Cesar does not understand much of this, but he takes its meaning, oh yes, he does. He steps back and pulls out his sword and snarls, “Back, French pigs! Back! She is not for you! Back, I say!”
“Whoa! The boy has a pig-sticker!” The biggest brute laughs. “Let’s see how he can handle it!”
Cesar holds his sword up before him, but I can see it’s not going to serve. I look over and see that Amadeo and Asensio are still too far away to help.
“Away with you,” says Cesar. “Go! I will—”
But he will do nothing. He thrusts at the nearest soldier and the man steps aside, laughing, while Gaston lays the butt of his musket to the side of Cesar’s head. The boy falls to the ground, senseless, and says not another word.
Oh, Cesar, no!
The head brute reaches out to grab my hand, but he does not get it. Instead, that hand reaches down to grab the hilt of Cesar’s fallen sword and hold it up in front of the soldier.
“En garde, cochon,” I snarl, putting the point of the blade on a line between our eyes and assuming Position Four.
He looks startled for a moment and then he laughs. “Un femme? Ha! Take this, girl!”
He makes a clumsy thrust. I parry it and slip into Sixth Position. I retreat and then advance forward in Four, with my eye on his chest. He tries another thrust, and I engage in an envelopment parry, which puts his sword helplessly to the side and our faces close together.
“Un femme?” I spit. “Oui. La Belle Jeune Fille Sans Merci, s’il vous plait.”
I come out of the parry and put the point of Cesar’s sword to the man’s throat.
He looks suddenly doubtful.
Amadeo and Asensio have come upon us, both with swords drawn and looking ferociously enraged.
“Do you wish to die, soldier?” I ask of the brute. “Or would you like to go back to your barracks and fight another day? Eh? What would you like, soldat?”
The French soldier looks about, weighing his odds, and decides it’s not worth it.
He spits out some curses, thrusts his sword back in its sheath, and then calls his men off. They disappear into the darkening evening.
I let out a shaky breath.
“Pick him up,” I say to Amadeo and Asensio. “Let us go back to the studio. We will tell Cesar that he defended me to the end, which is what he did. Got that? Good. Let’s go.”
Soon we see the façade of Estudio Goya, and it looks very good to me.
Chapter 19
It is Sunday and we are all going to Mass at La Basilica de San Francisco el Grande—all of us except for Cesar, who is ordered to his bed to recover from his clubbing.
“My bold, bold protector, Cesar Rivera,” I gush as I apply the cool, damp cloth to his forehead. “My gallant Spanish knight who stood up to armed French soldiers in defense of my sacred honor!” He has quite a bump there, but he will recover. He looks up at me with big brown eyes.
“I... I don’t remember much, Senorita, I—”
“But I do, young Galahad! Oh, how you parried their thrusts with the mighty swings of your singing sword till that coward caught you with a low blow from behind! May he rot in hell for his perfidy!”
“But—”
“And seeing the bold hero laid low, the scum took fright and ran off. Amadeo and Asensio came upon the scene and carried you back here, on your very shield, as it were.” I lean forward and place a kiss upon his brow. “And that is how it happened.”
“I... I think I love you, Jack-ie,” he says, reaching up to grasp my hand.
“Of course you do, Cesar.” I laugh, giving his hand a squeeze. “I have found that pretty young boys find it very easy to love me. But I am also very easy to forget, so put me out of your mind, as I am not worth it. Ah, here’s Amadeo, and I must be off to Mass. You rest up, you.”
With that, I rise, place another kiss on his forehead, and follow Amadeo out the door.
The Basilica de San Francisco el Grande is unlike other magnificent churches I have been in. It’s much larger than either Notre Dame, in Paris, or St. Paul’s, in London. It is built lower to the ground, more like a fortress, and its dome is much larger. Three chapels at the sides make it even more impressive. Regardless of its size, the interior is comforting with its soft light and illuminated windows. There are large paintings on the walls, generally depicting rather gloomy things—crucifixions, floggings, flayings—but I suppose that suits the Spanish character.
I have decided to pass for Catholic—don’t want to give that Carmelita any more arrows for her anti-Jacky bow. And being seen as a Protestant heretic in Catholic Spain is probably not the most healthy of conditions.
I have been to church often enough with Annie and Betsey back in Boston, and with Jean-Paul de Valdon in Paris, to know the basic moves—kneel now, stand now, up-and-down, up-and-down, sing now, pray now—and with my mantilla draped in front of my face, my mumbling lips are obscured from inquiring eyes, like those of Carmelita, for she is certainly intent on watching me.
At any rate, there was no roar of heavenly outrage as I knelt to take the Host on my tongue, nor as I took a sip of the sacramental wine. No, I went back to the pew, head bowed in prayer, hands clasped before me, a beatific expression on my face, having just been washed in the Blood of the Lamb, as it were. After all, we take Communion in Church of England services, too, so I imagine everything was all right, liturgically speaking.
