I looked down the street and saw, way down at the end of it, across the plaza, the Basilica de San Francisco el Grande.
Could she have gone there? To pray, to offer Confession, to say the Act of Contrition for being such a miserable... Nay, much more likely she was praying for the salvation of her precious soul and the damnation of mine.
“Break.”
I stand and stretch, and rub my traitorous nose with the palm of my hand, and then walk about to ease my poor joints and to check out the progress on the paintings.
The students are using velos—open frames of wood on which are stretched black cords to make a grid. The velos, which are proportional to the canvases on which they are working, are set up on separate easels a few feet from each student. They have made use of T-squares to pencil in similar squares on their canvases, and so are able to transfer the reality—me lying there in all my supposed glory—to the two-dimensional surface of the canvas. Like, in the top right square is part of my face and so they put that part in, and then the next square, and so on and so on. I have been told velos have been in use since the Dark Ages, and I find them fascinating. When I set up my own studio, I shall employ them. Anything to make life, and work, easier is all right with me.
Goya, of course, does not use the velo but charges right on in. He is, after all, the Master.
I pause at Cesar’s and he looks up and I give him a bit of a wink. The other day, after our first encounter with Montoya, I had to tell the lad that I was a freedom fighter, giving my all for the liberation of España, which was not quite true, but he ate it up and has been filled with patriotic zeal ever since. You and I, mi apasionada, we shall fight together in the cause of libertad! I swear him to secrecy and he promises to button his lip. I thought to tell him of my credo, “Oftimes it seems to me, ‘patriotic’ rhymes with ‘idiotic,’” but I don’t bother. He is much too fired up.
I review Amadeo’s and Asensio’s drawings, compliment both, and then...
“Pose, please.”
Heavy sigh as I mount the platform yet again.
Anyway, Jaimy, as I was saying . . .
Chapter 28
James Fletcher
Somewhat Bruised
House of Chen
Rangoon
I Don’t Care What Date
Jacky Faber
In Spain, as close as I can figure
But it could as well be Zanzibar, if past history is any clue
Dearest Jacky,
Tonight, before dinner, I lie face-down on a mat while the lovely Sidrah kneels by my side. I try to suppress a groan as she rubs the aromatic and very soothing unguent into my poor abused muscles.
The young Shaolin monk Sifu Loo Li was presented to me today in an open green field close by the Buddhist temple. Master Kwai Chang made the introductions, we all bowed to each other, and Master Chang left the field.
Sifu Loo Li carried with him two bamboo sticks, each as long as we were tall, and about one-inch thick. He handed me one, bowed again, and stepped back about ten yards. He whipped his stick around himself in very fluid motions and ended up in a position very much like the “lunge” movement in our own Western sword technique, except that his staff is tucked under his right arm, while his other arm is extended straight out, palm open before me.
I suspect this is the ready position, the en garde, as we barbarians know it. Well, we shall see, China boy...
I take my staff in both my hands, sort of like what I have seen in paintings of the knights of old, with their two-handed broadswords, my left hand lower on the stick, my right hand higher, and advance toward him.
When we get about six feet from each other, he whips his cane from under his arm and whirls it around over his head. I lunge forward, using my training in the saber, and seek to strike him on his open left side.
I don’t even get close.
His stick is a blur as he brings the end down, turns completely around, and brings it up under my staff, to lay it hard against my chin. Had he put any force into it, he would have broken my jaw.
He bows again, steps back, and assumes his original position.
I hear a chuckle behind me and, slightly bewildered, I see Master Chang reappear, leaning on his own staff, coming to sit on the grass to the side.
“You see, Long Boy, it might be a bit more complicated than you originally thought, eh?”
I nod in agreement, quite chastened.
“Sifu Loo Li will now show you the First Position, ‘The Opening Flower,’ it is called.”
“A gentle thing, a flower,” he goes on. “It smells sweet, but beware what lies within.”
The lad comes up next to me and motions that I take my staff and...
. . . the instruction goes on for several hours... several grueling hours.
“When one learns through pain, Long Boy, one learns the lessons twice over,” says the Master, and I grit my teeth and endure both the pain in my body and the shame of the novice. “Now you must learn ‘The Strike of the Silver Snake’...”
At dinner, Charlie informs me that the ship bearing news of the fight against Napoleon has not yet arrived.
“Unfortunate, that,” says Charlie, eyeing the two of us, Sidrah and myself sitting across from him, she kneading my still-aching shoulders. “Perhaps it is time for you to return to the barbarian world, as I think your mind is in order now.”
“But, Honored Father, I believe Jai-Mee-San needs a bit more... rest,” says Sidrah softly.
Charlie snorts. “Ha! Rest! I am sure that is what he has been getting, the dog! But that is not what causes me concern.”
“And what is that, Honored Chen?” I ask, as Sidrah places a pink shrimp to my lips.
