The Barefoot Queen (56 page)

While the tobacconist collected the money—
I’ll have it tonight and we will close the deal,
he promised so Melchor didn’t take his business elsewhere—Melchor got ready to go in search of his relatives.

Comadre de Granada Street. He would always remember that name. Surprising: why would a street in the capital have such a strange name? That was where El Cascabelero lived with his family, as did many other gypsies, so if they weren’t living there anymore, he could surely get news of them. He asked for directions. “Downhill. Pretty nearby,” he was told.
Comadre de Granada Street belonged to the humble Madrid of the day laborers. Both sides of what was nothing more than a simple, dreary dirt road that ended at the Embajadores gully were lined with wretched low houses, with narrow façades and small patches of garden to the back, when there weren’t other buildings added on, which shared rooms and a back door. Melchor realized that he was going to reveal his presence in Madrid, but the truth was he couldn’t handle the operation alone. They could rob him; just take the jar and kill him.

“Go further up,” indicated a woman after he had gone up and down the street a couple of times without finding the house. “And once you pass Esperancilla Street, it’s the second or third house …”

And even if they didn’t rob him, how was he going to transport the jar to Madrid and get around town with it? He could count on Caridad, but he didn’t want to involve her; he preferred to run the risk of being betrayed. He needed someone else’s help, and it was best if they were relatives, even if very little Vega blood ran through their veins.

Any trace of doubt vanished at the profound looks exchanged between Melchor and El Cascabelero. They grabbed each other by the forearms, and their grasp indicated affection and promised loyalty. They were surrounded by a respectful silence, which told Melchor that his relative had become the patriarch; and El Cascabelero’s mere touch told him that the man was aware of the death sentence hanging over him.

“And Aunt Rosa?” asked Melchor after communicating everything he could with his eyes.

“She passed away,” answered El Cascabelero.

“She was a good gypsy.”

“Yes, she was.”

Melchor greeted the members of El Cascabelero’s extensive family one by one. His sister, a widow. Zoilo, his oldest son, a picador in the bullfights, as his father proudly introduced him before pointing to his daughter-in-law and grandchildren. Two daughters with their respective husbands, one of them with a baby in arms and other little ones hidden behind her legs, and the fourth, Martín, a boy who received his greeting with a look of admiration.

“Are you El Galeote?”

“We’ve been talking about you a lot lately,” acknowledged El Cascabelero as Melchor nodded to the question and patted the boy’s cheek.

Close to twenty people were packed into that small house on Comadre de Granada Street.

As the women prepared the food, Melchor, the patriarch and the other men settled into the small back garden, beneath an overhang, some in rickety chairs, others on simple cushions.

“How old are you?” Melchor asked Martín, who was peeking out through the lace curtain that served as a door to the yard.

“Almost fifteen.”

Melchor looked for El Cascabelero’s consent.

“You are already a gypsy man,” he said when he saw his father nod. “Come with us.”

THAT SAME
afternoon, in the notary’s office, Carlos Pueyo assured him that the tobacconist had the money to buy the snuff.

“He’s capable of selling his wife and daughter to get it for tonight,” added the notary when he saw the gypsy’s doubt. “He won’t get much for the wife,” he joked. “But the daughter has a certain charm.”

They agreed to complete the sale after eleven at night, which was the shop’s closing time.

“Where?” asked Melchor.

“In the shop, of course. He has to check the quality, weigh the snuff … Is there any problem with that?” added the notary, seeing that the gypsy was pensive.

There were seven hours until then.

“Not at all,” he confirmed.

Along with El Cascabelero and all the men in his family, including young Martín, Melchor left Madrid through the Toledo Gate. He smiled, thinking about Caridad, when he reached the thicket where the jar was still hidden.
You see how it’s there, my Negress?
he said to himself while Zoilo and his brothers-in-law dug it up. What would they do after closing the deal? Zoilo and his father had been unequivocal.

“Now that you’ve set foot on Comadre Street, you can be sure that the Garcías know you are in Madrid.”

“Are there Garcías here?”

“Yes. A branch, nephews of El Conde. They came from Triana.”

“It must have been …”

“Around the time you went to the galleys. Your Aunt Rosa hated them. We started to hate them and they hated us.”

“I didn’t want to make problems for you,” said Melchor.

