Whip Smart

by Kit Brennan

  The routes through the mountains had been established by pilgrims bound for Santiago de Compostela, a holy city at the extreme western edge of northern Spain. We were headed for the southeastern pass, the one hugging the coast. This restless journeying had begun after the Crusades, when the Christian soldiers had returned from Jerusalem and no longer knew what to do with themselves when they weren’t killing and maiming infidels. From what I gathered, this coastal route was the easiest, most well travelled, and least likely to harbour pockets of ruthless bandoleros ready to slit pilgrims’ throats for a few coins and a scallop shell.

  From Toulouse, the three-day route took us to Carcassonne, then to the coast city of Narbonne and south to Perpignan, where we took on some provisions before heading for the border, a few miles north of Figueres.

  The weather did indeed change as we moved into the coastal foothills of the Pyrenees. All of us had been perspiring and fanning ourselves in the heat as we crossed the flat fields around Carcassonne, but now we pulled cloaks and hoods from our baggage and sat back in the coach with its windows half-closed. We passed through lush forests of holm oak and tall coney pines, and a fine wet mist in the mornings floated along the rolling, rocky hills. Greens of all hues, from chartreuse and lime to silvery olives, punctuated by an almost black conifer shade.

  A little town, just a hamlet whose name I can’t recall, was the border point. Before reaching it, Father Miguel had gone into a kind of stupor of concentration—perhaps he was praying, I didn’t know, but it made me very anxious.

  “Is our crossing all that dangerous?” I asked.

  “We shall see.”

  Very comforting. My heart began to thump against my bodice.

  Matilde leaned forwards to hand me the baby, plunking her into my arms as if she were a parcel of laundry, then sat back with her hands folded in her lap and her eyes on the passing scenery. Looking down into the infant’s tiny face, all sleepy and peaceful, my nervous palms sweating onto her blanket, I wished I could recapture such innocence and lack of dread. What did I think was going to happen? I’m just a quiet young mother, I told myself, testing it out. No one will hurt such a creature. Not these lovers of Madonna, not these good Catholic men. Calm. Calm and peace.

  The border patrol was very thorough. They were small, tough, dark people with snapping black eyes and wiry frames. They wore soldierlike uniforms and carried several weapons—rifles as well as pistols in holsters. Numerous other small groups of travelers stood or sat about, looking confused and in some cases, weeping. The padre (my husband Antonio) handed over our visas with a manly growl, and we were told to step aside while they searched our belongings. One of the young guards was looking me up and down with a rather frightening intensity, especially fixing upon the baby at my breast. I jiggled her in what I hoped was an adoring way and kept my eyes on the ground. Our luggage was pawed through. I was particularly distressed at the way my new wardrobe was being handled, but there was nothing I could do. I was glad I had the pistols with me; I kept my reticule tucked against my skirt, half hidden by the folds of material. After a few minutes of intense questioning, the priest seemed to pass the gauntlet of scrutiny; it was fascinating to hear his usually deep and ghostlike voice transform into that of a harried Spaniard on his way to Madrid, but with a modicum of respect for the northerners’ cause. Very layered performance, and though I hated to admit it, impressive.

  After that, our drivers were questioned. Next, Matilde; she charmed the guards, with her local dialect and the few sweet but saucy jokes they exchanged. And then it was my turn. The guards came close and surrounded me (I nearly let out a frightened squawk at the proximity of their guns and leather boots, especially remembering the muff pistols bulging in my reticule) but they all, as one, bent their heads to look at little Matilde. As she waved a fist, they began to coo in their gruff voices. Father Miguel’s (husband Antonio’s!) eyes were fixed on me warningly; I summoned up thoughts of all the paintings of Madonnas I’d seen in my lifetime and attempted to copy that look, but as the gravelly cooing went on, and as one bolder young man with a large hooked nose and greasy mustache put his face even closer, I caught his eye not upon the baby’s face but upon my bosom (which, it is true, was heaving a bit in trepidation), and I couldn’t help but murmur, “I hope you enjoy what you see.” As soon as it slipped out, I realized it was a foolish remark to make, but I was so nervous. His eyes flicked up to mine and his brow wrinkled. I smiled very sweetly and fastened my eyes back to the baby (now beginning to wriggle and fuss under such acute scrutiny), hoping that the guard hadn’t really heard what I’d said or had misunderstood it. He glanced at his companions, then over at Father Miguel. I decided to speak up. “Husband?” I said. “Antonio dearest, may I ask these kind gentlemen if they have finished questioning me? I am most tired.” All of the guards, except the hook-nosed one, jostled each other and moved back hurriedly at my request, with a few abashed chuckles, a slap to each other’s shoulders, and a muttering of “bebé bonita, little innocent . . .”

