition comes into Amadeo’s confused eyes.

  “Asensio?” he asks, dazed and weaving slightly.

  “Sí, mi hermano,” says Asensio, softly, as he puts his arm about Amadeo. “Come, let us go to bed, brother.”

  As they disappear through the doorway, I sigh and go to pick up Amadeo’s discarded clothes, as he will need them tomorrow. Neatening myself as much as possible, I go to the door and am startled to find that Asensio was not the only one awakened, for there stands Carmelita, in a nightshirt and a state of pure fury.

  She says nothing, but only gazes into my eyes and then spits on the floor between us.

  She did not speak, but she was most eloquent.

  Chapter 36

  The day’s work is done and Cesar and I turn out in the early evening, arm in arm, on our way to Dos Gatos for a quiet evening of song and maybe dance.

  It has been several days since The Night of Celestial Revels and thanks be to God that Cesar did not awaken that night. I’d have had a hard time explaining away that scene to the poor lad. Oh Lord, I am so glad I did not have to talk my way out of that one.

  At breakfast the next morning, Amadeo had appeared a bit confused. I can well imagine the look on his face when he awoke in Asensio’s arms and not mine. Asensio, on the other hand, seemed most content. A bit smug, even.

  Later that day, I made up more of my Magic Mushroom Potion—one half brandy, one half Essence of Purple Mushroom—but this time I kept a close eye on it. Never can tell when something like that might come in handy, now that I don’t have any Tincture of Opium, otherwise known as Jacky’s Little Helper, at hand.

  I tightly corked up a bottle of it and stored it in my seabag. I did, however, keep three of the mushrooms in their dried state to show to Dr. Sebastian, should we meet again.

  “A lovely evening, Cesar,” I say, breathing in the soft night air as we walk along.

  “All the more lovely for being by your side, mi amor,” replies my constant consort. We are proceeding down a side street toward the plaza. I am wearing my finest Maja gear—white lacy shirt, embroidered jacket and skirt, with gold sash about my middle—and Cesar is similarly dressed, a dashing and bold young matador, by God!

  “Ah, Cesar,” I say, giving him a bit of a poke. “You would find, if you had the time, that a little of Jack-ie Bouvier goes a long, long way.”

  “I hope to have that time, mi corazón, but I should never tire of you. I—”

  A figure appears before us. It is a woman dressed in black with a black veil across her lower face, her head covered with a black shawl.

  She raises her hand and points to me.

  “That is her. Take her.”

  Before I can even wonder at this, some men, also dressed in black—four of them, I think—come from a side alley and swarm over us.

  “Get the girl! Gag her. Quickly!”

  What?

  Hands are put on me and I am pushed to my knees. Before I can scream, a rag is stuffed in my mouth and a bag is thrown over my head. I struggle, but in vain—my arms are pinned to my sides. I feel myself lifted up and tossed into—what?—a cart, yes, for I can smell horse.

  “Let her go, damn you to hell!” I hear Cesar cry out.

  “Hit him! Club him down! We don’t need the boy!”

  “By God, I’ll—”r />
  There is a dull thud and Cesar speaks no more.

  Oh, God, please!

  God does not answer—not me, anyway—as the cart starts forward, its wheels creaking as we go along.

  What can it be? Am I found out as a spy? Is it torture and finally the garotte for me? Oh, please.

  I lie in deep despair, but soon the cart draws to a stop. Hmmm . . . My rational mind figures we must not have gone far... Where can we be?

  I am gathered up and held tight in someone’s grip. I give a few kicks in what I feel would be the proper direction, and though I am rewarded with a few oooffs, it avails me nothing. I sense that I am carried to a doorway, for there is the sound of a latch being opened and a heavy door swinging out. Then, from the gait of the man carrying me, I figure that I am being borne down a staircase, a long staircase. It is as if we are descending into a pit—a cold and dank pit in the belly of the earth. In spite of the cloth wrapped around me, I shiver.

  Eventually, my short journey as a senseless burden ends, and my long journey as a helpless victim begins...

