Viva Jacquelina! (25 page)

Hmmm . 
.
 .
I'm thinking... prolly all the weird stuff that was in those mushrooms was destroyed by the drying and the boiling. Ah, well, we shall see. I uncork the brandy and fill the rest of the glass and give it a stir. It assumes a most pleasing violet hue.
It is very pretty, anyway.

Turning away from my experiment, I dump the mushroom residue into the trash and wash the saucepan and strainer. As I am hanging up the latter, and making a bit of a clatter with the pans already hanging on the rack, I do not hear someone entering the kitchen.

However, when I turn around again, there stands Amadeo, grinning at me... with an empty glass in his hand, one that still has a few deep purple droplets clinging to its inner sides.

“Ummm,” says Amadeo, running his tongue over his lips and looking at me with a good deal of warmth in his gaze. “You knew I would come seek you out and you prepared a fine drink for me.
Gracias, mi amor.
It was most delicious—a fine concoction of brandy with a hint of what... musk? Ah, yes, perfect... but why do you look so startled,
mi quierdo?
”

“Oh, nothing,” I say with a grimace. “I just hope you're not doing anything for the next hour or so.”

 

If I was thinking the mushrooms' potency was ruined by the boiling, I was dead wrong. Ten minutes later, I am dragged by an exultant Amadeo out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

“Come, Jacquelina! We must fly up to the roof and be with the stars! To be with the gods!”

“Amadeo! Please!” I bleat, his hand on my wrist. “You must be quiet! You will rouse the household!”

“I do not care if I awaken the entire world!” he exults. “I have been reborn! As a god, and gods shake the world!”

Geez, Amadeo, all I did was see white rabbits and Jesus, and talk to a bullfrog. 'Course, he dropped down the contents of two mushrooms, while I only ate the one. Perhaps the alcohol intensified the effect . 
.
 . More study is definitely required.

First floor, second floor, third, and then onto the roof. Since this is Spain and it does not snow here—or rain all that often, either—the roof is flat, tarred with gravel, and painted white. Amadeo releases my arm and goes to spin about in the center of the roof.

“See the stars, how they whirl and twirl, see how they pour down on us in a silvery stream,” he says, ecstatic. “I must feel them on my skin, I must!” He strips off his shirt and flings it aside, holding his face up to bathe in what he must perceive as a cascade of stars pouring down over him.

In spite of myself, I smile on Amadeo, standing there in the moonlight, his arms outstretched, his body smooth and, though the night is cool, glistening with a sheen of sweat. He turns from his celestial shower to leap over and gaze again upon me, still grinning a foxy grin.

“Jacquelina!” he exclaims, grabbing my shoulders. “Heart of my heart, I must kiss you... I must...”

A beatific look comes over his face and he whispers, “When you smile like that,
pepita,
I want to... I want to... lick your teeth.”

Wot?

Before I can turn my face, I feel his tongue run across my upper tusks, and then thrust deep into my mouth.

Ummph!

I push him back, giggling in spite of myself. “Amadeo, you must stop with that!” No use telling him to get ahold of himself, 'cause that ain't gonna happen for a while yet, I know.

He spins away from me, laughing. “Oh, Jacquelina, when we kissed, I felt the earth move! Did you feel it too,
guapa?
Did you feel the very earth move under us?”

“Well, maybe a little, Amadeo, but—”

“The stars! The stars! They fall down upon me as the gentle rain from heaven! I must feel them all over my body!”

'Tis plain he's listening to the gods and not to me, as he reaches for the buttons on his trousers, unfastens them, and pulls both pants and underwear down and off. He stands naked in the moonlight, and in all his glorious young manhood.

“You must feel them, too, Jacquelina!” he exults, coming back to grab my shoulders. This time I keep my apparently quite lickable teeth hidden behind pursed lips and he merely places a wet kiss on my forehead.

However, the lickability of my teeth is not his demented intention this time, oh no. As was my usual practice when not modeling in the studio or off on the town, I had worn this day my Lawson Peabody serving-girl rig, except that I had left off the rib-hugging vest, as the evening was warm.

