TreizeV- Thank you!
TKFS- Also thank you!
loki100- Goya's certainly going on a dark path; and Xavier's musings will soon be clarified...
Book One:
The Concert of Vienna
Chapter Eight.
Goya smiled, and sat back.
Goya's paternal grandfather had not been Basque, but Castilian; and that particular branch of the family was rich, wealthy; well known, too, with their distant relation to a certain famous painter. Their wealth stretched to having their own private booth in a particularly fine theatre in Madrid, which they were perfectly happy to allow any member of their family to use, even the distant Basque branch of the family.
Tonight, it was Beethoven playing. Goya smiled, as he swam amongst the notes, allowing the harmonies to wash past his ears. There was solace in this little booth, away from the prying decadence of Madrid.
He was a hero now. Ekaitz Goya, dashing soldier, victor of El Pico Demonio, those upright eyes gazing out at the world through a rich portrait, commissioned by his new patron, Rodrigo. It was all he could do to stop the Moderado showering him with wealth- he clearly valued such a high-profile war hero supporting his campaign and running for that seat in San Sebastian.
Goya was no fool. He knew Rodrigo's game. Goya's heroism and uprightness were useful to him, but his principled honour wasn't. So Rodrigo would coat him in the comfort of the aristocracy, thinking that the little Basque captain would be in awe, and look upon Rodrigo as a friend, a mentor; someone to look up to, to obey.
Goya despised the man. Such wastefulness! Extravagance! It was disgusting. The man wallowed in his own filth, for God's sake, sleeping with a different woman every night, sometimes men too. Goya preferred a more Spartan lifestyle; no luxuries, just a small house, simple and tasteful furniture and art, sleeping with none but his wife, when he eventually married...
Marriage. That was also a problem, in Goya's mind. The thought of sharing his life with another human being... the idea was terrifying. How could anyone understand him? He was cold, strange, distant... he didn't know how he would cope.
Still, he thought, there would be other times to think of that. He had enough to deal with already, what with the election coming up. It was pretty well a forgone conclusion in his favour, but still...
He shook his head, dispelling such thoughts. Tonight was about the music, and the chords Focus on the beauty before him.
Then, suddenly, he was no longer alone. A man had entered the booth, wearing a long coat and a hood. He sat down, even as Goya began to protest, and lifted his hood to reveal a smiling face.
"Hello, Señor Goya," said Francisco Xavier. "It is an honour to meet you at last."
Goya stared at him for a second, his face hard. Then, he too broke out into a smile. "Hello, Prime Minister. The honour is all mine, I assure you."
"I apologise for barging in on you like this, but I felt that we should meet. What is being performed? I'm afraid my musical knowledge has become quite dire in the last few months. Is this Beethoven? His... eighth symphony?"
"Seventh. We're still on the Vivace; the Allegretto is still to come, and is quite exquisite."
"Ah." Xavier seemed satisfied, making himself comfortable in the seat beside Goya. The violins shivered and drew their music out into the theatre, and the two remained silent for a moment.
"So," said Xavier, "It is not often one sees a Basque in the higher circles of Madrid; much less one there at the behest of Buenaventura Rodrigo. He doesn't much like your people."
Goya smiled. "He is an... interesting man, shall we say. A number of slightly questionable habits, perhaps, but overall a forthright fellow."
Xavier snorted. "Well, that's one way of putting it, I suppose. It surprises me that you're willing to put up with him for so long."
Goya grinned for a split second. He rather liked this man; his curious straightforwardness was appealing. "He needs me, I need him. I suppose that this is the part that you tell me of all the opportunities the Progressives could offer me?"
"Oh no. I am in quite enough trouble as it is without Rodrigo bawling to the press about how his golden boy has been turned by the Godless liberals. I have no desire to see you join us."
"Good, because I have no plans to. But you're right about Rodrigo; he has about as much appreciation for Basques as he does for you. None."
"Indeed so. He's not the most tolerant towards minorities."
"That must be irritating to a man who prides himself on the defence of them."
Xavier turned to examine the Basque, a strange look in his eyes. "You confound me, Goya. You're a middle-class merchant; the kind of person who would have Liberal sympathies, and not the sort to join Rodrigo's crowd. You're a Basque, for goodness sake, and Rodrigo detests Basques. So why are you with his lot?"
Goya stared ahead, at the other wall. "We all have to adapt to unpleasant circumstances to further our goals, Prime Minister."
Xavier laughed, a grim chuckle. "Oh yes. In fact, more often than not, we have to hide our very identities- I haven't been to a synagogue in years, for example..."
Goya turned sharply, surprise flung across his face. "You're... Jewish? How?"
Xavier smiled. "Simply trickery, my friend. Forged sets of papers, a false history to flash at the others in the party and the state... Money can buy a lot of things."
Goya's face was troubled. "Why are you here, Xavier? And why are you telling me all this? I'm your enemy; the opposition, one of those whom you are fighting a campaign against. I should be the last person you trust."
Xavier's face looked old once again, as it always did this late at night. The lights of the concert hall, and the shadows they brought, were dancing across his face. "In answer to your second question, it's because I know you, Ekaitz Goya. You're a young man, full of honour and principle and hope. You wouldn't reveal my secret. And as to your first... there is something I must tell you, before you take up the game of politics as a hobby. Something I have a duty to tell you."
To be continued...