It’s then that I see him. He’s right over there, ’cross a little stretch of water. No, no, not Jesus again, no . . . It’s a big, big ol’ bull, bullfrog. I peer through the reeds and see him right over there, across the shallow water, sitting on a hollow log—yes, he is a mighty bullfrog. A nice fat bullfrog. Must be a good two, three, maybe four pounds, if he’s an ounce. As I watch him, drool beginnin’ to pool in my mouth, he puffs up his big throat till it looks like a big shiny ball and then he lets out with a big . . .
BARRROOOOOOMMMM.
Shedding my pants and shirt, I flip them and my bag over on dry land and slip into the water. I find, as I move forward, the water betwixt the frog and me is about waist deep.
My mind, which is busy doin’ some real funny things, goes back to that time in the Caribbean with Joannie and Daniel on the Nancy B. with Jemimah Moses tellin’ her animal tales, and my crazy brain slips right into it . . .
Hello, Brother Frog. How you been?
The bullfrog brings his big googly eyes to look upon me.
Well, hello, Sister Girl. I been jus’ fine. Whatcha got on yo’ mind?
My mind is to eat you, Brother Bullfrog—legs, belly, croaker, and all, that’s what.
Hmmm . . . I might be havin’ a bit of a problem wi’ dat, Sister Jacky. What makes you tink you can ’complish dat t’ing?
It’s ’cause I’m low and cunning and powerful hungry and I’ll get it done, you’ll see, Brother. You be restin’ in my belly soon.
Y’know, Sister, I recalls that Brother Fox and Brother Bear tried alla time to eat Brother Rabbit but it never happened, no. And Brother Heron and Sister Crane alla time tryin’ to bag my skinny ass, too. Brother Black Snake give it a try or two, as well, but it ain’t happened yet, no Ma’am. Don’t ’spect it’s gonna happen here, neither.
Yeah, but I’m smarter and quicker and a whole lot hungrier den dose brothers and sisters and I’m afraid it is gonna happen to yo’ sweet self.
Ahhhh . . . uuummmm. We see.
Y’know, Brother Bullfrog, I done et up a bunch o’ froggy legs when I was in France, all fried up crispy and crackly, and they was right good, you bet. Yer legs’ll be good, too, even though I ain’t got nothin’ to cook ’em on.
I mourns for my poor French brethren, but this here’s Spanish land, Sister. You’ll find me a whole lot cagier than them other poor frogs. I got some gypsy frog in me.
We’ll see, Brother Bullfrog, we’ll see ’bout dat. You’ll notice I’m creepin’ closer and closer to your delicious self, movin’ smooth through dis water just like any Mississippi bayou gator.
My big googly eyes do see dat, Sister.
You jes’ sit still now, Brother.
Cain’t do that, Sister Girl. Been good talkin’ to you, but I gotta be off on my bidness.
With that, the frog gathers his strength and launches himself into the air above my head, chucklin’ to hisself.
I, however, gather my own strong legs and leap high out of the water and grab his slippery self right behind his big ol’ belly and wrap my hands around his nice, plump legs.
Got you now, Brother!
Oh, Lawsy, I think you does, Sister Girl! I’m one gone bullfrog!
That you is, Brother, that you is. Prepare to meet de Lord!
Just then a bunch of little frogs on the bank set up to peeping—peep peep, peep peep, our Big Daddy’s got hisself caught, peep peep!
Dat’s true, chillun, looks like yer Big Daddy’s goin’ off to heaven. He gon’ croak in dat Heavenly Choir! Hallelujah!
Dat’s right, Frog, says I, hardenin’ my heart and tightenin’ my grip. I hears dey needs a good bass-o pro-fund-o up dere and you be just the ting, I’m t’inkin’.
Yo’ prolly right, Sister Girl, buts now I gots to say goodbye to my fam’ly . . . Ahem! You peepers be good to Big Mama now and help her when Big Daddy done gone off to his reward . . .
We do dat, Big Daddy, but oh, peep peep, we hates to see you go, peep peep!
. . . and you tadpoles swimmin’ ’round Sister Girl’s toes, you grow up big and strong and make yer Big Daddy proud, y’hear?
Hmmm . . . I do notice somethin’ messin’ about my feet, and bubbles, little purple bubbles, rise to the surface by my knees and each one pops with a peep when it bursts.
Peep peep, peep peep, the tads go, peep peep peep, please, Sister Girl, don’t take our daddy, don’t take our daddy . . . peep peep peep.
No, t’ain’t no use, tads. Sister Jacky has hardened her heart. Big Daddy gotta go, chillum. He bein’ called up yonder.
Oh, Big Daddy, please don’t go! Peep peep!
Oh, he’s a-goin’ all right, I says as I lifts him up, open my mouth, and bare the Faber fangs. He’s a-goin’ straight down inta my belly! Oh, yes!
Sister Girl, I gots one last request ’fore I goes off t’ join dat heavenly band.
And dat is, Brother? I say, takin’ his head outta my mouth and lookin’ in his big ol’ eyes.
I wants to give one last big croak so’s Saint Peter be knowin’ I’ll be showin’ up at the Heavenly Gates.
Awright, you do dat, Brother Bullfrog, but make it quick.
The frog huffs and swells up his throat till it looks like a big shiny ball again and then lets it out . . .
BARRRROOOOOM!
