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.
“I believe the King is coming,” whispers Asensio out of the side of his mouth, his voice dripping with contempt.
I give him a bit of an elbow and hiss back, “You be good now, Asensio! I know what you are thinking. Shush.”
As for myself, I stand back and listen, for much of the babble is in French. Hmmm . . . I’m thinking, I was sent here as a spy and I shall have to get some of this down on paper. That Field Marshall with all the medals on his chest is saying, “Yes, Murat will move the First Fusiliers to . . .” and “Junot is in position to strike at . . .”
I cannot be seen actually writing things down, but I will remember, and when I get back to the studio, I will record what I hear. I am, after all, a girl who does her duty.
El Rey! El Rey! is announced, and the people in the room line up against the walls. A door opens and a man walks in. All bow low, as the King strides to the center of the room.
He is dressed afrancesado, of course, and not only looks like, but also is dressed very much like, his brother, Napoleon Bonaparte. Blue jacket, gold sash, white trousers, black boots. Among other medals, he has the Legion of Honor on his left breast. I’ll wager I did more for that bauble than he ever did, but so it goes.
“I am ready. Let us get this done,” he says in French, and he strikes a pose.
He does look a lot like his brother, I’m thinking. I’m also thinking, as I look over at Goya, that the pose will not do. The master shakes his head and says, “Please, Majesty, if you would stand a little to the left there, so that the light...”
His Majesty does not understand, because Goya spoke in Spanish. Seeing that, the Master motions to me. I understand and step out.
“Please, your Majesty, forgive me my impertinence,” I say softly in French. “But if you would place your left foot there, and bring your right foot over there. That’s it... Now put your weight on your left leg... Oh, yes, magnificent.”
I look over at Goya and he motions with his hands that the King should turn a bit more to the right, and I spin my hands about in front of King Joseph to get him to do it, but it doesn’t work.
I look to Goya, but he shakes his head. All right, only one way to do this.
“Excellency,” I say. “I ask your permission to touch your person.”
He looks down at me, incredulous, but as I do not seem to be much of a physical threat, he nods.
There are gasps as I grasp the kingly hipbones in my hands and turn him several degrees to the right. I position his feet with gentle touching of my toes, and say, “Chin up, milord,” with the backs of my fingers brushing the underside of his jaw. I look to Goya.
He smiles and nods and takes up his brush.
Goya works fast, laying in the underpainting with broad strokes of burnt sienna, which he then tempers with more narrow lines of burnt umber, and then finishes it with finer touches of black. He works fast for two reasons, I’m guessing: One, he’d rather be back in his studio working on what he wants to do, and two, kings are famously fidgety and impatient when it comes to sitting for a portrait. Goya had already painted King Carlos IV and Queen Maria Luisa and a whole gang of their children, so he knows quite well the process.
I stand by, ready with rag, brush, and thinner. Colors, too, when needed. As I do, I look out over the room and I think about things—yes, there are important people in this room. There are ministers of state and generals of great armies, that is true. However, if my friends at Estudio Goya expect me to be overawed by all the greatness, all the splendor, then I am afraid they will be disappointed, for I am not.
Have I not been presented to King George III of Britain only a few months ago? Did I not ride with Napoleon Bonaparte at Jena Auerstadt? What would you say, King Joseph, if you knew that I had fallen asleep in your own brother’s lap in that coach in Germany? And did I not sit at the same table with United States President John Adams at Dovecote? I actually did. ’Course he wasn’t President at that time, but who cares... A president is a president, as far as I can tell. Hmmm... I must request that Amy Trevelyne set up a party with Thomas Jefferson so that I can fill out my dance card for this period in history, at least.
Ah, the session is coming to a close. The King is bored, and Goya is done for the day. The underpainting must dry, so we get to leave and come back another day.
As I clean up the brushes and palette and stow all away for the next time, I look about me and reflect that, yes, a cat...
“A cat may look at a king!” I crow as we come to dinner that night. “And I did look upon him!”
Great laughter breaks out all around the table.
Goya has joined us, and we exult in the events of the day.
“We shall go back in four days,” he says. “The imprimatura will be dry by then and we may proceed. Yes, Carmelita, you will go with us. Try not to sulk.”
Señorita Carmelita Gomez has been very silent since our little confrontation in the hall. I am sure she is not used to being handled so roughly. Well, she sure had it coming, and to hell with her. She eats, head down, and says nothing. Fine. I’d rather have her that way than constantly carping at me.
“And you, Cesar,” I tease. “We did not see much of you there, you know. Could it be that you snuck a young princess off into a secret alcove for a bit of... this and that?”
Cesar reddens.
“Well, there was a girl who was most impressed with our artistic skill,” he says.