“Melchor,” the patriarch spoke seriously to him, “the Costes and those with us will defend you. Do you want the ghost of your aunt to come beat me at night? The Garcías will think twice before starting trouble.”

Would they defend Caridad as well? When they told him about the sentence they had included the woman, but no one had asked about her: she wasn’t a gypsy. While in Madrid he would always have to be protected by El Cascabelero’s men, and live with them, but he doubted they would be willing to stick their necks out for a Negress.

They whiled away the time until nightfall before returning with the jar. They would leave Madrid, Melchor decided during the wait. He would set the matter of Ana in train and the two of them would go and smuggle tobacco, hand in hand, without joining up with any band. He had never enjoyed running tobacco as much as he had with his Negress in Barrancos! The risk … the danger took on another dimension with the mere possibility that she could be arrested, and that breathed life into him. Yes. That’s what they would do. Every once in a while, he would return to Madrid, alone, and check on the progress of the proceedings to free his daughter.

They reached the capital through a hole in a house that made up part of the wall. They didn’t even pay.

“Another picador,” explained El Cascabelero.

They headed to the Santa Cruz Plaza carrying the jar. If someone on the dark streets of Madrid was tempted to make off with that treasure, they would surely be dissuaded by the entourage he had with him.

After eleven, Melchor and his relatives were upstairs at the tobacco shop, serious and silent, threatening, just like the two escorts the tobacconist had procured. He and his wife checked the quality and weighed the pounds of snuff to their satisfaction. Ramón Álvarez nodded and, in silence, handed Melchor a bag with the money. The gypsy poured the coins out onto a table and counted them. Then he took some gold ones and offered them to the notary.

“I want my daughter Ana free in a month’s time,” he demanded.

Carlos Pueyo didn’t allow himself to be intimidated, nor did he take the coins.

“Melchor, if you’re looking for miracles, cross the plaza and go into the Santa Cruz church.” They locked gazes for a moment. “I will do what I can,” added the notary. “That’s the most I can promise you. I’ve told you that several times.”

The gypsy hesitated. He turned toward Zoilo and El Cascabelero, who shrugged. Eulogio had recommended the notary and he seemed like a person who got things done –the quick sale of the snuff was good proof of that—yet, when the moment came to hand over the money, his confidence waned. He thought of Ana locked up in Málaga and his rejection by his beloved granddaughter Milagros, bound to the Garcías in matrimony, and he told himself that the money wasn’t important. He could make thousands if that was what his family needed!

“Agreed,” he conceded.

The tension disappeared as soon as the notary stretched out his hand and Melchor dropped the coins into it. Later, right there, he gave others to the Costes men, not forgetting young Martín, who only dared to take them when his father nodded.

“We have to celebrate!” Zoilo shouted.

“Wine and a party,” added one of his brothers-in-law.

The tobacconist brought his hands to his head and his wife went pale.

“The patrol … the magistrates,” he warned. “If they catch us with the snuff … Silence, I beg of you.”

But the gypsies didn’t quiet down.

“Melchor, there in front,” interjected the notary, pointing to one side, “is the High Court jail. There are constables there and it is where the patrols gather. Except for the palace of Buen Retiro, with the King and his guards, you are choosing the worst place in the city to raise a ruckus.”

Melchor and El Cascabelero understood and silenced the gypsies with hand gestures. Then, ejected by the tobacconist and his wife, they left the building, unable to hold back a few comments and some laughter under their breath.

“In a few days I will come by your office to find out how things are going with my daughter’s case,” Melchor warned the notary, who was sheltering with the tobacconist behind the shop door.

“Take your time,” he answered.

Melchor was about to reply when the door closed and they were left in front of the majestic building—two stories plus the attic and three
large towers crowned by spires—that held the jail of the High Court, where they administered justice. They had skirted it when they were carrying the jar and now they realized that the notary was right: the constables came and went around it, with thick clubs in their hands and wearing suits with ruffs, as they had worn in the past, their necks erect and trapped in strips of lined cardboard, which the King had forbidden for the common people.

“Let’s go have some fun with the young folks,” El Cascabelero suggested to Melchor.

El Galeote hesitated. Caridad would be waiting for him.

“Do you have something better to do?” insisted the other.

