The Barefoot Queen (45 page)

“You won’t be dancing anymore,” María had told Caridad, although the crowd was already demanding her presence.

María had scrutinized the Negro woman’s face for some reaction. She hadn’t been able to discern any; perhaps the news made her happy? Amid the shouting, catcalls and the obvious satisfaction of a constable hidden in the crowd, Caridad had seemed to receive her words with absolute indifference.

As for Milagros now … she was still dumbstruck, with a stupid smile on her lips. María found herself forced to admit that Pedro García could probably dazzle any woman. He was a proud, haughty gypsy with tanned skin, long black hair and intense ebony eyes; he was handsome and strong despite the effects of hunger on his seventeen-year-old body.

“You are a Vega!” María stopped in front of the door to Inocencio’s house; the reproach came out of her mouth at the mere thought of the girl and that … that rogue kissing her and touching her and …“And he is a García!” she then shrieked. “Forget about that boy!”

YOUNG PEDRO
García stood inside the smithy, his legs spread and his hands on his hips, in front of his grandfather and his father, Elías, at a distance from the other members of the García family, who were wrangling with their portable anvils.

“I won’t have any problems with that girl,” the young man boasted, smiling.

“Pedro, we aren’t talking about another fling,” warned El Conde, worried by the memories of his grandson’s love affairs, luckily all with
paya
women, when he’d had to come to his aid. Sometimes it was enough to threaten the fathers or cuckolded husbands, other times he’d had to fork over some money that later, in front of the other family members, he had pretended to recoup by giving the boy extra work. He liked Pedro; the boy was his favorite. “You will marry the girl,” he declared. “You must comply with gypsy law: you cannot touch her until the wedding has been celebrated.”

The young gypsy responded with mocking theatricality. His grandfather and father hardened their features at the same time, which was more
than enough for the boy to understand the importance of what was being planned.

“You could … you should talk to her, even give her a gift, but nothing more. You are not allowed to leave the alley together unless accompanied by adult members of the families; I don’t want complaints from the old woman or the Carmonas. I promise you won’t have to endure a long engagement. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he confirmed seriously.

“Good gypsy,” his grandfather congratulated him with a pat to the cheek.

El Conde was about to turn when he noticed the expression on his grandson’s face: the boy’s eyebrows were raised, asking a question.

“What?” he asked in turn.

“And meanwhile?” inquired Pedro, wagging his head from one side to the other. “Tonight I have a date with the wife of a Sevillian carpenter …”

Both father and grandfather let out loud guffaws.

“Enjoy yourself while you can!” encouraged El Conde, laughing. “Mount her for me too. Your grandmother doesn’t—”

“Father!” reproached Elías.

“Do you want to come with me, Grandfather?” suggested the grandson. “I can assure you she’s woman enough for both of us.”

“Don’t talk such nonsense!” the young man’s father intervened again.

“You haven’t seen her!” insisted Pedro while El Conde smiled. “She’s got this arse and this pair of tits—”

“I meant—”

The grandfather swatted the air with his hand. “We know what you meant,” he interrupted his son. “In any case, Pedro, be careful not to make the Vega girl mad; if she’s even the slightest bit like her grandfather, she’ll be proud,” he added, his expression souring at the memory of El Galeote. “The girl must not know about your escapades.” Rafael García took the moment of seriousness to warn his grandson, “Pedro, your grandmother and I, your father, our family has a lot invested in that marriage working out. Don’t let us down.”

“
HAG!
”

They were many who called her “hag” but María could tell when it
was being used affectionately and when it was meant to offend. On that occasion there was no doubt that it was the latter. She ignored the shout that had come from the smithy and continued crossing the shared courtyard, alone. Milagros had refused to go shopping with her and, to her dismay, she had stayed upstairs whispering with Caridad … about Pedro García, no doubt.

For several days now the young man had arranged to bump into Milagros on the San Miguel alley, not trying to hide it from María or from anyone else. Milagros seemed not to realize that it was planned and time and again she would melt in his presence, until María scared him off. Then came the arguments, which the old healer would settle by parroting the words of Milagros’s mother:
Never forget that you are a Vega.
She was referring to the hatred between the two families. But she couldn’t stop Milagros from whispering with Caridad, who always listened attentively, impassive with her cigar in her mouth, and that irritated María so much that she had been thinking about not buying her any more tobacco.

