“Dance, morena!” she then ordered.
Caridad seemed hypnotized by the atmosphere and continued clapping like an automaton.
“Dance, goddamnit!” screamed the old woman.
Caridad’s appearance in the circle, her large breasts showing up dark beneath her red shirt, brought on a chorus of applause, cheers and all types of rude shrieks, which echoed in her ears. She turned toward Milagros: tears were running down her cheeks.
“Dance, Cachita,” she begged her before stepping out and leaving her the space.
Caridad closed her eyes and the commotion in the room began to make its way into her the way the howls from the slaves at the Sunday parties had done, when the high point was reached and someone was mounted by an Orisha. The sound of the guitar intensified behind her, but she found her rhythm in those incoherent shouts, in the people banging on the tabletops, in the lust that floated, almost tangible among the smoke. And she began to dance as if calling Oshún, the goddess of love, her goddess, to come to her: displaying herself shamelessly, thrusting her pubis and hips into the air, twisting her torso and head. Roque had to work hard. He pushed away some men who came forward to grope her, kiss her or embrace her, until he had no choice but to take up his knife, brandishing it to keep the men from leaping on her. Yet the more frantic the crowd became, the more Caridad danced.
The spectators gave her a standing ovation after the first dance: clapping, whistling and demanding more wine and liquor. Caridad was forced to repeat her dance. She was shiny with sweat and her red clothes were soaked, clinging to her breasts and outlining her nipples.
After the third dance, Bienvenido came out into the circle with both arms raised, waving them to announce the end of the performance. They knew what the old innkeeper and his three sons who kept things in line were like, and mumbling and joking they started to take their seats around the tables.
Caridad was panting. Milagros remained downcast.
“Go pass the hat,” María told Caridad. “Quickly, before they forget.”
The old woman had been muttering insults while she watched the dances and the naive look that was Caridad’s response made her even more furious.
“Go with her!” she ordered Roque and Fermín brusquely.
Bienvenido stayed with María and Milagros while the others went from table to table.
Caridad walked timidly with one of the men’s hats while the gypsies tried to offset her ingenuousness by frowning and silently threatening those who weren’t forthcoming. She got coins, but also propositions, rude remarks and the occasional fleeting grope, which Caridad tried to evade and which the gypsies, in return for more generosity, overlooked. After all, Caridad wasn’t a gypsy woman.
“Didn’t you say she sang like the angels?” Bienvenido asked María, as they both counted the money dropping into the hat from a distance.
“She’ll sing. As sure as we’re not yet rotting in hell, she will. I promise you that,” answered the old woman, raising her voice without turning toward Milagros, to whom her statement was really directed.
FERMÍN AND Roque were satisfied with the cut that María gave them, so much so that the next day several men and women passed by Milagros’s house trying to join the group. The old woman refused them all. She was about to do the same with a woman from the Bermúdez family who showed up with a babe in arms and two almost naked kids clinging to her skirt, which was faded and ragged like all the ones worn by the gypsies who had returned from Málaga, but first she peeked her head inside the apartment: Milagros was lying hidden beneath a blanket. She had spent the entire day like that, sobbing every once in a while. Caridad, seated in a corner with her bundle, was smoking a medium-size cigar called a papante. María had rewarded her with four of them when she was finally able to go buy provisions: food and a candle. They said the papantes were made with Cuban leaf, and it must have been true, given the satisfaction with which Caridad, removed from all that was going on around her, exhaled large mouthfuls of smoke, María pressed her lips together, thought for a few seconds, nodded imperceptibly to herself and turned back to the Bermúdez woman, who was trying to keep her little ones quiet; she had seen her around, she knew her a little.
“Rosa …? Sagrario?” the old healer tried to remember.
“Sagrario,” she answered.
“Come back at nightfall.”
The woman’s gratitude was clear from her wide smile.
“But …” María pointed to the children. “Come alone.”
