The Barefoot Queen

by Ildefonso Falcones

  From one corner, distressed, Fray Joaquín watched as the two women got up awkwardly, and hugged each other, and cried, and tried to look at each other and, tongue-tied, stammer out unintelligible words, before embracing again.

  NIGHT FELL and Melchor still hadn’t returned, and Caridad prepared dinner: a nice loaf of white bread, cold cuts, garlic, onions, oil and quince jelly that Martín had brought them. They didn’t talk much. Fray Joaquín tried to break the silence by asking about Caridad’s life. “I’ve survived,” she offered as the only explanation.

  “What could Melchor be doing?” the friar asked again, after a long silence.

  Caridad looked at the piece of onion she held between her fingers, as if surprised by its presence. “Demanding the devil give him back his gypsy spirit.”

  The mix of bitterness and sadness in her response kept the friar from making any other attempts. She wasn’t the newly freed slave who dropped her gaze before white men, nor the woman who dropped a piece of tobacco leaf in the church of San Jacinto while she sang softly and rocked back and forth on her knees before the Virgin of Candelaria. She was a woman hardened by experiences she didn’t want to recount to them, different from the one he had met in Triana. It wasn’t difficult for Fray Joaquín to understand Caridad’s concerns: their arrival had shattered the hard-won happiness she’d achieved. He turned toward Milagros, wondering if she also noticed it: she was chewing on the dried salted meat apathetically, as if she were being forced to eat. She hadn’t made any comment about Melchor and Caridad living together. The house only had one bedroom, and in it there was just one straw mattress. Here and there, the few belongings they had were mixed together: a bright red short jacket with gold piping and buttons that Melchor had forgotten, beside a wool shawl that surely belonged to Caridad. One object stood out among the routine practicality of the others: a wind-up toy on a stone cupboard. On numerous occasions over the course of the evening, whenever Melchor shifted his gaze onto Fray Joaquín as Milagros referred to him in her story, the friar had looked at the toy. Does it still work? he wondered, trying to distance himself from the suspicions he sensed in Melchor’s gaze. Fray Joaquín knew that he wasn’t welcome there. Melchor would never accept him; he was a friar and a payo besides, as Melchor had warned him in Triana. Wasn’t he himself living with a Negress? But Melchor would never allow his granddaughter, a Vega, of the Triana Vegas from the settlement at La Cartuja, to be with him. What Fray Joaquín didn’t know was what the gypsy woman thought.

  “I need to rest,” murmured Milagros.

  Fray Joaquín saw her point to the straw mattress in the next room, asking Caridad for permission. She nodded her head.

  Caridad left the house as soon as she heard Milagros’s slow breathing. Fray Joaquín was wrong when he thought she had gone out in search of Melchor. She headed to Méndez’s establishment, asked for him, and urged him to find Martín that very night.

  “Yes, tonight,” she insisted, “have all the backpackers you can round up go out in search of him tonight. The entire town of Barrancos if need be! You have our money invested in the tobacco,” Caridad reminded him, “pay what they ask, just find him.”

  Then she went back to the house and sat in front of the friar, attentive to the slightest sound that might come from outside. Nothing happened, and with the first light of dawn, she stretched and began to prepare a bundle with her belongings and some food.

  “What are you doing?” asked Fray Joaquín.

  “Haven’t you realized yet, Father?” she asked, her back to him, hiding her tears. “We’re going back to Triana.”

  A SIMPLE exchange of glances was enough for Melchor and Caridad to tell each other anything they needed to. I have to do it, morena, said the gypsy’s. I’m coming with you, replied hers. Neither of them discussed the other’s decision.

  “On the road,” ordered Melchor later, addressing Milagros and the friar, both seated at the table waiting for him to return.

  Melchor put on his short red jacket calmly; he didn’t need anything more. Caridad tossed the bundle on her back and prepared to follow him. Milagros had nothing, and the friar felt ridiculous when he picked up the statue of the Virgin.

