Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards (30 page)

“Grimaldi spoke about torture.” I faltered. “Would there really—?”

“There is no brutality like that left in us; we are all full of remorse. It will never happen again. Spanish men are gentlemen.”

He rolled over, lifted himself onto his elbows, and kissed me tenderly. “I understand nerves,
Bandita.
Don't punish yourself for the ball. This new way is better, you'll see.” Then he grinned. “Because
I
thought of it.”

We made love again, removing items of clothing slowly, bit by bit, tickling and biting each newly revealed piece of skin. Lindo observed, occasionally snorting and shaking his head up and down, spraying us with bits of fresh, or half-chewed, hay—which made us laugh.

Oh God. That night in the stable—so much laughter and life. Panting, laughing into each other's faces, now fully naked, myself astride Diego's hips, and Lindo's big nose coming between, with gusts of grassy breath. Afterwards, stroking the man's wet thigh and the white star on the horse's brow, both at the same time, thinking, “This is heaven; this is everything. Make it stop right here, right now. Just stay . . .”

“Breathe into his nostrils,” Diego told me. “He'll learn to love you this way. He'll learn you belong together, that you're his, as much as the other way around.” And so I did, breathing softly into the large, velvet nostrils with soft, antennae-like hairs surrounding them. Lindo taking it in, eyes liquid and alert. And the horse breathing back, straight into mine with summer-soft breath, like warm wind in a ripening field. A message from the gods, that's what it felt like. A communion, an agreement.

I cried with happiness that night, as Diego held me. I'd never done that before, and it took me completely by surprise. We rocked back and forth in each other's arms, heads on each other's shoulders, not saying anything. Did he feel it too? He didn't say so, but he didn't deny it either. He just held me.

That moment passed too, as all moments do—good, bad, and terrible. Somehow they pass. We lay in the straw again, the blanket still beneath us, drinking the second bottle of wine. Lindo dozing on his feet, only occasionally switching his tail and shifting his weight from one foot to another.

“Ah,
Bandita,
” my lover whispered. “I am done for. I am no more.”

Stroking the hairs on Diego's chest and hoping what he had said wasn't true because on this night I wasn't in the least bit tired, I asked, “If I were Spanish, what would my name be?”

“Mm, let me think.” His hand came up to his mustache, always the indicator of deep thought or growing lustfulness. “Dolores,” he said finally.

“Why that?”

“My mother's name.”

I hit him.

“No, really. It's a beautiful name. Lola for short.”

“Oh!” I sat up. “That I like. Lola . . .” I tried it on for size.

“Also Maria,” he added, “because every woman must have the name Maria, to keep her safe and bring her luck—the Madonna's blessing.”

“Is that why? I always wondered. And last name?”

“What about Contreras?” I shook my head. “Cantero?” Another shake. “Why not?”

“Doesn't feel right.”

He rhymed off a dozen or so other surnames, but none of them spoke to me.

“Lola,” I repeated. And then I really sat up straight, taking a large swig from the bottle as the idea hit me. “I want to change my name for good, Diego! I've always hated the name I was given. Eliza, that is
my
mother's name. Eliza Gilbert. Listen to it, so flat, so—”

“It doesn't suit you, I'll agree.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

Oh, I loved him even more at that moment! He understood! He could see that I was held back from my real potential because I hadn't stepped into my true identity! More surnames flashed past our lips, we grew carried away and lusty again with the sheer pleasure of it all. We woke Lindo up; he swung his big head around to look at us and we laughed some more, before he turned back to stare at his hay, his wall—his head sagged, his eyelashes drooped, and he was asleep again.

“This time I truly am destroyed,” Diego murmured against my hair as we lay again staring up at the stable's beams. “Ah, wait, what about this? An old aristocratic family name, fallen into disuse because of the wars. All the young men are dead.”

“What is it?”

“Montez.”

