Lime's Photograph

by Leif Davidsen

  She kissed the tip of my nose, my chin and my mouth.

  “You’ve got so many talents, Peter. You’re a talented lover, you’re a talented photographer, you’re a talented poet, you’re a talented seducer, you’re a talented liar, you’re a talented cheat. All that talent will be your undoing, and do you have to leave now?”

  I pushed her gently onto her back and entered her.

  “Peter. I don’t have any talent. My only talent is for seducing men. I have a great ability to make men do what I want. Why won’t you do what I want?”

  Her voice echoed across 30 years, loud and clear, as if she lay naked on the bed in the hotel room, so close that I shivered, as if in a trance in my very own, private world.

  I both remembered and experienced. It was like being on a psychedelic trip. It was hard to tell what was real and what was fantasy. As if in a film, I saw Peter Lime leave that morning, a rucksack slung over his shoulder, walking away from the farm, along the deserted dirt track that led up to the road. I had the scent of Lola’s skin and sex in my nostrils and on my skin. It was one of those glorious, early summer mornings in Denmark and the light on the salt meadows was so beautiful that it could only have been painted by a celebrated artist, and the few drifting, fragile clouds could only have been created by the most talented stage designer in the world. A damp grey morning mist crept along the ground. I walked along the country road feeling euphoric, partly because I was stoned, but mainly with a sensation of total freedom. Of joy at the unimaginable opportunities life held for me, and a feeling of invulnerability in my young, vigorous body.

  And I don’t think I have ever, before or since, been so happy and light-hearted, without a single worry. Just naïve, completely carefree happiness at being alive at precisely that moment in history.

  The world lay at my feet and was there to be conquered.

  13

  Las Ventas, Madrid’s bullfighting arena, stood burnished, round and scorching in the late afternoon sun as the taxi dropped me off just before 5 p.m. on Sunday. The usual throng of people milled around outside the arena and there was that familiar, infernal din of honking horns, shouting street vendors and traffic officers blowing their whistles in an attempt to bring some kind of order to the chaos. Sweet-sellers stood alongside stalls selling beer and soft drinks, carts with toys and posters, ugly toy bulls and imitation swords and capes. There was that buzz of expectation in the air that always precedes a bullfight and which, although I had forgotten it, instantly infected me. It was as if I had just woken from a long hibernation. I could feel the life around me, not just the chill within. Holding their brightly-coloured tickets, the crowd moved towards the entrance that towered up into the afternoon sky. It must have been like this in Rome when people were on their way to watch the gladiators fight. The electrifying proximity of death which you could experience without personal danger. I spotted the odd tourist, but most of the people thronging round the gates were Spanish. I didn’t know the bullfighters on the poster. I didn’t keep up any longer, but I heard a couple of aficionados saying that one of them was a young Andalusian beginning to make a name for himself. The bulls were from the Miura ranch down by Seville, big strong animals. The true aficionados really came only because of the bulls; to see this half ton of beast, bristling with aggressiveness, attack with explosive speed anything that got in its way. I began to look forward to it, became wrapped up in the ritual again, and very nearly forgot why Don Alfonzo had sent me there. A man with the El Pais Sunday supplement under his arm would approach me when the third bull charged across the sand in the sun and dust to its inevitable death.

  I had slept on the floor at first, then on the rumpled bed, protected by a Do Not Disturb sign on the locked door of my hotel room, and I had woken up with a clear head, but pains in my bruised ribs and the gash under my eye. I had tidied up and had a shower and had gone down to the restaurant and eaten my first proper meal for several days. Afterwards I had gone to Suzuki and surrendered myself to his intoning, melodic voice and healing hands. I felt that I had reached a turning point, even though I couldn’t specify what had changed. Suzuki told me that I was breathing better, that he could feel the beginnings of wa, of a balance in my physique and my mind. As if I had been cleansed. I felt in control and the desire to sit and drink had receded, but I knew it was still there. It wouldn’t take much to knock me back again. I had switched my mobile phone back on. The answering service was full of messages from Oscar and Gloria, telling me off for not being in touch. They had recorded the last message together, saying that they were going to Ireland and London and looked forward to my return to work. They hoped I would have a good summer. They were taking their mobiles, and they assumed they would hear from me. In fact, they insisted that I ring them!

