Viva Jacquelina! (11 page)

Thanks, Big Daddy.

I enter the city of Madrid on its southeastern side, still following the River Manzanares. The banks of the river change from earth and mud to the stone walls of a canal as it wends its way into the heart of the city. I would find it quite beautiful if I weren't still so damned hungry.

I eventually come to a large, open plaza that lies along the shore, and I see tall cathedrals in all directions, busy streets with many market stalls lining them. There are charcoal braziers smoking in some of the stalls and very good smells come from them. I am about to fall to my knees, ready to beg for something, anything, to eat. It's been three days since the crawfish and they are now but a sweet memory.

No. You have come too far in this life. You will not beg. You have no whistle, you have no guitar, you have no paints, no brushes, you have nothing you can sell . 
.
 . nada . 
.
 . But no, there is one thing that you can sell, and that is your body, and that is what you shall sell . 
.
 . and you will do it now.

I duck into an alley and quickly turn back into a girl—black skirt and stockings on, vest in proper place over my white shirt, wig on head, with mantilla over that. Done.

When I had first come to the plaza, I had noticed an artist sitting before an easel, painting a picture of the river and the flowering bushes that grow along the banks. He is pretty good, I notice. He is wearing a white smock and a floppy straw hat to keep the sun from his eyes.

I go up to him.

“Your pardon, Señor,” I say, hands clasped behind me, all demure and respectful.

He looks up at me, suspicion writ plain on his face.

“What do you want, girl? I am busy.”

“My name is Jacquelina. I am a model, and I will pose for you in return for food and lodging.”

He looks me over with what I take to be scorn.

“What you are is a peasant girl run off from some dirty little farm,” he sneers. “But that does not matter to me. No. I only paint God's green earth.”

“I am sorry to have disturbed you, Maestro,” I say, backing away.

I think calling him “master” softened him up a bit.

“Wait,” he says, as I walk away. He takes his brush and points to a house up a nearby street. “Go there. Go to la Casa del Sordo.”

I follow his point.
What is it? A brothel?
I am confused.

“I don't understand, Señor. I don't know what that means.”

“It is the house of the deaf man. Go to him. His name is Goya. He hires models to pose for him.”

I thank him and head for the doorway of the house he had indicated. Weak with hunger, I manage to get to the door, lift the knocker, and give it two sharp raps. I put my weary forehead against the heavy oak and wait.

Presently the door is opened a crack and the sharp, inquisitive face of a young woman pokes out.

“Qué quiere usted?”
it asks.

“I wish to apply for work as an artist's model. I was told to come here.”

She gives me the once over, then says, “No. You were told wrong. Go away.” The door begins to close.

I'm about to heave a heavy sigh and move on when I hear, “Wait, Carmelita.
Qué pasa?
”

I stick the Faber foot in the door to prevent its closing.

“I am Jacquelina Bouvier. I am a professional model, looking for work. Will I find some here?”

The door opens and a young man looks out at me. He says nothing, but only looks me over in an appraising way.

“Well, does your master hire models or not?” I persist.

“He does, but—”

“Where is he? I will speak to him.” I frost the young man with the full Lawson Peabody Look from under my black mantilla, which I suspect does not appear very impressive, given my current condition. Still, I push my way into the foyer. It is not in my nature to be rude and forward, but the gnawing hunger in my belly gives me the will to do this.

“He . . . he is in the studio.”

“Good. What is your name, young man?”

“A-Amadeo . . . I am Maestro Goya's student.”

Even in my present state of near desperation, I see that he is quite the good-looking young lad—short-cut glossy black hair, liquid brown eyes, trim body . . .
Hmmm
. . . very handsome, indeed. A bit shy, too . . . all to the good.

“Very well, Amadeo. Introduce me to the great man,
por favor,
” I say, laying my hand on his arm and giving him what I can work up in a sultry stare. “You won't regret it, I promise.”

