The Barefoot Queen

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Translation copyright © 2014 by Mara Faye Lethem

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crown Publishers, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  Crown and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

  Originally published in Spain as La Reina Descalza by Grijalbo, an imprint of Random House Mondadori, Barcelona, in 2013. Copyright © 2013 by Ildefonso Falcones de Sierra. This translation originally published in hardcover in Great Britain by Doubleday, an imprint of Transworld Publishers, London, in 2014.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Falcones de Sierra, Ildefonso, 1959–

  [Reina descalza. English]

  The barefoot queen : a novel / Ildefonso Falcones ; [translated by Mara Faye Lethem]. — First American edition.

  pages cm

  1. Spain—History—18th century—Fiction. I. Lethem, Mara, translator. II. Title.

  PQ6656.A375R4713 2014

  863′.64—dc23

  2014017397

  ISBN 978-0-8041-3948-9

  eBook ISBN 978-0-8041-3949-6

  Jacket design by Kimberly Glyder

  Jacket photography © Irene Lamprakou/Arcangel Images

  v3.1

  To the memory of my parents

  Being flamenco is:

  it’s another way of seeing the world …

  —TOMÁS BORRÁS, “ELEGY TO THE CANTAOR”

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part I: Magnificent Goddess

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part II: Song of Blood

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Part III: The Voice of Freedom

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Part IV: Restrained Passion

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Part V: The Broken Voice

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Part VI: Galley Lament

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Author’s Note

  Port of Cádiz, January 7, 1748

  Just as she was about to set foot on the dock at Cádiz, Caridad hesitated. She was right at the end of the gangway jutting out of the tender that had taken them ashore from the Armada ship named The Queen. It had traveled from the Indies laden with riches as escort to six registered merchant ships transporting valuable goods. Caridad looked up at the winter sun that illuminated the bustling, teeming port: one of the merchant ships that had sailed with them from Havana was being unloaded. The sun slipped through the gaps in her worn straw hat, dazzling her. She was startled by the commotion and shrank back, frightened, as if the shouts were being directed at her.

  “Don’t stop there, darkie!” spat the sailor next in line, overtaking her without a second thought.

  Caridad stumbled and almost fell into the water. Another man tried to pass her on the gangway, but she jumped clumsily to the dock, then moved aside and stopped again, while part of the crew continued arriving in port amid laughter, jokes and brazen bets as to which woman would be the one to make them forget the long ocean voyage.

  “Enjoy your freedom, Negress!” shouted another man as he passed by her, taking the liberty of a quiet slap on her buttocks.

  Some of his mates laughed. Caridad didn’t even move, her gaze fixed on the long dirty ponytail that danced on the sailor’s back, brushing his tattered shirt to the rhythm of his wobbly stride as he headed toward the Sea Gate.

  Free? she managed to ask herself. What freedom? She looked past the dock, the walls, where the Sea Gate opened on to the city: a large part of the more than five hundred men who made up The Queen’s crew were crowding together in front of the entrance, where an army of officials—commanders, corporals, inspectors—searched them for contraband and questioned them about the ships’ course, to find out if any boat had separated from the convoy and its route in order to smuggle in contraband and evade the royal tax office. The men waited impatiently for them to finish the routine procedures; those furthest from the officials, sheltered by the throng, shouted, demanding to be let through, but the inspectors didn’t yield. The Queen, majestically docked in the Trocadero channel, had transported in its holds more than two million pesos and almost that many wrought-silver marks, plus more treasures from the Indies, along with Caridad and Don José, her master.

  Damn his soul! Caridad had cared for Don José on the voyage. “The scourge of the sea,” they’d said he had. “He’s going to die,” they also assured her. And his time did come, after a slow agony that ate away at his body, day after day, amid dreadful swelling, fevers and bleeding. For a month master and slave remained locked up in the stern, in a small foul cabin with a single hammock. Don José had paid good money to the captain to have it built with thick planks, taking space from the officers’ wardroom. “Eleggua, force his soul to wander lost, never finding rest,” had been Caridad’s plea. She could sense, in that cramped space, the powerful presence of the Supreme Being, the God who rules over men’s fates. And it was as if her master had heard her, for he begged for compassion with his bilious eyes and extended his hand in search of the warmth of life he knew was slipping away from him. Alone with him in the cabin, Caridad had refused him that comfort. Hadn’t she also outstretched her hand when they separated her from her little Marcelo? And what had the master done then? Order the overseer of the tobacco plantation to hold her down and shout to the Negro slave to take away her little boy.

  “And shut him up!” he added on the esplanade in front of the big house, where the slaves had gathered to find out who would be their new master and what fate had in store for them from that point on. “I can’t stand …”

  Don José suddenly grew silent. The slaves’ shock was clear on their faces. Blindly, Caridad had managed to hit the overseer and get free; she seemed to be about to run toward her son, but quickly realized how foolish she was being and stopped herself. For a few moments all that was heard were Marcelo’s shrill, desperate shrieks.

