"His only problem is that he can't kill," Vasily told them, lecturing. "Other than that, he has all the equipment: fine hands, lovely capework, and he plants his own banderillas. But when it comes to killing he's a butcher, just like the rest of them. If he could kill decently he'd cut two ears every time."
"Two ears?" Eddie asked. "Is that good?"
"One ear, two ears, the tail, and then they start on the hoofs," Vasily explained. "It's how the public shows its approval of his work."
"Not a bad system. Maybe we could work out something similar in our line."
"It's a thought," mused Vasily. "Personally, I'm not much of a one for trophies, but a few ears, tastefully mounted, perhaps on a walnut base ..."
"You're being grotesque, both of you," said Chalice, as a flourish of off-pitch trumpets announced the next bull of the afternoon.
From the sports page of La Prensa de San Miguel, as translated:
. . . rare and moving event to see the coming of age of a young matador whose skills have always been apparent to the discerning eye of the aficionado, but who, until now, has suffered from the one fault common to a generation of toreros, namely, the inability to kill cleanly and well. Today's events at our plaza showed clearly that Jose Cuervos, the pride of San Miguel, has undergone this passage of arms and now, as he leaves triumphantly for Madrid, may well be ranked with the young masters. True, with his first bull of the afternoon Cuervos was anything but masterly, and although his faena was touched with elegance, his sword work was as ineffectual as ever. Once, twice, three times and more he stabbed at the bull, drawing plenty of red but never coming close to the vital spot. As happened in his last appearance, it took a clumsily pierced lung to bring the toro to its knees, and the estocada to achieve the final release . . .
Thus, a disappointing afternoon drew to a close, but all was redeemed by a brilliant performance given by Jose Cuervos with his second bull of the day, a cathedral of an animal from the ranch of Paco Medina. The bull came out on railroad tracks, took the cape well without showing any preferences, and charged the cavalry bravely, accepting two solid lances. As is his custom, Cuervos planted the sticks himself, placing three pairs of shorts to the delight of the crowd. When it came time for the capework, the pride of San Miguel opened with a paso de muerte, followed by a series of linked naturals that had the crowd singing, and finished with a media-veronica that fixed the Medina frozen in place. It was with the sword, however, that Cuervos provided the emotion of the afternoon. As he addressed the bull and sighted along the blade, it must be confessed that those observing expected nothing more than the usual clumsy hacking and stabbing. But today was the beginning of a new era for Jose Cuervos. He crossed the muleta with his left hand, leaned forward, and at that moment . . .
Some seconds before, Eddie Mancuso rose from his seat in the first tendido and raised the Polaroid to his eye. All around the arena, dozens of foreign tourists stood with their cameras ready to record the moment of truth. He focused on the scene directly below him, the matador sighting in over the horns, crossing the muleta, leaning forward; and then as the sword began its descent he pressed the trigger. The sword skidded over the horns and slid in off-target—a typical Cuervos thrust. The dart from the camera hit dead center on the hump of muscle behind the neck—the killing spot. The bull's head dropped, his knees buckled, and he fell forward at the torero's feet. He was cut off from life as cleanly as if someone had thrown a switch.
Cuervos stared down, unbelieving. The crowd was stunned into silence. Then from a back row a voice made raspy by mescal called out, "iQue torero es!"
The crowd found its collective voice, the roar of it cracking over the sand. ";Ole!"
"Diestro!"
"Torero!"
"Ole!"
To these cheers, and to a shower of hats, flowers, cigars, wineskins, and sarapes, Jose Cuervos trotted around the ring in triumphal procession. When he reached the position below the president's box, he halted and waited respectfully for a decision. It came with a flourish of trumpets.
"Two ears," said Eddie. "Not bad."
"Wait, there's more," said Chalice. "They're cutting two ears and the tail."
"That's my boy."
Vasily turned to him, speaking quietly. "You know, I worry about you, Eddie. That sentimentality of yours. One of these days it's going to get you into deep trouble."
Eddie shrugged, slipping the camera back into its case. "I owed Jose a favor. When I owe, I pay up."