  Don Alfonzo’s ticket was one of the expensive ones. I had a place on the fourth row on the shady side, just under the President in charge of today’s corrida. The seats gradually filled up. Cigarette smoke spiralled with the buzzing voices straight up into the blue sky above Madrid. Soon, nearly all the seats were taken. Mass and bullfighting start punctually in Spain. There were two empty seats on my right and another empty one on my left. Four men sitting in front of me were busy discussing the bulls they had seen that morning at the drawing of lots to determine which of the six bulls the three bullfighters would confront, and in which order. They were experts and wouldn’t be interested in anything except the bullfight. There were four women, American tourists, sitting behind me. I could tell from their voices that they were apprehensive at what they were about to see, but perhaps they didn’t want to go back to the US without being able to talk with indignation of the cruelty of the Spanish bullrings. Their main topic of discussion was how aggravating they found the cigarette smoke, even though we were sitting in the open air, that it was just too bad there weren’t any smoking areas in the arena. They were all of the opinion that Europe smelled.

  I placed the brown cushion on the concrete, sat down and breathed in the smell of the men’s fat cigars and eau de cologne and the Spanish women’s discreet, expensive perfume. Beer and soft drink vendors ran along the rows of the stands, others were offering cognac and whisky or wine. I bought a cola and a packet of peanuts and inhaled the smell of sand and wood and animals and savoured the buoyant sound of expectant voices. Looking over at the cheap seats on the sunny side was like watching a ballet, as the spectators fluttered their fans rapidly in the sluggish air. Hats or folded newspapers were used to shade faces and scalps from the burning sun which made the raked sand glow yellow.

  The band signalled the start of the bullfight with a bugle call and I saw the three bullfighters with their troop of cuadrillas prepare to march to salute the President. They crossed themselves, the band began playing the pasodoble, and they walked across the sand to start the ancient dance with death.

  The first bull came out of its dark stall at great speed, its head held high. It stopped for a moment in the sharp sunlight, surprised by the huge crowd, the smells and the noise. Then it caught sight of the bullfighter’s assistant, the banderillero with his yellow and red cape, who had stepped forward from the barrier. He would make the first moves, allowing the bullfighter to inspect his opponent. The bull pawed the ground, tossed its head and bellowed, and the crowd began to whistle. Marking out its territory was a sign of weakness. The bull should attack immediately. The assistant got it to run after the cape that he dragged along behind him and then the bullfighter stepped forward to take up combat. He flourished his cape a few times and the bull attacked, direct and fast, but jerked its left horn upwards when the bullfighter drew the huge, black beast round him in a couple of beautifully executed verónicas. On his third attempt, the bull’s forelegs buckled as it tried to turn and a sigh of disappointment surged through the crowd. Weak legs, the big problem with the Spanish fighting bull today. They were bred too fast. There was a signal from the band and the horses came trundling in. They looked like large, prehistoric lizards or ungainly dray ho
rses with bulky protective padding round their bellies and flanks and blinkered eyes. The picador sat erect, holding his lance, and leant over the bull after the bullfighter, with a movement of his wrist, had lured it away from the cape so that it faced the horse. The bull attacked immediately, the picador thrust his lance down into the huge, distended hump of muscle on its back, and the blood began to gush. The spectators whistled in contempt as the picador pounded the lance into the bull’s back to stop the animal from jerking its left horn upwards. But the bull pressed against the lance with such power that the hefty horse was crushed against the wooden barrier until the capes swirling around the bull’s eyes lured it away. Now it knew that there would be no mercy. Not until all its enemies had been removed from this hot sand would it be left in peace.

