Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards (12 page)

“Tell me, do you know your father's play,
La pata de cabra?
Do you know my character, Day Smakiña?”

At this, the girl let out a sharp bark of laughter. “That's not a name,
bobo,
it's the function you fulfill! A deus ex machina.”

“A what?” I decided to ignore her impudence in calling me stupid. I needed the information too much.

She rolled her eyes. “An unexpected, often supernatural force, that flies down out of the sky to save the hero at the last possible moment.”

I was confused. “Out of the sky?”

“You're suspended high up in the flys—up where the ropes and roof are—for the whole performance, and they let you down for your one big scene.”

This didn't sound as wonderful as I'd hoped. Up in the roof? It was likely hot, dusty, and dirty way up there.

“But don't worry, you get a nice costume. Probably.” With another, mocking little laugh, she stalked off, a shorter version of her imperious mother.

My final session in the shooting gallery with Grimaldi was intense. I shot like a madwoman, demolishing an entire target, and I believe we were both proud of my newfound skill. As we rested, sweat running
down our brows, I practiced reloading the little pistols with the messy powder and he gave me information about my travelling companion-to-be, the hollow-cheeked Father Miguel de la Vega. The family was ancient and aristocratic; they had tentacles in many lucrative businesses, though chiefly in sherry. There had been three sons: The first inherited the businesses, the second went into the church (this was Father Miguel), and the third was allowed to do what he liked. This third son was one of the young playwrights Juan had been supporting in Madrid when he'd run the Príncipe and the Cruz; his name was Ventura de la Vega. When the Grimaldis left Spain for France, Ventura had convinced Juan to utilize the skills of his priestly brother, and Juan trusted the Jesuit completely. “He is a godly man, Rosana. Like me, an agent of the Spanish royalty, totally dedicated to the Cristinos cause.”

Although all this did not endear the good father to me in any way, I became resigned to travelling with him, for Juan also made me understand I would need help from someone who knew the hardships: first by coach to Peripignan, then through the Pyrenean passes (which were high altitudes and could be very cold even in September), down through Catalonia (Carlist territory, and the most dangerous leg of the journey), and on to Madrid. Travel through Spain was never easy but to be a woman increased the strangeness and risk.

“Very well,” I said. “But in Madrid, after I seduce the princesses' tutor, what is to prevent me from being blamed and tortured or killed or otherwise treated badly?” My teeth began to chatter, softly, like distant drumming.

“The infantas will.”

“But they are only ten and twelve years old. I can't see—”

“Isabel is turning thirteen. She will soon be a woman, please God hear our prayers. Also, there are other operators. They will take you to a safe house should there be any danger. But there will be no danger. The princesses will love you—you must make sure of that.”

“And the names of these other operators?”

“Father de la Vega, of course. Also two of the rebel generals, de la Concha and de León. Be advised not to fall in love with them.”

I retorted, with dignity, “I would not. I have the heart of a tiger; I am quite fearless—” I was exaggerating shamelessly “—and I am steadfastly on the side of the Cristinos, which is the side of justice.” That sounded brave. “And what of my dancing?”

“You will dance, never fear.” This sounded ominous and must have showed in my face. He added quickly, “You are going to have a splendid success in my play. Come, once more.”

We took aim and fired again—two bulls-eyes!—then bowed formally to each other, pistols smoking.

“Very well, Rosana. With this extra week's enforced practice, I now believe you are the quick study you claim to be. And, since you also claim to be a tiger, I will choose to believe that as well.”

Compliments indeed. I felt very proud.

“You leave in two days' time.”

As I walked into my bedroom in the Grimaldi house late that afternoon, I saw that my new wardrobe had been delivered. And there, in her underclothes, stood Clotilde with her arms in the air while Concepción dropped the finest of the court-style gowns over the little jade's head and began to lace her up.

“Why are you in my room?”

“
Your
room? That's a fine thing!” the
madre
retorted, going immediately and shrilly on the defensive. “We wanted to make sure the gowns fit correctly, of course.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Concepción tossed her head. “If you do not come back, for some . . .
unlikely
. . . reason, Father Miguel has promised to accompany the return of your trunks. Since we have been impelled to spend a fortune on you, I think you will agree that if
you
are no longer able to benefit from them, Clotilde should.”

What indeed could you say to such people? I lay down upon the bed and placed my forearm across my eyes, but they were not deterred: They were not English. As if my action gave them further right to carry on, they proceeded noisily with their inventory. At some point, I must have fallen asleep; I awoke with a start, alone, having dreamt of gowns and avid fingers grabbing, which had transformed into the folded hands and
muttered prayers of the half-starved priest, whose tonsure had grown into pointed, black, furry ears on the top of his head.

After our supper, it was dark outside and quite warm. Like many Spanish families, the Grimaldis often took a turn through the streets at this time, about eleven o'clock, to cool their blood and aid digestion. The children usually came along, since the Spanish are much more lenient about their offspring's bedtimes than English parents. I asked to accompany them, and Clotilde decided to come as well, something she didn't usually do.

“But fetch me a shawl, will you?”

I felt magnanimous; I was about to leave them, so why not? I located a soft pink one to match the furbelowed gown she was wearing, and a blue shade for me. When I clattered back downstairs, Clotilde had just finished pinning up her hair to get it off her neck (as had I, on such a warm night), but there was my favourite comb holding it all in place! She'd obviously removed the comb from my room, along with the earl's dresses. The sauce of the girl!