Before we leave the Basilica, Amadeo says to me, “Come, Jacquelina, and I will show you something.” Mystified, I follow him into a small chapel off to the side. There are paintings on the walls, but we pass them by as he leads me to stand before a particularly fine one.
“It is a painting of Saint Bernardino de Siena done by our Master, twenty years ago. Do you notice anything?”
I look up at it. It portrays the saint standing on a rock, bathed in golden light, preaching to the multitudes that are gathered about him.
“Well, it is beautifully done, of course,” I say, peering closely. “And there must be a hundred people there. But what... ?”
“See the man to the right?” answers Amadeo, pointing at one of the figures. “That is the Master’s portrait of himself.”
And so it is. It is a younger Goya, but it is he, all right. While all the others in the painting gaze up at the saint in adoration—and there is a crowned king among them—the Master does not. He stares straight out at the viewer as if to say, Yes, this is a holy saint and there is a crowned king kneeling at his blessed feet, but I am Maestro Francisco José de Goya, by God, and I painted this!
There is a certain amount of cheek in that, I’m thinking, as we walk out of the chapel.
We emerge, blinking, back into the light of a brilliant day, and Amadeo offers me his arm and I take it, with some surprise. Asensio offers his to Carmelita, and she accepts it, but I can feel her eyes burning into my back.
As we wind our way through the narrow streets on our return to the studio, I prattle gaily on, pointing out this, inquiring about that, laughing and leaning into Amadeo as I do it, just being, in general, insufferably cute. I know, sometimes I should be more careful, but it does not seem to be in my nature.
This night, after we have seen to Cesar being bandaged and tucked in, we go down to dinner and discover that the Maestro will be taking his evening meal with us. He usually eats with his ailing wife, but I have heard that sometimes he breaks bread with us. This is the first time I will be in attendance for one of his visits and I am looking forward to his company.
We all stand at our places and await his arrival. Señor Garcia has taken Carmelita’s place at the foot of the table, leaving the spot at the head open. Carmelita stands next to me, seething, I’m thinking, with resentment. The tale of last night’s escapade has already been related at great length, and much to my advantage.
I blush and protest that the French were simple soliders and not used to fighting with swords.
“But you are, Jack-ie?” says Amadeo with a smile.
“Well, I admit I have had a sword in my clumsy hand before, once or twice, but it was merely for play and I have no real skill at it,” I reply modestly. “If you and Asensio had not come up, I would have been in real trouble.”
“It seems to us that you were holding your own,” says Asensio, giving me a look. “And you seem to speak French quite well, too.” He has a slate in hand and is assiduously writing upon it as Maestro Goya enters the room, dressed a little better than usual. When he is working, he is not a neat man. He nods a greeting to all of us and then sits. We follow suit, the grace is said, and we all fall to.
“So what were you all talking about when I came in?” he asks. “High art, no doubt? Poetry? Literature?”
“I am afraid not, Maestro,” says Asensio. He sits next to Goya and holds the tablet up for him to read. Asensio has been with the Master the longest and has worked out a kind of shorthand to quickly communicate with him. With that, and some simple gestures, the story of last night’s fracas is told.
Goya, munching on a carrot, reads and then glances at me. I blush and look down, all demure.
“So, young perros. You were all out looking for trouble and you found it, no?” he says, looking around the table. He is plainly not amused. Carmelita puts on a righteous look and shakes her head—No, not me, Maestro—but the rest of us look slightly abashed.
“Well, listen to this,” he says, pointing his fork at each of us miscreants. “I go to the palace in two weeks to paint the portrait of King Joseph...”
There is a sharp intake of breath around the table.
“... and I cannot have any trouble with that. Do you understand me? Good.”
We all listen with bated breath. After a few more bites, he goes on.
“Yes, I know that our royal family has been sent off by Napoleon and that his brother King Joseph has been set on the Spanish throne. You know it, too, and it wounds me as much as it wounds you. But we need the money, the patronage, if our studio is to survive. Entiende? You will not provoke the French soldiers anymore. If you do, I will send you back home to your families. Do you take my meaning?”
We... gulp... do.
“Good.”
Goya returns to his dinner, as do we all. Now that we have been chastised, Carmelita looks smug and satisfied.
The dinner is lamb chops with mint jelly and roasted potatoes. It is very good, and I give Ramona a wink of appreciation. After a bit, Goya takes a rib from his mouth and points it at me and says, “Explain.”
I remove from my own mouth the succulent rib upon which I have been avidly sucking and look to Asensio. He cocks an eyebrow at me and takes chalk in hand and waits.
I tap napkin to lips and say, “Maestro, I have some small skill with the guitarra. I told Cesar that I wished to learn more Spanish songs and he said that he knew of a gypsy singer, named Django, who played in a nearby bodega. We went there and listened and, yes, the man was very good at the guitar and the songs, and Señor Django agreed to give me lessons. When we left there, the trouble arose. It was no fault of ours. Certainly not Cesar’s. He is a good boy and a credit to your studio.”