by Kit Brennan
“What? What is—? Señorita, cease this silliness!” Luckily I was looking at a waistcoat button, so the shower of spittle wetted my hair, not my face.
“I can wait no longer,” I managed, face pressed against his buttons and out of range (I hoped) of that fearsome breath. What I would do about full frontal avoidance, in what I earnestly hoped would be only a few minutes of intense dalliance, I wasn’t quite sure but—sound the charge! “I must give in to my impulses, señor, though I have no idea what may happen now . . .” I let my voice quaver, hoping to sound like an innocent, overcome for the first time by newly awakened lust, while removing one hand from his ponderous belly and inching it lower and lower in the usual way, tickling and fondling to stir the juices. Face pressed to his sour torso, I couldn’t see his expression, but hoped for the best. “Oh, I admire your intellect, your knowledge of the past—”
“The ingenuity,” he croaked suddenly, “the pain intensifies . . .”
What was this? Hurry on, Rosana, what was the man muttering? My nimble fingers roved, the palm of my hand connected with a soft roundness. I gave a sensual squeeze. I’ll be honest, I was expecting the man to have a set the size of a walnut but—¡Hijo de puta! And son of a bitch again! It was huge! His balls were enormous and hard, like a melon. I scrabbled about, at a bit of a loss. Where was his prick? Ah, there it was, but! It was soft as an earthworm!
His eyes were squeezed shut, and his lips were babbling: “Sacred duty . . . Sorrowful agony . . .” What in God’s name? I was trying to instill life into a bean-sized cadaver, and what was he going on about? Then it struck me, as his tiny prick finally began to stir and stiffen: He was imagining the instruments of torture he’d just been describing to Nanda and Isabel!
With a sudden bellow he pulled away and shoved me backwards into a desk with painful force, his face a blotchy patchwork of red and white. We stared at each other, both in our own ways completely appalled.
“I am not remotely interested in you, you actress,” he finally uttered, showing yellow teeth like a rodent’s. “How dare you presume. How dare you harbour hopes of intimacy with a man such as myself.”
“Not intimacy, then,” I countered bravely, “but—”
“No. Never. You! Do not exist in my universe.” And the great ape turned on his elegantly shod heel and lumbered from the room, carrying his indignation like a banner before him.
The man dreamed of torture! His own, or someone else’s, I wasn’t quite sure—but I had to flee the room and wash my hands over and over to rid myself of the taint of his partes íntimos. And then I was in a complete mess: What would I tell Ventura? How would I be able to insinuate myself back into the degenerate tutor’s trust (not that I’d ever had it)? Visions of sweet Emma’s ears haunted me. How much time did I have left? Why had I been squandering it, diddling about and putting off the inevitable?
That night, in my opulent room at the palace, stormy raging and pacing filled the hours. Was I about to fail in my mission? And then the most terrible thought yet: Had the demon from the fly tower actually been sent by Grimaldi? Dios mio, how could I be such an innocent? Such a bobo? Why hadn’t I understood the danger I was in? And then I realized, no, that’s absurd. That is far too nefarious. Why would Grimaldi send his bodyguard to watch me? No, no! I’ll just tell Ventura the truth, that the plan cannot work, the tutor cannot be seduced by any means, and we’ll come up with an alternate plan.
But the lingering fear remained, no matter how logical I told myself to be. Was I about to be removed?
During the weeks leading up to Christmas, I looked for Ventura at the theatre, startling at shadows and turning in jittery circles to check behind me. I could never find him. Back at the palace, I began to observe various aristocratic men, surrounded by their supporters, being put up to the mark: sidling towards Isabel’s throne, bowing themselves into contortions of grandiosity, then backing away from the girl’s charmless presence. Their eyes, having also flicked over to the adorable white-blonde sister, would fill with woeful remorse. Luisa Fernanda found the endless parade hilarious and was kind enough not to point out the men’s reactions to her obtuse sibling.
