by Susana Aikin
“Five pounds! Jeez, it sounds like a lot,” I say, making an effort to pull out of my reverie and contemplate the quandaries of this new request.
“Well, you know, in this business some things that are minimal in the day-to-day get magnified, and some others that are humongous can be reduced to practically nothing,” he says with a shy, raspy laugh, as if embarrassed at having revealed a great truth in an awkward, untimely way.
A truth I wish he’d kept in his arsenal of secrets, since all I’m concerned about right now is how to pull out of the depths of my trance. I look up at Constantine, who still lingers at the door, ogling my outstretched legs. Annoyed, I draw my knees together, while he averts his eyes, bashfully.
“Let me see what I can do,” I say, and stand up, aching at having to extricate myself from Nanny once more, and mad about having to buy no less than five kilos of salt, which I suspect will somehow end up being rubbed into my wounds.
CHAPTER 6
I squint at the bright sunlight as I step into the patio.
Julia is sitting at the far end, her feet up on a chair. I stand behind her and peep over her shoulder at the sketch she’s working on. The image of two women sitting on the beach under a parasol, looking out onto the ocean, drafted in broad charcoal strokes.
Julia looks up. “I know what you’re going to ask. But don’t count me in. I’ve done more than my share. Your turn to drive around looking for impossible ingredients.”
I don’t have the energy to argue, so I take up my handbag and go in search of Marion.
The library is full of green bottle flies. I’ve left the door ajar by mistake and they’ve buzzed in from the garden in search of shaded solace. But Marion seems unaffected by their droning charges against the windowpanes. She is sitting on the sofa, leaning back, with arms folded behind her head, staring at the ceiling. Is she daydreaming one of her tragic dreams?
“I need to buy salt for Delia. Can I use your car?”
Marion stares at me, startled. “Salt? Whatever for?”
“Don’t know. They need all kinds of stuff for their work.”
“I’ll drive you. That way, we can buy something to eat.” Marion is back to a mellow mood. It amazes me how quickly she can undulate between emotional states. But one thing’s always sure to get her on the upswing: food. Even just the thought of it.
We get into her car, a burgundy Toyota Corolla she’s had since her return from London, eight years ago. Marion buckles herself into the driver’s seat, adjusts the rearview mirror, and applies lipstick on her pouted lips. “Where to go on a Saturday afternoon in the middle of August to buy salt, I wonder?”
“There’s only one place open right now in this neighborhood. That expensive, deluxe deli over by the main road,” I say.
We drive slowly through narrow, labyrinthine streets along tall stone fences, behind which large houses stand surrounded by gardens collapsed under the midday heat. Sections of the road’s bumpy, pebbled surface are splattered with gluey globs of violet mulberries from the trees lining the sidewalks. They stick to the car tires, making them roll over with a crunchy sound. Their sickly smell wafts in through the car window, a sweetish odor of crushed, rotting fruit that makes me feel queasy. It brings back images of Julia and me standing on ladders against their tree trunks, harvesting leaves to feed the silkworms we kept in shoeboxes under our beds. At night we dreamed of the silk fabrics we’d have, once the fat, white butterflies emerged out of cocoons and fluttered away. Until the day we found out that silk can only be extracted from cocoons from which butterflies never emerge. So much for little girls’ harvesting dreams. But those same mulberry trees have pervaded; tops reaching farther into the skies, robust branches lush with heart-shaped leaves, throwing long shadows over sidewalks. Their yield of clumped, purple berries has likewise increased, and at this time of summer, mounds of wasted fruit decomposing on the ground greatly encumber pedestrians and cars.
It’s ironic to think that the first time I saw Fernando, he and Marion were kissing under one of these mulberry trees, like a foreshadowing of their ill-fated love. Silhouettes wrapped around each other in the amber streetlight, lips fused under a mass of entangled black hair. Sensing my presence, Fernando perked up, still holding Marion’s body tight, as if to protect her from a threat. In a flash I saw his pale, handsome face, with moist black eyes under firmly traced brows, and hair combed back like a movie star from the thirties. He wasn’t much taller than Marion, but his wiry body stood graceful on strong legs.
