‘Is he going to fight?’
‘Rather. I’m going with you, if you don’t mind.’
‘How’s your boy friend?’ Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said.
‘Brett’s got a bull-fighter,’ he said. ‘She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly.’
Brett stood up.
‘I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael.’
‘How’s your boy friend?’
‘Damned well,’ Brett said. ‘Watch him this afternoon.’
‘Brett’s got a bull-fighter,’ Mike said. ‘A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter.’
‘Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake.’
‘Tell him all about your bull-fighter,’ Mike said. ‘Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!’ He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over in a crash.
‘Come on,’ Brett said. ‘Let’s get out of this.’
In the crowd crossing the square I said: ‘How is it?’
‘I’m not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They’re very angry about me, he says.’
Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright.
‘I feel altogether changed,’ Brett said. ‘You’ve no idea, Jake.’
‘Anything you want me to do?’
‘No, just go to the fight with me.’
‘We’ll see you at lunch?’
‘No. I’m eating with him.’
We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade.
‘Want to take a turn out to the park?’ Brett asked. ‘I don’t want to go up yet. I fancy he’s sleeping.’
We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park.
‘Don’t let’s go there,’ Brett said. ‘I don’t want staring at just now.’
We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea.
‘I hope the wind goes down,’ Brett said. ‘It’s very bad for him.’
‘So do I.’
‘He says the bulls are all right.’
‘Is that San Fermin’s?’
Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel.
‘Yes. Where the show started on Sunday.’
‘Let’s go in. Do you mind? I’d rather like to pray a little for him or something.’
We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead.
‘Come on,’ she whispered throatily. ‘Let’s get out of here. Makes me damned nervous.’
Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the treetops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success.
‘Don’t know why I get so nervy in church,’ Brett said. ‘Never does me any good.’
We walked along.
‘I’m damned bad for a religious atmosphere,’ Brett said. ‘I’ve the wrong type of face.’
‘You know,’ Brett said, ‘I’m not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him.’
‘Good.’
‘I wish the wind would drop, though.’
‘It’s liable to go down by five o’clock.’
‘Let’s hope.’
‘You might pray,’ I laughed.
‘Never does me any good. I’ve never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Oh, rot,’ said Brett. ‘Maybe it works for some people, though. You don’t look very religious, Jake.’
‘I’m pretty religious.’
‘Oh, rot,’ said Brett. ‘Don’t start proselyting to-day. To-day’s going to be bad enough as it is.’
It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating.
‘Do look after Mike,’ Brett said. ‘Don’t let him get too bad.’
‘Your frients haff gone upstairs,’ the German maître d’hôtel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him:
‘Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Good,’ said Brett.
‘Save us a table for three,’ I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile.
‘Iss madam eating here?’
‘No,’ Brett said.
‘Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff.’
‘Don’t talk to him,’ Brett said. ‘Mike must have been in bad shape,’ she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile.
‘I’ll see you at the café,’ Brett said. ‘Thank you, so much, Jake.’
We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into Romero’s room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her.
I stood in front of the door of Mike’s room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me.
‘Hello, Jake,’ he said very slowly. ‘I’m getting a lit tle sleep. I’ve want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time.’
‘Let me cover you over.’
‘No, I’m quite warm.’
‘Don’t go. I have n’t got ten to sleep yet.’
‘You’ll sleep, Mike. Don’t worry, boy.’
‘Brett’s got a bull-fighter,’ Mike said. ‘But her Jew has gone away.’
He turned his head and looked at me.
‘Damned good thing, what?’
‘Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some sleep.’
‘I’m just start ing. I’m go ing to get a lit tle sleep.’
He shut his eyes. I went out of the room and turned the door to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper.
‘See Mike?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let’s go and eat.’
‘I won’t eat downstairs with that German head-waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike upstairs.’
‘He was snotty to us, too.’
‘Let’s go out and eat in the town.’
We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a girl coming up with a covered tray.
‘There goes Brett’s lunch,’ Bill said.
‘And the kid’s,’ I said.
Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German head-waiter came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He was being polite.
‘I haff a tabul for two for you gentlemen,’ he said.
‘Go sit at it,’ Bill said. We went on out across the street.
We ate at a restaurant in a side street off the square. They were all men eating in the restaurant. It was full of smoke and drinking and singing. The food was good and so was the wine. We did not talk much. Afterward we went to the café and watched the fiesta come to the boiling-point. Brett came over soon after lunch. She said she had looked in the room and that Mike was asleep.
When the fiesta boiled over and toward the bull-ring we went with the crowd. Brett sat at the ringside between Bill and me. Directly below us was the callejon, the passageway between the stands and the red fence of the barrera. Behind us the concrete stands filled solidly. Out in front, beyond the red fence, the sand of the ring was smooth-rolled and yellow. It looked a little heavy from the rain, but it was dry in the sun and firm and smooth. The sword-handlers and bull-ring servants came down the callejon carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of fighting capes and muletas. They were blood-stained and compactly folded and packed in the baskets. The sword-handlers opened the heavy leather sword-cases so the red wrapped hilts of the sheaf of swords showed as the leather case leaned against the fence. They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the muletas and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and give the matador something to hold. Brett watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional details.
‘He’s his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas,’ she said. ‘Why do they call them muletas?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I wonder if they ever launder them.’
‘I don’t think so. It might spoil the colour.’
‘The blood must stiffen them,’ Bill said.
‘Funny,’ Brett said. ‘How one doesn’t mind the blood.’
Below in the narrow passage of the callejon the sword-handlers arranged everything. All the seats were full. Above, all the boxes were full. There was not an empty seat except in the President’s box. When he came in the fight would start. Across the smooth sand, in the high doorway that led into the corrals, the bull-fighters were standing, their arms furled in their capes, talking, waiting for the signal to march in across the arena. Brett was watching them with the glasses.
‘Here, would you like to look?’
I looked through the glasses and saw the three matadors. Romero was in the centre, Belmonte on his left, Marcial on his right. Back of them were their people, and behind the banderilleros, back in the passageway and in the open space of the corral I saw the picadors. Romero was wearing a black suit. His tricornered hat was low down over his eyes. I could not see his face clearly under the hat, but it looked badly marked. He was looking straight ahead. Marcial was smoking a cigarette guardedly, holding it in his hand. Belmonte looked ahead, his face wan and yellow, his long wolf jaw out. He was looking at nothing. Neither he nor Romero seemed to have anything in common with the others. They were all alone. The President came in; there was handclapping above us in
