CHAPTER ELEVEN
The great plaza in Madrid was a spot García enjoyed. Today he had come to clear his mind and map future plans. Even though he had made friends, there was a great sense of loneliness and a weariness caused by being constantly on guard. Nearby, an old man fed the pigeons. Street vendors were everywhere, some with fixed tables, some wandering. They sold melon slices, sweet drinks, jackets, hats, children’s toys and a variety of other items. Musicians, jugglers and a few con men also plied their trades on this day when a few white clouds drifted overhead and a soft breeze stirred the ruffles of ladies’ skirts.
García sat on a stone bench with Poncho, sometimes talking to the small canine, his only long-term friend on this Iberian Peninsula in the year 1587. He had noted what seemed to be a monk, thin, not too tall, who seemed to be circling him, perhaps fascinated by Poncho. The black garment and cowling hid the face.
He had lost track of the figure and was assessing his life: Francisco was working out well as a cadet. She was extremely literate and could handle secretarial duties. His torrid affair with Juanita had cooled somewhat, but he saw her once or twice a week; her father still insisted that the two of them unite in marriage and was pulling strings to get García a more favorable assignment. He had met with Doña María Botella three or four times. They enjoyed a good physical and intellectual relationship, had fun sparring over almost any issue.
With these thoughts filtering through his brain a voice behind him asked, “Could that dog be named Pierre?”
García whirled at the familiar voice, only to see the monk, still cowled. Then it struck him: the question was asked in English! “Who are you?” he demanded.
“A friend.”
“You’re Mary McKay,” García said in amazement.
“Dr. King, thank God I’ve found you. I was at my wits end.”
“For God’s sake, Mary,” García hissed, looking around to see if anyone was listening, “Why? Why did you do it? You were messing with my papers, weren’t you?”
“I had looked over your papers, just now and then, ever since your sabbatical began. Then I found the strange ones.”
“The formula,” García broke in.
“I suppose. I had taken them home. You were gone. Then I got to drinking. Not much, I opened a bottle of wine, then I thought, why not.”
“The wine’s part of it and why not? Why not? Speak low and speak in Spanish. Do you realize I prepared for four years to make this journey? I studied and memorized everything about Spain, its culture, its geography, the leaders. Then I made an army officer’s outfit with my own hands. Now you come along, your Spanish is bad and you’re wearing a ridiculous black robe. Why in the world?”
“I’m not wearing a black robe. I mean, I wasn’t. I’m wearing blue jeans, Birkenstock sandals and a Carolina blue T-shirt.”
“Holy Christ,” García almost cringed. “If the inquisition gets hold of you, you are toast. And where does that leave me?”
“I won’t give you away, Guy. Honest.”
“The hell you won’t. The torture is exquisite. You’d give your own mother away and beg for death. And I wouldn’t blame you. Christ! Someone warned me about getting involved with a graduate assistant. They were right.”
“We weren’t involved.”
“Maybe not, but we are now. Incidentally, the dog’s name is now Poncho. You can begin by remembering that. When did you get here and what have you been doing?”
“Maybe three or four days. I lost track. I found myself standing in downtown Madrid in the middle of the night. It scared the shit out of me. I got sober right quick, but I kept my head and stole this robe off a clothesline. It saved my ass. I begged for a little food, drank out of the fountain. I think people believe I’m some sort of holy man.”
“The inquisition will holy your ass. OK, come with me. I’ll think while we walk. I’ve got an idea.”
García led the way back to the presidio. Now he wasn’t alone. There was one other person in Spain who knew he taught Spanish history and culture at Chapel Hill. In a whisper he asked if Mary McKay had chosen a Spanish name. She replied that she was now María Harvey.
“Harvey’s not Spanish,” García sputtered.
“Well, it is. It’s the name of the best known sherry, definitely a Spanish wine.”
García couldn’t argue with that, but he whispered back, “Why not call yourself Gallo or Sandman or Livingston Cellars.”
Mary stifled a laugh. “I’m starved and I’m thirsty.”
García led her into his office where Francisco was busy at her desk. “Cadet Francisco, this is, uh, Padre Jose Padilla. I have to talk to him in private, in my room.” Francisco stood at attention and greeted the hooded figure. “Will you please find Sergeant Jesus?”