  Hook-nose had a quick whisper with the senior guardsman. After a moment, “Your papers are in order, Señor Olivares, and extremely thorough,” the older man said, looking ferocious. “Otherwise we would have had no choice but to detain you overnight while we ascertained the veracity of your visas. However,” and he looked at his younger compatriot who was still openly examining me (I could tell, because I could feel the burning gaze through my clothing), “you must have friends in powerful places. In the south. Your business must be great.”

  “It is,” the priest said, “so if there is nothing further . . .”

  “The south always gets what it wants. While we pick up the pieces, isolated and neglected.”

  Hook-nose had his hand on his holster, for some horrible reason. Now our interlocutor did as well. It seemed everything was about to go badly awry, all because the ferocious one had remembered his feudal chagrin at being given orders from the rich centre, and Hook-nose was nursing a different, long-held grudge. But Matilde suddenly stepped forwards, holding her arms out to me for the baby, saying, “Señora, forgive me, it is time that the infant be fed.” With a modest little curtsy to the weapon-laden crew, she took baby Matilde and returned to the carriage, where her bodice was loosened and the feeding begun. They couldn’t see any of this, but the suggestion was there, hanging in the air. I could see it transforming the faces of even the two who stood bristling before us. They knew what was happening just out of sight; they couldn’t help it, their inner vision turned to the peace and joy of their earliest memories, their first happiness. Amazing, really, what the state of new motherhood (and two lovely, heavy breasts) will do to grown men. Before we knew it, we were back in our carriage and galloping down the road.

  I collapsed with relief and then had an attack of hilarity, laughing until I’d given myself hiccups. Father de la Vega seemed disgusted at this unstoppable display, though Matilde (burping her baby) smiled and patted my knee. My first encounter with northern desperadoes, and a dreadfully temperamental lot they were, with their hair-trigger reactions and twitchy fingers.

  “Don’t you think that hook-nosed one looked a lot like Juan’s henchman, except shorter?” I gabbled, still catching my breath. “You must know who I mean. The dark fellow in Paris, glass eye, tall, looks like a pirate—”

  “Pedro Coria.”

  Matilde looked over at us, eyes suddenly sharp and curious.

  “Is that his name?” I asked, hoping to learn more.

  “I know him well,” de la Vega muttered. “He is not a henchman, as you ignorantly put it, he is an associate. Coria is a northerner, but he’s joined the Cristinos.”

  “Well, whatever he is, he could be cousins with those ones!” Still laughing, I lifted the reticule onto my lap, produced the faux book, and opened it with a flourish. “Just imagine if they’d seen me with these!”

  Father Miguel moved swiftly to grasp my wrist. His face had gone even whiter than usual. “You idiotic woman, they woul
d have murdered us if they had found you concealing those.” Matilde was also regarding me grimly.

  I gave my arm a tug, hoping to get him to release me.

  “Put them away! This cannot be borne!” He shoved me, covered his eyes with a hand, and closed us out. Mutterings and prayers followed, for a good long time, while Matilde and the baby both kept their eyes upon me. It seemed my nervous jag was well and truly over, dashed against three stern countenances.