Amadeo shrugs and leads me on. The girl, Carmelita, shoots a look of distaste my way, but I ignore it as I follow the student artist down the hall, through some doors, and into a large room illuminated with high windows and filled all around with canvases in various states of completion. There are many of a historical nature, many portraits . . . and some nude studies.
Oh, well, everyone knows I am not shy in that regard, and if I were promised something to eat, I would pose starkers on top of a flagpole in the town square.

It turns out I don't have to do that. Not right now, anyway.

The painter sits at an easel, apparently touching up the background on a medium-size portrait of a young blond girl, about ten years old, very richly dressed, and very well done.

Maestro, indeed.

Goya is a man of late middle years, broad of build, wearing a blousy white shirt. He seems intensely concentrated on his work. He does not turn around at our approach.

“The Maestro cannot hear. He can speak, but you must write out anything you wish to say to him.” Amadeo nods toward several small slates scattered about the studio. There is a large one on an easel, as well. Chalk dangles on a string from that one.

Amadeo motions for me to follow him into the painter's field of vision. When we enter it, the artist glances up from his work, looking not at all pleased.

“What is this, Amadeo?” he asks in a low, growly voice.

I take my cue and go to the large board and pick up the chalk to write.

“My name is Jacquelina. I am a model. Will you give me work?”

He puts down the brush and looks me over. I have been looked over a lot today, I reflect.

“You have worked as such before?”

I nod, and say,
“Sí, Señor.”

“Desnuda?”

“Sí, Señor,”
I say, and apply the chalk once again. “For a sculptor, Maestro Simms, of Boston,
un ciudad en los Estados Unidos de
America.
” I do not mention that old Simms was a woodcarver whose main business was in providing ships with figureheads, rather than being a true sculptor. But I did pose for him. And in the altogether, as it were . . . or was.

“You are from there?”

“Sí, Maestro.”
I write
por favor
in big letters with two exclamation points on the board and put on the full woeful-waif look.

He looks doubtful. I know I am not very large in certain of the usual female attributes.
Voluptuous
is a word seldom associated with the Jacky Faber frame, but I do have an ace in the hole, and I play it.

Reaching up, I pull off both my mantilla and wig, then hold up my face such that the light falls on the planes of my features. The blind Shantyman, Enoch Lightner, once told me I had good bones as he ran his knowing hands over my face that night in my cabin on the
Lorelei Lee.
I hope he was right.

Goya shows a bit of shock. His eyes play over my hopeful countenance and shorn head. Then he smiles and says, “Yes, you may stay. You shall help around the studio. You'll sweep up and you will grind paints. And you will pose. Amadeo, take her away and acquaint her with her duties—”

“Oh,
gracias,
Señor
!”

“And get her something to eat. She looks like she could use it.”

Oh, glory!

“You eat like a pig,” snorts this Carmelita, gazing down upon me with complete disapproval, her arms crossed on her chest, her eyebrows drawn down into a frown. She is thin, dark, and, as far as I can tell, about my age. She was assigned to see that the new member of Estudio Goya got something to eat, and she plainly did not like being given that task.

We are in the kitchen of Casa Goya, and I have been given a spoon and a bowl of delicious stew. She stands over me as I eat.

Oh God, thank you! It may not be your manna from your heaven, but it's so awfully good!

I take my nose out of the wonderful bowl of greasy broth swimming with chunks of meat and dumplings long enough to glare at her and say, “I have not eaten anything in three days. You try it sometime, Carmelita. You'll find it does nothing for your manners.” I stick the nose back in the stew and commence shoveling it into my mouth and down my neck.
Oh, this is so good!

“To you, girl, I am Señorita Gomez. You have been hired as a servant and as a model, nothing more. It would be well for you to remember that.”

“Very well, Señorita Gomez, as you will have it.”

I reflect that, once again, Jacky Faber is being told her place in this world—well, so be it. I am reminded of my welcome to the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls by my old enemy, and sometime ally, Clarissa Worthington Howe. She put me in my place, that's for sure.