“Jacquelina, Jacquelina, how the name trips off my unworthy tongue!” he says, as he pulls the flimsy blouse I wear off my shoulders and down to my waist. I gasp as that unworthy tongue finds itself on my breastbone.

“Amadeo! You cannot!”

“Yes, I can, my heart,” he breathes. “Ah, thy breasts, there before me, on either side... two white doves, two perfect white doves with pink noses. I shall kiss their rosy little noses now.”

“No, you shall not, Amadeo,” I say, drawing back and stifling a laugh. “You shall calm yourself. We must get back, we must—”

“No,
mi querida,
what we must do is fly up to the stars and become one with them!” he shouts, standing straight and pointing heavenward. “We shall ascend to the cosmos and become a new constellation, a new sign in the Zodiac! We shall be the Jackamadeo constellation and our Sign shall be Two Hearts and Bodies Entwined and we will rival Aquarius and The Mighty Hunter Orion and The Bears and The Ram and, oh let us fly, fly up to the sky!”

With that, the holy fool begins dragging me to the edge of the roof with the full intention of the both of us leaping off and upward.

“Amadeo! Stop! I am not yet ready to be a constellation!” I yelp as we approach the edge of the roof. There is a rail about the perimeter of the roof, but it is only about waist high and it certainly doesn't look very sturdy.

“No, Jacquelina, we must go! Lovers throughout the ages will look up and admire us and sigh and swear eternal promises of love everlasting! I shall go first and you will follow!”

He lets me go and runs to the edge, his thighs against the railing, his arms raised and ready to take flight. I leap after him, grab him about the waist, and hang on.

“Please, Amadeo,” I plead, looking down at the hard pavement three storeys below, for I know that is
exactly
what he will fly to if he does launch himself off the roof. I sink to my knees for better leverage in holding him back, my arms tight around his thighs. I bury my face into the small of his back. It is slick with sweat, but I hang on and say, “Amadeo, for me... for Jacquelina... please turn around and stop this.”

He still seems intent on leaping and I redouble my pleas. “Amadeo! Your paintings... the ones you have not yet finished... the one of me... the ones you have yet to paint... the others this world wants to see! Amadeo...”

He shakes his head and turns, confused.

Ha! He is probably coming down a bit, maybe . 
.
 .

He looks down at me.

“Jacquelina... ?”

“Yes, Amadeo.” I sigh, relieved. While Amadeo's body is very smooth overall, he does have a nest of hair on his lower belly, and into that I thankfully press my face. “It is me, and...”

. . . and just then others burst on the scene... The house has indeed been roused. Asensio is suddenly beside us and...

Oh, Lord, how this must look!

I get off my knees, climb to my feet, and pull my shirt sleeves back up onto my shoulders.

“Asensio,” I manage to say. “Please see Amadeo back to your room. He has had an... interesting evening.”

Asensio gives me a searching look and goes to Amadeo. Recognition comes into Amadeo's confused eyes.

“Asensio?” he asks, dazed and weaving slightly.

“
Sí, mi hermano,
” says Asensio, softly, as he puts his arm about Amadeo. “Come, let us go to bed, brother.”

As they disappear through the doorway, I sigh and go to pick up Amadeo's discarded clothes, as he will need them tomorrow. Neatening myself as much as possible, I go to the door and am startled to find that Asensio was not the only one awakened, for there stands Carmelita, in a nightshirt and a state of pure fury.

She says nothing, but only gazes into my eyes and then spits on the floor between us.

She did not speak, but she was most eloquent.

The day's work is done and Cesar and I turn out in the early evening, arm in arm, on our way to Dos Gatos for a quiet evening of song and maybe dance.

It has been several days since The Night of Celestial Revels and thanks be to God that Cesar did not awaken that night. I'd have had a hard time explaining away that scene to the poor lad. Oh Lord, I am so glad I did not have to talk my way out of that one.

At breakfast the next morning, Amadeo had appeared a bit confused. I can well imagine the look on his face when he awoke in Asensio's arms and not mine. Asensio, on the other hand, seemed most content. A bit smug, even.