  We travelled on towards Madrid, a trip of a fortnight’s length. During the day, I was stimulated by the sights and sounds that greeted us as we galloped along, and as we proceeded south the weather again grew hot, which I adore. But the Jesuit was right, the situation was impossible, it couldn’t be borne: When we pulled up at the first hotel, the padre and I (to keep up the charade) had perforce to share a room. They insisted upon giving us the best matrimonial suite, and the owner was proud to point out their superior linens (by lifting and caressing a corner between his fingers), after which he cocked an eyebrow and waggled it, man to man, at Father Miguel. My faux husband went rigid with displeasure and blushed from his toes to his shaved crown, while I made some modest sort of comment, thanking the owner for his kindness and escorting him to the door. Matilde bustled about, helping us get settled and establishing herself publicly as our baby’s nurse, though I do believe she found it quite amusing to observe the Jesuit’s unease at domestic confinement.

  Unpacking my portmanteau, Matilde pulled out from its hiding place amongst a number of soft articles a small, decorated box lined with satin.

  “What is this, señora?” Matilde asked, looking inside.

  There was nothing in it. Nothing visible, anyway.

  “A reminder,” I told her, feeling suddenly ill. In the swirl of travel, I’d almost forgotten, but the Grimaldis meant business and I must render. A pair of small ears depended upon me. How much time would they give me before . . . ? I said a prayer and sent it winging to the little girl with black hair and sea-dark eyes.

  Matilde gave me a nod, then took her baby off into their own little room where they seemed very happy with each other.

  Unlike the rest of the travelling party.

  The Jesuit and I tried to be civil at dinner, for the sake of appearances. He did not approve of my rubbing my hands together as we sat down at table. I was absolutely ravenous and anticipating the lovely regional food with glee. I told him that on the following evening I wished to wear one of my new gowns instead of going back and forth between the two I’d brought with me, but he wouldn’t allow it.

  “Save the gowns for the palace.”

  “I won’t spill food on them, if that’s what you think,” I teased, but the joking fell on deaf ears. When I kept on about it, he intoned patronizingly, “We’ll see,” as if I were a spoiled, naughty child.

  “We’ll see you,” I muttered, wishing him to the devil. After the first course, I’d had enough.

  “No wine,” he told the waiter piously, his hand covering the glass.

  “I’ll have some,” I said, pointing. “In fact, I’ll have that carafe.”

  If anyone had been listening in on our conversation (such as it was), they must surely have wondered at the state of the newly married couple and guessed it would be a miracle for us to produce another child who was as happy and content as baby Matilde.

  The dreaded moment could not be put off forever: retiring to the bedchamber. Up we went, the priest leading the way. Inside the room, Father Miguel de la Vega, with a very bad grace, lay a dark, musty blanket out on the floor and wrapped himself in it like a bat in its wings. The floor was very hard and the father very bony, so this must not have been pleasant—but then, when did the Jesuit ever desire pleasant? He lay as still as a post as I swiftly undressed and climbed into my sheets. I, in turn, lay still in the bed, listening suspiciously until he finally fell into an unhappy slumber. This I could tell from the sound of his breathing. Once he had dropped off, I began to relax and then fell asleep.

  The next problem was that I have always enjoyed inventive dreaming, and my dreams are merry. I always have a starring role, am usually saving people from bad things or themselves, and often end up in a sumptuously appointed bed with a handsome young blade, as a thank-you for my bravery. When that happens, I’ve been told that my dreams become quite boisterous. It’s all a wonderful diversion and at times—when life has been difficult or I’m in trouble of one sort or another—I can take to my bed and sleep and sleep, just to escape the traumas of the current situation.

  On that night I woke with a yell to find the Jesuit standing over my bed, a lit candle in his hand, and his eyes wild. “Stop it!” he cried, “Stop it I tell you or I shall go mad!”

  I sat up in bed, clutching the blankets. “I’m not doing anything! I’m sleeping!”

  “You’re . . . talking! It’s . . . I’m . . . aargh!”

  In my half-awake state I struggled to understand. “I woke you up? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

  “I can’t sleep when you—when I am forced to . . . For the love of God, be quiet!”

