He looked at me a bit dubiously, as if he was recalling that time somewhat differently.
“... and it is my hope you have gotten that nonsense with the bull running out of your system forevermore.”
He flushed with pleasure and said, “That was a grand thing, and I shall remember it always.” He paused, and then went on. “But the next time I run with the bulls, it will not be at the side of the now famous El Rubio. No, I shall stand on my own, as a man worthy of you, heart of my heart.”
I gave him a look and a poke. “How you do go on, Cesar Rivera! In truth, I have never met your equal in the laying on of the words of love.”
Except maybe for Amadeo . . . and that Flaco Jimenez . . . Hmmm . . . Maybe it is part of the Spanish character. They do say that “Spanish is the Loving Tongue, Soft as Music, Light as Spring,” and I do believe it to be true.
We went into a goldsmith’s shop, where I picked up a light gold chain on which to place Django’s safe-passage charm. My other chain, the one that holds Jaimy’s ring, is back in the seabag that Higgins holds for me, and a good thing, too—had I been wearing it when I was ambushed by those French deserters, I surely would have lost one of my most cherished possessions.
Having gotten the chain, I threaded it through the hole at the top of the talisman and hung it around my neck.
“Clasp me up, Cesar,” I said, leaning over such that he might do it. I feel his fingers, then I sense his lips on the back of my neck, somewhere in the vicinity of my Golden Dragon.
Oh, Cesar, you are such a hot little fellow! When you are grown, I fear for the reputation of any woman within your reach!
“Now, now, caro mio,” I said, straightening up and adjusting the necklace. “Enough of that. Let us be off to Dos Gatos for refreshment... and some music, and maybe dance. Would you like to dance with me, mi corazón?”
But that was yesterday, and yesterday’s done.
Today, after breakfast, I go into the studio to find that blank canvases are already on the easels, the exact doubles of those set up for La Maja, the painting I had just posed for. I look around... Again no canvas for me, just the five—the big one for Goya, the smaller ones for Amadeo, Asensio, Carmelita, and Cesar.
There is a fire in the fireplace, when there has not been one before. It is warm in here and I think I know why. I go about putting out the charcoal sticks they will use to start the painting, and wait.
Presently Goya comes in and looks about. “All ready? Good. Jacquelina, the same pose but...”
I am halfway to the dressing screen when he completes his sentence, “ . . . desnuda, por favor.”
I knew it was coming, but still it gave me a bit of a shock to finally hear it. Oh, well, girl, that is why you were taken in and given shelter and food, it is what you were hired for, so go do it. Remember, you have always said you are not shy about this sort of thing, and now is the time to prove it.
Behind the screen, I doff my wig, hang it on a hook, then pull off vest and shirt, unfasten skirt and drop it to the floor. I toe off shoes, pull down drawers, and replace wig. Taking the red robe from where it hangs over the screen, I put it on, tying the sash about my waist. After giving my cheeks a bit of a pinch to pink them up, I step out.
Well, Jacky, if you like being the center of attention, you sure got it this time.
I go over to the sofa and, facing away from them, undo the robe and let it slide off my shoulders. I turn around and face them as it falls to the floor with a thump.
A thump? Cloth does not fall to the floor with a thump. What . . . ?
I look over to see that poor Cesar lies crumpled on the deck.
“Que caramba!” exclaims Asensio. “He has fainted!” Asensio quickly dashes to the sink and comes back with a wet cloth to hold to the boy’s flushed face. “Ah, Cesar. Pobrecito. All the blood has gone to your head!”
“It is not to his head that the blood has gone,” laughs Amadeo.
Goya, too, laughs at Cesar’s distress. “Jacquelina, your beauty has brought our lad low. Are you not sorry?”
If there had been a certain amount of tension in the room, it is gone now. Knowing that he cannot hear, I merely lift my palms heavenward and shrug, then give him my best foxy grin.
It seems to please him as he puts his arms about himself and shakes with laughter.
Asensio gently applies the wet cloth to Cesar’s face. “Come, muchacho, in your life as an artist, you will see many such as her. She is merely your first. Come now, pick up your implement and let’s get to work.”
More roars of laughter from Amadeo. “His implement! Bad choice of words there, Asensio, mi hermano! Oh, yes, how he would so devoutly wish to pick up his implement!”
Boys, I swear . . .
“Please, please,” says the Maestro. “Enough. Let us get on with it. The fire wanes and we do not wish for our Maja Desnuda to get cold, do we? Amadeo, throw another log on the fire.”
I am for that, as it is getting a mite chilly in here. Maybe at my best, I am somewhat presentable, but certainly not if I’m all covered in goose bumps. I turn to the couch and put a knee on it, to climb into position. Carmelita is situated nearby on the left, and as I mount the sofa, I contrive to make sure she gets a good look at my bare tail as I climb on—a good, close look. Take that, Carmelita. I hope you enjoy.
Cesar is brought back to his senses and propped up at his easel again. I settle into the cushions and raise my arms above my head, as I had done before in the clothed version of this pose.
