I was determined not to let fear ruin my fair. With the fray's coppers, I bought a flat, hard tortilla smeared with honey. Chewing on it, I strolled by the colorful booths and tables. Everything seemed to be for sale—from luscious putas to pulque fresh from the maguey's fleshy heart to rare wines that had survived both storm-tossed ocean voyage and jarring trek by pack train.
People flowed through the aisles like river currents. Merchants and mendicants, soldiers and sailors, whores and ladies, indios and mestizos, richly dressed españols, village headmen, caciques in colorful indio mantas, flamboyant africanas and mulattas.
Two española women stopped at a busy corner, shaking tambourines, flat musical instruments resembling drumheads but with jingling disks fitted around the rim. I recognized them as the picara dancers who had performed when that rogue, Mateo, had recited "El Cid." Their two male troupers dropped a barrel nearby and lifted the dwarf on top.
"Amigos, heed my call. Gather around and you will see and hear regal wonderments, oft performed for the crowned heads of Europe, the Infidel sultans of Arabia and Persia, and the heathen emperors of Asia.
"Remember a day in time when our proud land was overrun by the ravaging Moors. There were naught but a few small kingdoms where our lords held sway, and even these paid tribute to the Moors. That bitter tariff was not remitted in the gold dug from the earth but in the guise of gold-haired maidens, the fairest virgins in the land, whom each year the depraved Moorish king and his notables ruthlessly ravished."
With histrionic hands and wonder-wide eyes, the dwarf began his lurid tale.
"There was no Cid, no hero in our land, but, ah, there was a maiden who forswore the lewd lust of Moorish fiends. In alabaster garb, golden tresses trailing down her back, she burst into the council room where the Spanish king held court with his knights. Confronting them with their cowardly acts, she called them false men who sat on their swords while the flower of Spain's honor was desecrated and defiled."
The diminutive thespian eyed the intense men and outraged women now assembled.
"Do you know what this fair maid told them? She said to them that if they lacked the manhood to face the Moor, let women brandish Spanish steel and fight the Infidel in their stead."
Every man in the crowd—as well as youths such as I—raged at the shame of those knights. Spain's greatest treasure was the honor of her men—and the sanctity of her women. To give our women to our enemies as tribute? Ay! Better to rip out my tongue, gouge my eyes, cut off my cojones.
"Now, gather around all, as the dancers of La Nómadas sing for you 'The Maiden's Tribute.' "
While the crowd of men were primarily interested in the dancing women, and especially the flashes of thigh the women showed when they lifted their skirts, I saw that the dwarf kept a close eye out for the Inquisitors and other priests wandering around the fair, even as the two men circulated with a hat to collect money. Meanwhile the women dancers sang:
If the Moors must have tribute, make men your tribute money;
Send idle drones to tease them within their hives of honey;
For when 'tis paid with maidens, from every maid there springs
Some five or six strong soldiers to serve the Moorish king.
It is but little wisdom to keep our men at home;—
While the words of the song were innocent enough, the body language of the women, who occasionally paused in a whispered aside to describe what a Moor would do to a Spanish virgin, was enough to get them arrested.
They serve but to get señoritas, who when their time is come,
Must go, like all the others, the moor's bed to sleep in;—
In all the rest they're useless, and nowise worth the keeping.
'Tis we have manly courage within the breasts of women,
But you caballeros are all hare-hearted,
Thus spoke that fearless señorita—
The women dancing in front of me flung their skirts above their waists. They wore nothing beneath those swirling garments, and I gaped to glimpse that secret garden between their legs, which I'd so recently come to know. Of course, the men in the audience went wild and hurled their money into the hats.
What was it about Spanish women that drove Spanish men wild? Spanish men can see a naked india or africana woman and look through them as if they were never there or see them merely as receptacles for their lust. But one brief glance at a Spanish woman's ankle or a furtive glimpse of her delectable throatline, and these same men are beside themselves with rapture. And, of course, these two actresses displayed more than a little ankle.
"Pssss!" the dwarf hissed. "Cho!"
The dancers even drew the attention of the two priests. Pushing into the crowd, the women dropped their skirts and sang "The Song of the Galley," a tune about a woman waiting for her lover, a prisoner of the Moors, to return.
You mariners of Spain,
Bend strongly on your oars,
And bring my love again,
For he lies among the Moors!
You galleys fairly built
Like castles on the sea,
Oh, great will be your guilt,
If you bring him not to me.
The wind is blowing strong,
The breeze will aid your oars;
Oh, swiftly fly along—
For he lies among the Moors.
The sweet breeze of the sea
Cools every cheek but mine;
Hot is its breath to me,
As I graze upon the brine,
Lift up, lift up your sail,
And bend upon your oars;
Oh, lose not the fair gale,
For he lies among the Moors!
It is a narrow strait,
I see the blue hills over;
Your coming I'll await,
And thank you for my lover.
To San Maria I will pray,
While ye bend upon your oars;
'Twill be a sacred day,
If you bring him from the Moors.
No one reproached them for their lusty voices or whirling skirts, not even the two frays. Nor were these actors the same drab drudges in servant's livery disembarking from the treasure fleet. The traveling troupe had transformed itself. Gaudily attired, I realized now that their serving garb had been a disguise. The dockside inspectors diverted passengers of low character to Manila, almost certainly a death sentence, and actors were regarded as people of low, corrupting character. From time to time troupes had passed through Veracruz, and the fray had observed, "Not only does the king deny them entry here, in Spain when they die, the Church denies them entry into consecrated ground."