  The bull was given another dose of the lance before the President, deferring to the audience’s deafening whistles at its being unduly weakened and exhausted, signalled for the animal to be released. It stood in the middle of the arena, breathing heavily, red blood streaming from the wounds on its back.

  The spectators applauded when the bullfighter saluted the crowd with his banderillas, the short, colourful darts. He was going to place them himself instead of letting one of his assistants do it, as was normal. He ran across the sand towards the bull, the animal caught sight of him and started to run too, and for a moment it was as if man and beast merged into one when the bullfighter effortlessly went up on tiptoe and then spun away, deftly placing the two darts in the right-hand side of the hump of muscle. The bull roared and tossed its whole body as it tried to shake off these irritating, painful things. The audience applauded both the perfectly placed darts and the bull’s new-found courage. The next two banderillas were placed in an equally elegant manner, but the third pair fell out when the bull’s weak legs gave way and it sank to its knees.

  It stood alone and bleeding in the middle of the arena, awaiting its fate. I looked down at the bullfighter in front of me. He took a sip of water, crossed himself and picked up a red cloth – the muleta – and a lightweight sword that he folded into the cloth, pulling it taut. His face was pale under his olive-coloured skin and his dark eyes were frightened, but he saluted proudly by taking off his hat and throwing it to a woman a few rows up, dedicating the bull to her. I took a couple of quick shots with my Leica. I should have used a telephoto lens. I wanted to capture the stark fear on his face, the blank eyes with their tiny pupils. It was the first real photograph that I had taken since Amelia and Maria Luisa died, and I lifted the camera, adjusted the focus and assessed light and distance with my usual proficiency, acting almost unconsciously, but with that unerring instinct. It was a fantastic feeling, an indescribable moment. I was suddenly active again, and responding to my surroundings by doing my job – capturing and freezing the instant. It felt like a moment of truth of the same intensity as the one that awaited the bull down on the blood-sprinkled sand.

  The bullfighter was older than I had thought, with his boyish, slight frame in its close-fitting yellow and red outfit, but what I remember most was the fear in his aged face as he stepped out alone on the sand to confront the bull. He knew that now, when weakened by loss of blood, the bull’s rage and cunning were at their peak and he would have to kill it quickly. He had placed the banderillas himself to overcome his fear, and because it looks braver than it actually is. The real skill lies in the critical moments when he stands alone with the bull in the middle of the arena and again his reluctance was clear. He drew the bull over towards the barrier, so that his assistants would be close at hand if anything went wrong, and then he finished the job as fast as he could without being seen to be a coward. The bull kept tossing its left horn, and when the bullfighter tried to pull it round in a pass with the muleta its weak legs gave way again and it sank to its knees. He had trouble making it attack. It just stood snorting, red blood caked in its black pelt, looking more like a despairing cow, and the bullfighter had to get very close to make it come forward. When he saw the way things were going, he pulled out the death-dealing sword, poised himself ready for the moment of truth and killed the bull without further ceremony. At least he was professional. He saluted the crowd, bowed to his woman and the President, and the mules entered and dragged the dead bull out to the sound of sporadic applause. A Sunday afternoon like any other all over Spain. Memorable experiences in the arena were few and far between – when you were no longer fascinated by death itself, when the colours of the costumes, the atavistic mystique of the drama being played out and the ritual had lost their attraction. The minute you began to feel sympathy with the bull, the magic of the bullfight vanished. I realised why I had stopped following the Sunday killings. The show no longer made any sense.

  It didn’t make sense to the American women behind me either. I had listened to their outraged exclamations throughout, and when the team of mules dragged the huge dead beast across the bloody sand they left, protesting loudly about cruelty to animals. It was worse than they had imagined. They would write to their local newspaper. It had made them feel physically sick. Now they had something to talk about back home in Iowa.

  I ordered a cognac and a beer and drank them while the second bull was killed in much the same way. The bull was stronger but the bullfighter was worse, and he let his picador weaken the huge, powerful animal, so it finally fell to its knees. He was a bad killer and made three attempts while the spectators whistled and jeered their contempt.