. . . right into my face.
Oh, Gawd, Brother, that is so foul! I say, gasping for breath. What the HELL have you been eatin’?
Oh, just the usual, Sister Girl, flies and moths and sluggly bugs. Hey, wait’ll you get to gnawing on my belly—lots o’ surprises in dere.
I fall to my knees in the shallow water and despair of my fate.
Peep peep, peep peep, the tads go, peep peep peep!
I’ll let you go, Brother Bullfrog, on one condition, says I, givin’ the rascal a good squeeze such that his eyes bug out even more.
And dat is, Sister Girl? he wheezes, unable to draw breath.
THAT YOU TELL THEM TO SHUT THE HELL UP AND GET OUTTA MY HEAD!
Peep peep, peep peep . . .
Awright, quiet down now, chillun, says Brother Bullfrog, and the swamp goes silent.
I gently return Big Daddy to his pond and watch him as he kicks slowly back to his log, not hurrying a bit, oh no, as that is plainly not his style. He then climbs back upon it, in the same spot where I first laid eyes on him.
Looks like you won, Brother, I says, still on my knees in the water with my head down. And I’ll prolly be joinin’ the heavenly band ’fore you, as I am feeling mighty weak right now, and I am gettin’ ready to slough off dis mortal coil and go be with the angels.
Now, Sister Jacky, don’t despair o’ dis world jus’ yet, says the Bullfrog, fixing me with his googly eyes and smilin’ all ’cross his face. Y’know, under the flat rock yo see over dere? Yeah, dat big shiny black one . . .
I looks over and sees the one he means.
Now, under dere you just might find some crawdaddies—yep, the very same smartass crawdaddies what have been pinching at Big Daddy’s webbed feet after I told ’em not to, and you know dat ain’t right, no. See you later, Sister Girl, you keep well now, y’hear?
Later, as I trudge along, my mind now clear, I spot some more of those mushrooms and I pick them. I don’t eat any more of ’em, oh no. What I do is spread them out on rocks to dry when I stop for a rest, and it don’t take long for them to shrivel and dry up real small, so’s I can stash them in my bag. Specimens for Dr. Sebastian, I tell myself. But who knows?
And, as I push on toward Madrid, I wonder just how much of the last hour was real. I dunno . . . But what I do know is that three nice crawfish tails now rest in my belly, giving me some sustenance, and three well-sucked heads now lie empty on the bank of the river.
Thanks, Big Daddy.
Chapter 12
I enter the city of Madrid on its southeastern side, still following the River Manzanares. The banks of the river change from earth and mud to the stone walls of a canal as it wends its way into the heart of the city. I would find it quite beautiful if I weren’t still so damned hungry.
I eventually come to a large, open plaza that lies along the shore, and I see tall cathedrals in all directions, busy streets with many market stalls lining them. There are charcoal braziers smoking in some of the stalls and very good smells come from them. I am about to fall to my knees, ready to beg for something, anything, to eat. It’s been three days since the crawfish and they are now but a sweet memory.
No. You have come too far in this life. You will not beg. You have no whistle, you have no guitar, you have no paints, no brushes, you have nothing you can sell . . . nada . . . But no, there is one thing that you can sell, and that is your body, and that is what you shall sell . . . and you will do it now.
I duck into an alley and quickly turn back into a girl—black skirt and stockings on, vest in proper place over my white shirt, wig on head, with mantilla over that. Done.
When I had first come to the plaza, I had noticed an artist sitting before an easel, painting a picture of the river and the flowering bushes that grow along the banks. He is pretty good, I notice. He is wearing a white smock and a floppy straw hat to keep the sun from his eyes.
I go up to him.
“Your pardon, Señor,” I say, hands clasped behind me, all demure and respectful.
He looks up at me, suspicion writ plain on his face.
“What do you want, girl? I am busy.”
“My name is Jacquelina. I am a model, and I will pose for you in return for food and lodging.”
He looks me over with what I take to be scorn.
“What you are is a peasant girl run off from some dirty little farm,” he sneers. “But that does not matter to me. No. I only paint God’s green earth.”
“I am sorry to have disturbed you, Maestro,” I say, backing away.
I think calling him “master” softened him up a bit.
“Wait,” he says, as I walk away. He takes his brush and points to a house up a nearby street. “Go there. Go to la Casa del Sordo.”
I follow his point. What is it? A brothel? I am confused.
“I don’t understand, Señor. I don’t know what that means.”
“It is the house of the deaf man. Go to him. His name is Goya. He hires models to pose for him.”
I thank him and head for the doorway of the house he had indicated. Weak with hunger, I manage to get to the door, lift the knocker, and give it two sharp raps. I put my weary forehead against the heavy oak and wait.
Presently the door is opened a crack and the sharp, inquisitive face of a young woman pokes out.
“Qué quiere usted?” it asks.
“I wish to apply for work as an artist’s model. I was told to come here.”
She gives me the once over, then says, “No. You were told wrong. Go away.” The door begins to close.
I’m about to heave a heavy sigh and move on when I hear, “Wait, Carmelita. Qué pasa?”
I stick the Faber foot in the door to prevent its closing.
“I am Jacquelina Bouvier. I am a professional model, looking for work. Will I find some here?”
The door opens and a young man looks out at me. He says nothing, but only looks me over in an appraising way.