The Barefoot Queen (60 page)

Milagros didn’t have anyone to talk to or to confide in. La Trianera controlled her day and night, and as soon as she saw her chatting with someone in the alley, she quickly came over to put in her twopenn’orth. Milagros often passed by San Jacinto and sadly contemplated the church and the friars coming and going. She would have been able to talk to Fray
Joaquín, tell him about her life, her worries, and he would have listened, she had no doubt. But he had vanished from her life as well.

FRAY JOAQUÍN
had been on missions for almost a year, traveling all over Andalusia with Fray Pedro, surprising humble folk in the middle of the night, threatening them with every possible evil, forcing men to punish their bodies in the churches while the women were to do it in the privacy of their homes with stinging nettles hidden in their clothes, wormwood in their mouths, pebbles in their shoes and rough cords, knotted ropes and wires wrapped tightly around and cutting into their bellies, breasts and extremities.

Milagros was never out of his mind.

General confession, the ultimate goal of the missions, ended up breaking the friar’s will and spirit. The letter issued by the Archbishop of Seville allowed him to forgive all sins, including those whose extreme seriousness meant they were usually dealt with by higher-ranking officials of the Church. He listened to hundreds, thousands of confessions through which people strove to obtain general absolution of sins they had never told their usual parish priests, since the latter couldn’t forgive them. But, poor and humble as they were, they had no access to bishops and prelates to confess such sins as incest and sodomy. “With a child?” Fray Joaquín shouted on one occasion, piquing the curiosity of those waiting. “How old?” he added, lowering his voice. Then he regretted having asked. How could he forgive him after hearing the age? But the man remained in silence awaiting absolution. “Do you repent?” he asked without conviction. Murders, kidnappings, bigamy, a string of evils that were eroding his principles and bringing him closer, step by step, mission by mission, to believing, just as Fray Pedro did, that they were all irredeemable sinners, who only reacted out of fear of the devil and the flames of hell. What remained of the Christian virtues, of joy and hope?

“You have been slow to realize that this is not the path that Our Lord has called you to,” Fray Pedro said when Joaquín told him he intended to abandon the missions. “You are a good person, Joaquín, and after all this time I have come to appreciate you, but your sermons do not call people to contrition and repentance.”

Fray Joaquín didn’t want to return to Triana. His excitement over his
last trip back, a few months after first leaving—when he’d heard the news of the return of the assimilated gypsies—had ended when he found out about Milagros’s marriage. He locked himself in his cell, fasted and punished his body as much as he had on the missions. Angry, disappointed, his fantasies frustrated, he came to understand the fits the penitents claimed as excuses for their mortal sins when it came time to confess: jealousy, rage, spite, hatred. He didn’t go back; he preferred to continue dreaming of the girl who mocked him by sticking out her tongue than face the torment of running into her one day with her husband on the streets of Triana. His next few breaks were spent with Fray Pedro, far from his home, while the preacher speculated about the reasons his assistant refused to reveal.

“I’ve heard from a nobleman in Toledo, close to the archbishop, who needs a private Latin teacher and tutor for his daughters,” he suggested when Fray Joaquín admitted he didn’t know what to do.

Fray Pedro took care of everything: his prestige opened doors. He got in touch with the nobleman, gave Joaquín documentation, both from the lay authorities and from the Church, a mule and enough money for the trip, and on the morning Joaquín was going to depart he showed up to say goodbye with a package beneath his arm.

“Hold on to it so it can guide your life. May it soothe your doubts and calm your spirit,” Pedro wished him as he held it out.

Fray Joaquín knew what it was. Still, he pulled away the canvas that covered the upper part. The crowned head of an Immaculate Virgin appeared in his hands.

“But this—”

“The Virgin wants to accompany you,” the priest interrupted.

Fray Joaquín contemplated the sculpture and its perfect rosy face that looked at him sweetly: a valuable work of considerable size, masterfully carved, with a crown of gold and diamonds. The faithful thanked the missionaries with many gifts and a great deal of money for the absolution of their sins. Fray Pedro, moderate in his habits, refused all those that weren’t essential for his survival, but his integrity had wavered when a rich landowner placed this in his hands. “After all, what better place for Our Lady than working for the missions?” he told himself to justify breaking his rule of austerity. When he handed it over to Fray Joaquín, he felt that he was liberating himself of a burden.

In the Barquillo district of Madrid, to the northeast of the city, in humble single-story houses, lived the
chisperos,
who were as haughty, proud and arrogant as the
manolos
from the Rastro and Lavapiés, but dedicated to blacksmithing and the trade in iron utensils. That was where the Garcías lived along with many other gypsies, and that was where young Martín Costes had been wandering for the last ten days, with his arm bandaged and trying not to attract attention to himself as he went up and down the deserted, dirty streets.

His father and his brother Zoilo told him that they understood what he was doing, that they were with him, but that that was just the way things were. “It didn’t work out well,” admitted El Cascabelero, ashamed. Later they tried to convince the young man not to continue. “It’ll be a waste of time,” said one. “Uncle Melchor is already dead or on his way to Triana,” assured another. “What do I have to lose by trying?” replied the young man.

He asked discreetly and found the house of Manuel García, on Almirante Street. From the first moment he knew that El Galeote was still inside: unlike the other homes, there were always a couple of gypsies going in and out and loitering around without ever getting very far from the door. At midday, they were replaced by others, just as if it were a changing of the guard: they whispered amongst themselves; they pointed at the
house. Often one of the new arrivals would go inside, come back out and the whispering would start up again until the others left with smiles on their faces, patting each other on the back as if they were already savoring the wine they were planning on drinking.

