Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards (27 page)

In my Cloud with the Silver Lining gown, I surveyed the final result. Weeks of strenuous lovemaking had given me a high colour, along with increased strength and confidence. What I saw gave me hope that all would go well. Cristina would award me with a pile of money for my role in her drama—why not?—perhaps also a title. Countess? Who knew? Diego and I would buy a castle, live happily ever after . . .

The clock struck and broke the spell.

I was ready too early. It was not supposed to get under way until eleven o'clock and would carry on until dawn. I had a small glass of wine to steady my nerves. And then another. Finally I could stand the waiting no longer and had Diego's manservant summon a carriage. I climbed in, mask in hand and my legs trembling. And then after all I was not too early, because of the unexpected crush of horses, carriages, and other vehicles in the streets. It was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. Drivers yelling; nervous animals nipping at each others' flanks, sometimes causing one to squeal and lash out with its hooves. Costumed merrymakers leaning out of the windows, castigating the drivers and laughing at the same time, bottles in their hands. Torches carried along the streets, heat and smoke trailing up into the cold, night sky. It was like a scene out of Dante's Inferno, but all for joy and excitement rather than despair.

A troop of mounted policemen moved through, blowing whistles and brandishing bludgeons; the royal carriages were coming, so the rest of us had to make way. I caught a glimpse of Luisa Fernanda's small hand at the window before someone yanked down the blind. The second carriage held Carlota and her family, seated across from each other and looking severe. Perhaps, even for royalty, a crush such as this was unnerving. Who knew what might happen? Soberly I thought, I do.

The third and final carriage in the wake of the policemen was that of the prime minister, Baldomero Espartero. Blimey, criminy, there he was! Accompanied by several of his ministers, silent in their costumed frippery; a glimpse of the amphibious tutor as well. I studied Espartero as he went past, unmasked, glaring around with a stern expression, without fear. About fifty years of age, I guessed, with a thick silver head of hair. I wondered what he was thinking about. Were these excitable functions ones he enjoyed or hated? Did he love the power he now wielded? His posture was very straight, that of a military man who has always been fit but who has thickened into vigorous middle age. Did he ever soften? How could I get him to notice me if he was so cautious and grave? My stomach gave a skittery lurch.

Once the carriages of the important personages had passed, the crowd began to surge and curse with renewed energy. I wished I could just get down and walk, but decided against it. The streets were muddy, full of horse dung and bits of straw. My dress was too fine to ruin in such a manner.

At last I arrived and was swept into the Teatro de Oriente on a tide of masked humanity. Mayhem was ensuing inside; our cloaks were taken away with no clear tickets of repossession. I was forced onward by the crush, managing to work my way to the wall so that I could don my mask. I was thrilled with this, too; it had been made by the maskmaker who worked at the Príncipe. The colours matched those of my gown to perfection: wispy mare's tails of clouds above my forehead, heading up into soft peaks. The eye holes were large; I could see well through them, and the wearing of the mask was easy, light on the face. The cheeks were painted to resemble fluffy, pink clouds with the hint of a storm gathering, in ominous silver, where the mask ended just below my cheekbones. My mouth was free, to speak, to eat and drink—and whatever else might be called for.

Fully disguised, I entered the ballroom and began to circulate.

It took at least half an hour to get to the other side, where I had agreed to meet Ventura and receive final instructions. Eagerly taking in all of the costumes as I moved along, I tried to recognize my important cast of characters: There was Espartero, now masked, but recognizable by his silver
hair. He was dressed as Neptune and carried a large, wicked-looking trident. I sincerely hoped he wasn't planning to use it. His henchmen were supporting roles as mermen or some such—odd little gills at the sides of their necks, and fish faces. Arguëlles, the tutor, wore the mask of a deep-sea fish with bony red spikes and bulgy eyes; he needn't have bothered, for it was surprisingly similar to his own blotched visage. The maskmaker's little joke, no doubt.

A man brushed past me, very close, and I felt my bottom being pinched, hard. I gave a stifled shriek before realizing that the grin beneath the dark mask, now disappearing, was Diego's. What on earth was his disguise? He called back, “a thunder clap,” and I found this hilarious. Why then, were my teeth chattering as I laughed and kept going, following in his wake? He soon disappeared, and I was alone again in the heaving, writhing, yelling sea.

