“Yes, yes, of course,” was the priest’s reaction.
And they started to walk back.
“Fray Joaquín …”
“Yes?” he asked in the silence that followed.
“Do you think that any of your parishioners would be willing to give me a dowry so I can marry?”
“I didn’t say …” He hesitated.
What was Milagros trying to do? The last thing that would pass through his head was the idea of finding a husband for her; he’d heard about the death of Alejandro, her fiancé, and he still felt remorse over his … happiness? How can I be happy over the death of a boy? he tortured himself over and over again in the silence of his nights.
“We could find someone,” he declared nonetheless, to please her. “We could …”
But the girl left him with the words on the tip of his tongue and ran off toward Old María’s hut. Before the friar understood what was going on, Milagros had returned, running again, and she stopped before him, panting, offering him Caridad’s red clothes, carefully folded.
“If you could get me a dowry … could you get one of your parishioners to mend Cachita’s clothes?”
Fray Joaquín grabbed the clothing and laughed; he laughed to keep himself from caressing the girl’s tanned face or her hair adorned with ribbons, so he didn’t take her by the shoulders and pull her toward him, and kiss her on the lips, and …
“I’m sure I can, Milagros,” he confirmed, banishing his desire.
CARIDAD WORKED tirelessly. The old couple she lived with treated her with indifference, as if she were nothing more than an object, not even a bothersome object. They both slept in a rickety bed with legs, which the old woman was inordinately proud of; it was her most prized possession, since in that shack there was little more than a table, stools and a rudimentary hearth for cooking. They pointed to a spot on the dirt floor where she could lay out the mattress that Tomás had given her, and they didn’t feed her unless he gave them the necessary foodstuffs beforehand. Even the candles whose light allowed Caridad to work at night had to be provided by Tomás. “If there is a single tobacco leaf missing,” he warned the old couple incessantly every time he showed up at their hut, “I’ll slit your throats.” Yet, every once in a while, Caridad would address their constant, insistent complaints and give them one of the cigars from her smoke, and see how they shared it eagerly, despite their laments over having to smoke cigars made with the veins and leaf scraps. But Caridad didn’t even manage to win them over that way, and the old couple thought that all the cigars that Caridad set aside for her smoke were for them; actually, she hid the ones for her own consumption just as she had on the plantation so the other slaves wouldn’t steal them.
As time passed, Caridad began to miss the nights in the San Miguel alley, when Melchor would ask her to sing and then fall asleep behind her, peaceful, trusting, and she could work and smoke at the same time, feeling how the smoke invaded her senses and transported her to a state of placidity in which time didn’t exist. It was then when the work of her long fingers, as she cut, handled and twisted the leaves, mingled and mixed with the hum of her songs, with the aromas and her memories, with the gypsy’s breathing … and with that freedom Milagros had spoken of and which now seemed to be fading away in a strange hut.
Where is Melchor? she thought in the silence of the nights.
An excited, sweaty Milagros, in a break during the party her father had thrown to forgive her, had spoken about him.
“I have news about Grandfather,” she commented. “A gypsy from Antequera, a traveling blacksmith, showed up. He needed to have a new document forged for him or something like that, I don’t know … Well, it turns out that he ran into Grandfather while working in the Osuna region and they spent a couple of days together; he says he’s fine.”
Caridad asked the same question that Milagros did when her mother told her about the traveling blacksmith: “No message?” The girl used the same sarcastic reply on Caridad that her mother had used on her: “From Grandfather?”