“Let’s go,” said Melchor, giving in because he was incapable of saying that he had a Negro woman waiting for him, no matter how beautiful she was. After all, they would be leaving Madrid the next day.

They stationed themselves beside one of the walls of the Santa Cruz church where, above Atocha Street, rose an atrium that opened onto the temple’s main portico where some homeless people slept. At a signal from Zoilo they slipped away, going around the atrium and heading down Atocha Street. They knew they were taking a risk: in the streets of Madrid, after midnight (which the bells had announced some time ago), anyone found armed, as they were, and without a lantern lighting their way, should be arrested. However, when they’d passed the atrium of the monastery of the Calced Trinitarians and had left the jail and its many officials far behind, they began to chat carelessly, sure that no patrol would dare confront six gypsies. They laughed loudly as they crossed the small Antón Martín Plaza, where one of the district magistrates was often stationed, and they continued down Atocha Street, carefree, ignoring the drunk men and women, tripping over beggars lying on the ground and even challenging those muffled in long capes, their faces hidden in the night beneath wide-brimmed slouch hats, waiting for some dupe to rob.

At the end of the street, they passed by the General Hospital and entered the Atocha meadow. There, the wall around Madrid didn’t end with the last buildings in the city but opened out behind the gardens and olive groves to surround the Buen Retiro Palace with its many buildings and adjoining gardens. They soon heard the music and commotion: folks from Lavapiés and the Rastro got together in the open fields to drink, dance and have fun.

They had money on them. Melchor’s concern about Caridad disappeared as the party went on, with wine, liquor and even chocolate from Caracas. He heard El Cascabelero demanding the best hot chocolate, with sugar, cinnamon and a few drops of orange-blossom water. They ate the sweets hawked by the street vendors: doughnuts deemed “stupid” or “clever” depending on whether or not they were sweetened in a bath of sugar, egg white and lemon juice; rolled wafers and cream-filled pastries. Seeing that their purses seemed to never grow thin, no matter how many coins came out of them, other gypsy men joined them, along with some women. The men flirted but nothing more, since the patriarch was always vigilant about his daughters’ honor.

“You go ahead,” the others encouraged young Martín, “you’ve got money and you’re single. Enjoy those
paya
women!”

But he excused himself and remained beside Melchor, the galley slave who had survived torture and smuggled tobacco, who was capable of killing his own son-in-law for the honor of the Vega family. Martín listened attentively to him, laughed at his jokes, felt proud to be able to talk to him. Over the course of the night, Melchor and Martín spoke about the Vegas, about honor, about pride, freedom, the gypsy settlement and about how pleased Melchor would have been if his granddaughter had chosen someone like Martín instead of a García. “She must be confused,” declared Melchor. “For sure,” agreed the boy. Fandangos and
seguidillas
sounded until dawn, and they were surrounded by all types of people. The gypsies, dressed in their brightly colored clothes, mixed with
manolos,
in their colorful short jackets and waistcoats, silk sashes, tight britches, white knee socks, shoes with large buckles almost at the tip, striped capes and cloth caps, always armed with a good knife and a perennial cigarette between their lips; and
manolas
wearing bodices, fine dresses and very flouncy skirts over them, hair nets and mantillas and silk shoes.

Melchor missed the gypsy spirit more than his companions did; the bewitching spell of those cracked voices that spontaneously emerged from the most unexpected corner of the gypsy settlement by La Cartuja. Nevertheless, the joy and hubbub continued echoing in his ears when the music stopped and the light of day found them in a field where only the stragglers remained.

“Are you hungry?” Zoilo asked then.

They sated their appetites at the San Blas inn, also on Atocha Street,
amid cartwrights, muleteers and carriers from Murcia and La Mancha who frequented it. Just as they had done during the party the night before, they bragged about their purses and started with toast fried in lard and sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. This they followed with chicken stewed in a sauce of its chopped livers until the main dish was ready: a lovely lamb’s head split in half, seasoned with parsley, crushed garlic cloves, salt, pepper, and salt pork strips beneath the gristle, then tied up again to be roasted in sheets of brown paper. They made short work of the brains, tongue, eyes and attached meats, some tender, others gelatinous, all washed down with undiluted Valdepeñas wine, strong and harsh, as befitted that inn filled with dirty, loud-mouthed men who watched them out of the corners of their eyes with obvious envy in their faces and gestures.