  “And …?” asked Fray Joaquín, pointing to that object that stood out atop the cupboard: the wind-up toy.

  Caridad frowned. They are going to kill Melchor! she could have answered. And me too, probably. This is our house and here is where it should be, she would have added. This is its place. She turned and headed toward the door.

  Caridad and Melchor began the march, with Milagros behind them and Fray Joaquín lagging somewhat, as if he weren’t part of the group, all in silence, the leaders choosing the same paths they had taken so many times with tobacco on their backs, passing where they had hidden when they suspected a patrol, crossing the river at the same point where they had been together for the first time.

  Milagros, unlike Caridad, who had already accepted her man’s fate, was plunged in doubts as she walked: neither she nor her grandfather uttered any recriminations over what had happened in Triana. They hadn’t talked about her father’s death, or about her marriage to Pedro García. They’d just hugged each other as if the mere gesture itself would banish all the heartache into the distant past. How was her grandfather planning to get María back? Milagros asked herself again and again. I got the wrong man, he had said. It seemed that the only thing he was interested in was taking revenge on Pedro, on the Garcías … How could he do that alone?

  She slowed her pace until Fray Joaquín, who kept wondering if he had done the right thing by going to Barrancos, reached her.

  “What is he planning?” asked Milagros as she pointed to her grandfather’s back with her chin.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But … he’s not going to go into the alley, like that, alone, without backup. What is he going to do?”

  “I don’t know, Milagros, but I’m afraid that is his plan.”

  “They’ll kill him. And my girl? What will become of her?”

  “Melchor!” The friar’s shout interrupted Milagros.

  He turned his head without stopping.

  “What’s your plan?”

  The only plan Melchor had in mind was entering Triana along the road from Camas and crossing it until he reached the entrance to the San Miguel alley. And that was what he did after a week of traveling, despite the doubts and objections raised by both Milagros and the friar priest, who in spite of it all, continued walking through the outskirts of Seville.

  The early summer sun was high in the sky and drew glints from the gold accents on the gypsy’s jacket. Melchor stopped before the entrance to the alley, in front of the others and with Caridad by his side, and stroked the knife handle that emerged from his sash while some men and women looked at him in surprise and others ran to their forges and their homes to warn of his arrival.

  Soon the hammering stopped. The smiths came out of their forges, the women peeked out of windows and the children, infected by the tension they sensed in the grown-ups, stopped playing.

  Caridad recognized some of the men and women and, gradually, as the rumors died down, silence was heard. Everything had started in that alley, and everything would end there, she lamented. Suddenly she felt strong, invincible, and she wondered if that was what Melchor was feeling, what had led him to act the way he did, scorning the dangers. She had had her own doubts along the way, hearing the constant complaints from Milagros and the friar priest, their warnings tinged with a dread that she too shared. She didn’t speak, she didn’t admit her fears, she supported Melchor with her silence, and now, resigned to the fate that awaited her man, and probably her as well, before men and women whose initial surprise had turned to rage, she thought she finally understood the gypsy’s character. She drew herself up straight and felt her muscles tense. Surprised by her own assurance, she shared Melchor’s defiance. She lived in the present, that very moment, completely removed from what could happen in the next.


  “Gypsy.” Melchor didn’t move, but she knew he was listening to her. “I love you.”

  “And I love you, morena. I will miss your singing when I’m in hell.”

  Caridad was about to respond when what the crowd gathered in the alley was waiting for happened: Rafael García, El Conde, and his wife Reyes, La Trianera, made their way slowly toward them, both of them older, stooped. They were followed by various members of the García family and other gypsies who joined the ranks. Caridad and Melchor waited motionless; Milagros, behind them, took a few steps back, searching for Pedro with her restless gaze. She didn’t see him. Fray Joaquín tried to hold the Immaculate Virgin firmly in his grip as she slipped from his sweaty hands. The appearance of the patriarch emboldened the others. “Murderer!” someone shouted. “Son of a bitch!” another insulted Melchor. “Swine!” A group of women came over to Milagros and spat at her feet as they shouted “Harlot!” An old woman tried to grab her by the hair and she drew closer to Fray Joaquín, who managed to scare off the aggressor. The insults, threats and obscene gestures continued as El Conde moved toward Melchor.

