“That, Master, is the sound of one hand clapping,” I say, managing to suppress a smile at my own ingenuity.
Master Kwai Chang considers this for a while and then says, “Very good, Long Boy... for a novice. But this is really the sound of one hand clapping.”
And he reaches out and slaps me across the face—once, twice, thrice. I am startled and jerk back.
“Is it not so, Chueng Tong?” he says, suppressing a smile of his own. “Go now and reflect upon today’s lesson.”
I remove myself and go to think on this . . .
Yours,
Jaimy
Chapter 22
A still life is set up in the center of the studio and the easels are arrayed about it. There are some apples on plates, a couple of oranges, some crockery, two dead rabbits—probably dinner—and much drapery. I suspect it is all to get us proficient at filling in the parts of paintings he finds boring, or not worthy of his skill. All of the painters who maintain a staff like Goya’s do it—the Master paints in the hard stuff and the students paint in the curtains and all and then the Master comes back in to touch up their labors, and then the painting is shipped off to its new owner. Sort of like a factory. Actually, this rather appeals to the hard-nosed merchant in me.
We are about to get to work on it when Carmelita speaks up.
“A still life? What are we, dull tradesmen? Trolls toiling in caves?” She sneers. “Why do we not use her? That is what she is here for.” She points her finger at me. “You! Get over there and disrobe. I will set the pose.”
With a sigh, I put down my charcoal stick and get up to do what I am told. Carmelita has authority around here, so I walk over and pick up the robe, unbuttoning my vest as I do so. Before I go behind the curtain, I glance around at the others. Asensio is silent but watchful, Cesar is very wide-eyed, and Carmelita is glaring daggers at me. Amadeo, however has something to say.
“Wait, Jack-ie. Carmelita—”
“Why should we wait? She is a model. She should pose.”
“I have spoken to the Master and he says he has something special in mind for her.” He cuts his eyes over to the large, so-far-untouched canvases.
“Special!” spits Carmelita. “Special? She is nothing but a common slut! Una puta! Nada mas!”
“Please, Carmelita,” pleads Amadeo, trying to be reasonable. “I believe Maestro is... amused to watch her progress in drawing and painting.”
“Ha! Her progress,” she snarls, her voice dripping with contempt. “She is but a clever animal—a cheap trick!”
“Whatever, Carmelita.” Amadeo sighs. “If you wish to argue with Maestro, then go do it. The rest of us will get to work on our assignment.”
He turns to his easel and I return to mine. The evil bubbles up in me and I cannot stop it. I let my skirt brush up against Carmelita, and I feel her stiffen at the touch. I think about giving her a bright smile, but I restrain myself... to a degree. Instead, I go stand next to Cesar, ruffle his hair, lean down, and whisper in his ear, “Disappointed, chico?”
He flushes bright red and nods, gulping in boyish confusion.
Ah, Jacky Faber—a hank of hair, some skin, and pieces of bone, and that’s all there is to her. But somehow . . . somehow . . . Heavy sigh . . . Boys, I swear.
Actually, I believe I have been coming along in the way of art. Of course, my drawing of the boy-with-pipe was the worst of all the students’ efforts, but still, Goya had some good things to say about it and I was allowed to proceed to the oil painting of the same subject—first the underpainting, the basic brush drawing in burnt umber thinned with turpentine. It seemed a shame to spoil the pure whiteness of the canvas with my crude strokes. But what the hell, I went at it.
The next day, after our underpaintings had dried, Goya came by to critique the work of the others and to start me on my first oil painting...
You see, when you mix the white with the sienna, you get a nice skin tone, and, yes, put it on the forehead there . . . right, like that, but for the shadows on the face and parts of the body, you must add some of the green, the complement to the red of the sienna, just enough . . . No, that’s too much . . . More sienna . . . There, that’s it. Now put that on the side of the nose and blend across the bridge . . . Good . . . See?
I work away, reveling in the fluidity of the oil colors, how they mix, how they glow, how they glisten on the palette and on the canvas. Oh, yes, I like it a lot, and as I work, I look over to the side where sit the two large, untouched canvases. Remembering what Amadeo had said, I know that I will figure in the painting of them—and not, I suspect, as a student.
But why two?
Hmmm . . .
After we conclude today’s still-life work, Carmelita thrusts a fistful of her brushes at me to clean and then storms out. I clean them and carefully arrange them in neat rows on her taboret, the little table that her palette rests upon. We each have one. Amadeo, as befits a fierce young artist, is careless with his, but I try to keep mine neat. I neaten up his, too.
The palettes are rectangular pieces of varnished wood, with the colors arranged around the edges. In imitation of the Master, they go from the top left with a big blob of white, to black, then the deep browns, then the sienna and ochres, then yellows at top right corner, then to the reds along the side, and down to the greens, three of them, and at the bottom, the blues, of which there are four.
After the day’s work, it is my job to wipe out the mixing areas in the centers of the palettes with a rag soaked in turpentine so that they will be ready for the next day’s artistic toil.
That done, I put rags aside and head upstairs to dress, for tonight we are going to Café Central, and I, for one, am looking forward to it with great anticipation.