Since then Caridad had had no news of him. She did know his objective, she had talked about it with Milagros: to kill El Gordo. “You’ll see! You don’t know Grandfather; there isn’t a man alive who can rob him and get away with it!” she’d added proudly. That prediction haunted Caridad. She had seen El Gordo’s men, his lieutenants, his army of smugglers: how could Melchor take them all on? She didn’t tell the girl, but every night she remembered his sky-blue silk jacket; it shone before her as if she could touch it just by extending her hand. That same blue that had guided her to the gypsy settlement when Eleggua decided to allow her to live, the jacket that the gypsy hung on a rusty nail before going to bed at night and she glanced at every so often. Caridad sadly savored the memory of his insolence and his slow, arrogant gait. They were a different race, as they never tired of repeating; hadn’t Melchor proved that in the Gaucín inn when he confronted the backpacker? And he had done it for her! Yet how could Grandfather beat El Gordo’s army? If she had … She didn’t know they were planning to steal the tobacco! And besides, what could she have done against a white man?
She appealed to Saint Jacinto; she knelt before the Virgin of Candlemas and prayed to Oyá for Melchor Vega. “My goddess,” she murmured, her fingers scattering part of a tobacco leaf on the floor as an offering, “may nothing bad befall him. Bring him back to me, please.”
That day she returned to the settlement with three good cigars that Fray Joaquín had given her in payment for her work.
“Sell them, Cachita,” suggested Milagros. “You’d get good money for them.”
“No,” murmured Caridad. “You and I are going to smoke these.”
“But they’d pay you a lot …” replied the gypsy as she began to prepare the flint and tinder.
Caridad stilled her expert hands and fixed her gaze on Milagros. “I don’t know a thing about money,” she argued.
“But what’s the point—?” Milagros cut her question short. Caridad’s little eyes, the need for affection her whole self revealed, answered her in silence. Milagros smiled tenderly. “All right then,” she declared.
The rain had been relentless for several days in Triana and many of the inhabitants went to the river to check its water level and gauge the risk of it overflowing, as had happened so many times—with dramatic results. In the gypsy settlement by the Carthusian monastery, a persistent drizzle mixed with the columns of smoke that rose from the huts. On that inclement morning in early December of the year 1748, only some old squalid horses were out. And the half-naked kids, immune to the cold and the water soaking them to the skin, played in the mire the street had become, sinking up to their ankles in the mud. The older folk took shelter from the rain and waited it out idly.
Mid-morning, however, the children’s shrieks broke the idleness imposed by the bad weather.
“A bear!”
The shrill screams of the children echoed among the splashing of their races through the mud. Men and women stuck their heads through the doors of their huts.
“Melchor Vega is bringing a bear!” exclaimed one of the gypsy kids, pointing toward the road that led to the settlement.
“Grandfather Vega!” shrieked another.
Milagros, who had already risen from the table, leapt outside. Caridad dropped the knife she was using to cut a large tobacco leaf. Melchor Vega? The two women found each other outside on the street.
“Where?” the girl asked one of the boys, whom she managed to catch as he ran.
“There! He’s almost here! He’s bringing a bear!” he answered as she clutched him, until he managed to escape her and vanish into the hubbub; some looked on in surprise, others ran to greet Melchor and yet others rushed to move their animals, which were braying and whinnying and pulling at their halters, frightened by the presence of the large beast.
“Let’s go!” Milagros urged Caridad on.
“What is a bear?”
The girl stopped and pointed. “That.�
�
At the top of the street—he’d already reached the first of the shacks—Grandfather was walking and smiling, the blue of his silk jacket darkened by the rain. Behind Melchor’s two-pointed staff, an immense black bear followed him on all fours, patiently, with its ears pointed, looking curiously at all those who surrounded him at a prudent distance.
“Holy Virgin of Charity!” muttered Caridad, backing up a few paces.
“Don’t be afraid, Cachita.”
But Caridad kept backing up as Melchor, surprise showing in his face upon discovering her at the settlement, approached them.
“Milagros! What are you doing here? And your mother?”
The girl didn’t even hear him; she just stood there frozen. Melchor reached his granddaughter but the bear, who was now ahead of him, got there first and brushed his snout against the gypsy’s calf.
Milagros backed away just as her friend had done, keeping her gaze on the animal.
“And you, morena, you’re here too?”