  “But you were sleeping, Father. I could hear you. Are you in pain? The floor is too hard? Perhaps we could trade places—”

  “No, no,” he moaned. “You’re a woman. I cannot.” And he began pacing back and forth in front of the window, the flame from the candle billowing and sputtering, hot wax running down his hand and falling in drops on the floor. Now, I know he was a man, and I know about most men, but this tortured priest? I suddenly realized that he must dislike me, for some reason, with every ounce of his bony being. Once upon a time I would have blamed myself, I would have hoped desperately to change his mind. I would have tried to do what he wished, or in other words, be meek and silent and afraid. But, well, I knew that was a waste of time, and frankly I had other things I wanted to prepare for: my début in La pata da cabra, meeting the Spanish princesses, being introduced to the tutor and fulfilling my assignment so that I could go home with my loot and my newly acquired skills. Father Miguel simply never entered into it; this journey and the charade were just an annoying interlude. So eventually I lay down again, rolled over, and tried to sleep. He fell into a chair by the window, staring through the darkness at me, and groaned, “Stop talking. Nom de Dieu.”

  And this went on, night after night, as we made our slow way south. One night I couldn’t stand it. I sat up and said, “Oh for heaven’s sake! I’m not talking, I’m dreaming, and as far as I know there is no law or decree against that. I’m young and I won’t be bullied into doom and gloom. Goodnight, padre.”

  Not a sound from him.

  Such odd, rather eerie nocturnal exchanges. Ridiculous, I thought.

  At last, one day towards the third week of September, the outline of the city appeared—Madrid! During that whole day’s travel, we watched it come closer. The Jesuit remonstrated with me for leaning out the window, letting in dust and collecting stares. I tried to quell my leg-jigging impatience by telling myself that soon I would be released from proximity with this melancholic, distracting myself further by wondering where I would be living, what my new acquaintances in the theatre would be like, and what the excesses and splendours of the Spanish court would reveal. Everything would fall into place, I knew it.

  Sure enough, I was established in small but sufficient rooms near the Catedral San Isidro, not far from the theatre district. Matilde and the baby stayed with me the first night, then we all gathered the next morning to see her away. Father de la Vega passed over a pouch full of coins and gave her a blessing; I said goodbye with my grateful thanks. I had no idea where mother and child were going now, whether returning to France or staying in the capital, but I assumed that the Grimaldis had taken care of this detail as well as everything else. Then she was gone.

  The Jesuit turned to me, bowed formally, placed his chilly hands in his (reinstated) cassock sleeves and said, “Today you are to meet my brother, Ventura, who will help you learn your duties at the Príncipe. The days
will go quickly and very soon the princesses will come to the performance. You must be ready.”

  “Never fear,” I told him curtly. “I can’t wait to get started.”

  “My eyes will be upon you,” he said, “where you least expect it.”

  So Jesuitical! I turned away to roll my own eyes and cross my fingers. At least I have a private room, I told myself; a bed without the dark shape of the bat lurking at the foot of it. And my own role in one of Spain’s most talked-about and lucrative productions of all times!

  He walked me to the theatre later that morning, sourly answering my questions about the production. La pata da cabra did not enjoy the father’s approval. It was too frivolous. He gave me a little lecture on the La pata phenomenon: Apparently, the late King Ferdinand had made it difficult for theatres to function by bogging them down in bureaucracy, so canny impresarios (of whom Grimaldi was one) had experimented, importing translations of popular French plays, then eventually operas from Italy, complete with Italian tenors and sopranos. The repressed Madrileños had gone crazy, scrambling for opera tickets, imitating the songs, gestures, hairstyles, and dress of the Italians. Grimaldi then wrote his own clever adaptation of a once-popular French comedia de magia, calling it La pata de cabra. He designed it to have everything—magical effects, disappearances, comedy, colossal costumes, lavish sets and set-changes—to satisfy the populace’s craving for excess. La pata de cabra had been in revival for over a decade; it was known in theatrical circles as the “golden calf.” Father Miguel finished the lesson by sniffing, “It is unfortunate that my associate should have sullied himself with such slop, though it is the main source of his wealth and enables his patronage of our cause.”