Once in the room, Mary sat on the bed and was near collapse. “I thought I was dead meat. I do know about the inquisition. What can I do? Reverse the incantation?”
“No. It may only work once. You’ll have to stay. Francisco, the one in the office,” he motioned towards the door. “He’s a cadet doing office work. I can use one more. So we’ll deck you out as a cadet and you can stay close. In the meantime I’ll get you food and drink and you can sleep here with Francisco. The bed’s big enough for two, and in a day or two I’ll rustle up a cot.”
Mary looked up in amazement. “You want me to sleep with that man?” she said in loud English.
“Speak Spanish, dammit, and keep it down. Francisco’s not a man.”
“I saw him. I know that. He’s a handsome boy, but still past puberty. You can’t just throw me in with a Spanish cadet. I know I’m in a tight spot, but there must be another way. “I’ve always liked you Guy. You and me, we could sleep together.”
“Yeah, right. I sleep with a cadet. Somebody would know and I’d be branded as a flaming fag. Not popular with the inquisition. I’d likely be flaming before you know it. What I mean is, Francisco is a girl. She too is posing as a cadet for reasons too difficult to explain at the moment. So you will be two girls.”
“That’s amazing, Guy. What sort of mess are you in over here?”
“I’m a captain and a commander. My name is Don Pedro García. When you address me, do it as Captain García. And when you speak Spanish please mumble. Your accent sucks. I’ll let it be know that you have a speech impediment..”
“Oh, shit. Why did I drink that wine?”
Jesus knocked and García let him into the room. “It’s a twisted story, Jesus, but this woman under that hood will be called Jose Padilla. Cadet Jose Padilla. We have one cadet, we now have two. I want you to cut her hair and dress her out like you did Francisco. If you need any money, ask me. But no one should know except Francisco, who will be sleeping with her until we can find a cot.”
Jesus was wide-eyed, but up to any circumstance. “Yes, my captain. It will be done. Would the lady do me the honor of removing the cloak?”
Mary McKay rose and dropped the cloak. Jesus was bug-eyed at a woman in tight blue jeans, a Carolina blue snug fitting T-shirt with the strange lettering.
“Give me a minute to talk to Francisco,” García said and left the room.
Francisco rose and asked if she could be of service. “There is something. That person in the cloak, that Jose Padilla. He will be a cadet, and for the next day or two you two must share your bed. Then we will get him a cot.”
Francisco put her hand to her mouth in surprise and despair. “You want me to sleep with a young man, Captain García? I can’t believe you mean that. Jesus said that you might be interested in me, but that you would give me away to a young cadet. It’s impossible.”
“No. No, Francisco, Jose Padilla is not a man.”
“He’s homosexual?”
“No. He’s a woman. Just like you. It’s another masquerade. You will be two cadets together, both women, both doing officer work, possibly helping one another.”
“I’m startled. But things have been very strange recently. That Juanita, you know. She sends me notes.
Love notes.”
“Forget about Juanita for the time being and think about Jose Padilla. He is from the north, his parents died.” García was creating a history as he talked. “Maybe some kind of illness or plague. Also, there is something wrong with his speech. So you must talk slow and he will talk slow and sometimes like a child.”
“He talks like a child?”
“Yes. Very much. Probably shock over the death of his parents. You must give him your sympathy.”
“Of course. But you’re certain he is a woman?”
“Definitely. A woman.”
It took Jesus only a few hours to outfit the new cadet. Francisco, who was informed about the operation, cropped Jose’s hair. And Jose, aka Mary McKay, scarfed down food, drank half a liter of wine, then slept for 14 hours without relent.
When she woke, García carefully went over the operation once more, coached her on her Spanish, stressed the seriousness of their situation and once again scolded her for her sins. She had been a good undergraduate and García, aka Dr. Guy King, had been pleased to accept her as a graduate assistant working toward her master’s. He had carefully avoided the sexual entanglement so common in such a setting. Now he learned she had been all too willing to plunge into such a liaison. He was, after all, thirty-one, unmarried, a full professor with great expectations. Much greater than the rest of the University of North Carolina faculty realized. Possibly he was their first and last time traveler. A scholar studying history before and after the fact.