“Be careful, little one.” He takes a sip of his grappa and continues, “He is a good man, engaged in a good fight. But I warn you, chica, he is also a very hard man.”
And he would say no more, but I take his words to heart.
Today, Amadeo and I stand, side by side, in front of Goya’s The Naked Maja, working on various parts of the painting. I work on the cloth sheets to the left, and am proud that it has been entrusted to me. True, I find it somewhat strange to be working on a picture of oneself that is not a self-portrait, but, hey...
Amadeo works to the right, touching up the pillow’s fringe. We each have what I call the “thumb palette”—a thin board with a thumb hole in the far end and a blunt end to tuck up against your chest to hold it steady. The colors are arranged around the edge, we mix the colors in the open space in the middle, and there is an oil cup hanging off the end. The brushes are entwined with our fingers. In the beginning, it’s rather awkward, but you get used to it.
“You know, Amadeo,” I say, mixing up a bit of bluish rose color and applying it to the sheet in a middle-tone area and blending it into an adjacent dark fold. “The painting you have done of me is spot on—it really looks like me—but this one here, done by the famous Goya himself, does not. He has given me considerably more flesh, and the face, while close, does not really look exactly like me.”
Amadeo smiles as he works away. “Perhaps he had someone else in mind as he did it.”
“Oh. And who might that be?”
“Maybe the Duchess of Alba. There were rumors... of a possible liaison, and it does somewhat resemble what she looked like.”
What? The Maestro had stepped out? The hound! Men. I swear!
I fume a bit over this—using my body to portray somebody else? I feel... used, sort of.
“Actually, Jack-ie,” Amadeo goes on as we work away, “the Master could get in some trouble over this painting.”
“What? How?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“Because of that,” replies Amadeo, pointing with his brush handle to the spot on the painting below the figure’s belly and between the upper thighs.
“What? The maidenhair?”
He gives out a slight cough, perhaps shocked a bit at the directness of my words. He continues.
“Sí, Jacquelina, that very thing. It is very daring of the Master to put that in.”
“But why? A couple daubs of paint can get someone in trouble?” I ask, also pointing to the area in question. “Every girl’s got one of those, you know. Even nuns.”
He chuckles. “Yes, I do know that. But somehow it is not done. It is forbidden.”
“But surely, in all the world, there must be some paintings of girls that include that little bit?”
“None that I have ever seen, and I have traveled some. I have been to Italy and seen the wonders of the Renaissance.”
“Huh!” I say, not believing it. “And no female fur there, not in all of Rome, not in all those centuries?”
“No, none, my plainspoken love. And there were thousands of nudes, both statues and paintings,” he says. “Actually, now that I think of it, I do recall one, Botticelli’s Birth of Venus... No, no, I’m wrong. She, too, was covered in that area. I saw it in Florence. Wonderful painting. You know, we should get a large clamshell and have you step out of it, onto a snow-white shore, the waves rolling in behind you. Oh, yes! I am sure we could beat the Italians at that one.”
Like Cesar, Amadeo’s attentions to me have doubled in ardor since I have been posing in the nude. Amadeo’s pursuits, however, have been much more... pressing. And I know he would like to press me up against the wall right now, but there are others present, and actually, when in the studio, he has been good... mostly.
“Never mind, Amadeo, I’m sure we shall get to that one shortly, but for now... Hmmm . . . So Maestro could get in trouble over this?” I ask, in some wonder at the lunacy of mankind. “But with whom?”
“With the Church, for one,” he says, finishing up his pillow fringe and putting aside his brush and palette. “But do not worry, chica. Maestro will not get in trouble over this painting. Both of the Majas are going into the collection of Don Manuel de Godoy, and they will go to his palace and will not be seen by anyone except the Prime Minister’s own broad-minded circle of friends.”
Hmmm . . . Somehow I am not quite so sure of that... Why does my gaze stray to Carmelita, who sits working on her own painting, pointedly ignoring us?
Without warning, Goya enters the studio and comes up next to me and looks at what I have done.
“Bueno,” he says, and reaches for my brush and palette. I give them up and he loads the brush and makes some changes to my work—all to the better, I see—and then he goes to Amadeo and does the same thing. I notice that he makes fewer changes to Amadeo’s work than to mine, but that is how it should be.
Goya tosses the palettes and brushes onto a side cart, saying, “Very well, it is done. Amadeo, make them ready for shipping to Palazzo Godoy.”
Both Amadeo and I back up and bow.
“Sí, Señor. It will be done.”
After the Master has left the room, Amadeo leans into me and says, “Tonight, the Café Central, Jacquelina?”
“Yes, with pleasure, Amadeo. We shall dance and sing and we will be g*y and all will be right with the world.”
I sneak a look over at Carmelita, who has heard all and sits stone-faced before her painting. With a shiver and some foreboding, I think, Actually, I don’t really know about how right things will be, Amadeo. Oh no, I do not.
Chapter 32
James Emerson Fletcher
House of Chen
Rangoon
Burma
Dearest Jacky,
My days here at the House of Chen have fallen into a certain rhythm. In the mornings, I take instruction from Zen Master Kwai Chang.