Marion broke into a smile. “Don’t worry, it’s only my little sister,” and she introduced us. I got a whiff of musky cologne mingled with his manly tang as he pecked my face. I also saw his two large gold rings on the fingers that held Marion’s hand. They matched the golden chain around his neck ending in a small crucifix hung between the clavicles under his open shirt.
“If I wasn’t already crazy about you,” he said, looking at Marion, in a suave, hissing Andalusian accent, “I would definitively look up your sister. What a beauty she is!” I stood tongue-tied. I’d never seen Marion kissing anyone. I’d never seen such a good-looking man before.
Marion disengaged her hand from his. “I have to go. It’s late. Will you call me tomorrow?” And they kissed again, with hungry, tender lips, and when they pulled away their eyes seemed to ache, anticipating the long wait before their next meeting.
“Until tomorrow then,” said Fernando, and walked slowly into the night street, turning his head twice before his smile dissolved in the dark.
“Please, don’t tell anyone about Fernando,” Marion said, putting her arm around me as we walked to the house.
“Sure. But, why?”
“I want to introduce him properly to Father and Nanny.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“How did you meet him?”
“I met him in a flamenco bar. He’s a torero, a bullfighter, you know?” she said proudly. As we waited to be buzzed in to the house, I watched her face unfurled into an ecstatic smile, and her throat tense, as if holding down shouts of joy.
A week later, Marion took me to the bullring of Las Ventas for the first time. We drove in the small Seat 600 Father had given her to drive to architecture school, which was also burgundy. Burgundy has for some reason always been Marion’s color. I even remember her that day wearing a long burgundy skirt over cherry cowboy boots. I’d never been even close to the Las Ventas bullfighting ring, nor had ever seen a bullfight, save for a few stolen glances at television sets in bars where the corridas were being broadcast. We parked the car on a side street and Marion hurried me toward the plaza. I was amazed at the huge circular building, a coliseum of terracotta bricks, with tall square turrets, horseshoe arches, and ceramic incrustations all over its façade.
“You can look at all this later,” Marion said, pulling me by the arm. “We’re late. I hope we can still find Manuel.” I didn’t have time to ask who Manuel was, as we were immediately spotted by a short, wiry guy with long hair pulled back into a ponytail and dressed in shabby jeans and a black shirt, who motioned us nervously toward him.
“Quick,” he said after kissing us both on the cheek. “He’s about to enter the ring.” He ushered us through the main door, after nodding knowingly to the man who took entry tickets, and whizzed us through passages and corridors until we stepped out into the arena.
It was sometime past six in the afternoon, but the sun was still strong. I shaded my eyes to take in the immensity of the arena, glaring from its sand-colored circumference. The ring stood surrounded by climbing rows of stands already full of people. We walked down the rows until we came to two seats very close to the ring, apparently reserved for us, which Manuel pointed out. He then waited for us to settle down before signaling he was leaving, and would see us later. I felt uneasy as we sat among the crowd that was already standing up and cheering. I felt tired and listless. Although our seats were in the shade, the stone was still hot from the daylong swelter.
“Here he comes!” Marion said, pulling me by the arm to make me stand up. Bullfighters, picadors on dressed horses, and men in red shirts and caps poured out of one of the gates and started parading around the ring saluting the public. All was happening to a trumpet sound while the crowd cheered wildly.
Marion looked around anxiously among the toreros. “There he is! Can you see him? In the pink suit!” I looked and vaguely recognized Fernando’s dark head of curls. He was walking between one row of matadors, and another of picadors with lances, mounted on horses. His slim body was packed into an embroidered suit that glittered in the sun. A short, brocaded jacket with heavily padded shoulders, tight trousers extending from the waist down and over the knees, salmon-colored stockings, and black ballerina-like shoes. The other toreros and picadors were dressed similarly in different colors: red, cream, blue. Some wore black oblong hats, but not Fernando. He walked along bareheaded. The colorful parade paced around the ring three times, greeting the crowd and paying respect to the dignitaries sitting in the main box, and finally exited through the same door they had entered.
