Viva Jacquelina! (13 page)

“Señor. May we be excused?”

The butler nods assent, and the two turn to leave. Before Amadeo exits, he looks back at me.

“Perhaps, Jack-ie, you will come with us soon. I did take you for a
Maja
when first I laid eyes upon you. You might have fun.”

“I am sure I would, Amadeo, but I have no fine clothes to wear.”

“What does a slut need with clothes?” spits out Carmelita, standing and flinging down her napkin. “I am excused!”

With that, she flounces out of the room. I have the feeling that she is less annoyed with me than with the fact that Amadeo is going out without her.

“I hope you will forgive our Señorita Gomez,” intones Señor Garcia from the head of the table. “She is high-strung. I shall speak to her tomorrow. As for you, Señorita, welcome to our house. I hope you will be happy here.”

With that, he gets to his feet and goes off.

It is time to clean up, and I rise to help. As I do so, I ask of my dinner companion, “Cesar, are there any
guitarras
about?”

“
Sí,
Señorita.
There are many. They are often used as props in the paintings, as background, so to speak.”

“Good. Get me one that has all its strings and meet me after we are done cleaning up,” I say, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Perhaps I shall show you a good evening after all.”

He looks up at me, gulps, and hurries off.

I believe I have a friend.

“Will I be paid, Paloma?” I ask of my roommate. Night has fallen and she has lent me a nightdress and we are both abed. “For what I do here?”

“Oh, yes, Jack-ie. Señor Goya is a generous man and a good master. I get one
escudo
a week.” I sense she is blushing in the darkness. “You will probably get more . . . for the other thing you will be doing.”

Hmmm . 
.
 .

“Paloma, I hope you will not be alarmed, but sometimes I have bad dreams, so I thrash about and say strange things. I am not mad, nor am I possessed, but I have seen many bad things and sometimes, when asleep, I cannot control myself.”

She replies that she will not be frightened if it happens and for me not to worry about it.

I lie there in the darkness, grateful for a warm, soft bed, and think back on the events of the day . . .

 

After Amadeo and Asensio had left in a state of high spirits and Señorita Carmelita Gomez had gone off to sulk, and the dishes and pots had all been scrubbed, scoured, and cleaned by the three of us—Ramona, Paloma, and I—Cesar reappeared with guitar in hand. Then he and I went back into the now quiet and dark studio and lit a lamp.

We sit on a long couch and I begin tuning the guitar he has brought me. It seems to be a well-built instrument and has all six of its strings, at least. As I tune, I tease the boy, telling him what a handsome young man he is,
so talented, I cannot believe it. That drawing of Jorge you did, it was the best in the class. I am sure that the others were very jealous. It is no wonder you have been taken on as a pupil by the greatest artist in Spain!

I strum a chord and then begin singing
“Tú Sólo Tú,”
which always seems to go over big with Spanish audiences, and the lad is appreciative.

“
Muy bueno, Señorita!
Please, play another!”

“I do not know many Spanish songs,
chico,
but here is
‘Malagueña Salerosa,'
recently taught to me by a bold brigand. If you will forgive my poor accent . . .”

I play the song and again he is pleased, claps his hands, and says,
Olé!
, and asks for more.

Adjusting the lower string, which had gone a bit flat, I reply, “I will do that, my bold young caballero, but first, Cesar, tell me of
Majos
and
Majas
and I shall listen.”

“Well, we are mostly from the lower classes—actors, artists, dancers, musicians, singers—”

“
We,
young Cesar?” I ask, with cocked eyebrow.

“Yes, I am a
Majo,
” he says proudly. “A true son of Spain.”

“And a fine one, I am sure,” says I. “Now,
chico,
explain,
por favor.
”

“The
Majos
show their love of
España
by dressing in the old fashion—many colorful silks and leathers and pantaloons and flowing hats with plumes. The
Majas
dress with fine silks, too, but with lace mantillas draped about their lovely faces.”