“If you cannot let go of your anger, Chueng Tong—and I sense you do still have much trouble inside your mind—you will always lose in any endeavor, whatever it might be... fighting, yes... love, yes... and even the mundane things of life... health, business, caring for family, honoring ancestors. But, if you can empty your mind of those kinds of feelings, you might see how the way of Zen could lead you... perhaps to victory over those less open to the Way. You must let the Zen lead you on the proper path. Come, Long Boy, you have progressed a considerable distance on the Path of Enlightenment. Open yourself to further release. It will happen if you let the anger go, if you will let your sense of self go, if you will walk the Path of the Buddha.”
In the afternoons, after lunch with Charlie and Sidrah, I go to the practice field with the Shaolin Monk Sifu Loo Li.
Today we worked on the move known as The Windmill of the Silken Moth, over and over again, till I get it just about down. Sifu Loo Li and I bow to each other and break for a rest and go to sit next to Master Chang. He always comes to watch us practice, sitting quietly by the side to observe and translate if needed.
Tea is brought by a boy in saffron robe. He pours and we take the small cups and it refreshes us and I am thankful for it. It is a warm day and Sifu Loo Li wears a tunic, a gi, that is armless, and I note there is a tattoo of a dragon on the inside of his left forearm.
“Master Chang,” I ask. “Does that mark mean that Sifu Loo Li is a master at Bojutsu?”
The Master chuckles and says, “No, Long Boy, it means that he is a novice.”
A novice? This man who could take his stick and beat me down to the ground in an instant is merely a novice? What must a master be like?
Sifu Loo Li stands and we get to work on yet another move, The Strike of the Angry Mongoose, and yet again, I end up flat on my back with Sifu’s stick at my throat... most times... but not all times.
I will get this, I will . . . I swear.
Yours, though thoroughly bruised,
Jaimy
Chapter 33
I am in a washtub in the laundry room next to the kitchen, up to my chin in hot soapy suds. I’m chattering away with Ramona, she who heated up all this lovely water on her stove, and who is now folding towels as we talk.
We have just come from Mass, had lunch, and since there is no work of an artistic nature to do, I thought a nice bath would be just the thing, and I was right. Ah, yes, I do love a good soak!
The service at the Basilica was magnificent. Those Catholics really know how to lay it on—all that high-sounding Latin, a huge roaring chorus, colorful priestly costumes, the statues, the paintings, the whole scene. I enjoyed it all very much. And during one of the times on my knees, I offered up heartfelt prayers for Jaimy and, yes, for poor Richard Allen, too—I do so hope he has recovered from his wounds—and for all my other friends, too.
We were missing one of our number today. Carmelita had begged off, saying that she was sick. Ha! Probably she couldn’t stand listening to us laugh about our riotous time at El Central last night. Oh, well, I for one certainly didn’t miss her.
Hmmm . . . The water is getting a mite tepid, so it is time to get myself out of it. Rise, Venus, and step out of your shell and onto the shore and dry your heavenly body.
I stand and step out of the tub. Ramona hands me a towel and the door opens and Amadeo walks in.
“Amadeo!” I exclaim, clutching the towel to my chest.
“Good afternoon, my lovely one. We lack only a seashell on which to place your delicate little foot and the tableau will be complete. We don’t really need the angels, do we?”
“Please leave, Amadeo. You are embarrassing Ramona and you are making me very uncomfortable.”
“But why, mi querida?” he asks, smiling as he comes over to me.
“Because I am nak*d, that’s why,” I reply, stating the obvious. “You must go.”
“But, Jack-ie, I have seen you in that state almost every day for the past many weeks. Somewhat drier, I will admit, but still the same. Come, little one.” He puts his arms around me and pulls me to his chest. “I beg but a kiss.”
Heavy sigh... You know it’s your own fault that you get in situations like this, girl. You should be much more restrained in your taking of pleasure. I will try to remember that in the future... But it was just a few caresses and gentle kisses on the balcony in the moonlight . . . that was all.
“That is different, Amadeo,” I say, rigid in his embrace. “That is work, what I do to earn my keep. This is... personal. It is real life. Please let me go.”
He stands back, perplexed.
“But you came to us as a tramp. You have free-and-easy ways. You pose before us in the nude. You must have had many men. Why not me?” His face assumes that hurt look that boys put on when they think someone else is getting something from a girl that they are not.
“I have not had any men. Not in the way you mean.”
“I do not believe it,” he replies, his face dark now.
“I do not care if you believe it or not. It is the truth. And I am not a tramp.”
“What are you, then?”
I puff up and my anger overcomes my good sense as I say, “My name is Jacky Faber, Lieutenant in His Britannic Majesty’s Royal Navy. I have served at the Battles of Trafalgar, Jena-Auerstadt, and Vimeiro! I have been dispatched as an undercover field operative to Madrid to gather information that might be useful in the fight against Napoleon! That’s who I am, Amadeo Romero.”