  I ordered another cognac, and when the bugle signalled the third bull call, an elderly man sat down on the empty seat next to me. He was carrying a copy of the shiny Sunday supplement of El Pais, a whole magazine in itself, which he put on his lap.

  “Buenas tardes, señor Lime,” he said.

  “Buenas tardes,” I replied and looked at him.

  He was a small man with a high, rounded forehead. His hair, still black and pomaded, was combed straight back and he wore a pencil moustache above a small mouth. He was smoking a big Havana cigar. Despite the heat, he was wearing a pale suit with a meticulously knotted tie. He spoke in a dry, slightly rasping voice, hardly moving his mouth, as if afraid of lip-readers.

  “Are you enjoying our fiesta brava?” he said.

  “Not particularly. The bulls just fall over, to put it bluntly, and the bullfighters seem to be thinking more about their bank balance than their art.”

  “Quite. Could apply to most things these days. Money is raised above art or the traditions which make Spain a civilised country. But you are, of course, well aware of that. Don Alfonzo has said that you know and understand our country and only wish the best for it.”

  “That’s correct,” I said.

  “This was not always the case,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were once part of a group that wanted to create disorder.”

  “If you mean I was an opponent of Franco’s dictatorship, then you’re right.”

  “That is an oversimplification, señor Lime. The Caudillo, blessed be his immortal soul, was a man of vision. He understood our torrid blood, our brutality, our capacity to kill, our fascination with death of which the corrida is but one example, our lack of tolerance, our machismo and our uncompromising pride. He saw it as his mission to heal the wounds inflicted by the fratricidal war and turn Spain into a modern European nation. And he succeeded.”

  “I’m sure those who were tortured and executed are grateful for the undertaking. Spain was an abscess on the map of Europe. A strange relic of fascism, where Nazism survived long after it had perished in Germany.”

  He didn’t get angry, but continued in the same subdued tone of voice.

  “The alternative was chaos. There were powerful forces which wanted Spain to perish. Forces within and outside the country. The Caudillo’s vision was right. Spain had to follow its own course for many years in order to emerge from its past unscathed”

  You could hear the echo of servants under other dictatorships. From Stasi informers in the former GD
R to fascist executioners in many Latin American nations. They did it in service of a cause. They were just following orders. They bore no personal responsibility, and they defended their actions until death caught up with them, because otherwise their lives made no sense. Sometimes it was hard to grasp that dictatorships could function only because thousands closed their eyes and thousands more participated in maintaining the oppression.

  “Are you an historian?” I said.

  He laughed.

  “Of sorts. But we’re not going to discuss politics or history. I’m here to repay a debt to a man I respect.”

  I was going to say something else about Franco, but the crowd began yelling and whistling so loudly that we couldn’t make ourselves heard. It was time for the third bull. This one was lame. It stood in the middle of the arena and when the bullfighter began working it with his cape it was clear that it limped badly on its left hind leg. The bullfighter looked up at the President in entreaty and soon afterwards a herd of steers entered the arena. The huge, angry bull turned into a meek cow, allowing itself to be lured out of the arena by the steers it recognised from the wide open spaces of the ranch where it had been reared. Now, as placidly as a sacrificial lamb, it left the arena in order to be killed by an electric shock to its forehead, administered by an efficient slaughterer waiting in the passageways under Las Ventas.

  “One believes there is a way out, but all routes lead to death,” said the man at my side.

  “You know my name. I don’t know yours,” I said.

  “For the sake of convenience, you can call me Don Felipe.”

  “Don Felipe. If you’re not an historian, what are you?”

  Like my father-in-law, he preferred to talk in riddles. I couldn’t place his accent, but he sounded as if he came from somewhere in the south. I knew that he must have been an intelligence officer under General Franco, who had more secret services than medals. But he was slightly more loquacious than Don Alfonzo.