“It’s a long story, Brother,” answered Tomás from amidst the group of gypsies who had followed him along the length of the street.
“Is my daughter OK?” the grandfather asked immediately.
“Yes.”
“And José Carmona?”
“He’s fine.”
“That’s a shame,” he complained, stroking the bear’s head. Someone laughed. “But if my daughter and my granddaughter are fine, let’s leave the long stories for priests and women. Look, Milagros! Look how he dances!”
Then the gypsy moved away from the bear and lifted both the animal’s arms.
The bear rose up on its back legs, extended its front ones and followed the rhythm marked by Melchor, who seemed small beside the beast twice his height. Milagros backed away even further, to where Caridad stood.
“Look!” shouted Melchor nonetheless. “Come here with me! Come closer!”
But Milagros didn’t.
During the rest of the morning and in spite of the drizzle that never stopped, Melchor played with the bear: he forced it to dance again and again, to walk on its back legs, to sit down, to cover its eyes, to roll in the mud, and many other skills that amused and impressed the crowd.
“And what are you planning to do with that animal?” some of the gypsies asked him.
“Yes, where will you keep him? Where will he sleep?”
“With the morena!” answered Melchor very seriously.
Caridad brought her hands to her chest.
“It’s a joke, Cachita,” laughed Milagros, elbowing her affectionately. Then she thought it over again. “It is a joke, isn’t it, Grandfather?”
Melchor didn’t respond.
“How will you feed it?” shouted one of the women. “It’s been raining for so long that the men don’t go out and we haven’t even got half a chicken around here for all of us.”
“Well, then we’ll feed him children!” Melchor pretended he was going to let the animal go so he could grab one of the bolder little kids, who had come close and now ran away shrieking. “A boy in the morning and a girl at night,” he repeated, furrowing his brow toward all the other runny-nosed kids.
As the morning wore on, the mystery was cleared up: a family of gypsies from the South of France showed up at the settlement with a caravan to pick up the bear. Melchor had borrowed it to amuse his people.
“How’d you come up with that idea? It could have carved you up with a single paw swipe. You don’t know anything about bears,” Tomás began to scold him when the caravan was leaving the settlement.
“Not a chance! I’ve been living with them for a month. I’ve even slept with that bear. He’s harmless, at least more so than most payos.”
“And even some gypsies,” noted his brother.
“Well, what about that long story you had to tell me?”
Tomás nodded.
“Get started!”
“THAT MORENA is mixed up in all our misfortunes,” commented Melchor when his brother finished explaining the events that had led Milagros to the settlement.
They were gathered around a jug of wine with the other Vega elders: Uncle Juan, Uncle Basilio and Uncle Mateo.
“That Negress is jinxed!” exclaimed Mateo.
“But she handles tobacco well,” alleged Tomás in her favor. Melchor arched his eyebrows in his brother’s direction and Tomás understood. “No, she hasn’t been singing. She works in silence. A lot, even at night. More than any payo. She makes money for us, but I haven’t heard her singing.”
“What are you planning on doing about your granddaughter?” asked Mateo after a few moments of silence.
Melchor sighed. “I don’t know. The council is right. The girl is a scatterbrain, but the Vargas boys who went with her are clueless. How did they expect to give that potter a lesson in the middle of his neighborhood, protected by all his own kind? They should have waited to catch him alone and slit his neck, or entered his house in silence … Kids today are losing their talent for these things! I don’t know,” he repeated. “Perhaps I’ll talk to the Vargas family; only with their forgiveness—”
“José told me that he already tried that …”
“He’s not capable of lighting a cigar without my daughter’s help. Well,” he added as he served himself another glass of wine, “the only thing that worries me is that she’s separated from her mother. If it wasn’t for that, it’s not a bad thing that my granddaughter is here, with her kind. María will teach her what her father never could: to be a good gypsy, to love freedom and how to not make more mistakes. I’ll leave things the way they are.”
Basilio and Mateo nodded.