Seconds later, a hatch-like gate opened and a bull sprang into the arena. Its dark powerful body was driven by long pointed horns; a mass of smooth, black muscles glistening under the sun. The bull galloped furiously around the ring, hurtling himself at the barrera, or wooden wall enclosing the arena, and charging at the burlade-ros, the narrow entrances where bullfighters and other personnel entered the ring or escaped bulls if they must. A few bullfighters stepped out with red capes and made attempts at passes, but had to be aided by others in order to get away safely. The crowd oohed and aahed in waves, standing at times to get a better view of the bull chasing the bullfighters or stabbing its horns into the wooden wall of the barrera.
“That bull’s a cunning bastard, he knows more than is desirable,” said a bald, greasy man sitting next to Marion. “I wouldn’t want to be the matador who faces him today.”
Marion shuddered and looked at me, and I knew that matador was Fernando and that was his bull. When I returned my eyes to the ring I saw one of the horses with the heavy padded skirt walking slowly across the arena, mounted by a man with a lance, the picador, and slowly approaching the bull. I noticed the horse was blindfolded, and my stomach tightened.
I stood up. “I want to leave. Please, I can’t bear to watch this.” But Marion ignored me; she was glued to the scene. After I protested again, she took my hand and pushed me back into my seat, “Just stay with it for a while, it will be over soon.”
I sat down, feeling nauseated with fear.
The bull was very still in the middle of the ring, observing the approaching party, getting ready to charge. Then, in the spur of a second it flung itself into the horse, ramming against its flank as the picador thrust the lance into his back. Blood began to trickle under the metal spear, while the bull continued to thrust and shove the horse toward the barrera. At one point it stepped back for a few seconds, just before hurtling itself once more with lowered head and horns, so that as he lunged he lifted up both horse and man in the air. I gasped and felt my heart thumping wildly in my chest. Horse and man were suspended in midair for what felt like whole minutes, while the man jabbed at the bull again and again. The crowd around us cried wildly. Bullfighters came out of the burladero with capes and ran to the bull, swirling their red cloths over his head and back, to take him away from the horse. Finally the bull pulled away and charged against the capes, and the horse fell on the ground, struggling in silent pain while a river of dark blood gushed from his belly. I buried my face in my hands and burst into sobs.
Marion squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry. It’s all right, they’ll take care of him, don’t you worry.”
But the horse was already dead, or at least it had stopped moving and lay listless, while men in red caps and shirts helped the picador out from under its body. Then, they quickly brought in a cart driven by two steers and dragged the horse’s body away, before they smoothed out the sand on the ring. All this time, banderilleros jumped into the ring, placing small sorts of arrows into the bull’s back, but all I could see through my watery eyes was a bunch of multicolored lumps moving against the yellow sand.
“Please let’s go,” I said to Marion.
“It’s okay, dear,” said the bald man next to Marion. “You’ll soon get used to it, and then really begin to like it. Everyone’s a bit shocked the first time.” I looked at Marion and saw with disbelief the eagerness with which she sat on the edge of the seat, looking out into the ring. Her body was vibrant with excitement, breathless for dramatic action. I knew I wouldn’t be able take her away until the bullfight was over.
Suddenly, the whole arena grew silent while the matador walked into the ring to face the bull for the real fight. It was Fernando’s time. Marion took my hand and held it tight against the seat. Fernando strode with ease into the middle of the ring, with head high and body upright. He carried a large red cape in one hand and a sword in the other. He walked slowly, hiding the sword under the cape. The bull stood still, eyeing him closely with small eyes, and didn’t move, even when Fernando stopped a few feet before him. They seemed to size each other up for a few minutes while the crowd froze into silence. Then Fernando took a step forward, making a short, throaty sound, “Heh!” and coaxed the bull toward the cape. But the bull waited. Fernando went in closer. “Heh!” It took a third time stepping in before the bull charged. The crowd shouted, “Olé!” and the battle began. The bull went for the cape, looking to dig his horns into the man, and the man twirled around him, hardly moving his feet, just twisting his waist and swirling the cloth around the bull, one time after another, creating a whorl-like dance between red and black. The crowd was beside itself. Every set of eyes now followed Fernando’s cape amidst roaring waves of clamor. Even I forgot about my apprehension for an instant, and marveled at his art, while Marion soared beside me, exploding with pride. Now and then, Fernando would turn his back to the bull after a number of swirls, and walk away. The bull stood panting, seemingly perplexed, blood still dripping down his back. Then one time the bull charged at him from the back, but Fernando swung quickly and drove him into the cape. From that moment on they engaged in quick, breathless passes, while the bull came closer and closer to Fernando’s body each time. The crowd wailed in frenzy.