We set out after the strolling family. The Grimaldi residence was finely situated in that it was only two or three blocks from the Seine, which is where the family decided to wend. A gorgeous night it was, one of those fine, full-mooned Parisian nocturnes in mid-change from summer to autumn; lovely, soft air that slips across your skin like cool silk. The streets were empty except for us. The lamps were lit and glowing at every corner but seemed almost unnecessary since the moon's face illuminated everything so enchantingly.

Clotilde and I followed along at a leisurely pace. I could hear one of the little girls piping up shrilly and the deep rumble of Juan's reply. I was stretching myself to meet the adventure ahead, my mind whirling with the hunger of anticipation, the expectation of youth. We reached the Seine, and I wanted to linger. “Let's not catch up with them just yet, Clotilde. I never wish to set foot inside a building again!”

She, of course, took me at face value. “But,” brow furrowed like her father, “why would you want to be outside all the time?”

“Oh you goose!” I laughed. “I don't really mean it, it's a wish. A projection of fantasy,
bobo,
” and I poked her, to get back at her a little, and she shrugged. “Oh.”

For some reason, I felt strangely nostalgic, singularly sad. “I'm about to leave Paris, Clotilde, and I wish to remember this moment, this evening.” I let go of her elbow to lean on the railing and gaze into the water swirling past.

At that instant, Clotilde's neck was clamped from behind by a large, strong hand, and her body lifted by the neck, up and over the railing! A tall, hooded figure in loose workman's clothing went with her over the railing, as if in flight. It happened all in total silence and at frightening speed! I could barely register what had just occurred; when I did, I regained my mind and voice enough to let out an unholy shriek, then yanked up my skirt and vaulted after them—not thinking, just reacting.

The
thing
was propelling her, dragging her, along the narrow bank, still by the throat, as I scrambled after them, howling—howling to attract attention, howling to frighten or distract this monster. The girl was writhing, her hair loose and waving over her face, as she tried to pull at the hand gripping her so mercilessly. Finally catching up with them, I reached up to yank back the obscuring hood. But the creature's other hand shot out like a piston and connected—a blow to my sternum, knocking the wind out of me, though never once did it turn its dark features in my direction. It didn't seem human; its strength was immense! I got in close again, grabbing its coat, and began to kick. I connected. Was it a shin? Get it in the balls, I told myself, kicking higher. You son-of-a-bitch! Somewhere there were voices, yelling.

All through this punching and thrashing there was not a sound from
it
of any kind, no grunts or curses, nothing. Clotilde suddenly went limp, as if she was already finished, though I could see wide, terrified eyes and her nostrils dilating in and out. That strong hand clamped on her pale neck, long fingers and sinewy wrists—I needed to break its hold! I darted in, but the free hand swung around again and delivered
a crashing blow to my head. I couldn't help it, I lost hold of the coat. Then, Clotilde's neck still in its grip, the engaged hand and its powerful arm cast her into the river—and didn't let go!
It
was gone with her!

The first sound from the conjoined, silent figures was the splash as they hit the water and went under together. I scrabbled to my knees and stared, gasping for breath. At first, nothing. Then the pink gown, just below the surface, gleaming in the sparkling moonlight. It was rising like a carp coming up to take air. And I began shrieking again—help us, someone, anyone! The water broke over Clotilde's white face, still clenched by fingers that appeared to be crushing her chin; her dark eyes were open. Then the Seine itself seemed to thrash and move; the creature could swim like a river rat. Propelling the girl's body—pink dress wavering, glimmering—pushing her through the water with that hand on her throat, as close to her side as a maggot. Her white face sliding like a small ship with a wake, turned to the indifferent moon. I couldn't stand it! I leapt after them, and the water closed around my head with shocking cold.

All of these events must have taken only a minute, perhaps two. The Grimaldis had heard my banshee cries and rushed back. At the river bank, Concepción pinned the children to her side and told them not to look. Juan began yelling for the police, hoping that one or a pair of gendarmes might be within earshot—and they were. Two came running. By that time, the hooded head, moving at incredible speed, was out in the middle of the channel. In the water, my skirts were heavy, impeding my progress; out there, the pink gown must have been pulling her down as it became more and more saturated, as he impelled her small self, with such murderous determination, through the cold and unforgiving element. White forehead, nose and chin rising sometimes, going under at others; how long could a body live, swallowing water, gulping for air? Drowning, lungs filling slowly, is a fearsome death. Never let some cruel, deluded soul who drowns kittens in a sack tell you otherwise.

A gendarme swam out to help, reaching me just before I went under from the weight of my skirts. Juan was knee-deep in the Seine as we drew in to the bank, and when he saw me rise to my feet, he cried out sharply in agony, sobbing and moaning and beating his chest.
“I thought you were Clotilde—I thought it was you out there!” And he plunged in, swimming desperately after the hideous creature who had his beloved daughter. Concepción wailed in the background, cradling the children. The pink shawl lay, trodden, by the railing. The second gendarme had hastened off for reinforcements and a boat and was back very swiftly. Juan was picked up in the middle of the Seine and stayed with the officers all night, combing the river. Other boats and more men were dispatched; up and down they plied the water, but . . . nothing.