Viva Jacquelina! (14 page)

 

Miss Amy Trevelyne
The Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls
Boston, Massachusetts, USA

 

Dearest Amy,

You cannot possibly guess, Sister, where I am right now, much less what I am doing. I know, I know, you think me to be atoning for my sins in the penal colony in Australia, but I am not there. No, suffice to say I am in Madrid, Spain—can you believe it!—and am sitting as a model for portrait study in a very fine art studio. You might ask Mr. Peet if he has ever heard of a Señor Francisco Goya, the Maestro of this establishment.

Yes, dear one, I shall tell you of just how I got here when we are both once again snugged up in that wonderful hayloft at Dovecote. I can smell the warm hay now . 
.
 . Ummm . 
.
 .

It is actually a very pleasant house in which I now find myself, mostly. True, one of the students here, Señorita Carmelita Gomez, is a bit of a bitch, but I can deal with that. After all, didn't I deal with one Clarissa Worthington Howe in the past? So I am definitely an expert in that sort of thing.

There are three male students here, Amadeo, Asensio, and Cesar, and they are very nice—for right now, anyway. Very courtly—that Randall could take a lesson . 
.
 . How is that rogue, anyway? Still with Polly Von? I hope so, and I hope he's being good, which I doubt.

When I first got here, I was thinking of resting a bit, then stealing enough provisions to put me back on the road again, but I shortly changed my mind when I found that Señor Goya was court painter to the royalty of Spain, and I might be able to gain some information that could be of use to my country . 
.
 . or countries. I hear that Goya is going to the palace very shortly, and he always takes helpers with him . 
.
 . hmmm . 
.
 .

Anyway, so here I am, hired as housemaid and sometime model, so I might as well stay put.

I must tell you that my poor James Emerson Fletcher has run into a bit of trouble, both legally and mentally, all because of me, of course. He is in Rangoon, in Burma, undergoing treatment. Heavy sigh . 
.
 . Oh, why didn't Jaimy find a nice girl early in his life, one that would make him happy? Instead he is condemned to suffer the slings and arrows of misfortune because of his association with my troublesome self. Why?

Ha! That heavy sigh must have been heard and touched the Master's heart, for a break is called!
Gracias a Dios!

More later, dearest Sister . 
.
 .

 

I get up, stretch arms and shoulders, flex poor buttocks, and then walk around to see what has been done with my face in the way of art.

Both Amadeo and Asensio have done strong, forceful drawings. Asensio's is a bit more elegant, and I smile on him for that—I think of Lisette de Lise when I gaze upon it. Amadeo's effort is more . . . well . . .
macho,
I think is the word. He makes me look as if I am, very shortly, going to do something naughty. He looks at me as I gaze upon it and he gives me a knowing smile.
Macho,
indeed.
Well, we shall see, Señor . 
.
 .

Cesar's is equally well done. It is softer than the others, and he has taken my bodice down a little lower than it actually was, revealing a cleft between my breasts, a cleft he has not yet seen.
Ah, the imagination of a male youth, I swear.

I give him a wink and then pass on.

Señorita Carmelita Gomez's drawing, on the other hand, is much more severe. She has portrayed me with pinched nostrils, frown, and gimlet eye.
Oh, well, Carmelita. Thems that likes me, likes me, and thems that don't, can kiss my—

“Pose, please,” orders Goya, and I am back up on the platform yet again.

 

So, Amy, I am back again in position. As I sit here, I think on the drawings I have seen. They are different from the portraits back in Boston, which were static, with poses held rigid. These are more vibrant. There is more movement in them. I shall take note and learn some new ways of doing things. I shall—

 

“Stop moving, girl,” snarls Carmelita. “Can you not sit still? Is it too much to ask?”

I realize my head has been drooping and I jerk it back up.
“Pardon, Señorita.
It shall not happen again.”

 

Back again, Amy, having just been chastised for nodding off—good Lord, Amy, I could use a nice reclining pose just now. Just lie back and doze . . .