  I am thrown onto a rough platform and I feel straps being wrapped around my ankles. Then the ropes are taken from my arms, and my wrists are pulled up and each wrapped in restraints of their own. There is a cranking sound and my arms are drawn up above my head and my legs are stretched out straight.

  Abruptly, the hood is yanked from my head, my eyes adjust, and all is plain. I am in a circular, windowless room, and I sense that I am far underground. My crazed eyes cast about and see stone walls curtained in deep red drapes. There are strange symbols drawn upon them, but I cannot tell what they are. And there are hooded figures about me, dressed in deep red robes. Have I been taken to a witches’ coven? Have I been... ?

  Then I see, high on the back wall, a moss-covered plaque, and it reads:

  MORS CERTA

  SOLUM TEMPUS

  INCERTUM EST

  I ain’t got much Latin, but I know the first line reads, Death is Certain. If I ever had any hope in getting out of this, I lose it right then upon reading that.

  The man who took off my hood leans over me such that I might see his face under his red hood. He has a tight mouth, long nose, and sunken cheeks. His eyes gleam with an unholy light. He smiles beatifically at me and announces, “You are a very lucky girl. You see gathered about you the Tribunal del Santo Oficio de la Inquisición. It is possible that we might be able to save your immortal soul.”

  “What!” I exclaim. “The Inquistion? Are you joking?”

  “No, my dear,” he says softly. “I assure you the Holy Office does not joke.”

  “But the Emperor has banished the Inquisition! How—?”

  “God is our Emperor, not that little man. Shall we proceed?”

  I look about and see another red-robed figure at my feet, and yet another at a large cogged wheel. Lifting my eyes, I am able to dimly perceive a narrow balcony on which stand perhaps a dozen silent men, each in a similar red robe and hood, looking down upon me. Off to the left and affixed to the wall is what appears to be a large silver scythe.

  “We must know more about the nefarious actions at the House of Goya.”

  “What? We are an artists’ studio! We paint pictures and sell them! Nothing more! I swear!” I say, desperate. “Please, you must let me go!”

  “We know he has painted a picture of you.”

  “Yes, he did. What of it?”

  “He painted you naked.”

  “Painted me naked? Señor, there are thousands of paintings of nude people. Check out the Vatican in Rome. I am a model. That’s what models do. Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Because Goya painted your sex, and you allowed him to do that.”

  “My sex? Yes, I’m a girl. Ain’t it plain? Half the world is, you know.”

  “Yes, and that is a pity. However... that dirty old man, Goya, has offended us. He painted your sex and the painting will be shown to the public and base desires will be inflamed. For that reason, it is forbidden. There are no paintings like that, not in all the world—not the civilized world, anyway.”

  I well recall the conversation with Amadeo, that day back in the studio. I guess you were right, mi amigo... and I so wish you were here with me right now . . .

  “What? You are talking about my maidenhair?” I demand of my Inquisitor. “Incredible! A few strokes of brown paint and you have me here for that? That paint is made out of burnt umber, which is a color taken from the earth, and oil. God’s good earth, God’s good oil. Nothing more. What is the matter with you? How can that be evil?”

  “It is for us to decide, not you.”

  “How do you know all this?” I ask, damned uncomfortable being laid out as I am and plainly getting the worst of this one-sided conversation. “You could not have seen those paintings. They were private and not for the eyes of such as you.”

  He lays his hand on my forehead in an almost fatherly way. “Ah, you see, a good Catholic girl has shown us. Last Sunday, she let us in, and we gazed upon the wretched paintings and were aghast at what we saw.”

  Carmelita! That’s why she didn’t go to Mass with us! She was the woman on the road, the one who betrayed me to these fiends!

  “Yes, and we saw other things. Depictions of monsters, grotesque beings that could only have come from the mind of a heretic. Like these... Here’s one of Satan biting off the head of a man.”

  He holds a sheaf of papers before my eyes and I recognize them as Goya’s. He had done so many of those dark drawings, he would not have noticed these few missing.