“You are merely a model,” continues Señorita Gomez. “You debase yourself by taking off your clothes in front of men.” She draws herself up and looks down her nose at me. The nostrils of that nose, I notice, are dilated and quivering in a high degree of disgust.

But whereas Clarissa had a rod of steel rammed up her backbone, I sense that this one has not. Neither inner strength nor class, and Clarissa had class up the ass, that's for sure, and sometimes class does tell.

“As such, you are nothing but a common slut.” She puffs up. “I, however, am a respected student here, like Señor Amadeo Romero and the others. You will stand naked before us and I will draw you, but I will not like it. I have no wish to gaze upon your dirty body and I so wish you were not here.”

Ah, Clarissa, my enemy, my friend, my sister-in-arms, where are you now? Causing trouble and breaking hearts, I hope.

I take spoon from mouth to look up at my present tormentor. Somehow I get the feeling that this girl and I will never call each other “sister” with any affection, but I do not care about that. I run my finger around the interior of the bowl of stew, and it encounters a nice small marrowbone. I take it up, bite off the top, and suck on it loudly.

I lean back in my chair, legs spread wide, bone in hand, and grin up at her. “But Amadeo Romero just might, eh?”

She is astounded.

“Puta!” she spits as she turns and rushes out the kitchen door.

“The dirtiness of my body could be resolved by a nice bath!” I call after her retreating form. “Can you arrange that, Señorita Carmelita Gomez, Respected Student?”

She does not answer and I go back to my stew.
Ummmm . 
.
 .

I do not care about any of her opinions, nor am I concerned over what any of them think. My once-slack belly is now full, and for the moment, it is content and so am I. As my hunger abates, I look around the rafters of the kitchen hung with much good food, and I ponder things.

Do you realize, Señorita Carmelita Gomez, that, discounting what I already have put in my belly, there is much here that I could steal if any of you should turn your backs for even a moment? Oh, yes, I am quite an accomplished thief, born and bred to the art. Ah, yes, now, what would I take from here to stuff into my bag? Hmmm, well, maybe some of those fat sausages hanging there, all dark brown and shiny with goodness, or perhaps those thick and heavy braided breads? Why, they could sustain me for weeks as I make my way back to Lisbon. I know the watery route and I'm confident I could get there, many days away from your silly little kingdom, you smug little bitch. Know, too, that given a darkened alcove and a moment's notice, I could whip out my shiv and slit that nasty little throat of yours.

Ah, yes, but let us not speak of that. I will stay to see just how things lie here at Casa Goya. There might possibly be something profitable for both me . 
.
 . and my mission. Who knows? There were some pretty fancy people portrayed in those portraits I saw in the studio. One of them looked like she could be a princess. Hmmm . 
.
 .

I may stay, and I may not. We shall see.

Soon after Carmelita Gomez had rushed out in a fury, Amadeo Romero entered. Somehow I thought it would be so.

He stands before me.

“Please be seated, Señor Romero, and join me in a glass of
rioja.
”

No wine has yet been offered to me, but this does the trick. He signals to someone and a bottle and two glasses are produced. He pulls out a chair and sits across from me. It is he who pours the ruby red wine.

“Muchas gracias, Señor,”
I say, lifting the glass to him. I pick up the small cloth that has been provided for me, and dab it at my lips, playing things much more demure and ladylike now that my demanding gut has been satisfied for the time being. “Perhaps you will tell me how things are here at La Quinta Goya?”

He gazes at me over the rim of his glass and says, “I will do that, Señorita, but first you must tell me something of yourself. To begin with, how came you by that very interesting thing on your neck?”

With my wig off, my dragon tattoo is now quite visible to them what deigns to look. The wine is now warming the stew in my belly, so I proceed to tell him, sticking pretty much to the truth . . . and I tell him also of the other tattoo, the one on my hip, and how I got it. Why not? He's going to see it soon, anyway.

“You seem to have had many adventures, Señorita. I am amazed.”