No, now, I must stop that! Must do my job!

Ahem! Back on the line.

Anyway, dear Sister, during the last break, I spotted a piece of paper tossed into a trash can and pulled it out. It was a false start on a sketch by one of the students, but it did have an untouched area about six by ten inches on one edge. I gingerly tore out the clean piece and set it aside.

Seeing me do this, Amadeo asked, “Why do you need that, Jackie? Will you write your love a letter?”

I smiled secretly, blushed, and said, “Something like that.”

I do, Amy, have a bit of a plan in my mind . . . Ah, another welcome break. Till later, Miss Trevelyne.

 

Your Loving Sister,
Jacky

 

Later, after the day's toil is done—yes, the portrait session had ended and I had been sent back to grinding paint—we once again gather for dinner. The places are set, the wine poured, the food served. As we pile into it, I sense a bit of tension about the table and I am afraid I am the one who sets it off.

“Tell me, Amadeo, of the painting sessions at the palace,” says the English spy in me. “Can it be that you actually go there and paint the royals in their own quarters?”

“We used to.” Asensio sneers. “But now the Master paints the French invaders. We will go there next week to paint King Joseph of Spain! Napoleon's brother! How Spanish is that?”

“Now, Asensio,” warns Señor Manuel Garcia from the head of the table. “We will have none of that, young man! No politics at this table!”

But Asensio will not leave it be.

“Pardon, Señor,”
he says, his eyes burning. “But must we put up with the insults of the
Afrancesados?
Is it not enough that French soldiers march on our streets? Abuse our citizens? That—”

This is too much for another of our number. Carmelita speaks up, “Napoleon brought some good things to Spain! He has abolished many of the old bad ways! He should be thanked for that, at least! No more will people be burned at the stake!”

“True, Carmelita,” retorts Amadeo. “Now they will merely be tied to that same stake and shot. Same sorry end.”

“
Bastante!
You will all stop this talk or you shall be sent from this table, and the Maestro will be informed! Do you hear me?”

It is plain that Señor Garcia is angry, so the voices at the table subside, as does mine.

Eat your mush and hush, Jacky, and stop stirring up trouble!

It is a Saturday afternoon and things are quiet at Estudio Goya. There are no classes, but there is some work to do. I have been shown how to stretch and prepare canvases for future paintings, and I work at that through the morning hours. After what proves to be a light lunch, I am left on my own and I coax Paloma—
please, Sister, just a little while—
into the empty studio, to start on a small watercolor portrait of her. I put her in a pose very much like the one I had just sat for, but just the beginning outline sketch is all I get done, for I perceive she is anxious to be off to enjoy her brief few hours of freedom. It was, after all, payday, and I myself have eight
reals
warming in my vest pocket.

I had noticed many small brushes standing about in pots and had asked Amadeo if I might make use of some of them—
with the watercolors only, Amadeo, of course, never the oils, oh no . 
.
 .

I manage to get the basic stuff down—shape of her head, slope of shoulders, some background color—then I lay the paper aside to dry, thank her, and wave her off to the town. She is gone in an instant.
As would I be, Paloma, were I in another place, in another town.

After I wash the brushes—an easy thing to do with the watercolors, not so easy with the oils—I wander around the studio and look at the works-in-progress that sit on five of the easels. Goya was so pleased at the drawings the students had done of me that he directed each of them to do a painting of the same pose—except this time, he set up a canvas of his own and had me put on a more elaborate top with my mantilla over my head and draped around my shoulders. They have been at it for the better part of a week and most are almost done.

As I walk around, I give the paintings my own critique. Cesar's is coming along, a little weak in the shadows of the face, but then he is young. Carmelita's is competent, but I find it is rather cold, emotionless—perhaps it helps if one actually
likes
what one is painting. Asensio's is excellent, with good vibrant color, but Amadeo's is the best of all the students'—perfect resemblance with a mischievious glint in the subject's eye. I get the feeling
he
liked painting me. When I first assumed the pose in costume, he said, “
Olé,
Jack-ie! You are now at least
half
a
Maja!”