“Don’t worry. The family will take care of them.”
The rest of the day passed with the same apathy as the blacksmiths, still without the proper tools, showed toward their hammering. Caridad and the old woman ate sitting on the floor.
“Leave her be,” María told Caridad, who kept looking at the shape covered in a blanket lying a few paces from them.
What would she say to the girl if she got up and ate with them? Their return the night before had been taciturn; only Fermín and Roque exchanged a few funny anecdotes. Tired, the three women had gone to bed without even mentioning what had happened at Bienvenido’s inn. Would she be able to sing tonight? She had to; they couldn’t depend on Caridad: she wasn’t a gypsy, anyone could tempt her away and she would leave them in the lurch. The old woman observed her as she ate: she smoked between bites. Her thoughts … where were they? On Melchor? Was she thinking about Melchor? She had cried over him. Is it possible that there was something between them? The old healer was only sure of one thing: at the rate she was smoking, Caridad would polish off the four papantes soon. She asked her for a drag.
“Are you still thinking about the gypsy?” she then asked.
Caridad nodded. There was something about that old woman that pushed her to tell the truth, to confide in her. “I don’t know if he would have liked seeing me dance at the inn,” was all she said.
The healer stared at her. That young woman was in love, there was no doubt about it. “You know something, morena? Melchor would know that you did it for his granddaughter.”
The morena loved Milagros, thought María after exhaling a mouthful of smoke, but she wasn’t gypsy, and that was reason enough to be wary of her. The two strong drags on the cigar clouded her mind. Yes, the girl would sing and dance that night, she said to herself as she handed the cigar to Caridad, and she would surprise all those drunks with her voice and the way she moved her body. She had to! And she would, that was why María had let Sagrario join them: the Bermúdez woman sang and danced like the best of them. María had heard and seen her in some of the many parties that had been so frequent before the arrest.
After eating, Caridad and the old gypsy lazed around waiting for night to fall. Every once in a while Caridad’s gaze drifted toward Milagros, but María kept her from going over to console her, even with her mere presence. They no longer heard her sobbing. Milagros was still beneath the blankets and tent cloth until, eventually and suddenly, she moved jerkily as if trying to call attention to herself. Just like a capricious, sulky child, thought María, who smiled as she imagined her wanting to know what was going on in the persistent silence that surrounded her sanctuary. She must be hungry and thirsty, but she was stubborn like her mother … and her grandfather. A Vega who never surrenders! Tonight you’ll demonstrate that, she promised as she watched her shivering under the blankets again.
SAGRARIO AND the two men arrived together. María made them wait on the threshold.
“Let’s go, Milagros!”
The girl responded with a violent kick beneath the blankets. María had had a lot of time to think about how Milagros would react and how to deal with her: only hurt pride and the fear of great shame would get her to obey. She approached, planning to uncover her, but Milagros clung to the blanket. Even so, the old woman was partially successful.
“Look at her!” she said to those at the door, still pulling on the blanket the girl was grabbing. “Girl, do you want all the gypsies to know what a coward you are? The rumors will sp
read so far they’ll reach your mother’s ears!”
“Leave my mother out of this!” shouted Milagros.
“Girl,” insisted María in a firm voice; the blanket covering Milagros was now taut in one of her hands. “There isn’t a single Vega in Triana. At this point I am the elder of the family and you are nothing more than a gypsy girl without a man to depend on; you must obey me. If you don’t get up, I’ll tell Fermín and Roque to carry you, do you hear me? You know I’ll do it and you know they’ll obey me. And they’ll take you through the alley like a spoiled child.”
“They won’t do it. I’m a Carmo—!”
Milagros didn’t get to finish the sentence. When she’d heard it, María had opened her hand and released the blanket with a scorn the girl couldn’t see but could sense in all its intensity. Had she been about to repudiate being a Vega? Before the old woman had turned around, Milagros was already on her feet.
