Viva Jacquelina! (17 page)

“Hmmm. That is our Paloma, is it not?”

I nod, then look down, all modest and shy.

He cocks his head, still looking at the painting. “That is not at all bad. I could show you some things,” he says, plainly musing.

He looks over at the grinding table. “You have done enough of that for now. Set yourself up an easel.”

I knock back the rest of my wine and joyously go get drawing board, paper, and easel.

“Pose, please,” says Goya, and the boy gets back in position.

“Now,
guapa,
you must first get the gesture,” instructs the Master, putting his charcoal to the paper. “You see how the line of the shoulders is a slope like this, and opposing it is the set of the hips. Now...”

 

I may be a mere model and chambermaid . 
.
 . but now I am also a student of Maestro Francisco José de Goya!

Olé!

James Emerson Fletcher
Student
Temple of Buddha
Rangoon

 

Jacky Faber
Somewhere in the World
Probably Portugal

 

Dearest Jacky,

I continue my studies with Master Kwai Chang. Today we kneel in the temple, facing each other in front of the statue of the Buddha. He has been giving me instructions in the basics of this religion, this philosophy, really, and I have found it all very enlightening. Today, however, he discusses
koans
—riddles designed to free the mind from ingrained patterns of thought—and he poses one to me.

“You know the sound of two hands clapping,” he says, holding up his two hands, palms out, before me. He then claps his hands together, once, twice, thrice, and then returns them to their original position. “But, Chueng Tong, do you know the sound of one hand clapping?”

I raise my own two hands, palms out to him, and let my mind roam free.

Chopstick Charlie, my most gracious host, has judged me recovered enough to inform me of what he knows about you, and your whereabouts:

“Beloved Number Two Daughter, Ju kau-jing yi, sometimes known as the Lotus Blossom and also known as Jacky Faber, was taken to Portugal to be on the staff of the great General Arthur Wellesley, as translator, aide, and, of course, spy.”

Of course,
I am thinking.
What else?
Well, at least you shall be relatively safe in the camp of the commanding general. That eases my mind, somewhat... except that I suspect you will be up to some mischief or other. Please be good, Jacky... Or at least careful.

My mind, that aforementioned sponge, goes back to the problem at hand. Hmmm...

I take my right hand and snap my fingers, once, twice, thrice. Then I return my hand to its original position.

“That, Master, is the sound of one hand clapping,” I say, managing to suppress a smile at my own ingenuity.

Master Kwai Chang considers this for a while and then says, “Very good, Long Boy... for a novice. But this is really the sound of one hand clapping.”

And he reaches out and slaps me across the face—once, twice, thrice. I am startled and jerk back.

“Is it not so, Chueng Tong?” he says, suppressing a smile of his own. “Go now and reflect upon today's lesson.”

I remove myself and go to think on this . 
.
 .

 

Yours,
Jaimy

A still life is set up in the center of the studio and the easels are arrayed about it. There are some apples on plates, a couple of oranges, some crockery, two dead rabbits—probably dinner—and much drapery. I suspect it is all to get us proficient at filling in the parts of paintings he finds boring, or not worthy of his skill. All of the painters who maintain a staff like Goya's do it—the Master paints in the hard stuff and the students paint in the curtains and all and then the Master comes back in to touch up their labors, and then the painting is shipped off to its new owner. Sort of like a factory. Actually, this rather appeals to the hard-nosed merchant in me.

We are about to get to work on it when Carmelita speaks up.

“A still life? What are we, dull tradesmen? Trolls toiling in caves?” She sneers. “Why do we not use her? That is what she is here for.” She points her finger at me. “You! Get over there and disrobe. I will set the pose.”

With a sigh, I put down my charcoal stick and get up to do what I am told. Carmelita has authority around here, so I walk over and pick up the robe, unbuttoning my vest as I do so. Before I go behind the curtain, I glance around at the others. Asensio is silent but watchful, Cesar is very wide-eyed, and Carmelita is glaring daggers at me. Amadeo, however has something to say.

“Wait, Jack-ie. Carmelita—”

“Why should we wait? She is a model. She should pose.”

“I have spoken to the Master and he says he has something special in mind for her.” He cuts his eyes over to the large, so-far-untouched canvases.

“Special!” spits Carmelita. “
Special?
She is nothing but a common slut!
Una puta! Nada mas!”

“Please, Carmelita,” pleads Amadeo, trying to be reasonable. “I believe Maestro is... amused to watch her progress in drawing and painting.”

“Ha! Her
progress,
” she snarls, her voice dripping with contempt. “She is but a clever animal—a cheap trick!”

“Whatever, Carmelita.” Amadeo sighs. “If you wish to argue with Maestro, then go do it. The rest of us will get to work on our assignment.”

He turns to his easel and I return to mine. The evil bubbles up in me and I cannot stop it. I let my skirt brush up against Carmelita, and I feel her stiffen at the touch. I think about giving her a bright smile, but I restrain myself... to a degree. Instead, I go stand next to Cesar, ruffle his hair, lean down, and whisper in his ear,
“Disappointed, chico?”

He flushes bright red and nods, gulping in boyish confusion.

Ah, Jacky Faber—a hank of hair, some skin, and pieces of bone, and that's all there is to her. But somehow . 
.
 . somehow . 
.
 .
Heavy sigh
. 
.
 . Boys, I swear.

 

Actually, I believe I have been coming along in the way of art. Of course, my drawing of the boy-with-pipe was the worst of all the students' efforts, but still, Goya had some good things to say about it and I was allowed to proceed to the oil painting of the same subject—first the underpainting, the basic brush drawing in burnt umber thinned with turpentine. It seemed a shame to spoil the pure whiteness of the canvas with my crude strokes. But what the hell, I went at it.