“Hag!” she heard again, this time from the courtyard itself.

She turned and recognized Inocencio in the doorway of the blacksmith workshop whose back opened onto the courtyard, where pieces of old rusty iron were already starting to pile up again, even though the gypsies were unable to work with the tools they had.

“Mind your tongue, Inocencio!” She turned back.

“I haven’t said anything that could bother you,” replied the Carmona patriarch as he approached.

“But you are going to, am I right?”

“That depends on how you take it.”

Inocencio had reached her. He was also old, like all the patriarchs. Perhaps not as old as El Conde and much less so than María, but he was definitely an old gypsy, used to giving orders and having them obeyed.

“Tell me what you have to say,” she pressed.

“Stop getting in the way of Milagros and the García boy.”

The old woman hesitated. She had never expected such a warning. “I’ll—I’ll do what I think is best,” she stammered. “She is a Vega. She is under my—”

“She’s a Carmona.”

“The same Carmonas who defended her to the council of elders?” She
laughed sarcastically. “You banished her from the alley and you gave her to me. Even her father agreed. The girl is under my protection.”

“So why is she living in the alley, then?” replied Inocencio. “The punishment has been lifted, you know that. The Vargas family has forgiven her. She is a Carmona and she answers to me, like all of them.”

Perhaps he’s right,
reflected María; she couldn’t avoid a shiver at the thought.

“Why haven’t you asserted your authority before? It’s almost a month that we’ve been …”

“The girl feels she is a Vega,” admitted Inocencio. “I’m not interested in her money and certainly not interested in getting into a conflict with the Vegas, although now …”

“Melchor will return,” said María, trying to intimidate him.

“I wish that crazy old guy no harm.”

He seemed sincere.

“Then, why now? Why do you want to encourage her relationship with Pedro García? Can’t you find another man for Milagros? Someone who’s not a García, someone who’s not that libertine—everyone knows about his adventures. You will find many suitors for the girl that all the families could agree on.”

“I can’t.”

María asked for an explanation by extending one of her knotty hands out in front of her.

“You asked me to free Ana and José, and for that I need Rafael García’s help.”

The old woman’s hand, at the height of her dry breasts, began to tense up. Inocencio noticed.

“Yes,” he affirmed then. “El Conde has made the marriage of his grandson to the girl a condition.”

María clenched her hand and shook it furiously. Her hooked fingers didn’t allow her to make the fist she wanted to beat Inocencio with. She felt as if her arguments were escaping through those gnarled fingers.

“Why is Rafael’s intervention necessary?” she inquired, despite knowing the answer.

“He is the only one who can get the parish priests of Santa Ana to provide a marriage certificate for the girl’s parents. Without that piece of
paper there is no freedom. He has always been the one who dealt with them, in the name of the council of elders; they won’t even see me. And that is his only condition: Milagros and Pedro must marry.”

“Ana Vega would never consent to regaining her freedom in exchange for that union.”

“Ana Vega will submit to her husband’s orders,” said Inocencio resolutely, “and the Carmonas have nothing against the Garcías.”

“Until her mother gets back, I will not allow this relationship,” retorted the healer.

In the morning light that entered the courtyard and slipped through the twisted iron scraps, they stared each other down. Inocencio shook his head.

“Listen, hag: you have no authority. You will do what I tell you; otherwise we will exile you from Triana and I will take care of the girl even if I have to do it by force. She wants her parents to return … and I understand that she isn’t against a relationship with Rafael’s grandson, either. What more can you hope for? José Carmona belongs to my family: he is my cousin’s son and I will do everything in my power to free him, like all the others. I am not going to let your stubbornness make El Conde back out. He is obtaining the freedom of a Vega! The daughter of El Galeote, his bitter enemy! Do you want me to talk to Milagros?” María took a step back, as if Inocencio had pushed her with his threat; she scratched her bare feet on one of the pieces of iron. “Do you want me to tell her that you are jeopardizing her parents’ freedom?”