  “I come to kill your grandson,” he spat above the din before they reached him.

  Hearing Melchor’s cold, steely, cutting words, Caridad clenched her fists. Yet the threat didn’t intimidate the patriarch who, knowing he was protected, continued walking with an impassive face and his eyes fixed on Melchor.

  “You’ve been sentenced to death …” replied Rafael García before the crowd’s shouts thundered again through the alley.

  “Let’s kill him!”

  Caridad turned toward Melchor as some of the gypsies were already heading toward them, hurling curses and insults. How could he take on the entire alley?

  “Melchor,” she whispered. But he didn’t move; he remained still, tense, defiant.

  His fearlessness sent a shiver down Caridad’s spine.

  “Gypsy!” she then exclaimed in a very clear, powerful voice. “I’ll sing for you in hell!”

  She hadn’t finished the sentence before she pushed aside a man who was coming for them and leapt onto Rafael García, knocking him down. The attack surprised the gypsies who, watching Melchor, were slow to react. Tangled on the ground, Caridad searched frantically for the knife she had seen in the patriarch’s sash. She would kill him for her man!

  Melchor was also surprised by Caridad’s unexpected assault. It took him a few seconds to pull out his knife and hold it up at several of the gypsies who surrounded him. He tried to think, keep cool, as he knew he should in the face of the weapons he was up against, but the shouting from behind his opponents—where Caridad was—clouded his senses and led him to launch countless random stabs in order to make his way toward her.

  “Do you want us to kill your Negress right now?”

  Melchor didn’t even hear the threat. Then a gap opened up between the gypsies surrounding him and he found himself stabbing the air in front of Caridad, who was struggling to get out of the arms of the two men who had her immobilized. He stopped the last stab, suddenly, in midair.

  “Keep going!” she urged him.

  Someone slapped her. Melchor thought he could hear that arm whistling through the air and felt the blow himself, with more violence than the whiplashes on the galley. He shrank back in pain.

  “Keep going, gypsy!” shrieked Caridad.

  No one hit her that time. Melchor, shaken up by the trickle of blood that flowed from the corner of Caridad’s mouth and ran down her chin, red on black, regretted having allowed her to come with him. Two more men were needed to contain Caridad, who shook and screamed when she saw others attacking Melchor. Defenseless and defeated, Melchor was disarmed and, like an animal being led to sacrifice, bent over, he was presented to Rafael García, who had already recovered from the attack, amid the cheers and acclaim of the gypsy settlement.

  “I’m sorry, morena, forgive me.”

  Melchor’s apologies were lost in her sobbing and the orders with which El Conde received his enemy.

  “The whore!” he shouted, pointing to Milagros. “Bring me the whore, too!”

  The women near Milagros pounced on her and immobilized her without the slightest resistance; her attention was focused on her grandfather, her hopes dashed at the sound of four simple shouts and about the same number of threats.

  Fray Joaquín, still carrying the sculpture of the Virgin, couldn’t do a thing and just watched as Milagros let herself be carried off amid shoves, shouts and gobs of spit. Suddenly, the men and women focused their attention on the friar priest, who had been left alone at the entrance to the alley.

  “Leave, Father,” Rafael García threatened him, “this is a matter between gypsies.”

  Fray Joaquín was surprised by the hatred and rage reflected in many of their faces. Yet his fear turned into anxiety when he saw Milagros beside Melchor, with her head down. What had become of the promises he had made to her?

  “No,” replied the friar. “This is a matter for the King’s justice, like everything that happens in his lands, whether or not gypsies are involved.”

  Several of them ran toward him.