Then the redoubtable Tia Lota and her husband Don Francisco arrived from La Granja, the royal summer residence where they’d been lingering, the autumn having stayed so mild. They brought their two sons with them: Francisco, Duke of Cadiz, was the eldest, a scrawny, epicene sort of young man, and Enrique, Duke of Seville, who was much handsomer. The servants lived in mortal fear of Carlota: Carlota, Cristina’s older sister, who had been in the Spanish royal family for decades and had seen Ferdinand’s other queens come and go (meaning, dead). Carlota from Naples. As I came to understand, the Carlota.
What a woman! She was about forty years old, living at full throttle and grown to fit her power. She breezed into the palace like a ship in full sail, her attractive but meek husband Don Francisco bobbing along in her wake. “Darling, precious!” she cried as she folded Luisa Fernanda in her arms. “Son of a whore, but it’s hot out there! I told your uncle, no, it is Christmas. We must go and keep an eye on the girls!” She released Nanda and swept up Isabel, ignoring the almost-queen’s struggles to get free. “You’re about to become a woman, Bella.” Taking hold of the girl’s chubby chin, she whispered, “Anything yet?”
“No, Tia Carlota.”
“Pity. You must try some medicines, physical exertions, get it flowing.”
“Yes, Tia Carlota.”
“Let me see you.” She held the girl at arm’s length and made tutting sounds. “Good Christ. Don’t eat so much, how many times must I say it?” Then she turned and gave me the benefit of her blazing, turquoise eyes. “Who are you?” One look from those eyes and I was bewitched. These daughters of the king of Naples are fatally attractive: tall, blonde, full of grandeur. And this one even more so. I immediately knew that I wanted to be exactly like her and exist in such a gloriously individual way.
I curtsied and answered, “Eliza Rosana Gilbert, Your Majesty. I’m at the Príncipe, with the company of La pata de cabra—”
“Ah. That screwball play.”
“—and the infanta invited—”
“I understand.” Placing a hand on my arm, she whispered, “You met my sister. I know about you: Give nothing away. Son of a bitch, I need a drink.”
She headed off, courtiers all around bowing and scraping and scampering out of her way, followed by Don Francisco and the rest of their retinue. Nanda grinned over at me and said, “Isn’t she wonderful?” I couldn’t have agreed more.
I lost no time, after this potent reminder, in drafting a polite little letter to Cristina, in Paris, to say that her sister had arrived, that a number of potential suitors had been received during audiences with the infantas, and that I hoped to have more complete news soon. With deepest respect, etc., etc.
I was in above my head, and no mistake!
Meanwhile, I was still meeting with Donatella and pursuing my dancing lessons—one of the most enjoyable portions of my week. I carried on energetically in my role as Cupid, burning the midnight oil in true Spanish style. Spaniards, I’ve come to understand, are tempestuously exhausting, and usually exhausted. That is why they need siesta; after sexual satisfaction comes the only hour or two they’re truly asleep. I was at the palace all day, I danced in the late afternoon, performed all evening, didn’t eat until midnight, and my night was still going strong at two or three in the morning as I tried to slow down enough to be able to sleep. The only thing missing was the sex, alas.
Not everything was rosy at the theatre. It was Christmas; the audiences seemed in raucous moods prior to the closing of the season. I did finally track Ventura down; he’d been organizing the impending masked ball in a different venue and was pulling his hair out over it. “It’s our best opportunity, Rosana. I’m receiving updates from Grimaldi daily.”
My stomach lurched. “And is he pleased with our progress? I mean, with mine? We must speak about the tutor, Ventura. It’s d
amnably difficult, the man is so—”
The playwright looked up from his desk. “What?”
I blinked rapidly and tried to stay calm. “He is corrupt, but in this matter I believe he is incorruptible. We need to come up with an alternate plan concerning the tutor.”
He looked down at his papers and pursed his lips. My heart lurched in my chest. Why was he not saying anything?
“That matter of the fly tower,” I said. “Did you ever discover—?”
“Nothing.”