And she sang. She sang beside Sagrario. Her voice—aided by the effects of a glass of red wine that Old María forced the girl to drink as soon as they entered the inn—was powerful and joyous enough to cover up her fear and shame. Caridad also danced again, and again she ignited the crowd, which was somewhat larger than the night before. Word had spread. But not as much as it had by the third night, when Sagrario, after dancing with Milagros, moved out of the circle and introduced the girl with an exaggerated bow as she had planned with the old woman. Milagros found herself alone, amid the applause that still hadn’t waned. She was panting, gleaming … and smiling! noticed María with her heart on tenterhooks. Then the girl lifted a hand, adorned with some colored ribbons, like her hair, and asked for silence. The healer felt a shiver run through her stiff limbs. How long had it been since she’d felt that pleasure? Fermín, with his foot on the chair and the guitar over his left thigh, exchanged a victorious look with the old woman. The audience was reluctant to quiet down; someone tapped on a glass with a knife and shushing followed.
Milagros endured having all eyes on her.
“Come on, pretty girl!” they urged from one of the tables.
“Sing, gypsy!”
“Sing, Milagros,” encouraged Caridad. “Sing like only you know how.”
And she began, a cappella, before Fermín joined in with the guitar.
“I know how to sing the story of a gypsy …” Her lively voice, with its extraordinary timbre, filled the entire inn; Fermín and the others immediately recognized the gypsy seguidilla but they let her finish the verse unaccompanied, savoring her singing. “… who fell in love with a lad of the pale race.”
When Milagros was about to launch into the second verse, the crowd received the guitar’s entrance with applause and compliments for the girl. The women in the group joined in with the handclapping. María was crying as she clapped, Caridad biting down hard on one of her papantes. Milagros continued singing, confident, firm, young, beautiful, like a goddess who enjoyed knowing she was adored.
Seville was a singing school, a music university, a workshop where all styles came together before heading out into the world. Caridad could arouse the men with her provocative dances, as the gypsy women did with their zarabandas—deemed sacrilegious by the priests and the sanctimonious—but no one, none of those men or women, prostitutes and criminals, washerwomen and artisans, friars and maids, could remain unmoved by the marvelous spell of a song that captured their emotions.
And the crowd went wild: cheers, acclaim and applause. And as the girl’s performance reached its climax she was showered with countless promises of eternal love.
“She’s a Vega,” El Conde whispered to keep from waking the other family members sleeping with them.
Rafael García and his wife remained with their eyes open in the darkness, stretched out fully dressed on a pile of straw and dried branches that served as a mattress. Reyes covered herself with a worn blanket. She was old and felt chilled. The forges had always kept the upper floors warm, but Rafael hadn’t yet reached a definitive agreement with the payo blacksmiths and they were still working with portable anvils and holes in the floor.
“We could be making a lot of money,” insisted La Trianera.
“She’s El Galeote’s granddaughter!” objected Rafael again, this time raising his voice.
This shout prompted the sounds of bodies stirring and the odd unintelligible word spoken in dreams. Reyes waited until the murmur of their breathing quieted down.
“It’s been months since anyone’s heard anything from Melchor. El Galeote must be dead, someone must have killed him—”
“Son of a bitch,” her husband interrupted, again in a whisper. “I should have done it myself long ago. Even so, the girl is still his granddaughter, a Vega.”
“The girl is a gold mine, Rafael.” Reyes let a few seconds pass and snorted toward the flaking ceiling; her next words were very hard for her. “She is the best singer I’ve ever heard,” she managed to admit.
Milagros’s success had spread by word of mouth and, like many other gypsies, Reyes was curious and had gone to listen to her at the inn. She stood in the door, huddled behind the audience that was larger every night. And while she couldn’t see her, she did hear her. Lord, did she ever!
“OK, she sings well, so what?” asked El Conde as if he wanted to put an end to the conversation. “She is still a Vega and she hates us as much as her grandfather and her mother do. May she turn mute!”