  “Carmelita Gomez stole those!” I shout. “Damn her to hell for her treachery!”

  “Ah, it will not be she who is going to hell, it will be you, minion of Satan,” he says. “But not before you tell us some things about Señor Goya. We must know more.”

  “But why me? Carmelita must’ve told you all the lies you wanted to hear.”

  “Ah, yes, she has told us many things,” he says. “But you see, we must have more testimony—more than just that of one young girl—to bring an important man like the despicable Goya to trial before the Inquisition.”

  He nods to the man at my feet, who puts his hand on the great wheel and gives it a turn. The straps tighten and I am stretched out to my full length. He takes this opportunity to pull down the waist of my skirt.

  “Yes, there it is, just like she said. The mark of the devil’s pitchfork. And the heathen symbol on her neck.”

  He pushes my head roughly to the side.

  “Ah, yes, that, too! Good God, my fingers tremble at the touch!” he says, his voice full of loathing. “Now tell us, Whore of Babylon, everything that goes on in that place. Do you have a cabal? Is Goya the warlock? Are you one of his witches? Tell us and your pain shall end—your pain in this world, anyway.”

  “No! I swear! We just paint pictures, that’s all!”

  “A quarter turn, Brother Bruno.”

  The wheel is cranked and I am lifted from the platform and hang in the air. My elbows and knees cry out in pain.

  “Yeow! Stop! Please!”

  “We will stop when you admit your guilt and the guilt of those within that house of sin,” he says. “Will you do so? Did you see goat men prancing about, witches casting spells?”

  “No! Nothing like that!” I shout. “Please don’t—”

  “Another little turn, Brother Bruno.”

  Screeeech! No! Oh!

  “It is time for our Vespers, brothers. Let her stay here and reflect upon her sin. Brother Ignacio, you may release the scythe.”

  The red-robed monks file out of the room, heads down, hands in sleeves. Brother Ignacio is at the end of the line, and as he exits the pit, he pulls a lever. The others, who stood on the balcony, also file out, chanting an ominous chorus.

  Dies irae, dies illa

  Solvet saeclum in favilla,

  Teste David cum Sybilla.

  Quantus tremor est futurus

  Quando iudex est venturus

>   Cuncta stricte discussurus.

  Tuba mirum spargens sonum

  Per sepulcra regionum

  Coget omnes ante thronum.

  In my misery, I hear a swooshing sound and look up to see... Horror! There is a great crescent-shaped blade on a long pendulum that swings slowly back and forth. It describes an arc of about twenty feet and takes about five seconds to complete its passage from one apex to the other. At its low point, it passes about six inches above my belly.

  Whoooosh!

  There it goes again, and I swear it is closer to me than on the last pass. The monks did not find my shiv when they strapped me down, but, though I twist in the bonds and try to get it, I can’t... I can’t... !

  Whoooosh!

  I am right in thinking that it comes closer with every swing. I sight on a point on the far wall, and, sure enough, I see that the blade has, indeed, come closer to my poor self. It must be on a ratchet, such that it drops down a half inch on each pass.

  Whoooosh!

  I can see the blade close up now, and it looks sharp as a razor. It fairly whistles as it goes by, now a scant three inches above me.

  Whooosh!

  Another pass, and I squirm under the sweep of the pendulum. If I could only get to my shiv, but I cannot, I cannot! The straps hold me too tight. Oh, I fear I am done!

  Whooosh!

  The blade now clears my stomach by a mere two inches... Now one inch, now one half, now... Oh, Lord, now it slices through the waistband of my skirt, and it is so sharp that the fabric does not even shudder as the razor cuts through it.

  Whooosh!

  The sides of my skirt fall away, destroyed, and my stomach lies white and bare and defenseless before the relentless descent of that awful blade.

  I cannot stand it, and I scream, “I am a good girl! Oh, God, save me! My belly is supposed to have babies in it, not a cruel knife! Oh, please, God, do not let it happen!”