  “Do you want me to whip her, Don José?” asked the overseer as he grabbed Caridad again by one arm.

  “No,” he decided after thinking it over. “I don’t want to bring her with me to Spain ruined.”

  He
let her go and shot a severe look toward that big Negro—Cecilio was his name—who then dragged the boy toward the shack. Caridad fell to her knees, her cries joining the boy’s. That was the last time she saw her son. They didn’t let her say goodbye to him, they didn’t allow her to even …

  “Caridad! What are you doing just standing there, woman?”

  Hearing her name brought her back to reality and amid the din she recognized the voice of Don Damián, the old chaplain of The Queen, who had also just disembarked. She immediately dropped her bundle, uncovered her head and lowered her gaze, fixing it on the worn straw hat she started to crush in her hands.

  “You can’t stay here on the dock,” continued the priest as he approached and took her by the arm. The contact lasted only an instant; the flustered priest quickly removed his hand. “Let’s go,” he urged somewhat nervously. “Come with me.”

  They walked over to the Sea Gate: Don Damián laden with a small trunk, Caridad with her little bundle and her hat in her hands, not taking her eyes off the chaplain’s sandals.

  “Make way for a man of God,” demanded the priest to the sailors crammed in front of the gate.

  Gradually the crowd moved aside to grant him passage. Caridad followed behind him, dragging her bare feet, black as ebony, her eyes still downcast. The long, grayish shirt of thick coarse burlap that she wore as a dress couldn’t hide the fact that she was a strong, shapely woman. She was as tall as some of the sailors, who looked up to take in her thick black curls, while others gazed at her large, firm breasts and voluptuous hips. The chaplain kept walking and merely lifted a hand when he heard whistles, impertinent comments and even the occasional bold invitation.

  “I am Father Damián García.” The priest introduced himself, holding out his papers to one of the commanders once he’d got through the seamen. “Chaplain of the warship Queen, of Your Majesty’s Armada.”

  The commander looked through the documents. “Father, will you allow me to inspect your trunk?”

  “Personal effects …” answered the priest as he opened it. “The goods are duly registered in my paperwork.”

  The commander nodded as he rummaged around in the trunk. “Any mishaps on the journey?” asked the officer without looking at him, weighing up a small roll of tobacco in his hand. “Any encounters with enemy ships or ships outside the fleet?”

  “None. Everything went as planned.”

  The commander nodded. “This your slave?” he inquired, pointing to Caridad after finishing the inspection. “She’s not listed in the documents.”

  “Her? No. She’s a free woman.”

  “She doesn’t look like one,” declared the commander, planting himself in front of Caridad, who clung even tighter to her little bundle and her straw hat. “Look at me, Negress!” muttered the officer. “What are you hiding?”

  Some of the other officers, who were inspecting the seamen, stopped their work and turned toward the commander and the woman who remained before him with her eyes downcast. The sailors who had let them through came over.

  “Nothing. She’s not hiding anything,” answered Don Damián.

  “Silence, Father. People who avoid a commander’s eyes are always hiding something.”

  “What could this poor wretch be hiding?” insisted the priest. “Caridad, show him your papers.”

  The woman rifled through her bundle in search of the documents the ship’s notary had given her, while Don Damián continued talking.

  “She embarked in Havana with her master, Don José Hidalgo, who planned to return to his native land before he died but passed away on the voyage, God rest his soul.”

  Caridad handed her wrinkled documents to the commander.

  “Before he died,” continued Don Damián, “as is customary on His Majesty’s vessels, Don José made a will and ordered that his slave Caridad be freed. There you have the manumission document.”

  Caridad Hidalgo—the notary had written, taking the dead master’s last name—also known as Cachita; Negro slave the color of ebony, in good health and of strong constitution, with curly black hair and some twenty-five years of age.

  “What have you got in that bag?” asked the commander after reading the documents confirming Caridad’s freedom.

  She opened up the bundle and showed it to him. An old blanket and a felt jacket … everything she owned. Master had given her the jacket last winter and the blanket two winters back. Hidden among them were several cigars she’d been rationing on the journey after stealing them from Don José. What if they find them? she thought, terrified. The commander made a motion to inspect the bundle, but when he saw the old fabric his expression soured.

  “Look at me, Negress,” he demanded.

  Everyone witnessing the scene saw the trembling that ran through Caridad’s body. She had never looked directly at a white man when addressed.

  “She’s afraid,” intervened Don Damián.

  “I said look at me.”

  “Do it,” pleaded the chaplain.

  Caridad lifted her round face with its thick fleshy lips, flattened nose and small brown eyes that tried to look past the commander, toward the city.