I remember lying there in his arms, the smell of us all around me, on my lips and hair and skin, as it sank in. Lola Montez. My limbs relaxed; my eyes closed.

After a sleep we awoke, surprisingly ready for more, so it seemed that, in celebration, the name also needed more. Ornaments, he called them. Embellishments, I averred. The crazier the better, until I was hooting with delight. “No, no! I have it,
Bandita,
the ultimate:
¡Devoradora de hombres!
”

“Devourer of men?” I screamed with hilarity, “Is that what you think of me?”

“Well, what else would you call what you've just been doing with me? You beauty, you bewitching one!”

“La Lola!” I cried out, jubilant, and riding him again. I had found me!

Two evenings later, I made my way to the office of Prime Minister Baldomero Espartero at the royal palace. Having observed the man's schedule of duties and attendances since the night of the ball, we knew that Espartero always worked on his own for several hours in the late evening, and that this was when he was at his most relaxed.

I had attempted to alter my appearance as much as possible, as Diego suggested: I'd gone to Ventura, and we visited the backrooms of the Príncipe. He knew where to lay his hands on a pale golden wig, able to be fastened to the head with realistic grip, expensively constructed from real hair.

“But I was wearing my own hair at the ball.”

“You think he noticed your hair?” Ventura countered. “Anyway, just tell him
that
was a wig, if he asks. Which he won't.”

He also helped me with makeup, painting my face a more olive complexion, with lips fuller and eyes outlined. “A golden Cleopatra,” he muttered, as he finished. “Now you resemble his wife when he married her, twenty years ago. When he fell for her money. Now he'll fall for you. He'd better.”

“He will.” The others still didn't trust me. Shaky but brave, I was determined to prove them wrong. I put everything but my task aside, everything that they were about to do had to go on without me—concentrate, and succeed!

At Espartero's office, the men in the outer chambers looked surprised to see a woman enter on such a blustery night. When I asked for the prime minister on a personal matter, their eyes swung towards each other and little smirks appeared at the corners of their mouths. How I hated that. I knew what they thought of me but consoled myself with the fact that they saw only the outside, and only I knew what was about
to transpire. The last laugh would be on them, I hoped. I passed them a card with my particulars printed upon it: Patrizia Olivares, Actress. (Might as well put her to use, I'd thought, sans
padre
husband.)

I'd carried a fur muff with one of my little pistols and the mask from the ball hidden inside, and I waited, staring out at the frozen grounds. After about fifteen minutes, I could hear a firm, heavy tread approaching, and the silver-maned tyrant entered.

“Señorita? You wish to see me?” There was no recognition in his steely eyes.

I pulled one hand out of my muff, revealing my Cloud with the Silver Lining mask. Shyly, I held it up against my face.

“You?” he said.

“It is I.”

He ushered me ahead of him to a more secluded corner, the men in the room turning their heads to watch.

“I smoked three cigars, waiting for you.”

“I lost my nerve.” My heart was genuinely pounding with fear. “I'd guessed who you were,” I added, suddenly inspired.

He liked that and chuckled. “I suspected as much. Come. Come inside, my dear.” He glanced at the doorman, who immediately swung the door to an inner chamber open while staring rigidly ahead. “Tell everyone,” Espartero called in a commanding voice, “I am not to be disturbed under
any
circumstances!” We passed through and the door clicked shut again, smartly, behind us. I imagined all the henchmen rushing to the door in a clump, shoving at each other, trying to hear.

Now I'm in the lion's den and no mistake, I thought.

He took my hand and led me through this first palatial space—his newly transformed public office, where he'd hold meetings, draft new constitutions edicts, and regulations, and petrify his minions. It was appointed in dark wood and leather so that even with a gallery of windows along the side, the room felt sombre, masculine, threatening. Looking at it all, it began to make sense to me that he'd relocated here: Having entered their private domain, he was infiltrating even their sacred spaces, letting them know that he would continue to reduce their power and influence, piece by piece.