There were the royals, standing on their own dais, surveying the crowd, Carlota with her enormous fiery headdress towering above the others. She had a flute of champagne in one hand and was gesturing extravagantly with the other. Her husband, Don Francisco, was dressed soberly but imaginatively as a devil, no doubt to complement his wife's concoction. The two sons were there—Cadiz, the eldest, dressed as a sprite. Has ever a water sprite worn so much lace? I caught a glimpse of Isabel sourly surveying her cousin and understood her consternation: In his costume, Cadiz was far prettier than she. It looked as if she had fattened up even more in the few weeks since I'd seen her; she was packed into her fishtail like sardines in a can. How would it hold up as she was bundled into a carriage to be whisked off to Paris? I hoped someone had thought to bring a change of clothing for the girls, something warm. It was maddening, being one small cog in this mysterious wheel. So much could go wrong!

Beside Isabel stood Luisa Fernanda, the most enchanting fairy I have ever laid eyes on. She seemed entirely joyful with the excitement of being in disguise, of staying up late and partaking in fully adult pleasures. Never mind the aristocratic trappings: At heart, Nanda was an innocent, uncontaminated little girl.
Dios mio,
I realized as I looked at the enraptured young countenance: Emma has turned eight. How could
this be? Her birthday had passed and I hadn't remembered it, shame on me. But my daughter was safe, she was in good caring hands. Who would be looking after this little fairy all the way to Paris? My concern was mounting.

I made my way to the royal party, curtsied, and greeted them. The princes looked down at me in their young male way, cool and distant, though I did see Seville glance admiringly at my breasts. Luisa Fernanda was gratifyingly happy to see me again and had to tell me all about the chaotic goings-on since we'd last been together.

“Tia Lota,” I could hear Isabel whining, “you will let me dance with some of the four elements, won't you?”

“We don't know who they are, Bella. I'll have to vet them first, look under their masks.” Carlota called Javier, the bodyguard, over. “Keep a close eye on the infantas, especially the fishy one.” He bowed low, and backed away again. “You'll be dancing, darling, I promise,” she consoled Isabel, “but why don't you start with your cousin? You're both representing the same element, after all.”

Cadiz and Isabel flicked glances at each other. Isabel wrinkled her raw, red nose.

“The other one, then. Keep it in the family.” Carlota sounded bored already. “For Christ's sake, girl, you're a princess, don't forget it again or I'll skin you!” She said to me, with a look of disgust, “Can you believe, I caught her playing hide-and-seek in the palace with one of Espartero's ministers—like a five-year-old! God
knows
what she was getting up to, never mind what
he
thought he was doing. Idiot child!”

Hide-and-seek, or something more grown up? Maybe this was why Cristina had ordered the kidnapping of the infantas: The thirteen-year-old's lust and gullibility was poised to create an international scandal!

“You look good, very perky,” Carlota told me, finally noticing. “What is it you're supposed to be?”

“The Cloud with the Silver Lining, Your Majesty.”

She stared at me for a moment, and then threw her head back and let out one of her big laughs. “I like it, it suits you. Lovely cleavage. Enjoy yourself.”

As the orchestra began another overture, I curtsied again and backed away from the royals' dais. Carlota had grabbed another glass of champagne and was surveying the crowd, swaying in her Fires of Hell gown to the strains of the music—what could be heard of it over the shrieks and bellows of the mob. Don Francisco appeared to be reading a book: a mild-mannered, bright red devil with a monocle and studious expression.

At that moment, a voice in my ear, deep and hoarse, said, “I must speak with you urgently.” I turned, and faced a man's chest. A tall, dark-featured figure stood beside me, partially raising his black half-mask so that I could see his face. I looked up, and nearly fainted—it was glass-eyed, mustachioed Pedro Coria! He
was
here; he
had
followed me! The man who had dragged me from the cathedral in Paris, and perhaps—most probably!—had murdered Clotilde! The demon from the flies!