“Ah, that is why—”

“That is why Amadeo called you a
Maja
when first he saw you. Plus you were not dressed as an
Afrancesada.
”

“Ummm . . . and they are?”

“They are
Madrileños,
the people of Madrid who have adopted the ways of France—the fashions, the styles, the ways of talking. The
Afrancesados
say that Napoleon has brought modern things to Spain as well as liberty from the old ruling classes that have oppressed us. That may be so, but he has also brought something very different.”

“Yes.”

“He has brought death and destruction to our poor country. You have heard of the Massacre of Evora?”

“Yes. Horrible, if true.”

“It is true, Señorita, believe me. And
Dos de Mayo?
”

“Tell me.” I sigh, expecting the worst, and the worst is what I get.

“On the second of May this year, the French tried to move some of the younger members of the royal family, the Prince and the Infanta, to Bayonne, in France, where they already had taken King Charles and his son, Ferdinand.”

Cesar lowers his voice and looks about furtively, then goes on.

“The people of Spain rose up at this outrage and took to the streets. The army, too. There was much bloody fighting, but eventually the French put down the rebellion. Many, many died.”

“Well, that happens,” I say with some resignation. “War and death, they go together.”

“But that was not the end of it, Jack-ie.” He gulps. I sense he is trying to control his emotions. “On the next day, the French took out all the rebels they had captured and executed them without trial. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, gunned down like animals.”

Good Lord . 
.
 .

“There was a girl, from our very street, who went down to the center of the city on
Dos de Mayo.
Her name was Manuela Malasana and she was fifteen years old. She was taken by the French, and they tried to do bad things to her—like bad things to a girl, you know? But she did not let them do that, so they lined her up with the others and shot her dead.”

The lad is overcome with emotion, and I lay my hand on his shaking shoulder.

“I should have been there . . . with her and the others,” he says with a whimper. “But, to my shame, I was not. I stayed here, safe.”

“No, Cesar, you should not have been there. Fifteen is too young to die,” I say, thinking of that poor girl who stood before the firing squad in the flower of her youth till the pitiless bullets blew her young life away and her shattered body fell to the ground. “And so is fourteen. Best leave the butchery to the grownups. They are better at it.” I am unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.

He nods, but I don't think he is convinced.

“Things are bad here, Miss. Very bad. It has affected the Master's work. He has done some very dark sketches—horrors of war, atrocities, lunatics. Look over there—do you see it?”

In the gloom of the studio, I see, leaning against the far wall, a large canvas. It is plainly only a start—an underpainting in blacks and browns—but, still, I can see what it depicts. Men are lined up before soldiers. Dead men already lie on the ground. Arms fly up in desperation, some are on their knees, praying their last prayers.

“It will be called
Dos de Mayo.
”

“But won't the Master get in trouble for that?”

“No one will see it, trust me. There is a bucket of cheap black paint over there, and Goya has ordered that it be quickly painted over should the French arrive at our door.”

“I see,
chico,
” I say, putting my fingers once again to the strings of the guitar. “Now, please, calm down, and I will sing you another song, one I learned in America. It goes like this . . .”

 

“Did you know the girl Manuela Malasana?” I ask Paloma later, after Cesar has gone off to his bed and I to mine.

“
Sí.
I would see her at market. We would talk. She was a good girl.”

“Why did she die?”

“She went into the streets in all the excitement. The French say they killed her because she had a weapon that could do harm to them . . . Could spill French blood.”

“Did she?”

“She had a pair of scissors,” whispers Paloma. “Why would she not have a pair of scissors? She was a seamstress.”

Why, indeed?

Paloma is silent for a while, and then says, “Sometimes, Jack-ie . . .”

“Yes?”

“Sometimes I get the bad dreams, too . . . Good night, Jack-ie.”

“
Buenas noches,
Paloma
.
I hope you sleep well, sister.”

