Asensio taps away with his chalk, no doubt distilling my many words down to a few. Goya glances over and says, “You speak the French language? Just what have we welcomed into our midst?”
Before Carmelita can offer her opinion on that, I say, “I learned in America, Maestro. At school. It was required.”
More scribbling by Asensio.
“Umm,” says Goya, considering. “You, Jack-ie, may continue to take the guitar lessons. Amadeo, Asensio, you will be careful. And watch out for Cesar—you have been lax in that regard. Any more trouble and you will all be confined to the house. Understood? Good.”
The Maestro rises from his chair and is gone.
Looks are exchanged around the table, mostly directed at me.
What? What’d I do?
But never mind. The dinner is cleared, the dishes cleaned, and I go back to working on Paloma’s portrait.
“All right, Paloma, we are almost done... Just a few more highlights on your lovely hair... there.”
Paloma, meaning “dove” in Spanish, is so suited to her gentle nature. She smiles and dimples up, and I expect her to actually coo in appreciation when the painting is finished.
When the job is done to my satisfaction, I show it to her and she says, “Oh, Jack-ie, that is so beautiful! Oh, if I could—”
“Of course you shall have it, Paloma,” I say, blowing on the last application of watercolor. “And when you are old and gray, you will show it to your grandchildren and they will look at it in wonder and say, ‘Grandmother, you were so beautiful.’”
She blushes and shakes her head at the notion, and I say, “I will give it to you tomorrow, after it dries and I can find a suitable glass and frame around here. Now, off with you, Paloma. There are still a few more hours in the day, and did I not see you with a likely lad at La Taberna de Dos Gatos last night? I think I did.”
I give her a wink, and she gives a bit of a giggle and is off.
Ah, boys and girls together, it is what makes the world go round.
As the door closes behind her, I regard the portrait.
Not too bad, I’m thinking. This plan might go well. But we shall see...
I turn the thick paper over, blow upon it, and when it is dry enough, I take a piece of charcoal from an easel tray and begin a quick sketch on the back.
I draw a jolly little pig, and he is dancing a merry jig and has a pennywhistle to his lips. Yes, he is the very image of the piglet on the Pig and Whistle sign that hangs outside that beloved tavern back in Boston.
When I am done with him, I slide the whole thing up on a shelf where no one will find it until it is time for me to bring it out.
That done, I head upstairs to prepare for bed.
Dear Jaimy,
I hope you are well and I pray your condition is improving.
I, myself, am not in a bad place, for a change—I am learning many new things and I have made some new friends, and, yes, it must be said, one enemy, too, but isn’t that the way it always goes? Them’s that likes me, really likes me, and them’s that don’t . . . well, they really, really don’t. Strange, ain’t it?
I am in nightshirt and snugged down under the covers and wishing you were in here with me, oh, yes, I do.
Ah, well, maybe someday, Jaimy. But I dunno . . . things do seem to work against us somehow.
Be well.
Yours forever,
Jacky
Chapter 20
We are in the studio.
There is a new model, a young boy, probably fourteen, I guess from the amount of fur on his slim body. He is not at all shy about being up there like that, so he must have done it many times before. He probably figures it’s better than some nasty outside work, and it is my opinion that he’s undoubtedly right.
Under Goya’s direction, the boy is posed contrapposto, weight on one leg, opposite shoulder higher than the other. He holds a panpipe to his lips, so this will plainly be a fanciful work—a satyr gamboling about some mythical sylvan landscape. There are strings on straps wrapped around his wrists that run up to pulleys on the ceiling to help him hold the pose, else his poor arms would soon falter and droop.
Preliminary drawings are started, and I continue at my work, which is grinding more paint. The Maestro obviously has something major planned for two large canvases, about three feet by six feet, that have been stretched and primed— well I know because I was the one to prepare them.
Amadeo had to help me with the long, six-foot stretches—he pulled while I tacked—and as we did it, he locked eyes with me and asked, “Asensio and I are going to El Café Central tomorrow night. Will you come with us?”
“With ‘us’?”
“With me.”
“Why do you not ask Carmelita?”
“Because she will not go. She says a lady would not go to such a place. Besides, I want to go with you, not her.”
“I am glad she cannot hear this, Amadeo. She hates me enough already.”
“Forget her. What is your answer?”
“Very well. I will go... but only if Cesar can go with us.”
“Sí. He can come. He has proved himself.”
“Bueno. I look forward to it.”
Four more canvases have also been made up, in half-size, eighteen by thirty-six inches. I suspect those are for the students, and it later turns out I am right in thinking that.
The break is over and work resumes, and as I grind away at the paints, I muse upon my condition at Estudio Goya. Having been here for about three weeks now, I have received pay on three occasions and have been out on the town, buying some small things—castanets; a better skirt, embroidered with colorful thread about the waist and hem; a frilly black shirt, also decorated. Cesar, who has fully recovered and accompanies me on these outings, pronounces me to now be a true Maja, and I am pleased by his praise.