"Well, you certainly did today. Without your help it would have been just the usual butchery." He shook his head sadly, and then added the universal complaint of all aficionados. "It's shameful, but nobody knows how to kill well anymore."
Eddie looked at him indignantly.
"Present company excepted," Vasily added quickly.
9
Getting close to Suvarov won't be easy, Eddie, but it can be done. Tell me, what do you know about farming?
You mean cows, and horses, pigs? The cows are the ones with the horns.
I was thinking more of planting. Wheat, corn, and barley.
Listen, tovarich, have a heart. When I was a kid on Mulberry Street my grandfather used to grow oregano in a cheesebox out on the fire escape. That s what 1 know about farming.
I see. Well, you'll have to learn.
Why? Is this guy Suvarov a farmer?
No, but he is the ultimate Russian. He is in love with the rich earth of Mother Russia.
That's his business. Me, I dig concrete.
Try to understand. Suvarov adores everything Russian: the vodka and the black bread, the smoked herrings, the pickled cucumbers and the steaming samovar. He is one of those Russians who make a grand ceremony out of picking wild mushrooms every Sunday in the springtime. Now do you understand?
Keep talking.
It may seem strange to you, but it is a custom all over Russia. Families have their favorite spots in the forest where they go to pick the mushrooms. Under a certain tree, beside a certain stream . . . you see? Each man keeps his favorite place a secret, but it just so happens . . .
Yeah, it just so happens that you know where Suvarov scores. Where?
Approximately five kilometers from the dacha at Zhukovka, in a secluded glade not far from the border of Soviet Model Farm Number Forty-two. What do you think?
Maybe. What else can you tell me about him? What about the women in his life?
There is only one, his wife. Nedya Ivanova is the center of his life. He adores her.
Nedya Ivanova Suvarov. It sounds familiar. Why should I know that name?
You've probably seen it in your files. She is also KGB. Not only that, she also holds the title of Heroine of the Soviet Union.
Big-time stuff. What outfit?
Fourth Division, Second Directorate.
The family that slays together stays together. She sounds like a sweetie.
He loves her. I truly think the man would die for her.
He may have to. So what about all these cows and horses?
Eddie, this is modern Russia we're talking about. Tractors, and combines, and reapers, and . . . harrows, I suppose. Yes, at this time of year it would be harrows. . . .
"This next model is a tandem harrow developed in our factories at Novosibirsk. As in all double-action harrows, the gangs in the first section throw the soil outward and the rear-section discs cut the ridges in half, thus working the soil twice over. Please notice that either section of the harrow can be angled from zero to twenty degrees, as opposed to the rigid, or nonangling, harrow which is popular in certain parts of the United States. In addition . . ."
The Intourist guide was a Russian woman built on Amazonian lines. Full-bosomed, full-hipped and stern-faced, she spoke perfect English in an impressive voice, but despite her air of command she was clearly nothing more than a watchdog over the various delegates to the Twenty-second Annual Soviet Exchange Program for Agricultural Implements.
"I also ask you to notic
e the concavity of the discs on the harrow," she continued. "On this particular model the concavity is slightly more than four centimeters deep, which aids the inverting ability of the unit. Now, on this next model, if you will all follow me . . ."
Beside the guide stood the Chief Tractor Driver, a short and weatherbeaten man in high boots and a Little Russian blouse that folded at the neck without buttons. His eyes were bright and his nose was red and runny, and he did not try to conceal the bottle of vodka tucked into the top of his boot. He rattled off specifications and statistics in a bored voice, and the Amazon translated them into a low bellow that echoed across the open spaces of Model Farm Number Forty-two. The members of the exchange program followed her now, crunching through the freshly turned earth to view the next of a dozen pieces of machinery lined up at the edge of the field.