“Good decision,” agreed Tomás. Then he paused. “And you?” he asked after a few seconds. “How’d it go? It doesn’t look like you got back the tobacco El Gordo stole from us.”
“How were you expecting me to bring two bags full?” he asked as he searched inside his jacket and pulled out a bag, which he dropped onto the table.
The muffled clinking of the coins silenced any further interventions. Melchor made a gesture urging his brother to open it: several gold escudos rolled out on the tabletop.
“El Gordo won’t be pleased,” commented Tomás.
“No,” agreed Uncle Basilio.
“Well, this is only half of it,” revealed Melchor. “The rest the bear took.”
The Vegas asked him to explain.
“I spent quite a few days around Cuevas Bajas, where El Gordo lives with his family; I even walked through the town at night, but I couldn’t find a way to give that son of a bitch a lesson: he’s always accompanied by one of his men, as if he needs them even to just take a piss.
“I waited. Something had to come up. One day, some Catalan gypsies who were passing through told me about the French guy with the bear who wandered through nearby towns making the animal dance. I found him, made a deal with him and we went back to wait for El Gordo to organize another smuggling party. When El Gordo and his men were gone and the town was in the hands of old men and women, the French gypsy came in with the bear and did his performance, and while they were all enjoying themselves with his dancing and juggling games, I slipped into El Gordo’s house with no problem.”
“Empty?” interrupted Uncle Basilio.
“No. There was a trusted guard who, without leaving his post, was trying to watch the bear from a distance.”
Basilio and Juan gave Melchor a questioning look; the others mockingly feigned mournful expressions: if Melchor had El Gordo’s money, that guard had not met a good end. For a few seconds, the gypsy thought about that. It had been difficult to get the man to talk. First he caught him off-guard: he primed and loaded his musket, approached him from behind and threatened him, pointing the barrel at the nape of his neck. He brought him inside the house and disarmed him. The man was lame, which was why he hadn’t gone with the smuggling party, but that didn’t mean he was weak. They knew each other from before he got the limp and the nickname El Cojo along wi
th it.
“This will be the end of you, Galeote,” predicted the guard while Melchor, with the barrel of his weapon beneath the man’s throat, used his free hand to pull a pistol and a large dagger out of the man’s sash and dropped them to the floor.
“If I were you I’d be worried about my own end, Cojo, because you either collaborate or you’ll be going out before me. Where does that thief hide his treasures?”
“You are crazier than I thought if you think I’m going to tell you that.”
“You will, Cojo, you will.”
He forced him to lie down on the floor with his arms extended. Cheers and applause for the bear’s tricks came in through the window.
“If you scream,” warned Melchor aiming at his head, “I’ll kill you. You can be sure of that.”
Then he stomped on the little finger of his right hand. El Cojo gritted his teeth while Melchor felt his bones snapping. He did the same to the four other fingers, in silence, twisting his heel into them. Sweat dripped from the man’s temples. He didn’t speak.
“You’re going to be one-handed, not just lame,” Melchor told him, moving on to his left hand. “Do you think El Gordo will appreciate it, will he feed you when you can no longer do it for yourself? He’ll toss you aside like a dog, you know it.”
“Better an abandoned dog than a dead man,” muttered the man. “If I tell you, he’ll kill me.”
“That’s true,” affirmed the gypsy, putting his heel on the left little finger and keeping his musket always aimed at his head. “It’s a tough choice: either he’ll kill you or I’ll maim you,” he added without putting any pressure on. “Because after this we’ll continue with your nose and the few teeth you have left, and end with your testicles. I’ll leave your eyes so you can see how people look at you with scorn. If you withstand it, I give you my word as a gypsy that I will leave this house with my hands empty.” Melchor gave the man a few seconds to think. “But you have another possibility: if you tell me where the money is, I’ll be generous with you and you can escape with something in your bag … and the rest of your body intact.”
The Barefoot Queen Page 18