I meet Cesar on the stairway on the way up and put my arm around his shoulders and give him my best vulpine grin.
“Come, my bold caballero, let us prepare for the night’s revels,” I say grandly. “And none but you, Cesar Maria Rivera y Romano shall be my gallant escort! Off! Off to the merry dance with us, and let dull care be forgotten!”
Olé, indeed . . .
Chapter 23
Somewhat blearily, I start the studio work of the day. Fresh oils squeezed out onto their proper places on the palettes, the easels set up with the paintings of the shepherd boy—or faun, or satyr, or whatever he’s supposed to be—on each.
I look at mine, and even though I know it’s not even close to the others in the way of skill, still, I feel a certain fondness for my work. While my effort lacks definition in the lad’s muscles and overall form, he does have a certain mischievous look in his eye as he gazes out at the viewer with his lips wrapped around the pipe. I believe I will keep him, if I get the chance. Might look rather nice tucked into a corner of my cabin on the Lorelei Lee.
And yes, we did have a fine time at the Café Central last night, oh, yes, we did!
We arrived, the four of us, in what splendor we each could manage—Amadeo looking fine in tight black trousers with silver conchos up the side, frilly white shirt, and short black jacket with silver trim. His hair was oiled and pulled back and tied with a black ribbon, and on his feet, high-heeled black boots. On the way to the bistro, Amadeo stopped by a flower seller and bought a single red rose and presented it to me with a low bow. I took it and put it to my nose, inhaling its sweet fragrance, and then held it to my breast, smiling.
Asensio was dressed in a similar fashion, as was Cesar. I could not resist giving Cesar’s tight little butt a pat as we walked along; it was just so neatly packed into those pants. He did not seem to mind, he was so plainly glad to be with the three of us.
I myself was dressed modestly in my new gaily embroidered black skirt and top, and before we left Estudio Goya, Asensio came up with a high comb and fixed it atop my wig-clad head, such that the mantilla, when draped over it, made a fine display. Thank you, Asensio! Now let us fly!
We burst into the place, full of our youth and our craziness, and we threw ourselves into the wildness of the night.
El Café Central was loud and full of brightly clothed Majos and Majas from wall to wall. There were four guitarists seated along the far wall, and three fiddle players on the near one, and one of them stood up to play. It was a malagueña, and two dancers advanced to the center as we ordered drinks. The libations were brought and we drank them and ordered more. Yes, more food, more drink, more everything!
We watched the dancers and pronounced them good, but Amadeo raised his chin, and, in a way, raised the ante when he declared, “He was good, but I could be better.”
I poked him in the side. “Aha, muchacho? You think you can do better than that?”
“I do,” he announced, thinking, I am sure, that he would not be called on such an idle boast—but he did not know that I have been practicing that very dance with Django and some other very good teachers down at the Dos Gatos . . .
I, however, did know that, and I rose and extended my hand, golden castanets in place at my fingertips.
“Then come, Amadeo,” I said. “Let us dance.”
He fixed me with his eyes and stood to the challenge. We advanced to the floor and I placed a coin before the guitarras, and said, “Malagueña Salerosa.” They nodded and began to play.
I charged out onto the center of the floor, not waiting for Amadeo, for I knew he would follow right behind me.
Hands above head, expression of disdain upon face, I started the beginning moves of the dance. I snapped the castanets and swirled about in time to the music, waiting to feel the touch of Amadeo.
In the flamenco, there is a certain form. The girl goes out and twirls about, looking cold and distant, seemingly obliv-ious to the male lurking at the edge of the stage. There is lots of fan work here—sometimes opened and sometimes folded and held before her face.
The man soon goes to stand beside her, hands on hips, shoulders square, looking every inch the macho male. As she twirls, hooded eyes peering over the top of the fan, he starts stamping his booted heels in time to the flamenco rhythm . . . RAM, tam . . . tam . . . RAM . . . tam . . . tam . . .
They circle about each other, both seemingly disdainful of the other, until, at last, she yields to his amorous advance, and they come together into an impassioned embrace, she bent backward and he leaning over her to take a triumphant kiss.
As did Amadeo and I. And did that rose end up in my teeth as I danced? Oh, yes, it did. And not only did it lend an elegant touch to the dance, but also to a rather interesting finale.
As I took the rose from my lips to receive the kiss, one of its thorns pricked my lower lip and I sensed a drop of blood forming there. Amadeo’s face loomed over mine, his gaze intense, his arm around my waist as I was bent over backward. And then his mouth came down on mine, and when our lips parted, the blood was no longer there.
Right. Ahem. That was last night, but this is now.
The Master comes into the studio, looks about at our work on the shepherd boy, and says, “Okay. One more session. Finish them up. Good work all around. Let’s get them done.”
Sure enough, Goya has rendered his shepherd boy as Pan, a satyr, prancing about on goat legs and hooved feet. Hmmm . . . That sort of thing might be all right here in enlightened Europe, but it wouldn’t do in Puritan Boston, that’s for sure. I’m thinking that Maestro had best steer clear of things that some might consider devilish, as you never can tell if there might be some sort of religious fanatic hanging about, ready to pounce and point an accusing finger, damning you to hell and perdition. But, hey, what do I know?