“Have you seen him?” El Cascabelero asked his youngest son.

No. He hadn’t seen him, he had to admit. He should make sure. One night, when Almirante Street was shrouded in pitch-blackness, Martín drew close beneath the window that opened onto it.

“They are waiting for instructions from Triana,” he told his father after waking him up at an ungodly hour when he returned home. “He is inside that house, I’m positive of it.”

They weren’t going to unleash a war between families. That was the decision that, much to the young gypsy’s desperation, his father explained to him after taking the question to the heads of the other friendly families.

“Son,” El Cascabelero tried to excuse himself, “I saw death in your eyes. I hadn’t been in a situation like that in a long time. I didn’t want you to die. I don’t want any of my family members to die. No one is willing to let one of his own die for a gypsy from Triana condemned to death for killing his daughter’s husband! Uncle Melchor … El Galeote is made of stronger stuff. He handed himself in for you. What will he think if after all that, after handing himself over to the Garcías, you or other Vegas died for him?”

“But … they are going to kill him!”

“Tell me: is he alive today?” asked his father in a serious voice.

“Yes.”

“That is what matters.”

“No!” The young gypsy got up from his chair.

“Promise me,” his father begged, trying to hold him back by grabbing his shirt, “that you won’t do anything that could put you in danger.”

“You want me to promise it to the memory of my mother, a Vega?”

El Cascabelero let him go and lowered his eyes to the floor.

Since then, Martín kept patrolling around the house where they were holding Melchor. He couldn’t confront the Garcías. If he caught them by surprise maybe he’d be able to take on one, but not both, of the guards. Besides, there were women inside, and maybe more men. He even
thought about starting a fire, but El Galeote would die with the others. He tried to get in through the back. He slipped into a tumbledown forge and studied the interior kitchen gardens. Impossible. There was only a little window and he didn’t even know if he would find El Galeote behind it. And what if he took his father’s horse, the one he used in the bullfights? He smiled at the image of himself attacking the little house on horseback. He also considered the possibility of reporting it to the constables, but his shoulders trembled at the mere thought, as if they wanted to shake off the idea. The days passed and Martín only managed to come up with harebrained schemes. A fifteen-year-old boy, alone, against an entire family. And when night fell, he would return to Comadre Street, defeated, mute, to find an even more oppressive silence; even the children seemed to have lost the spirit that pushed them to shout, play and fight.

He didn’t give in. He kept going to Barquillo to insult the Garcías under his breath. At least he would be there. “It could take them over a month to get the instructions from Triana that you say they are waiting for,” Zoilo said. “Are you going to be there that whole time?” He didn’t answer his older brother. Of course he would be there! He owed his life to El Galeote! Perhaps then he would have an opportunity, when they took him out of the house to take him to Triana or when … Or were they going to kill him in their house?

The night of the tenth day, after losing hope while patrolling the García house, Martín headed back toward Comadre Street. The whisper he thought he had heard became clearer as soon as he turned the corner of Real del Barquillo: a chorus singing the rosary in the street, just as he had heard so many times in the distance. Twice a day, morning and night, processions of Madrileños went from the many churches to roam the streets praying the rosary. There were close to fifteen hundred brotherhoods of all types in Madrid. The procession was heading up Barquillo Street, in the opposite direction. Martín thought about changing his route and taking a detour, as he always did. The street rosaries were known for pressuring those they met along the way to join them, sometimes with slaps if they were unwilling. The last thing he needed was to end that night praying the rosary with a pack of brutes! If two of those processions crossed paths, the groups of faithful would often end up punching and beating each other with sticks—that’s when they didn’t pull out their knives.

Martín was about to change direction, but he stopped. An idea went through his head;
Why not?
he thought. He ran toward them and blended in with the people praying.

“To Almirante Street,” he said through gritted teeth.

Someone in front of him asked why.

“There … those people are most in need of the …” He hesitated, not remembering what it was called. “… the illumination of Our Lady!” he managed finally, provoking a murmur of approval.

“To Almirante Street,” he then heard transmitted from one brother to the next until it reached the head of the procession. Amid the chanting of the mysteries, Martín was surprised to find himself trying to look at the image of the Virgin that made its way between the torches. Did he want her help?

He felt his knees grow weak as they approached the García house, walking slowly, all jammed together in the narrow alley. What if he wasn’t successful? He was gripped by doubt. The monotonous, repetitive chants made it hard for him to think clearly. They were almost there! El Galeote. The gypsy had saved him from certain death. He stepped out of the line and in the dark he kicked the door to the house hard, and it opened wide; he jumped in and, without even worrying about the surprised Garcías inside, he shouted as loudly as he could.

“Fucking Virgin! Fuck the Virgin and all the saints!”

The Garcías didn’t have time to lay a hand on him. They had barely stood up when a flood of angry, yelling people came into the house. Martín knelt down on the ground and started to cross himself desperately.

“Them! It was them!” he howled, pointing to them with his free hand.

The knives that Manuel García and his people showed were of no use to them. Dozens of indignant, enraged people leapt on the gypsies. Martín got up and looked for Melchor. He saw a closed door and went around the people who were mercilessly attacking the Garcías to reach it. He opened it. Melchor was standing there waiting for him, shocked, with his hands tied behind his back.

“Let’s go, Uncle!”

He didn’t give him time to react: he pushed him out of the room and pulled him toward the door. The members of the procession were busy with the Garcías; even so, some tried to block their way. “It’s them, them!” shouted Martín, distracting them as he slipped through the crowd. In a
few steps they were in front of the door to the street, which was blocked by the throng.