“There was a man in Paris. Your brother said he knows him as an associate. Pedro Coria? Has a glass eye; tall, mad bugger? Is there a chance that he—”
“We don’t know who it was,” he said, returning to his paperwork and ending our discussion, “but it will never happen again.”
Oh, I was sure of that too, because I’d decided to take my safety into my own hands. Every night now, I flew with one of the little pistols tucked into my costume, powder tamped and little metal cap secured over my left nipple, ready to place in the loaded barrel at a moment’s notice. I kept the second pistol hidden in its faux book in my dressing room; they returned with me to the palace at night. I was taking no more chances. Now, when I landed on the platform (like a tiger on a roof) after my flight upwards, one hand was at my waist, ready for the return of that shadowy demon.
Desire to remain sharp also led me to ask Luisa Fernanda whether I could set up a target in one of the palace gardens and be allowed to shoot. This request thrilled her and, being the curious child that she was, she even managed to pry out of me a bit of the story behind the request. I told her the theatre was dangerous sometimes and that there had almost been an accident. With a cry of triumph, she grabbed my hand and ran me over to the captain of her guard. “Rosana requires a bodyguard every night,” she trilled, “beginning tonight. To accompany her to the theatre and back.”
And so it was. This extra attention (and another lumbering male backstage) did nothing to endear me to the cast, but made me feel safer, somewhat. The bodyguard seemed to annoy Ventura, which I regretted. “We may be coming to the end of this stage,” he told me curtly. “Be prepared to move on.”
“What do you mean?”
“Changes are coming—plans, decisions. I’m run off my feet.”
“What is happening?”
“You’ll know soon enough.”
I kept up my target practice.
And then. On one of the following evenings, a few days after Christmas, I went to the theatre as usual to begin my preparations. Marietta, the nastiest of the chorus duennas, was looking particularly smug, which made me wonder what had happened. “You’ll find out,” was all she’d say. Well, that, and “puta coño” under her breath.
Five minutes before curtain, Ventura came hurtling backstage and pulled me aside. “This is your last performance as Cupid,” he said.
“What! But why?” I was shocked.
“Change of plans. Marietta is taking over until we close for the season, and when we reopen Emilio returns.” And he strode off the way he’d come.
Marietta. Now I understood. The curtain went up, and we were off—my final Cupid. I hadn’t even had time to prepare myself to say goodbye to the role I now realized I had come to love. The whole performance I kept my tears in check, but they were at the ready. It was only at curtain call that I sobbed in real grief, listening to the roar, slaking my thirst at the magical pool one final time before silence descended. Antonio gave me a heartfelt hug as the curtain thumped onto the stage. “You’ve done a good job, little one,” he said. “No one can take that away. Lock it up in your chest, this feeling. You’ll find your audience, I have no doubts.”
Everyone seemed to know. The dresser was kinder than usual and left me, at my own pace, to change out of my costume, the smelly thing that I had grown dependent upon. The others seemed to hasten into their street clothes and depart for the café with jubilant cries. They were free of me. The circle was complete again, tail in the jaw, no outsider allowed.
And then another nasty shock: Stooping to do up my boots, I noticed the hem of my tartan gown had a four inch tear in it. I grabbed it up and examined it with horror: Someone had sliced the material with a knife! My weekly salary as Cupid had just come to an abrupt end, and now my earl’s bank draft—my emergency fund!—was gone. My first confused thought was Marietta, then Emilio—then a worse, but perhaps more accurate possibility entered my head. Could it be the would-be assassin, determined to cut off my escape route? What was I to do now?
Just as I was about to fall into a fresh bout of nerves and dismay, a knock sounded at the door. “Come in,” I said, thinking it would be Ventura, ready to unveil Grimaldi’s latest anxiety-inducing scheme. Instead, the door burst open and a small, muscular military man stood in the frame, outlined from behind by the candelabra illuminating the hallway.
“Señorita Cupid?” he said. “May I enter?”
Jésu, who was this? He was armed! Was there anyone else left in the theatre? A quick squirt of fear flashed through me and I leaned forwards, camouflaging my hand as it reached for my pistol. “Do I have a choice?”