“‘Our artistic skill’? Your tight little culo, you mean, chico!” Asensio says, then laughs. “Tell me, did you prance about in front of her? Was she covered in jewels?”
“Well, she was very finely dressed,” allows Cesar, sinking deeper into his chair.
More laughter. Asensio has been diligently scribbling away on his slate and Goya enters into the fun.
“Do you think you could ask her to pose, Cesar? We could portray her as a nymph. We need some of those.”
“Oh, no, Master. I’m sure her father would object. He seemed to be a very important man. At least, I thought that when he discovered us and dragged her away... and not very gently at that.”
Ribaldry swirls about the table.
“Oh, ho, Cesar! A conquest!” crows Amadeo. “And you so young! Your first! Congratulations!”
“I am sure she will treasure the memory of her gallant artiste!” I say, grandly waving around an imaginary brush. “Until the last of her days, he will live in her heart, and she will think on what might have been!”
“Or until the next pretty boy comes by,” says Asensio, casting a glance at Amadeo.
“A very exciting day, all around,” I say, taking a sip of my wine and glancing sideways at the sullen Carmelita. She does not respond.
“Exciting?” says Amadeo. “Ha! I’ll tell you what’s exciting. It’s next week when truly exciting things happen. I cannot wait!”
I am curious.
“And what is that, Amadeo, to make you exult so?”
“Why, Jacquelina, don’t you know?” he replies. “It is the beginning of the bullfighting season!”
I put down my glass.
“I do not like bullfighting. It is cruel and not fair. The bulls do not have a chance. There is no honor in it.”
“Maybe not in the ring, Señorita,” he says, smiling over at me. “But there is a time when the bulls do have a chance for revenge.”
“And when is that?” I ask, mystified.
“It is called the Running of the Bulls, Jack-ie,” says Cesar proudly. “It happens every year, right outside our balcony.”
What?
“Yes, Jacquelina,” he goes on. “The bulls for the ring are run through the streets before La Corrida de Toros! You should see it! Los toros are magnificent in their power and strength! And the young men run with them to show their bravery! And this time, I am old enough, and in your name, I will run with them!”
Wot?
Chapter 26
“That is, without a doubt, the stupidest thing I have ever heard of, Cesar, and you shall not do it,” I say with deep resolution, as we walk down Calle de Embajadores, on our way to a used-clothing shop that he knows of. It is payday, and I have some things I wish to buy.
“But, Jack-ie, love of my very life, I must prove myself to you,” he says. “If I do not do it, you will think less of me, and that I could not stand.” He puffs up. “I must have your love and respect.”
I laugh and clasp the lad to me. “You already have my love, mi querido, but you will not have my respect if you do that crazy thing! Madre de Dios! You weigh one hundred and twenty pounds and those beasts weigh fifteen hundred pounds each. And there will be seventy of them, all very angry. In that narrow street? Loco, that is what it is. No, I forbid it.”
“We shall see, Señorita, just what you will forbid,” he says, chin up, with some of his own manly resolution. “I am the man, and you are the girl.”
Oh-ho, we shall see about that, little man . . .
“Ah. Here we are,” he says as we stop in front of a little shop. “It is not a fancy place, but it is where I buy my clothing. I am but a poor student of art.”
“I know that, Cesar,” I say, sweeping into the place. “You are poor, but have the heart of the lion, and that is what is important. And I am sure this shop will be just the thing.”
And it is.
“Buenas dias, Señorita,” says the woman who approaches us. “What can I find for you?”
“I want a pair of trousers just like his,” I say, pointing to the pants Cesar wears, all black, tight, with silver conchos up the sides and embroidery across the butt. “And the jacket, too.”
“Señorita wants to dress as a matador?” asks the woman, aghast.
“It is for a private party, Señora. All girls. There will be no scandal, I assure you.”
She shrugs and goes to find the items. While she searches, I spy a nice little hat on a shelf—wide brim, round crown, black, of course, and brightly decorated. I try it on over my wig, and it fits just fine. “Good, I’ll take it,” I say, reflecting that money does not ever stay long in the Faber pocket. “And, oh, a nice pair of pumps, too.”
“What are you going to do, Jack-ie?” asks Cesar, puzzled. The proprietress returns with the requested garments over her arm, and I take them up.
I see a dressing screen and head for it, saying, “In the States we call it ‘blackmail,’ chico. You shall see.”
I duck behind the screen and begin shedding clothes. When I am down to my skin, I pull on the pants—oh, yes, good and tight, just the way I like it—and button the high waist over my frilly white shirt. Then the short jacket—nice fit around the shoulders, yes, the woman has a good eye for sure—pumps on feet and hat on head, and I step out.