The following morning, after Isabella
left for the hospital, Mary ventured out into the neighborhood, where she saw
old men playing chess at a small table beside the courtyard garden.
She purchased a café con leche and
watched them in the sunshine. They wore black wool berets and took long drags
on their cigarettes as they considered their next moves.
When she realized she’d been staring at
them for about 20 minutes she felt as if she’d wandered onto another planet.
She pulled a map of Madrid’s Metro from her purse and found the route to the
Prado, Madrid’s famed national art museum beside the enormous royal gardens.
Shortly afterward she arrived at the
massive stone building and headed directly downstairs to the permanent exhibit
of Francisco Goya’s works.
The carnal, ugly images of demons,
debauched clergy and souls burning in hell felt oddly comforting. Here were
images of destruction found on the walls of Goya’s private home after his
death, perhaps never intended for the public.
These nightmarish images felt familiar,
direct from the terrors of childhood: Father Time Cronos eating the doll-like
figure of his son, blood flowing from the decapitated torso. A goat drooled
over a circle of women (were they nuns?) who sat around him in the forest, A
scholar flopped unconscious over his desk, bats wheeling over his drugged body.
Feeling light-headed, she left the lower
gallery and went up wide, cool marble stairs to the upper floors where she
found the famous Maja Desnuda, the portrait of (perhaps) Goya’s
benefactor’s naked mistress. Relaxed on a couch, the Maja looks directly out at the world with a
gaze that is far from demure. In the early 19th century, this
painting shocked the world as she flashes just the tiniest bit of dark curls
below her milky white tummy.
At just this moment, Mary heard a
familiar cough behind her.
“Ah, Mary Sparrow,” said Senor Felipe
Huesos, clearing his throat at the end of that familiar cough and smiling a
sparkling smile at her.
There was a large woman in a red dress on
his arm. Despite her nod to the fashions of the city she looked like she would
be just as comfortable pulling up potatoes in a field as strolling through the
Prado on a weekday. She looked like she’d be at ease anywhere.
“Allow me to present to you Dona Pepita
Risuena. She dances with me at Las Meninas and is a guest instructor at Amores de
Dios.”
“Encantada,” said Mary, standing up a bit
straighter in Pepita’s shadow.
“Charmed, as well, Senorita Sparrow,”
replied Pepita, giving her a kiss on both cheeks.
“I see you have been downstairs admiring
Goya’s terrible Caprichos,” Felipe clucked. “Now let’s proceed to Velasquez’
‘Las Meninas’, which is the namesake of our club and an uplifting masterpiece.”
And so they entered the cavernous gallery
that featured the 17th century painter of the Spanish Golden Age,
Diego Velasquez. A self-portrait of sorts, as Velasquez is shown in front of
his easel painting the royal couple, who are reflected in a mirror on the back
wall of the room. The dynamic charge of the 10’ X 10’ painting is the presence
of the small royal princess at the center, flanked by her two young ladies in
waiting, the meninas of the title. Two dwarves and a dog play with her. A man
stands framed in the doorway to the salon, observing the scene.
“How real they are!” said Felipe.
Mary agreed, adding, “It’s like a portal
into another time.”
To which Pepita laughed, saying, “But it
is, mi amor!”
Pepita had taken petite Mary by the arm
and was alternately pinching her cheeks and chatting with her in rapid-fire
Spanish. As Mary tried to keep up with the flow of conversation she found
herself enjoying Pepita’s radiant self-confidence.
“And now, my charming friends,” said
Felipe, “Let us go to the Plaza Mayor and then, later, to Las Meninas!”
Intrigued to see her new friends on the
stage, Mary accepted Felipe’s invitation, boarding a taxi with them to go into
the heart of the city.
Long late-afternoon shadows filled the
enormous 17th century plaza. Ground floor cafes featured outdoor
seating and above them, on all four sides, were floors of apartments with
balconies looking down onto the center of the space.
The white steel folding chairs of the
cafes looked like origami birds clustered in the corners of the plaza. Only a
few tourists, unaware of the civilized Spanish custom of the siesta, sat at the
small white tables.
“Here is where the Inquisition conducted
public executions. You know, burning infidels and witches,” said Felipe, ever
the cheery guide, even when the subject was torture.
“That was a long time ago,” Pepita added, frowning at Felipe.
“Let’s have a café, then show Mary the
pre-show rehearsal at the tablao”
“Fabuloso,” agreed Pepita.
So they sat at the nearest café table
they could find and Mary admired the beautiful facades of the apartments, each
with a view of the executioner’s block.
Later they emerged from the plaza and
headed towards the low, dark tavern of Las Meninas. They walked down a street
with potted red geraniums in window boxes to a door with a golden cube of light
shining through it. A tall, black haired woman threw open the door and swooped
down on Felipe.
“Vaya, Tio,” she growled. “It’s about time you came
back!”
Pepita gave her a nod and sailed past her
holding onto Mary.
“Tranquila, Carla,” said Felipe. “We are here now.”
Carla pouted and flounced as only a 6’
tall flamenco dancer in full costume can do. After a brief tremoring rage at
the door of Las Meninas, she strolled to the bar, where she talked to a man in
dark purple keffiyeh.
As the trio walked past them, they
watched Carla whisper in his ear and heard the man say, “Pero, digo No, mi perra."
Carla reached for his belt and he grabbed
her wrist. She screamed, more in outrage than in pain, and slapped his face
with her free hand.
He laughed, and then walked over to their
table.
“Javier, my friend,” chided Felipe, “more
women troubles?”
“I’m done with her,” he spat. “All I want
is to go back to Cadiz and spend time with my favorite putas.”
“Ah, youth,” said Felipe.
Pepita scolded him,” You waste your
talent on drama, my friend. Meet our new friend, Maria Sparrow, fresh from
California.”
And Mary, loving the Latinization of her
name and halfway through her glass of Rioja, looked up at Javier.
“You are right, Pepita,” said Javier.
“Let’s all go back home to Cadiz for a few days, to feel the earth of home
again.”
“You tempt me, Javier, you really do,”
answered Pepita. “But I would rather take my new little friend to Sevilla and
show her the sights, don’t you think?”
Dizzy with Sangria and anticipation, Mary
watched the two performers debate their plans.
“Wait, Wait,” she interjected, “My
magazine, Send Off, has
asked that I cover Semana Santa, which starts next week. Can we all travel
there together?”
“Well, let’s think about that,” said
Javier. He stroked his beard and bear-like sideburns, then disappeared
backstage, a wild creature seeking camoflauge.
As the stage darkened, a solitary man
came on. In his seventies, devoid of any fancy dancer plumage, he took off his
black gypsy porkpie hat and tilted back his head to sing, like a big, gawky
bird. What came out of his mouth was the pulsing chant of Andalucia, the song
of mourning, the song of love.
“This is the ‘cante jondo’, “ commented
Felipe. “The deep song.”
And in the ululating baritone voice that
was almost, but not quite, sobbing, Mary felt some of her own grief slip away;
the grief she had carried with her for thousands of miles and a few decades,
too.
Grief, like silver beads flowing off of a
broken string, pooled one by one around her. This grief, that loss, that loss,
that grief. This apology. The door slammed in your face. That person that
laughed at you. How Life laughed at you. How the list goes on.