  The man furrowed his brow and searched, in vain, for her elusive gaze.

  “Next!” he said, suddenly giving in, breaking the tension and triggering an avalanche of sailors.

  DON DAMIÁN, with Caridad close on his heels, entered the city through the Sea Gate flanked by two battlemented towers. The Queen, the third-rate ship of the line with more than seventy guns they’d sailed in on from Havana, stayed behind in the Trocadero alongside the six merchant ships it had escorted, their holds stuffed with products from the Indies: sugar, tobacco, cacao, ginger, sarsaparilla, indigo, cochineal, silk, pearls, tortoiseshell … silver. The journey was a success and Cádiz had received them with ringing bells. Spain was at war with England; the treasure fleets, which up until a few years earlier crossed the ocean guarded by ships from the Royal Armada, had ceased operating, so the trade was done with register-ships, private merchant vessels that acquired a royal permit for the voyage. That was why the arrival of the merchandise and the treasure, so needed by the Spanish tax office, had sparked a festive atmosphere in every corner of the city.

  When they reached Juego de Pelota Street, having passed the church of Our Lady of Pópulo and the Sea Gate, Don Damián stepped out of the floods of sailors, soldiers and merchants, and stopped, turning toward Caridad after he’d put his trunk down on the ground. “May God be with you and keep you safe, Caridad,” he blessed her.

  She didn’t respond. She had pulled her straw hat down to her ears and the chaplain couldn’t see her eyes, but he imagined them focused on the trunk, or on his sandals, or …

  “I have things to do, you understand?” he said in an attempt to excuse himself. “Go look for some work. This is a very rich city.”

  As he spoke, Don Damián extended his right hand, brushing Caridad’s forearm; then it was he who lowered his gaze for a second. When he looked up he found Caridad’s small brown eyes fixed on him, just as on the nights during the crossing, when after her master’s death he had taken responsibility for the slave and hidden her from the crew by order of the captain. His stomach churned. “I didn’t touch her,” he repeated to himself for the millionth time. He had never laid a finger on her, but Caridad had looked at him with expressionless eyes and he … He hadn’t been able to stop himself masturbating beneath his clothes at the sight of such a splendid female.

  Shortly after Don José’s passing, the funeral rite was carried out: they said three prayers for the dead and his corpse was thrown overboard in a sack with two earthenware jugs filled with water tied to the feet. Then the captain ordered that the makeshift cabin be taken down and that the notary inventory the deceased man’s assets. Don José was the only passenger on the flagship, Caridad the only woman aboard.

  “Reverend,” said the captain to the priest after giving the notary his instructions, “I am placing you in charge of keepin
g the Negro woman away from the crew.”

  “But I …” Don Damián tried to object.

  “It’s not hers, but you can feed her with the food Mr. Hidalgo brought on board,” declared the officer, ignoring his protest.

  Don Damián kept Caridad locked up in his tiny cabin, where there was only room for the hammock he hung from one side to the other, which he took down and rolled up during the day. The woman slept on the floor, at his feet, beneath the hammock. The first few nights, the chaplain took refuge in reading the holy books, but gradually his gaze began to follow the oil lamp’s beams that, as if of their own volition, seemed to stray from the pages of his heavy tomes to illuminate the woman who lay curled up so close to him.

  He fought against the fantasies that waylaid him when he caught a glimpse of Caridad’s legs that had slipped out from under the blanket that covered her, or of her breasts, rising and falling to the rhythm of her breathing, or of her buttocks. And yet, almost involuntarily, he started to touch himself. Perhaps it was the creaking from the timbers the hammock hung on, perhaps it was the tension gathered in such a small space, but Caridad opened her eyes and all the light from the oil lamp settled inside them. Don Damián felt himself growing red and he remained still for a moment, but his desire multiplied with Caridad’s gaze upon him, the same expressionless gaze with which she now listened to him.

  “Heed my words, Caridad,” he insisted. “Look for work.”

  Don Damián grabbed the trunk, turned his back and resumed his path.

  Why do I feel guilty? he wondered as he stopped to switch the trunk to his other hand. He could have forced her, he’d said to himself whenever he was tormented by guilt. She was only a slave. Maybe … maybe he wouldn’t have even had to resort to violence. Weren’t all Negro slaves dissolute women? Don José, her master, had admitted in confession that he’d slept with all of his.

  “Caridad bore my child,” he revealed, “maybe two—but no, I don’t think so; the second one, that clumsy stupid boy, was as dark as her.”

  “Do you regret it?” the priest asked him.

  “Having children with the Negro women?” the tobacco farmer replied angrily. “Father, I sold the little half-breeds at a nearby sugar mill owned by priests. They never worried about my sinning soul when they bought them from me.”