Eddie Mancuso lagged behind the others. They were a mixed bag of Asians, Europeans, and South Americans, all anxious to ask him questions about Yankee farming methods, questions for which his crash reading course in agricultural equipment had left him almost totally unprepared. They gathered around the guide to inspect the next model, a small offset harrow, and as the Amazon resumed her pitch Eddie let his eyes wander over the pleasing contours of Model Farm Number Forty-two, the checkerboard of its green and brown fields placed in a gentle geometry under a blue sky so pale that the clouds blended into it. Beyond the final field, the second-growth scrub of oak and pine worked itself up into a full-grown forest that dropped away with the land to the lazy curve of the Moskva River below. Surrounded by pastoral solitude, it was hard for him to believe that he was only thirty miles west of the Kremlin and less than five miles removed from the dachas at Zhukovka. He breathed deeply of the nippy springtime air.
Being out in the country isn't bad, he admitted to himself. It isn't bad at all for a joint without any telephones or pizzerias. It's sort of like Central Park without the muggers. Or like opening day at Yankee Stadium if you're sitting down close to the foul line. Except that at the Stadium they don't spread cowshit over the outfield.
He started to smile as he flashed the thought of Reggie Jackson racing in from right after a short fly ball, up to his ankles in liquid manure, and he felt the bubble of a giggle rise in his throat. He swallowed sharply, cut off the giggle, and his smile changed to a frown.
Nerves? he wondered, and then answered his own question. Nerves . . . sure, why not? Got a right to a few nerves standing here in the middle of Russia, a million miles from home, with phony papers in my pocket and enough merchandise tucked into the heels of my shoes to fill a good-sized cemetery. Who wouldn't be nervous? One of those animals from O Group, maybe; but me, I'm no field agent and I'm scared. Agricultural expert, sure, it sounded good back in Mexico, but here on the line all it takes is the wrong answer to some bright question and right away that Amazon is hip that I don't know a bull from a bass fiddle. One slip like that and I'm finished before I even get a chance to make my run.
Been too easy up to now. Good papers from Vasily's man in Mexico City, legitimate visa, membership card in the exchange program, and then that smooth flight over with all those 4-H types from Indiana and Nebraska drinking bourbon and talking about hay balers and tension bars like it was a different language. Easy, just like Vasily said it would be, going through Customs at Sheremetevo Airport with a gang like that, bus to the hotel, honored guests of the Soviet Union, and all the time I'm walking soft with my heels screwed on tight. Easy until now, but now it's for the money. Once I get up on that combine there's no way back, so I've earned my nerves. And it looks like it's time to earn them again.
"I now wish to call your attention to this magnificent product of Soviet technology, the seven-ton, three-hundred-horsepower combination harvester-thresher capable of converting one acre of grain in slightly less than thirty minutes."
The Amazon had led the group on to the last of the machines on display, a massive combine, and now was busily reciting its glories. The emphasis of her lecture had undergone a subtle shift from the purely agricultural to the vaguely ideological, and with his services no longer needed, the Chief Tractor Driver now sat perched on the seat of the combine staring dolefully over the fields. Without bothering to look around, he took a drink from his boot bottle. As he wiped his lips with the back of his hand his eyes crossed with Eddie's, and he lowered one eyelid in a broad wink. Startled, Eddie winked back, and then worked his way around the edge of the group to where the driver was sitting. Behind him, the guide droned on:
"In a few minutes we will give a demonstration of this machine, and those of you who are interested will be invited to ride on the combine as it travels over the fields of the model farm in an exactly straight line, at a uniform speed, for a distance of five point seven kilometers in each direction. However, before the demonstration begins it is necessary that we understand the historical importance of the combine harvester from the socialist point of view. First of all, it must be remembered that before the invention of the first automatic reaper by the Russian peasant Boris Marmolinski, in the year 1821, the time required to harvest one acre of grain was forty-six hours ..."
"Bullshit."
Away from the group, Eddie looked up. The Chief Tractor Driver sat high above his head, smiling down. He spat over the side of the machine and repeated, "Bullshit. Good English, no?"
"The best," Eddie assured him.
"Work two years John Deere factory stateside, one year International Harvester. Talk plenty. Chesterfield Cigarette Company sixpacka Schlitz watcha doin' later baby? Speak bullshit English."
"You do okay."