“Let’s marry her to Pedro,” she insisted, reiterating the suggestion that had started the argument.
“You are insane,” repeated Rafael in turn.
“No. That girl is in love with our Pedro. She always has been. I’ve seen her spying on him and following him. She melts when he’s around. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about. What I’m not sure is if Pedro would be willing to—”
“Pedro will do what I tell him to!”
After that show of authority, El Conde remained silent. Reyes smiled again at the chipped ceiling. How simple it was to steer a man, no matter how powerful he was … All it took was some goading to his pride.
“If she marries Pedro, she will have to obey you as well,” said Reyes then.
Rafael knew it, but he liked hearing it: him ordering around a Vega!
Reyes had picked up on a change in his attitude; he was no longer raging at the mere mention of the Vegas. Rafael was already fondling the money. “And how do we arrange it?” he might now ask. Or perhaps, “María, the healer, will object.” “I will go to the council of elders if need be.” Any of those sentences could be his next.
The old woman. He chose the old woman.
“That grumpy old hag?” was all Reyes said. “Actually, the girl is a Carmona. Without her parents around, it will be Inocencio, as the patriarch of the Carmonas, who decides. He wouldn’t dare if El Galeote or the mother were around, but without them …”
“And the Negress?” El Conde surprised her by saying. “She’s always with her.”
Reyes held back a laugh. “She’s just a stupid slave. Give her a cigar and she’ll do whatever you want.”
“Even so, I have a bad feeling about that Negress,” grumbled her husband.
ONE AFTERNOON, in the alley, Pedro García came out of his family’s smithy as Milagros was passing and smiled at her. Since she had begun singing at the inn there were many who now smiled at her or stopped to talk to her, but not Pedro. Even her girlfriends had tried to coax their way into the musical group by flattering her. “Did any of them do anything for you when the council forbade you from living in the alley?” said Old María, ending the matter.
That afternoon the old woman frowned over the encounter with Pedro, much as she had when listening to Milagros’s idea about dancing with some of her girlfriends at the inn. She suspected the meeting was no accident and tugged at the girl’s arm, but Milagros didn’t budge; she had stopped, spellbound, a few steps from the young García. Old María saw her stammer and turn red like … like some ridiculous, shy little girl.
; “How are you?” The boy feigned an interest before María snorted in his direction.
“Fine, until now!” the old woman answered curtly. “Can you move it along? Don’t you have things to do?”
The young man ignored the old gypsy’s presence and words. He widened his smile, revealing perfect white teeth that stood out against his dark skin. Then, as if he had to leave against his will, he half closed his eyes and brought his lips together in what could be seen as a hint of a kiss.
“See you soon,” he said in parting.
“Don’t you go near her,” warned María after the young man had turned his back to them. She’s not for you, she was about to add, but the tremendous beating of Milagros’s heart, which she could feel in the forearm she was holding on to, bewildered her, so she stopped.
Then: “Let’s go,” insisted the old woman, pulling on her arm. “Come on, morena!” she shouted to Caridad.
The effort María had to employ to get the girl to keep walking was in sharp contrast to La Trianera’s smug expression. She was hiding behind a small window on the upper floor of the smithy, and she nodded in satisfaction as she watched them cross the alley and head to the building where the Carmonas lived: the healer cursing ostentatiously, Milagros as if floating, and the morena … the morena behind them, like a shadow.
They were going to see Inocencio. If it was money that was needed to free Milagros’s parents, they now had it. And they trusted they’d have more, despite the bribes they were forced to pay to the constables so they’d allow them to continue singing at the inn and not investigate whether they’d been arrested in the roundup and freed in Málaga. María patted her pocket with the coins; they had only had to give in on one point.
“The Negress has to stop dancing,” Bienvenido had warned her one night. He too was pleased with the profits.
The Barefoot Queen Page 33