“I fear the wrath of Number Two Daughter, Ju-kau-jing yi, should Number One Daughter, Sidrat’ul Muntaha, enter into connubial bliss with Honored Guest,” he says, casting a knowing eye at the two of us. “And if he should never again return to side of The Little Round-Eyed Barbarian, I am certain she would demand the head of poor old Chops on a plate.”
Charlie pauses, picks up the pipe of his hookah, and takes a deep puff.
“This match I would not mind, as I have found you, Chueng Tong, to be a rather fine fellow, and I compliment the Lotus Blossom on her taste. However, should I ever give up Sidrah, I have a rich Burmese prince in mind, much more advantageous to the House of Chen than a poor, penniless Brit, however charming he might be.”
Sidrah cocks a knowing eye at her doting father, knowing full well he would never do anything to cause her any unhappiness.
I nod, knowing that, in spite of all the kindness extended to me here, I will get back to Europe and I will find you, Jacky.
Yours,
Jaimy
Chapter 29
There is great excitement within the walls of the House of Goya, for today the bulls will run through the streets of Madrid, and stupid young men will run with them.
After breakfast, I go to my room to change.
Paloma is out doing up the other chambers, so I don’t have to explain to her just why I am climbing into this outfit. Doffing my usual serving-girl garb, I fold it and put it in my seabag. Yes, I had bought material last payday and had stitched up a new one, and am stowing all my meager belongings in it. Jacky Faber can be off and gone in five minutes has always been my watchword, and it has stood me in good stead many times. It is only when I forget to be prepared that I get in trouble.
The one thing I do not keep in the seabag is my wineskin—that useful item I have filled with water and it hangs from a hook next to my bed, ready to grab should I have to run. I well remember how thirsty I got on the flight from Portugal to here.
Since the bulls do not run until noon, I have some time to reflect on the past weeks...
Yes, the work on the King’s portrait goes well, and in my role as spy, I am able to glean more information that might prove useful to British Intelligence—overheard conversations betwixt military types, ministers, and such. I do not judge the value of the content, I just send it on to Montoya. I certainly do not let any at the palace know that I am fairly fluent in French. It brings a smile to my lips to think that my dispatches might possibly get back to dear Higgins, since, as far as I know, he is still on the staff of General Wellesley and working closely with the spymaster and cryptographer. I put a tiny JMF in one margin just in case he might be watching.
One thing has been a bit worrying in that regard, however. On two occasions when I was out to take my lessons with Django, I sensed that I was being watched. Turning around suddenly when I felt eyes upon me, I twisted about abruptly and thought I caught a glance of a black-robed figure ducking behind a corner. I could have been mistaken, but still I asked Montoya on our next meeting if he had his men out watching me and he replied that he did not. I have most of my men camped out beyond the city, muchacha, only a few here.
Hmmm . . . Well, I must be careful, I’m thinking, as I have no wish to end up strapped into the embrace of el garrote, a particularly ghastly form of execution by strangulation employed by the Spanish. Considering this, I had Cesar deliver my packets to Montoya at his digs at Calle de Ocho. I gave him strict instructions:
If you are caught, you tell them some foolish girl gave you five reales to take the package to a man at that address. You don’t know his name. You thought they were love letters. Do you understand, chico?
Yes, my dearest one, but I shall not deny you! Never! I will die for the glory of Spain and for you, my heart! My last words shall be “Viva España, Viva Jacquelina!” I will die with your name on my lips!
Geez, and I thought I was a hopeless romantic.
Earlier, upon coming to live at Casa Goya, I had, of course, thoroughly scouted out the place. I noted that there are three levels—dank basement, studio and kitchen down, living quarters up. It faces on the grand plaza, but to the back and sides of it are narrow streets—alleys, really. And wrought-iron balconies extend over them, both from our building and the ones next to us.
After I had taken some lessons from Django, it had become my habit to come out on the right-side balcony to play very softly upon my borrowed guitar, so as not to disturb anyone—not anyone in our house, nor the people across the street, who also like to sit upon their own balcony on a sweet warm night.
One evening, as I sat out there strumming, I was pleased to see Amadeo come to join me. He had two glasses of Madeira, one of which he placed on the railing at my right hand, making it most plain that this was not a chance encounter.
“Thank you, Amadeo,” I said. “You are very kind.”
“My pleasure, entirely, Jacquelina,” he said, leaning on the rail and surveying the cobblestones below.
I put the guitar aside, took glass in hand, and rose to stand next to him.
“So that is where the bulls will run?”
“Sí, Señorita. Right down there. It is quite a sight. Just you wait.”
“I think it is stupid,” opined the hypocrite Jacky Faber, who had, in the past, given herself up to many a wild, chaotic night. “You have heard what I told Cesar?”
“Sí. But he is only a boy and hopelessly in love with you. He may do as you say and not run with the bulls.”
“But you and Asensio?”
“We are not little boys like Cesar, Señorita,” he whispered. “And we do not think you will carry through on your threat... Not after you see the bulls coming. You are but a girl—a brave one, to be sure, but after all, still just a girl.”