The next day, after our underpaintings had dried, Goya came by to critique the work of the others and to start me on my first oil painting...

You see, when you mix the white with the sienna, you get a nice skin tone, and, yes, put it on the forehead there . 
.
 . right, like that, but for the shadows on the face and parts of the body, you must add some of the green, the complement to the red of the sienna, just enough . 
.
 . No, that's too much . 
.
 . More sienna . 
.
 . There, that's it. Now put that on the side of the nose and blend across the bridge . 
.
 . Good . 
.
 . See?

I work away, reveling in the fluidity of the oil colors, how they mix, how they glow, how they glisten on the palette and on the canvas. Oh, yes, I like it a lot, and as I work, I look over to the side where sit the two large, untouched canvases. Remembering what Amadeo had said, I know that I will figure in the painting of them—and not, I suspect, as a student.

But why two?

Hmmm . 
.
 .

 

After we conclude today's still-life work, Carmelita thrusts a fistful of her brushes at me to clean and then storms out. I clean them and carefully arrange them in neat rows on her taboret, the little table that her palette rests upon. We each have one. Amadeo, as befits a fierce young artist, is careless with his, but I try to keep mine neat. I neaten up his, too.

The palettes are rectangular pieces of varnished wood, with the colors arranged around the edges. In imitation of the Master, they go from the top left with a big blob of white, to black, then the deep browns, then the sienna and ochres, then yellows at top right corner, then to the reds along the side, and down to the greens, three of them, and at the bottom, the blues, of which there are four.

After the day's work, it is my job to wipe out the mixing areas in the centers of the palettes with a rag soaked in turpentine so that they will be ready for the next day's artistic toil.

That done, I put rags aside and head upstairs to dress, for tonight we are going to Café Central, and I, for one, am looking forward to it with great anticipation.

I meet Cesar on the stairway on the way up and put my arm around his shoulders and give him my best vulpine grin.

“Come, my bold
caballero,
let us prepare for the night's revels,” I say grandly. “And none but you, Cesar Maria Rivera y Romano shall be my gallant escort! Off! Off to the merry dance with us, and let dull care be forgotten!”

Olé, indeed . 
.
 .

Somewhat blearily, I start the studio work of the day. Fresh oils squeezed out onto their proper places on the palettes, the easels set up with the paintings of the shepherd boy—or faun, or satyr, or whatever he's supposed to be—on each.

I look at mine, and even though I know it's not even close to the others in the way of skill, still, I feel a certain fondness for my work. While my effort lacks definition in the lad's muscles and overall form, he does have a certain mischievous look in his eye as he gazes out at the viewer with his lips wrapped around the pipe. I believe I will keep him, if I get the chance. Might look rather nice tucked into a corner of my cabin on the
Lorelei Lee.

 

And yes, we did have a fine time at the Café Central last night, oh, yes, we did!

We arrived, the four of us, in what splendor we each could manage—Amadeo looking fine in tight black trousers with silver conchos up the side, frilly white shirt, and short black jacket with silver trim. His hair was oiled and pulled back and tied with a black ribbon, and on his feet, high-heeled black boots. On the way to the bistro, Amadeo stopped by a flower seller and bought a single red rose and presented it to me with a low bow. I took it and put it to my nose, inhaling its sweet fragrance, and then held it to my breast, smiling.

Asensio was dressed in a similar fashion, as was Cesar. I could not resist giving Cesar's tight little butt a pat as we walked along; it was just so neatly packed into those pants. He did not seem to mind, he was so plainly glad to be with the three of us.

I myself was dressed modestly in my new gaily embroidered black skirt and top, and before we left Estudio Goya, Asensio came up with a high comb and fixed it atop my wig-clad head, such that the mantilla, when draped over it, made a fine display. Thank you, Asensio! Now let us fly!

We burst into the place, full of our youth and our craziness, and we threw ourselves into the wildness of the night.

El Café Central was loud and full of brightly clothed
Majos
and
Majas
from wall to wall. There were four guitarists seated along the far wall, and three fiddle players on the near one, and one of them stood up to play. It was a
malagueña,
and two dancers advanced to the center as we ordered drinks. The libations were brought and we drank them and ordered more. Yes, more food, more drink, more everything!

We watched the dancers and pronounced them good, but Amadeo raised his chin, and, in a way, raised the ante when he declared, “He was good, but I could be better.”

I poked him in the side. “Aha,
muchacho?
You think you can do better than that?”

“I do,” he announced, thinking, I am sure, that he would not be called on such an idle boast—but he did not know that I have been practicing that very dance with Django and some other very good teachers down at the Dos Gatos . 
.
 .

I, however,
did
know that, and I rose and extended my hand, golden castanets in place at my fingertips.

“Then come, Amadeo,” I said. “Let us dance.”

He fixed me with his eyes and stood to the challenge. We advanced to the floor and I placed a coin before the
guitarras,
and said,
“Malagueña Salerosa.”
They nodded and began to play.

I charged out onto the center of the floor, not waiting for Amadeo, for I knew he would follow right behind me.

Hands above head, expression of disdain upon face, I started the beginning moves of the dance. I snapped the castanets and swirled about in time to the music, waiting to feel the touch of Amadeo.

In the flamenco, there is a certain form. The girl goes out and twirls about, looking cold and distant, seemingly obliv-ious to the male lurking at the edge of the stage. There is lots of fan work here—sometimes opened and sometimes folded and held before her face.

The man soon goes to stand beside her, hands on hips, shoulders square, looking every inch the macho male. As she twirls, hooded eyes peering over the top of the fan, he starts stamping his booted heels in time to the flamenco rhythm . 
.
 . RAM, tam . 
.
 . tam . 
.
 . RAM . 
.
 . tam . 
.
 . tam . 
.
 .