Moving to the back of this room, Espartero ushered me through a further door, and here were his new private chambers.
Dios mio,
I prayed, let me come out of this safely.

He closed and locked the door behind us, and then, God help me, fell on me like the lion I'd pictured. His hands were heavy, full of force. His lips, open and wet, devoured my face
—merde,
I squeaked inwardly, don't let him chew off my new complexion! Or, even worse, dislodge the wig! “Señor,” I panted, pushing at his chest, “please!”

He came to, and stared at me, blinking. “Señorita Olivares, forgive me. I've been dreaming of you, and your breasts . . .” Oh dear. “Let me see them?” This man had no time for niceties.

I hadn't anticipated this voraciousness. He was, after all, at least fifty. I wished I hadn't worn such a low-cut gown; it would set him off like a steam engine as soon as I removed my cloak. And how would I keep him occupied through the rest of the evening? I sensed that this man, with his haste and heavy responsibilities, would be good for one round and that would be that. Foolishly, I'd assumed the chase and the flirtation, begun at the ball, would take a few hours at least to reach fruition. Timing was crucial, Diego had cautioned me, and I now realized this would be my biggest challenge. How to keep him on the boil, but not turn vicious? Suddenly remembering something Carlota had said, I fanned myself and whispered in a tiny voice, “First, might you indulge me? I wandered around outside for several hours, trying to work up my courage. It is such a cold evening, would you perhaps . . . have any chocolate? As a warmer?”

“Of course! Of course, my dear,” he blustered. “Forgive me for not thinking of that myself.” He yanked a bell pull near at hand; I could hear the jangling somewhere far off in the building's depths. “It should only take a moment.”

“Please,” I said, “let us take as long as we can. I am a modest sort of woman, even though I'm an actress.” My hands were still engulfed in my muff.

“Of course you are. Mm, mm.” He was nodding in a soothing sort of way, his eyes on my demurely shrouded chest.

“I cannot believe that I have come here.” I made a move as if to leave. “I am ashamed, señor.”

“No, no!”

A rap at the door, and a young man in livery stepped inside. “Your Honour?”

“A jug of chocolate. Immediately.”

The livery retreated. Espartero was wiggling his fingers, as if longing to fondle the merchandise, so close and yet so far. Ye gads, this would be funny if it weren't so scary. I truly hoped I wouldn't end up black and blue. Or worse. With such a man, used to power and force, you could never tell. I vowed to myself that I would never,
never,
allow myself to be manipulated into such a position again. Oh, how many times must a young woman make that vow? It was frightening and yes, shaming, but I was doing it for Diego. Not Grimaldi or the Cristino cause. For Diego, because he needed me, and I would not fail him this time.

In due course, the chocolate arrived. The young man who brought it kept stealing glances over to where I sat wrapped in my cloak. “Fine, now get out,” Espartero growled, wanting to have me all to himself, “I have no more need of you.”

“Your Excellency,” the man bowed, and slipped away. My last chance to do the same. Be stoic, get through it. Survive.

“Are you warm yet?” Espartero urged me, as soon as the cup touched my lips.

“Not quite.”

He jumped up and strode around, gnawing at his fingertips, filling me with dread. What else would he be gnawing on in only a very few minutes? My nipples tingled with alarm. And then I remembered: I had placed one of the firing caps for my pistol on the end of my left nipple, as usual, for safety. Oh no.

He came back, loomed over me. “May I remove your cloak now? I could massage your fingers, if that might help.” He reached for my muff, to take it.

Good lord. I'd have to let it go. Where would he put it? Would he find the pistol? Would we end up in a bed, would he fall asleep afterwards, and for how long? Would it be over in a moment, or go on and on and on, requiring groans and screams of feigned ecstasy? Perhaps he preferred real fear—well, that I could supply. No, I told myself firmly, no. Be a
bandita.
Be Lola. Be what you need to be, for Diego.