He says “half,” I know, because, from the neck up, I am dressed in the style of a Spanish lady, but down below, I am still in Lawson Peabody serving-girl rig. I mean to change that condition, however, as soon as I put some more money together.

Half a
Maja,
but all a tramp,
I heard Carmelita mutter while the others laughed and I grinned in appreciation of Amadeo's wit, if not hers.

I stand now for a good while in front of the Master's work. It is, of course, the best of all and already completed—perfectly composed, it glows with life. I feel honored, somehow. Wherever I go in this world, whatever happens to me, this will shine on some wall and bring pleasure to those who gaze upon it. And some of them will wonder,
Just who was that girl?

.
 . 
.
and that girl will have been me.

 

Turning from the world of art, I grab a guitar and settle on the couch for a little practice. I do some of the finger- picking rolls Solomon Freeman taught me back on the Mississippi, and I am softly singing “The Bad Girl's Lament” when Cesar comes in to sit next to me.

 

There is a house in New Orleans,
They call the Rising Sun.
It's been the ruin of many a poor girl.
And me, oh Lord,
For one.

 

“That is very beautiful, Jack-ie,” says Cesar. “Please, play some more.”

I do. I sing the rest of the verses and end with...

 

I'm going back to New Orleans,
My race is nearly run.
I'm going back to end my days
Beneath that Rising Sun.

 

“So beautiful, Señorita. So sad sounding. What is it about?”

“Oh, it's just a song about a place I used to work in,” I say, idly strumming another chord and leaning back against the couch. “I know lots of songs, but mostly in English. I wish I knew more in Spanish.” I give him a look. “Do you know any you could teach me, Cesar?”

“Oh, no, Jack-ie. I would love to do that for you, but I have the voice of the toad,” says the lad. “Sometimes my throat squeaks and sometimes it croaks and I have no control over it.”

I look over and give him a sympathetic smile. “Don't worry, Cesar, it will soon even out and you will have a rich, deep, macho voice that will cause all young female hearts to flutter. I promise.”

The boy looks doubtful about that but goes on. “However, I do know a man you could listen to, and learn. He knows many songs.”

“And who is that?” I ask, the Faber eyebrows upraised and very interested.

“He is an old gypsy man. He sits and plays in a
taberna
right around the corner. On La Plaza Major. Would you like to go there?”

“Does a bear poop in the woods,
chico?
Does a sailor long for the sea? Does Romeo pine for Juliet? Does Jacky long for the warmth of a good, cozy tavern? Of course I want to go!” I exult, leaping to my feet.

Then I calm myself. “But are we allowed?”

“
Sí.
We are not prisoners here. We have only to tell Señor Garcia where we are going.”

“Hoo-ray!” I crow. “Then let us be gone! Come, my gay caballero, you shall be my gallant escort!”

“Sí, Señorita,”
says Cesar, rising and extending his hand. “However, I do not understand the thing with the bear.”

“Never mind,
mi estimado.
Let us be off to the merry dance!”

 

“It is not a fancy place, Jack-ie, I am sorry,” says Cesar as we approach the door of the establishment. A sign above the entrance proclaims La Taberna de Dos Gatos. Hmmm... sounds familiar.

“Do not worry,
mi querido,
” I say, patting his arm, which is entwined with mine. “If I am with you, to me it will be the veritable Palace of Versailles.”

His chest puffs out a bit at that. I know he enjoys walking along this grand street with me on his arm. Although he is barely fourteen and I am seventeen, we are about the same height and so we do not stand out in the crowds that throng the grand plaza.

Before we left, he had dashed upstairs, then reappeared dressed grandly in brocaded jacket, frilly white shirt, and tight black pants that had silver
conchos
running up the leg. I, dressed still in my Lawson Peabody serving-girl best with mantilla on top, dipped down in a fine, full curtsy upon seeing him in his finery. He blushed with pleasure and managed a nice bow in return.