Later that day, I made up more of my Magic Mushroom Potion—one half brandy, one half Essence of Purple Mushroom—but this time I kept a close eye on it. Never can tell when something like that might come in handy, now that I don't have any Tincture of Opium, otherwise known as Jacky's Little Helper, at hand.

I tightly corked up a bottle of it and stored it in my seabag. I did, however, keep three of the mushrooms in their dried state to show to Dr. Sebastian, should we meet again.

“A lovely evening, Cesar,” I say, breathing in the soft night air as we walk along.

“All the more lovely for being by your side,
mi amor,
” replies my constant consort. We are proceeding down a side street toward the plaza. I am wearing my finest
Maja
gear—white lacy shirt, embroidered jacket and skirt, with gold sash about my middle—and Cesar is similarly dressed, a dashing and bold young matador, by God!

“Ah, Cesar,” I say, giving him a bit of a poke. “You would find, if you had the time, that a little of Jack-ie Bouvier goes a long, long way.”

“I hope to have that time,
mi corazón,
but I should never tire of you. I—”

A figure appears before us. It is a woman dressed in black with a black veil across her lower face, her head covered with a black shawl.

She raises her hand and points to me.

“That is her. Take her.”

Before I can even wonder at this, some men, also dressed in black—four of them, I think—come from a side alley and swarm over us.

“Get the girl! Gag her. Quickly!”

What?

Hands are put on me and I am pushed to my knees. Before I can scream, a rag is stuffed in my mouth and a bag is thrown over my head. I struggle, but in vain—my arms are pinned to my sides. I feel myself lifted up and tossed into—
what?
—a cart, yes, for I can smell horse.

“Let her go, damn you to hell!” I hear Cesar cry out.

“Hit him! Club him down! We don't need the boy!”

“By God, I'll—”

There is a dull thud and Cesar speaks no more.

Oh, God, please!

God does not answer—not me, anyway—as the cart starts forward, its wheels creaking as we go along.

What can it be? Am I found out as a spy? Is it torture and finally the garotte for me? Oh, please.

 

I lie in deep despair, but soon the cart draws to a stop.
Hmmm . 
.
 .
My rational mind figures we must not have gone far...
Where can we be?

I am gathered up and held tight in someone's grip. I give a few kicks in what I feel would be the proper direction, and though I am rewarded with a few
oooffs,
it avails me nothing. I sense that I am carried to a doorway, for there is the sound of a latch being opened and a heavy door swinging out. Then, from the gait of the man carrying me, I figure that I am being borne down a staircase, a
long
staircase. It is as if we are descending into a pit—a cold and dank pit in the belly of the earth. In spite of the cloth wrapped around me, I shiver.

Eventually, my short journey as a senseless burden ends, and my long journey as a helpless victim begins...

I am thrown onto a rough platform and I feel straps being wrapped around my ankles. Then the ropes are taken from my arms, and my wrists are pulled up and each wrapped in restraints of their own. There is a cranking sound and my arms are drawn up above my head and my legs are stretched out straight.

Abruptly, the hood is yanked from my head, my eyes adjust, and all is plain. I am in a circular, windowless room, and I sense that I am far underground. My crazed eyes cast about and see stone walls curtained in deep red drapes. There are strange symbols drawn upon them, but I cannot tell what they are. And there are hooded figures about me, dressed in deep red robes. Have I been taken to a witches' coven? Have I been... ?

Then I see, high on the back wall, a moss-covered plaque, and it reads:

 

MORS CERTA
SOLUM TEMPUS
INCERTUM EST

 

I ain't got much Latin, but I know the first line reads,
Death is Certain.
If I ever had any hope in getting out of this, I lose it right then upon reading that.

The man who took off my hood leans over me such that I might see his face under his red hood. He has a tight mouth, long nose, and sunken cheeks. His eyes gleam with an unholy light. He smiles beatifically at me and announces, “You are a very lucky girl. You see gathered about you the Tribunal del Santo Oficio de la Inquisición. It is possible that we might be able to save your immortal soul.”

“What!” I exclaim. “The Inquistion? Are you joking?”

“No, my dear,” he says softly. “I assure you the Holy Office does not joke.”

“But the Emperor has banished the Inquisition! How—?”