He grinned as if he knew what I was doing and stepped into the room. As he moved into the increased light I noticed the man had the most decadent, glistening mustache I have ever seen, which also served to underscore both the whiteness of his teeth and the syrupy brown of his long-lashed eyes. “No need for that, I am not dangerous. Not yet, or not at this particular moment.”
“Who are you?” My tiny pistol was now in my hand and I brought it quietly into my lap.
“Ventura told me I would find you here.”
Did he now?
“My name is General Diego de León. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
My mind flipped rapidly through the many Spanish names I had heard over the past months, and then I had it. Grimaldi’s voice, informing me of some of the secret Cristino operators I might be meeting: “Also two of the rebel generals, de la Concha and de León. Be advised not to fall in love with them.”
I looked this general up and down, and this made him smile even more broadly. He snapped his teeth together twice, looking me up and down as well, obviously appreciating what he was seeing. These Spaniards, either they were lamenting and cursing their lot, or their minds were hot in pursuit of the next conquest.
“What is it you need to say to me?” I demanded.
“Ah, señorita, you were so beautiful tonight, so delicate,” and his eyes sparkled as he added, “So athletic.”
“You were there?” I was slightly mollified by his words. “And you thought I was good?”
“Indeed, the best. Most impressive. May I?” And he indicated his hat, which was part of his uniform—a large, barrel-shaped one with a peak over the brow and an enormous plume extending beyond the top of it. I inclined my head, then he removed it with a low bow and a smart click of the heels.
When he straightened again, having revealed a crown of thick, curly black hair, I saw that he was really quite short, at least two inches shorter than me. Still, there was quite a lot of man in that uniform. “Sit then,” I conceded.
“You can take your hand away from your pistol, señorita,” he said.
“I’ll decide that,” I answered.
“Ah.”
We sat there in silence for a moment, de León still smiling and holding his ridiculously large hat in his lap. He sighed, as the silence continued, and began to play with the plume.
“Is Ventura coming? Is that why we’re waiting?” I asked.
“When?”
“Now.”
“I don’t believe so.”
“For heaven’s sake,” I fumed, standing suddenly with pistol in hand, “tell me what you’ve come to say and let me get about my business. I have finished here for the evening—and not only for the evening, but for good! Forever! And I have no way home!” To my horror, tears suddenly sprang to my eyes.
“Oh, lady. Oh dios mio, don’t cry.” He ge
ntly slipped the pistol from me and placed it on the table. “You’ll go on to other triumphs, this is only the beginning.” And the mustache was against my upper lip and his mouth was kissing me. I’d had no idea that a mustache could be so soft, like a kitten, when—
“How dare you!” A resounding slap, his cheek flared crimson, and I had done it.
“Whoa!” He rubbed his face, syrupy eyes now suffering. “Madonna. What was that for?”
“You know what for. You took advantage.”
“Never. You were sad, I was trying to improve your condition.”
“Stand away from me. I don’t trust you.”
He backed up, retrieved his hat from the chair, and sat down again. There was a welt on his cheek. “Dios, you pack a wallop. Very athletic indeed.”
Now I felt contrite. “Very sorry, I’m sure. And I didn’t mean to cry. Too stupid and female of me. Tell me how you and Ventura are connected.”
He stroked his mustache thoughtfully, that kittenlike softness rasping as his fingers moved through it. The ends were twisted and curled upwards, again like a cat—the smile of a cat when it is pleased with itself for a belly full of milk or for finding a warm place in the sun to while away an afternoon. His white teeth gleamed, an occasional sparkle between his lips, his finger twisted and rasped. Like a siesta . . . Oh, what was wrong with me? I picked up a fan and flapped it vigorously. How absurd. It was the middle of the night, I was alone in the theatre, the theatre where someone had tried to kill me and almost succeeded. There was a possible assassin, one or more, out to get me. I’d just lost my job and had no idea what was ahead except the ongoing hideousness of trying to seduce an ugly tutor whose fantasies consisted of torture. The soft rasping suddenly stopped.