I have also bought, for a few centavos, a flageolet, a fipple flute very similar to my dear old pennywhistle. I never want to be without somesuch again stuck up my sleeve, like I was on that rough trek from the border to Madrid, for I can always warble away on any foreign street corner and generally collect enough tossed coins to appease the insistent Faber belly.
After that purchase, I played a quick medly of jigs for Cesar when we got back on the street and he proclaimed himself amazed at my ability. But then, he is an easy audience, because it seems that anything I do is all right with him. Still, I like to hear it.
Sometimes there are gypsy dancers at La Taberna des Dos Gatos. Actually, the place turns out to be quite the gypsy hangout, I find. “El flamenco,” Django calls it. “Both the music and the dance, little one.” I have been studying the dancers’ moves, which is why I bought the castanets. Yes, some fans, too. They do a lot with those fans.
I have been enjoying my lessons with Django, and he pronounces himself pleased with my progress in the flamenco. Using thumb and first two fingers to up-pick, the rhythm goes like this: DUM dum dum, DUM dum dum, DUM dum dum, all the while changing chords with the left hand, mostly in minor keys, and then followed by mighty and most dramatic downward strums of the nails across all of the strings. It is most exciting and goes perfectly with the movements of the dancers. I go every chance I get to take more lessons, and Django is always there for me.
The announcement “Break!” brings me back to the present. The boy model unstraps his wrists and stretches his arms. The students also step back from their work to limber up and move about. Goya goes over to a sideboard upon which stands a flagon of red wine and pours himself a glass. He waves his hand, inviting his students to join him in refreshment. They do, with murmurs of thanks.
The Maestro has been rather kind to me of late, reaching out his hand sometimes and ruffling my hair and calling me “little mouse” and other terms of mild affection. He motions for me to take a glass, too, and I do it, coming up close to his side. I decide to make my move.
I had stuck my small painting of Paloma into my open vest, and after I pour my own wine, I pull it out to show it to him.
Ah, but I do not show him the painted side, no I do not. Instead I dangle the charcoal drawing of the little pig before his eyes. To the right of the drawing I had written the words, Es la verdad? I put on a questioning look and wait.
Carmelita sucks in her breath, shocked at my temerity, but Goya merely takes the paper and looks at it.
“Is it true, you are asking, little rabbit? The tale of the pig drawn on the wall?” he says, smiling. “Well, it makes for a good story, no? So we shall let it stand, whether it is true or not. Suffice it to say, I came from humble beginnings and I am not ashamed of that. Nice cartoon, though, chica.”
He goes to hand it back to me, but I fumble in reaching for it such that it lands on the sideboard with the portrait face-up.
“Hmmm. That is our Paloma, is it not?”
I nod, then look down, all modest and shy.
He cocks his head, still looking at the painting. “That is not at all bad. I could show you some things,” he says, plainly musing.
He looks over at the grinding table. “You have done enough of that for now. Set yourself up an easel.”
I knock back the rest of my wine and joyously go get drawing board, paper, and easel.
“Pose, please,” says Goya, and the boy gets back in position.
“Now, guapa, you must first get the gesture,” instructs the Master, putting his charcoal to the paper. “You see how the line of the shoulders is a slope like this, and opposing it is the set of the hips. Now...”
I may be a mere model and chambermaid . . . but now I am also a student of Maestro Francisco José de Goya!
Olé!
Chapter 21
James Emerson Fletcher
Student
Temple of Buddha
Rangoon
Jacky Faber
Somewhere in the World
Probably Portugal
Dearest Jacky,
I continue my studies with Master Kwai Chang. Today we kneel in the temple, facing each other in front of the statue of the Buddha. He has been giving me instructions in the basics of this religion, this philosophy, really, and I have found it all very enlightening. Today, however, he discusses koans—riddles designed to free the mind from ingrained patterns of thought—and he poses one to me.
“You know the sound of two hands clapping,” he says, holding up his two hands, palms out, before me. He then claps his hands together, once, twice, thrice, and then returns them to their original position. “But, Chueng Tong, do you know the sound of one hand clapping?”
I raise my own two hands, palms out to him, and let my mind roam free.
Chopstick Charlie, my most gracious host, has judged me recovered enough to inform me of what he knows about you, and your whereabouts:
“Beloved Number Two Daughter, Ju kau-jing yi, sometimes known as the Lotus Blossom and also known as Jacky Faber, was taken to Portugal to be on the staff of the great General Arthur Wellesley, as translator, aide, and, of course, spy.”
Of course, I am thinking. What else? Well, at least you shall be relatively safe in the camp of the commanding general. That eases my mind, somewhat... except that I suspect you will be up to some mischief or other. Please be good, Jacky... Or at least careful.
My mind, that aforementioned sponge, goes back to the problem at hand. Hmmm...
I take my right hand and snap my fingers, once, twice, thrice. Then I return my hand to its original position.