James Emerson Fletcher
The House of Chen
Rangoon, Burma

 

My dearest Jacky,

Right now I am reclining in a pool that I believe you know quite well from what Sidrah tells me of your time here at the House of Chen. You will recall the turquoise tiling within, the aromatic cedar planking around the edge of it. The steam curls about on the surface of the bath, the hot water below soaking out the vestiges of my pent-up anger.

No, dear one, the exquisite Sidrah is not here in the bath with me, not that I would mind that overmuch, but I fear you might object. No, I am content with the ministrations of the giggling Mai sisters, Mai Ling and Mai Ji, who apply the soapy sponges to my back and shoulders with soft hands, kind determination, and endless barely stifled snickering.

I have, at Sidrah's gentle insistence, been assigned to study with the Zen master Kwai Chang. Sidrah assures me that it will do me much good and will help to ease my mind. So, to humor her, I wrap myself each day in my saffron robe and sit cross-legged before the bald-headed little man, who, against all odds, manages to speak a kind of English. A bowl of incense smolders between us and he speaks while I listen. He has given me the name Chueng Tong—“Long Boy.” Sometimes I am asked questions . . . Sometimes I am able to answer in a way that seems to satisfy him.

The potions and medicines that I had been given upon my arrival here have been tapered off as my mind continues to clear. Now I receive nothing in that regard save the instruction of Kwai Chang and the kind ministrations of the Lady Sidrah.

 

Till later, yours,
Jaimy

The next morning, the bell of La Basilica de San Francisco el Grande tolled long and insistently as Paloma and I groaned and got out of bed, dressed, and tumbled downstairs to help Ramona make breakfast for the House of Goya.

The steaming food is on the table—
huevos revuelto, salchichas y chorizo picante, pan plano, y café fuerte.
The students came in, with Amadeo and Asensio looking a bit worse for wear.
Ah, young men off for a night on the town, and then the inevitable morning after, same as it ever was . 
.
 . except that Amadeo has a small cut over his left eye. What's with that . 
.
 . ?

Afterwards, we clean up, and Paloma heads off to make the beds, while I go to the studio, ready to grind more paint. But I soon find that is not what I will be doing today, oh, no . . .

Upon entering, I notice right off that the model Jorge is not in attendance—the robe hangs slack over the edge of the dressing screen.

Hmmm . 
.
 . I guess it is going to be my turn now . 
.
 . Oh, well . 
.
 . Hand me the robe.

It is my turn, in a way, but in another way, it isn't.

A chair is set up on the model platform, and when Goya enters, he points and motions for me to go sit in it, which I do. He comes up and stands before me. He gestures toward my hairpiece. I catch his meaning and take it off and put it aside.

He pats my shoulder in a kindly way and says, “Pull your shirt down over your shoulders,
chica,
so as to expose your neck—a very fine neck, I must say. Lift your chin, and face that way . . . not so far . . . That's it . . . Hold that.”

He turns to the others.

“So,
mis estudiantes,
commence your drawing of this lovely face. Remember, the gesture, the tilt of the head, the planes of the face.”

As they start scratching away, I look off into space and hold the pose.

Ha! This is easy,
I'm thinkin'.
All I have to do is sit here
w
hile they toil away, and I do not even have to grind paint! Ha! Take that, Carmelita! Lovely face! Did you catch that? Ha!

The euphoria lasts about ten minutes. Then my bum begins to get a bit sore and I feel the urge to rutch around to get the buttocks in a more comfortable position, but I can't. My hip bones, which seem intent on grinding their way through the softness of my rump, are relentless. I flex, but it does no good.

Then my nose starts to itch and I cannot scratch the bloody thing. Why did it not want to be scratched before? Why?

I must distract myself, else I shall be seen as a worthless scrub, not even able to sit for a simple portrait.

Maybe I'll just write a letter to my sweet sister Amy, if only in my mind: