Viva Jacquelina! (18 page)

They circle about each other, both seemingly disdainful of the other, until, at last, she yields to his amorous advance, and they come together into an impassioned embrace, she bent backward and he leaning over her to take a triumphant kiss.

As did Amadeo and I. And did that rose end up in my teeth as I danced? Oh, yes, it did. And not only did it lend an elegant touch to the dance, but also to a rather interesting finale.

As I took the rose from my lips to receive the kiss, one of its thorns pricked my lower lip and I sensed a drop of blood forming there. Amadeo's face loomed over mine, his gaze intense, his arm around my waist as I was bent over backward. And then his mouth came down on mine, and when our lips parted, the blood was no longer there.

 

Right.
Ahem.
That was last night, but this is now.

The Master comes into the studio, looks about at our work on the shepherd boy, and says, “Okay. One more session. Finish them up. Good work all around. Let's get them done.”

Sure enough, Goya has rendered his shepherd boy as Pan, a satyr, prancing about on goat legs and hooved feet.
Hmmm . 
.
 .
That sort of thing might be all right here in enlightened Europe, but it wouldn't do in Puritan Boston, that's for sure. I'm thinking that Maestro had best steer clear of things that some might consider devilish, as you never can tell if there might be some sort of religious fanatic hanging about, ready to pounce and point an accusing finger, damning you to hell and perdition. But, hey, what do I know?

We all get to work, and soon it is time to knock off for the day. Goya stands and says, “There. I am done. You may all touch up as you will.”

He stands and stretches and then drops the bomb. “Tomorrow I go to the palace to paint the King. I will take Asensio and Cesar. Jacquelina, too. Make your preparations. Good evening, all.”

Carmelita is up before him in an instant, slate in hand.

“Her? Why?”

Goya looks at the slate and chuckles.

“Because she can speak French, Carmelita, nothing more. You remember that the court is now French, eh?” he says. “Carmelita, you have been to the palace many times. Why not give her a glimpse of all that false splendor? Now, no bickering,
niñas y niños,
please. Good evening.”

He leaves and so do the lads, but Carmelita remains, standing stiff, stunned, and glaring at Goya's retreating form.

“Well, let's clean it up,” I say, somewhat cheered by the events of the afternoon and trying to smooth things over a bit.

It doesn't work.

“Oh, yes,” says Carmelita. “Let us
definitely
clean things up!”

With that she goes to her palette and loads up one of her large brushes with a big blob of black, which she brings over to my canvas. Locking her eyes on mine, she grinds the paint into the face of my shepherd boy, destroying him, and the painting, forevermore.

“Scrape that piece of slop down, and prepare the canvas for something a bit more worthy than your clumsy scribblings!”

It is like a punch in my gut. But I take it, telling myself that it was not my canvas, not my paints, so what right have I to complain?

I take up the palette knife and scrape the canvas down, dumping the now muddy paint into the trash.

Goodbye, shepherd boy, I rather liked you.

 

After the cleanup, I go out into the hallway, and I again meet Carmelita, standing there steaming. It seems she is not yet done with me.

“So what do you want, Carmelita?” I ask warily. “It seems you have won the day. I stand here in front of you, as completely destroyed as my poor painting. What more do you want of me?”

“I want you gone, you common piece of garbage, that's what I want!” she snarls. “That's really what I'm wishing for!”

“Why's that, Carmelita?” I ask. “I am insignificant. How could I possibly be a threat to you?”

“You... you come here and you make everybody love you while they... ignore me. Me, Carmelita Ysidora Gomez! And you, a common piece of dirt!”

“But what have I done, Señorita? Besides doing my job as best I can?”

She clenches her fists.

“It is your way... with Amadeo... He used to be—”

“Ah. You think you and he might be...
simpatico?
Is that it? Rest your mind, Señorita. I have no interest in Amadeo, other than as a friend, which he has proved to be.”

“A
friend?
Is that all he is? Out dancing with you late last night?”

“I do not covet Amadeo.”

“Maybe that is true, but he covets you.”

“Perhaps you should have agreed to go out with him when he asked you.”

“I am a lady! I do not go to such places!”

“Maybe you should stop thinking about being a lady, if you wish to someday be happy with a man who loves life. Perhaps, if you were... softer... acted more like a woman—”

“Act like you? With the simpering tongue, the batting eyelashes? Like that?”

“Sometimes it helps. They are men. We are women.”

“I will not lower myself to do that.”

“Perhaps you should.”

“Perhaps you should just pick up and go away.”

“I will gladly do that. When I feel it is time for me to go. I am just a simple girl trying to make my way in the world.”

“You are not a simple anything. I thought you were... just another guttersnipe, but no, I was wrong, very wrong about you.” Her eyes narrow and fix on mine. “No. You are a dirty little whore who has come here and sullied our household. And tomorrow... tomorrow...” she says, gagging on the words, “you will go to the court, instead of me. Good God! That a slut should gaze upon a king!”

I have had about enough. A red rage descends and I lift my knee and cram it into her crotch, at the same time bringing my forearm across her throat, pinning her to the wall.

“Listen to me, bitch,” I hiss, my breath hot on her face. “I've had just about enough out of you! Come at me again in any way and I will make you pay! Do you understand,
perra?
”

She struggles in my grip, but I think she gets the message. Her eyes show fear—mine do not.

“Know this, Carmelita. I have been many things in this life, but
slut
is
not
one of them! Remember that when you talk to me!”

She whimpers and cries, but I do not let her go, oh no, not yet, I don't.

“And remember this, too. I have, in the past, been many times in the company of some very rough men, desperados, even... and among them I was sometimes known as
Bloody Jack.
And believe me, Carmelita,” I snarl through my clenched teeth as I pull back her head and gaze deep into her frightened eyes, “I must admit I was very well named. Do you take my meaning,
bruja?
”

She quivers and nods and looks down. I release her and she staggers against the wall. I do not look at her as I walk away.

That's for my little shepherd boy,
bruja!

James Chueng Tong Fletcher
The Noble House of Chen
Rangoon

 

Jacky Faber
Location, God only knows

 

Dearest Jacky,

This morning I made so bold as to request a favor of Kwai Chang as we sat cross-legged, facing each other.

“Master,” I said, “I have been as grateful of your instruction as a starving man is thankful for food, a drowning man for air. It has sustained me in my hour of great need.”

“Yes, my son?”

“However, you do know that I have been a naval officer, a soldier.”

He nods.

“And, as such, I am a man of action,” I continued. “I would like something... physical to do. Something active.”
Yes, Teacher, I think I need more exercise than just chasing the shrieking Mai Ling and Mai Ji around the turquoise pool.

Master Kwai Chang considers this, then says, “Yes. That can be arranged, and I think the study of a different discipline would be good for you.”

I bow my head in thanks.

“Am I correct in assuming you have fought with a sword?”

“Yes, Master. I have been trained in the use of that weapon.”

“Then, I believe it would be good for you to pursue the Way of Bojutsu.”

“Worthy Master will now tell Unworthy Student what that is,” I reply.

“Worthy Master perceives that Unworthy Student employs edge of cheap sarcasm in his speech. However, I will respond: In the past, our country has been conquered many times by powerful men at the head of powerful armies. After they had subdued the populace, they outlawed the use, or even the possession of, weapons. No spears, no swords, not even knives. So the people developed ways of protecting themselves—fighting with bare hands and feet—and common things, like canes, like sticks.”

“Sticks?”

“Yes, Long Boy, sticks. You are too old to learn the Kung Fu, the fighting with bare hands, and our way of fighting with swords is... ah... beyond your expertise. There is a Shaolin temple nearby. I will arrange for one of their monks to give you instruction in Bojutsu tomorrow. Now you must get back to your meditation.”

That evening, when we sat at dinner, Charlie told me that they expect the arrival soon of one of his ships from Britain, which might bring us news of the conflict in Europe. I certainly hope so, as I am desperate for news of you.

I told Charlie and his daughter of my coming introduction to the Way of Bojutsu and expressed a bit of disdain at the idea of fighting with mere sticks, when steel and bullet are so much more deadly.

Charlie chuckled and Sidrah merely patted my arm and smiled.

 

Yours,
Jaimy

Yes, on the next day, we do indeed go to paint King Joseph of Spain, newly placed on the Bourbon throne by his brother Napoleon Bonaparte of France.

Starting early in the morning, our party of four—Goya, Asensio, Cesar, and I—all pile into an open wagon, with our materials, and eventually pull up before El Palacio Real de Madrid. Or rather,
behind
the palace—true, Goya is a famous artist, but when it comes to Royalty with a capital
R,
one still goes to the service entrance. Oh well, I suppose it is easier that way—less bowing and scraping and all that. Trust the household staff to get things done quickly and efficiently, no matter what the nationality.

We are shown to a large room lined with tapestries and filled with fine furniture. Thick carpets cover the floor and ornate draperies adorn the windows. A nice light filters in from those same high windows, which I know will be useful when it comes to doing the job.

Cesar and I set up the taboret and palette as Goya and Asensio discuss the setup, the pose, pointing this way and that.

“So you love Amadeo, then, Jacquelina,” says Cesar, as he attends to his duties, his head down, seemingly quite crestfallen. “And not me.”

Wot?

He had been very quiet on the way here, not at all his usual self. I thought he might be sick, and I was a bit worried about him.

“What makes you think that, Cesar?”

“The way you kissed him the other night,” he says, looking away, not willing to meet my eyes. “I saw you. You cannot deny it.”

“Come on, Cesar, that was a dance, a performance. It wasn't real.”

“It looked real to me... and to everyone else at Café Central.
They were all amazed... speechless... at the passion shown between the two of you.”

“Look, Cesar, I like Amadeo very much, but—”

“But you love him more than me. Very well,” he says, taking a deep and resolute breath. “If you go off with him, to be his wife and to bear his children and not mine, I will wish you long life and happiness—”

“Cesar—”

“And I shall enter a holy order. There are many artists in the past who have taken on the hair shirt of the monk and led celibate lives... Fra Angelico, Fra Lippo Lippi, Brother—”

“Right, but you shall not be one of them, Cesar,” I say, fuming. “Now, get yourself over here.”

With that I grab his collar and pull him into a side hallway and put him against the wall.

“So what is going on, Cesar?” I hiss. “Out with it.”

He flushes red in the face. “You kissed Amadeo, and you have not kissed me.”

“Yes, I have. Many times. Here's another,” I say, and plant one on his forehead.

“Not like that,” he says, blushing furiously. “A
real
kiss, like you gave Amadeo. Like you really mean it.”

“Why, you conniving little weasel! All right, here!” I say, then plant a good one on his mouth. “There!”

He leans back against the wall, a dreamy expression on his face.

“Ah, Jacquelina, your lips are soft, soft like the pillows of clouds that float across the sky on a summer's day, your breath as sweet as a breeze that drifts over a field of clover, your—”

Oh, these Spanish boys with their honeyed words, I swear!

“You get back in there, Cesar,” I say, shoving him back out into the main room. “Enough of that! We've got work to do!”

So we go out and get ready... and wait... and wait...

 

Eventually, there is a hustle and many people bustle about the room—well-dressed men, men in uniforms, men holding papers, men looking anxiously to the door.