  “I am a man of God!” Fray Joaquín managed to shout.

  “Halt!”

  Rafael García’s order stopped the men. The patriarch squinted his eyes and sought the opinion of the heads of the other families: the Camachos, the Floreses, the Reyeses … Some shrugged indifferently; most shook their heads. It was unlikely that anyone in the alley would break gypsy law and speak about Melchor, Milagros or even Caridad, El Conde thought then, and if they did, the authorities wouldn’t say a word. They’d just conclude it was another gypsy scuffle. But detaining a clergyman was different. Perhaps one of the women or the children might let it slip, and then there would be terrible consequences for them all. They had worked hard with the Church; the young folk went there to learn their prayers, and almost the entire alley attended mass with feigned devotion. The brotherhood was up and running. Less than a year ago the archbishop had approved the rules of the Gypsy Brotherhood and there were already quite a few problems. They hadn’t been able to establish it at the monastery of the Holy Spirit in Triana and they were still trying at Our Lady of Pópulo. They wouldn’t achieve their goal if the Augustinians found out about this. They needed to maintain good relations with who those who could jail them. No. They couldn’t risk offending the Church through one of their own.

  Rafael García gestured to the men and they moved away from the friar priest. But he wasn’t planning on doing the same for those Vegas …

  “Release them,” Fray Joaquín interrupted his thoughts.

  El Conde shook his head stubbornly and then Reyes came over and whispered in his ear.

  “She,” the patriarch pointed to Milagros after his wife stepped aside, “stays here with her husband, which is where she belongs. Or am I wrong, Father?”

  Fray Joaquín went pale and was unable to answer.

  “No. I see that I’m not wrong. As for the other two …”

  Reyes was right: who could know about or prove the murder of José Carmona besides the gypsies? No one had reported it to the authorities; they’d buried him in an open field and the crime had been dealt with in the privacy of the council of elders. How could payo law intervene?

  “As for them,” he repeated smugly, “they will remain with us until the officers of the King whom your reverence spoke of come looking for them. You understand,” he added, pleased with himself, as some of the gypsies in the crowd smiled, “we are making sure they are safe. Someone could hurt them.”

  “Rafael García,” threatened Fray Joaquín, “I will come back for them. If anything happens to them …” He stammered; he knew that he would achieve nothing alone, that he needed help. “If anything happens to them, the full weight of the law and divine justice will fall on your head. On all of your heads!”

  “They’ve gone,” announced Rafael García.

  “What …?” shouted Fray Joaquín angrily, waving his a
rms wildly.

  But he kept quiet after an order from the prior of San Jacinto.

  “When did they leave?” asked the friar priest.

  “Shortly after Fray Joaquín left,” responded Rafael García as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He stood at the entrance to the smithy, beneath his apartment, where his large family continued working, completely unconcerned at the visit of the five friars, including the prior of the San Jacinto monastery, who accompanied Fray Joaquín.

  The gypsies who wandered through the alley didn’t seem interested in the scene either. Only Reyes, above them, hidden behind a window on the first floor, perked up her ear to listen in on the conversation.

  “They said they were going to look for you,” added Rafael, looking directly at Fray Joaquín. “Didn’t they find you?”

  “No! You’re lying!” accused the friar, who fell silent again at the request of his superior.

  “And why did you let them go?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? They are free; they’ve committed no crime. I don’t know … they can come back whenever they want.”

  “Fray Joaquín maintains that you were holding them with the intention of killing them. And—”

  “Reverend Father …” El Conde interrupted him, showing the palms of his hands.

  “And I believe him,” said the prior before he could go on.

  “Kill them? How barbaric! It goes against the law, against the divine precepts! We wouldn’t harm anyone, your eminence. I don’t know what to tell you. They just left. Ask around.” Rafael García then indicated to several of the gypsies on the alley to come over. “Isn’t it true that El Galeote, his granddaughter and the Negress left?” he asked them.