“Someone should be taking that bull away from him now,” the man next to Marion said. Marion grabbed my hand again, squeezing it until I was in pain. Everybody seemed to be in a trance. The tension between man and bull was hypnotic. Fernando’s movements were becoming shorter and sharper. The bull wouldn’t yield. I saw Fernando’s small body brushing against the dark gloss of the bull’s flanks. I saw how the bull’s blood had been smeared on his pink suit. And then in one quick second the tables turned.
The bull swerved its horns abruptly and caught Fernando’s side. He tossed him into the air, tumbling him to the ground. Three other bullfighters rushed from the burladero with their capes. The bull kept charging at Fernando’s fallen body. Marion screamed. The crowd screamed. Even I screamed. Finally a group of five bullfighters took the bull off Fernando, and others rushed into the ring and carried him behind the barrera. The crowd became silent with dejection.
Marion stood up, trembling. “Where are they taking him?” she asked the bald man.
“Down to the sick bay,” he replied.
“Quick, let’s go,” she said, grabbing me again by the hand, and when I searched her face questioningly, she hissed in agony, “Please!”
“I don’t think they’ll let you in there, miss,” was the last I heard of the man’s voice before we started out of our seats and raced up the rows toward the back of the arena, passing by groups of confused spectators and bullring workers, while Marion slithered between passages and corridors as if she knew the place by heart, with me trailing behind. Finally, one of the security guards pointed to the end of a dim hall and we arrived at the sick bay. A smell of sweat, blood, and antiseptics wafte
d out into the corridor.
At the infirmary door, a male nurse in white scrubs stood barring our entrance. “Sorry, no visitors at this time. He’s in critical condition.” Marion let out a shrill cry, while I looked past him into the scene ahead.
The infirmary was a stark room with whitewashed walls. In the middle stood a table on which Fernando was lying, a large bloody slash between the right-sided ribs, exposed over his torso. To the side, next to a metal cabinet and an instrument trolley, lay Fernando’s blood-drenched brocaded jacket over a chair. A doctor in a white coat, with a long face and sparse mousy hair, was washing the wound with large pieces of cotton wool and gauze. Fernando’s face was contorted in pain, his eyes closed. The gash was like an open mouth, dark crimson granulated lips frozen into a voiceless cry. Surrounding the table was his cousin Manuel and three other men, two young and another one older. The latter was called Federico, as I would later learn, and was Fernando’s disagreeable, but efficient, business manager. His drooping green eyes stared out wearily under dark bushy brows; long sideburns extended along thick vertical folds of skin surrounding his contemptuous mouth. His large head was out of proportion to his thin, shortish body, which was clad in an Andalusian country-style suit and riding boots.
He stared sourly at Fernando’s wound. “You are a fool to work the bull so closely, it’s unnecessary. You’re too chulo, cocky, you’ll be out for the season, and we’ll lose a bunch of money.”
“I can’t believe you accepted that bull, Federico,” Manuel said, “That animal’s extremely vicious. And way too heavy. I wonder how the next guy will deal with him.”
The other two guys agreed with Manuel. One was tall and lanky, dressed in an oversized gray suit; the other, slim and wiry like Manuel, with rotten teeth that showed when he laughed.
“Fernando could have handled him perfectly, if he hadn’t taken stupid risks. Who lets the bull give such close passes? You might as well have asked him to give you a shave!”
