Viva Jacquelina! by L. A. Meyer Page A

is Jacquelina. I am a model, and I will pose for you in return for food and lodging.”
    He looks me over with what I take to be scorn.
    â€œWhat you are is a peasant girl run off from some dirty little farm,” he sneers. “But that does not matter to me. No. I only paint God’s green earth.”
    â€œI am sorry to have disturbed you, Maestro,” I say, backing away.
    I think calling him “master” softened him up a bit.
    â€œWait,” he says, as I walk away. He takes his brush and points to a house up a nearby street. “Go there. Go to la Casa del Sordo.”
    I follow his point.
What is it? A brothel?
I am confused.
    â€œI don’t understand, Señor. I don’t know what that means.”
    â€œIt is the house of the deaf man. Go to him. His name is Goya. He hires models to pose for him.”
    I thank him and head for the doorway of the house he had indicated. Weak with hunger, I manage to get to the door, lift the knocker, and give it two sharp raps. I put my weary forehead against the heavy oak and wait.
    Presently the door is opened a crack and the sharp, inquisitive face of a young woman pokes out.
    â€œQué quiere usted?”
it asks.
    â€œI wish to apply for work as an artist’s model. I was told to come here.”
    She gives me the once over, then says, “No. You were told wrong. Go away.” The door begins to close.
    I’m about to heave a heavy sigh and move on when I hear, “Wait, Carmelita.
Qué pasa?
”
    I stick the Faber foot in the door to prevent its closing.
    â€œI am Jacquelina Bouvier. I am a professional model, looking for work. Will I find some here?”
    The door opens and a young man looks out at me. He says nothing, but only looks me over in an appraising way.
    â€œWell, does your master hire models or not?” I persist.
    â€œHe does, but—”
    â€œWhere is he? I will speak to him.” I frost the young man with the full Lawson Peabody Look from under my black mantilla, which I suspect does not appear very impressive, given my current condition. Still, I push my way into the foyer. It is not in my nature to be rude and forward, but the gnawing hunger in my belly gives me the will to do this.
    â€œHe . . . he is in the studio.”
    â€œGood. What is your name, young man?”
    â€œA-Amadeo . . . I am Maestro Goya’s student.”
    Even in my present state of near desperation, I see that he is quite the good-looking young lad—short-cut glossy black hair, liquid brown eyes, trim body . . .
Hmmm
. . . very handsome, indeed. A bit shy, too . . . all to the good.
    â€œVery well, Amadeo. Introduce me to the great man,
por favor,
” I say, laying my hand on his arm and giving him what I can work up in a sultry stare. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”
    Amadeo shrugs and leads me on. The girl, Carmelita, shoots a look of distaste my way, but I ignore it as I follow the student artist down the hall, through some doors, and into a large room illuminated with high windows and filled all around with canvases in various states of completion. There are many of a historical nature, many portraits . . . and some nude studies.
Oh, well, everyone knows I am not shy in that regard, and if I were promised something to eat, I would pose starkers on top of a flagpole in the town square.
    It turns out I don’t have to do that. Not right now, anyway.
    The painter sits at an easel, apparently touching up the background on a medium-size portrait of a young blond girl, about ten years old, very richly dressed, and very well done.
    Maestro, indeed.
    Goya is a man of late middle years, broad of build, wearing a blousy white shirt. He seems intensely concentrated on his work. He does not turn around at our approach.
    â€œThe Maestro cannot hear. He can speak, but you must write out anything you wish to say to him.” Amadeo nods toward several