Perhaps emboldened by all the ribald humor flying about, the evil wells up in me. I catch Carmelita’s disapproving eye, then I take a deep breath before thrusting out my chest a bit more and give a bit of a wiggle as if settling into the pose. How do you like them, Carmelita? Are yours as pert and saucy?
Well, if she didn’t like them, someone else certainly did.
The partially recovered Cesar gasps, backs up from his easel, and bolts from the room, hunched slightly over.
Amadeo and Asensio are convulsed with laughter.
Goya, too, is amused, but after a few moments, he says, “No, we must proceed. Get to work, the rest of you. And, oh yes, you may leave off the tattoo.”
I sneak a look at Carmelita, and she glares at me with such a level of unremitting hatred that I must look away... and I suddenly realize that I have been reckless and must now be good. No more foolishness, girl—no sense in making your enemies more bold than they already are.
After a bit, Cesar comes back in, shamefaced. He picks up his charcoal and commences working away with the others.
I settle in with a sigh...
Dear Jaimy,
You’ll never guess what I’m doing right now, and maybe it’s good that you don’t. Someday I might tell you about it—but I probably won’t, your being so set in some of your ideas of propriety. But then again, perhaps someday, when the world has come to its senses and is at peace, you and I will take the Grand Tour of Europe, and maybe in some magnificent museum in Spain or in Italy or some other lovely place, we will stand before Goya’s painting and you’ll say, “That looks rather a bit like you, Jacky,” and I’ll say, “Awww, go on with you, Jaimy. You’ve got too much imagination, you have. Who would hire such as me for a model?” I hope I’ll be able to suppress a blush. “Let’s move on . . . What’s this? A painting by Amadeo Romero. Oh, it is very fine . . . and another nak*d lady, too. Naughty, Jaimy, to be looking at pictures like that, and here’s another by . . .”
Oh, yes, maybe someday, Jaimy . . .
Chapter 31
And so the days stretch on to weeks and the weeks become months... It is now October and there is always a low fire in the studio hearth, whether I am down to my skin or not.
Yes, I do continue to pose, and in my natural state, as it were, and for paintings other than the Majas, too, and soon it’s just as natural as breathing. I pose desnudo for other works—the usual Girl With Water Jug On Shoulder; the Girl Seated On Bed Washing Her Feet In Small Basin; the Girl Standing In Tub Washing Lower Limbs. Wouldn’t mind Girl Lolling About In Nice Hot Tub, but I don’t get that—the water too quickly cools. At least I don’t have to do The Rape of Europa—guess they couldn’t book Zeus for that gig.
Someday, when I am long dead, people will stand before one of these paintings, maybe in a fine house, or in a palace, or perhaps hanging on the walls of some national museum and think to themselves, “Just who was that girl?”... and that girl will have been me, and I like that. It’s a kind of immortality, as I see it. Perhaps the only immortality I will ever get... but, hey, I’ll take it.
I am not always a model. Sometimes I do the grub work around the studio, and sometimes I have a canvas of my own to paint some other model standing there in my place. Goya has been good to me, continuing my instruction in the art of painting, and I am grateful for it. I apply myself as best I can.
I see, Jacquelina, that you have some trouble making the eyes look like they belong together on the same face. Here is a trick: After you have one eye drawn, you look at that eye as you draw in the other one. Let your side vision work. Try it.
I try it and it works.
Very good, little one. You see there are many tricks in art—and the public thinks it is magic, and it is, in a way. But it is the magic of the magician, the trickster, and not that of the sorcerer.
I take that to heart.
I continue to take my lessons with Django, and he pronounces himself pleased with my progress. We work on new fingerings, new dance steps, new songs—one especially, La Paloma, is my favorite.
Cesar, full to the brim with puppy love, ever more now since I have been posing in my natural state, accompanies me on these outings to Dos Gatos.
Jacquelina, mi amor, we must be married. No longer can I stand to be separate from your divine self! We must be as one!
You speak of marriage, Cesar? You are a foolish boy to consider one such as I to enter with you into that holy state. Here, have some Madeira to calm your ardor.
You are the love of my life, my heart. I do not have much, but what I have is yours, mi corazón.
And what will your family say, when you bring me into their midst?
They will welcome you as a cherished daughter and worthy consort to their son.
I’ll bet they would. Ha! You may ask me again when you are eighteen, Cesar, when you are ready.
I am ready now.
Sí, but I am but a girl of only seventeen years and not yet ready. When you are eighteen, I will be an old woman of twenty-two and you might not want me then, having already conquered the most beauteous young Majas in all of Spain, with that honeyed tongue of yours, mi vaquero valiente.
After the lessons, I sit and talk with Django and listen to his gypsy stories.
And the time we sold whiskey to the Austrian army back in ’94 and they ended up shooting each other rather than the Turks! Ha! What a time it was, Jacquelina, what a time!
At one meeting, I asked him, “One time before, when I was in this place, I saw you nod to Pablo Montoya. Do you know him?”
He does not reply right away. Then he says, “Sí, Señorita. I know him. And I realize that he knows you, as well.”
“Yes?”