The old woman suddenly felt dizzy. Her mouth filled with saliva, and the ocher color of the iron, drowning out the sun’s brilliance, danced in every corner of the courtyard, wavering before her eyes. Inocencio made a gesture to help her, but she refused it with a clumsy swipe. What would happen if he did talk to Milagros? The girl was enthralled by the García boy. She would lose her. She felt herself fainting. The figure of Inocencio blurred before her. Then she pressed her foot hard against the iron she had stepped on, until she felt one of its corners gouging into her and blood running down her calloused sole. The real, physical pain revived her so she could face the Carmona patriarch, who silently watched a small dark puddle form around the old woman’s foot and soak into the ground.

They both knew what the harm the old woman was inflicting on herself—as
she tried to keep the pain from showing in her face—meant: she was giving in.

“Save your blood … María. You are too old to waste it,” recommended the Carmona patriarch before turning his back on her and returning to the smithy.

HOURS LATER
, the old woman stepped away from Milagros as soon as Pedro García came out to meet her. She did so in silence and limping, her foot bandaged, yet trying to hold her head up. Milagros was surprised at the sudden freedom offered to her by the person who, up until that point, had fought dauntlessly to keep her from talking to the young man. And … she wasn’t even muttering curses! The smile and warm look with which Pedro invited her to come over and chat with him made her forget all about the old woman and even gesture imperiously with her hand for Caridad to move aside as well. La Trianera stood at one side of the alley, and Inocencio at the other, both in full view, like witnesses verifying a pact being fulfilled, and they exchanged satisfied looks when María withdrew.

That night, even the old woman was forced to admit that the voice with which Milagros intoxicated the audience at the inn was tinged with a depth of feeling that it had never had before. Fermín, on the guitar, turned his head and his expression asked what had happened; so did Roque and Sagrario. María didn’t answer any of them. She hadn’t explained her change in attitude to Milagros. She didn’t want to, and the girl hadn’t asked, perhaps afraid of breaking the spell if she did.

That same night El Conde spoke with his wife again as they lay on the mattress of straw and branches. He had got the marriage certificate and the priests’ promise that they would testify in the secret file in support of José Carmona and the Vega woman; he also had assured the backing of the constable of Triana. Reyes congratulated him.

“You won’t regret it,” she added.

“I hope not,” he said. “It cost a lot of money. More than Inocencio gave me. I had to sign documents forcing me to pay that debt.”

“You’ll make that money back in spades.”

“I also had to promise the priests that they’ll marry in the church as
soon as they are freed, that the girl will be baptized and will sing carols in the Santa Ana parish church this Christmas. They have heard talk about her.”

“She will do it.”

“They want to make sure that we are really getting closer to the Church, that our efforts are public, that everyone can see and realize it. They forced me to confess! I don’t know—”

“Isn’t that what was agreed upon in the last council meeting? Did you talk to them about creating a brotherhood?”

“They laughed. But I think deep down it pleased them.” El Conde was quiet for a few moments. “And if Ana Vega refuses to be married by the Church?”

“Don’t be naive, Rafael! They are never going to free Ana Vega. Since she’s been in Málaga she’s been racking up more convictions than a criminal. If she weren’t with the gypsies she would be in jail. They won’t free her.”

“Then … she won’t be able to marry.”

“Better for you. Ana Vega would never do it.”

Reyes turned her back on him, ending the conversation, but Rafael insisted.

“I made a promise. If she doesn’t marry …”

“And what can you do if they don’t free her? You already have your excuse, and by then Pedro will be married to the girl,” she interrupted. “If the priests want Ana Vega to be married in church so badly, they can talk to the King to get her pardoned.”

IN MID-DECEMBER
, when they had confirmation that the secret file had been processed and sent to La Carraca and Málaga, the García and Carmona families gathered the neighbors of the bride in the shared courtyard. It had been cleaned of twisted, rusty iron pieces as befitted the occasion; Inocencio had ordered them moved to the smithy. Days earlier, he had approached María again.