“Get away from me or I'll scream,” I said, taking a breath to do so.

“You must listen, I am warning you—”

I dashed away into the throng, and after strenuous maneuvers over and across like a ship under sail, was able to single Ventura out in his station as the centre of a maelstrom of organizational activities, and costumed as a whirlwind.

“Ventura!” I shouted, trying to make him understand who I'd just seen and what it must mean. I pointed across the room, but of course we could only see the surging mob, not make out individual participants. “The man from the flies—the assassin! Pedro Coria, the northerner!”

He tried to soothe me, smoothing his hands down my arms like stroking a cat. “Coria? I don't know him, but perhaps. We have agents everywhere; I'll let them know. They'll keep a watch out, don't worry.” Once I seemed calmer, he pushed the rope mask up to the top of his head, wiping sweat from around his cheeks, and whispered urgently, “It's past midnight.
Your
mission must get underway immediately. Go, Espartero's there—good luck.” And he turned away.

Unbelievable! Diego pinching me and dashing off, Ventura's bossiness: little boys playing, spying away, being the
hombre importante
! Off you go, pretty thing, seduce the prime minister, that's what
you're
good
for, nothing to it. Our jobs are
so
much more crucial! But I'd just been boldly warned, by a man who had already tried to murder me!

I was just about to give Ventura a blast when I glimpsed a figure moving swiftly towards us, all in black, wearing the mask of a wolf with a white, bristly muzzle. He raised the mask for a moment and I saw who it was.

“Father Miguel,” I said, trying to stop my lip from curling. “What are you, may I ask?”

His voice as supercilious as ever, “The North Wind.”

“Why does the North Wind have a wolf's head?”

The eyes glittered from behind the mask. “Why not?”

Ventura put a hand on his brother's shoulder. “I'm worried about the palace bodyguards, Miguel.”

“Don't be,” the Jesuit answered. “Quiet now,” with a little cock of the head towards me—one man of the world to another, in front of a brainless female. Ventura didn't even mention my sighting of the northerner to the priest; he'd forgotten already.

I saw red, my brain started to fizz. Where had that bottom-pinching Thunder Clap got to? I wanted to give him a good piece of my mind, too! And I couldn't
abide
the sight of that wolf in wolf's clothing; I'd had no idea
he
was intimately involved in this event! How could they trust him with such delicate work? There were children involved! Balls to them all, I fumed, turning and launching myself savagely back into the mob. When I set my mind to something, I told myself hotly, I go ahead and do it. I don't just give orders, dress up in costumes, and race about like a delinquent gone wild—no! I accomplish things!

There he was, the prime minister, straight ahead. As far as I could tell, he wasn't accompanied by his heiress wife; all the better for our plan. The orchestra had begun a lively, traditional air, one to which my little fandango could be matched. Or—? Damn it, why not?

I began the other steps I had learned with Donatella: the tarantella, but slow and graceful, as the music demanded. People nearby began to make room for me to move more freely; several men stopped dead in their tracks and could not be budged by their wives. I twirled closer to my prey. Someone began to clap to the rhythm of the music, and at the
sound, Espartero glanced up, eyes cold and hard behind the sea-green Neptune mask. The conductor, sensing something new was happening, also looked over and saw me. After a moment, he picked up the idea and turned back to his musicians, increasing the pace. I began to move faster, feet flying and fingers snapping, and the crowd clapped to the rhythm. I hardly knew what I was doing, so driven was I by frustration at the little-boy-men, by fear, due to the glass-eyed pirate's reappearance, and—at the same time!—by fierce pleasure and acknowledgment of the appreciative audience. When I finally brought the dance to an end, the clapping turned into enthusiastic applause and I drank it in, curtsying before Espartero.

Behind the mask of the water-god, I could see that he was mine. He couldn't see me, not the real me, just the body in the costume. And he wanted it.

The crowd had come together again and moved on, an ocean wave constantly in motion. Arguëlles the Odious was evaluating me with his filthy stare. I could tell he had no idea who I was, and I was not about to enlighten him. Please, prime minister, I prayed, please step forwards. Follow your impulse. Do it now.