"You bet." The driver nodded vigorously, snuffled his nose, and wiped it on the sleeve of his blouse. He tossed his head in the direction of the guide, who was still addressing the group. "Maybe I talk bullshit English but I no talk bullshit like that one talk bullshit. You get me?"
"No," Eddie admitted. "You lost me on the curve."
"Look." The driver was patient. "I talk bullshit English. That one talk good English. But that one talk bullshit like Russian boy Boris Marmolinski inwent first weeper. Bullshit. American Cyrus McCormick make first weeper. Babies know this. You bet, American first, but . . . what is? Nasha luchshe! Ours is best. You get me?"
Eddie got him, but before he could say so, the Intourist guide broke off her spiel and came tramping over to them kicking clods angrily, sinking her fur-topped boots ankle deep into the soil at each step. By the time she got to Eddie she had controlled her temper, and she said in a reasonable voice, "I'm sorry, but it is bad practice to address the workers directly. Whenever you have a question please tell it to me and I shall be happy to translate."
Then she turned to the driver and fired off a burst of staccato Russian. The driver yawned, nodded, wiped his nose again, and answered in one laconic sentence. The guide stiffened, opened her mouth, closed it again, thought for a moment, then turned and marched back to the group. She resumed her lecture as if uninterrupted, picking up on the next word.
"What did she say?" Eddie asked.
"She tell me no talk with chuzhoi, foreigner. She say is nekulturny. Also bad socialism."
"And what did you say?"
"I tell her go fawk herself."
"Jesus! Can you do that?"
"You just see me do it." The driver took the bottle from his boot, pulled out the rag stopper, and offered it. When Eddie declined he took a slug for himself and replaced the bottle. "You right. Too strong. Listen, mister, here on this farm I make eight hundred fifty ruble every month, drink vodka all day long, tell KGB lady go fawk herself. You know why? Because when goddamn bullshit cultivator break down only Mikhail can fix. Same thing harrow machine, same thing combine, same thing manure spreader. Fawking machines always breaking down and only me,
Mikhail, can fix. Fancy engineers from Moscow Institute come, you think they fix? Bullshit they fix. Only Mikhail fix, because I work two years John Deere factory stateside."
"But I thought you said
that yours were the best."
"Nasha luchshe! The best. Me! Best goddamn tractor mechanic in Soviet Union. I have to be because bullshit machines keep on breaking down."
Eddie stroked the steel flank of the combine. "How about this one?"
"This one, she's okay. Number one machine. You come for ride?"
"Oh sure." He reached into his pocket for the nasal spray. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."
While the driver beamed approval, Eddie inserted the spray into one nostril, pressed, and did the same with the other. At once he felt the modified chlorine biting deep into his nasal passages, and instant tears leaped into his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.
The driver, concerned, yelped, "Hey, what is?"
"Hay fever," Eddie explained. "Terrible this time of year."
"You farmer with hay fever?" The driver found it hard to believe.
"It runs in the family. Back home they call me Crybaby Morrison. They call my father Tearful John, the sorriest farmer in Campbell County, Indiana. Poor Daddy, he used to cry even when he milked the cows." He used the spray again, and this time almost gagged when the chlorine hit. A fresh wave of tears covered his face.
"Goddamn," said the driver. "Maybe better you don't come for ride. Is plenty dust, plenty hay out there."
"Don't worry about me. Crybaby Morrison never quits."
"Attaboy, Yank." The Russian reached down a callused palm. Eddie grasped it, and was at once jerked high into the air, levitated upward and over into the cockpit next to the driver, who gave him a boozy blast of breath and a friendly nudge as he grunted, "Velcome aboard."
Five minutes later, three other volunteer members of the various delegations were perched in position on the fenders and chassis of the combine, ready for the demonstration ride. Below them on the ground the Intourist guide gave final instructions, admonishing them to sit quietly, observe the operation of the machinery, and above all to avoid disturbing the driver.
THE DEATH FREAK -- An Eddie Mancuso Thriller (Eddie Mancuso And Vasily Borgneff Book 1) Page 10
