Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume Read Free Page A

Eyes tightly closed but tears leaking through, I mourned for that poor deer. The violence and indifference of nature—that’s what I’d encountered in Spain. Fleeing, and falling, then ripped apart. My strength and confidence had been eaten away, and they were qualities I desperately needed to survive. I’d had them in spades: where had they gone?
    I came to with a jolt as I heard the driver hollering in a commanding voice, “Whoa now, whoa there!” Not long thereafter, the vehicle began slowing. The burghers in the coach with me began straining to peer out the windows. Sausage-breath was pushing me into the upholstery— ¡hijo de puta! —his hand nearing my breast in a scrabbling manner. “ Atento! ” I snarled, jabbing him savagely with my elbow. He retreated, slightly, and I took the opportunity to look out. There were lights, not many, but a few, dotting the night. Unbelievable, but we seemed to have reached some half-assed town. Suddenly, there was a street—with shops, by God. All closed, since it was late—but still, an actual street. People! Lights! Activity! ¡Fabulosa, por favor! The team of horses were brought to a halt in front of a coaching house; I heard them snorting and stamping their hooves in the snow, lathered and perturbed, needing attention. Several of the burghers immediately tried to jostle their way out, two men getting jammed in the doorway together in their sudden haste to be gone. The woman I’d kicked was staring at me belligerently, as if daring me to do so again. Instead, I got up and poked my head out, then called to the driver in my rudimentary German, “Are we staying long?”
    “Changing horses, Fräulein.”
    Oh, gracias por todo. The stableboys would groom and settle the horses, soothe their fears. Also—hurray and huzzah—this interval meant I could get out and smoke. Another unladylike indulgence that creates quite a stir when I do it, so I do it whenever possible.
    Stepping down, I tried to unkink my legs, feeling like a woman of eighty. Limping my way over to the post house, I went inside. It was mayhem in there, but warm. I wandered around, smoking happily and using every facility necessary; also, I was keeping an eye on the driver, who was knocking back a colourless liquid of some description and yammering away at his pals. I encouraged myself with a few hopeful thoughts: now that I recognize the rampant instinct spurring my erratic travels—flee for your life!—perhaps I can calm down, stop failing. I can curtail the bouts of anger which keep bursting forth at inappropriate moments. There and then I made a new vow to return to a happier, former version of myself, that of a strong young woman who can rise from the ashes, create herself all over again if need be, and emerge triumphant—a Venus on the half-shell, with attitude!
    Allowing my cramped shoulders to unclench, I wandered, thawing slowly, mingling with sweaty, loud and smelly humanity. I cautiously urged my heart to open: to crack, to let repressed longings bubble up—for love (perhaps), for the return of ambitious dreams, to be known for something stupendous. I wanted it so badly. And I’d come so close… No! Don’t look back. Gazing about, then, for something to spark my interest or someone young to talk to, my eye caught sight of a newspaper abandoned on a table, so—starved for reading material and longing for diversion—I picked it up.
    Inside was the usual rubbish, the doom-laden chatter that sells papers: beware the coming crop failures, so-and-so is a rising menace to the civilized world, ladies’ button boots at such and such a price. I was about to place the newspaper down when another notice jumped straight out at me.
    “Franz Liszt,” it said, “is beginning a new series of concert hall performances.” Like everyone else, I’d heard of this man—he was the new idol of Europe. Over the past few years, he’d become an absolute sensation. Apparently, his female admirers purchased