Ricardo was standing over his fallen enemy, fists clenched. “You drunken son-of-a-bitch!” he snarled. “You keep your filthy hands off that girl! I’m the one who brought her to this dance and I’m the one she dances with. Is that understood?”
Miguel of the red shirt rose slowly to his feet, spitting blood and the odd tooth, his eyes blazing with fury.“I’m going to kill you for this!” he hissed.
Ricardo threw off his jacket and pulled his tie from his neck. Miguel passed a hand over his gory mouth and then flew at his rival, landing a body blow that had him temporarily winded at which the crowd roared their approval. They seemed to be watching this entertainment in much the same way as they would a bullfight.The two were now raining an avalanche of blows at each other with a ferocity that was terrible to behold. Here indeed was the Green-eyed Monster at his most triumphant!
Anita clutched my arm tightly, watching the spectacle with a horror very slightly tinged with pride. “Look!” she cried. “What did I tell you about Andalusians? They’re fighting like wild beasts – and all because of me! We must stop them.”
“Yes, stop them somebody!” I cried out.“Can’t any of you do something? They’re hurting each other. Luciano – do something!”
Luciano looked surprised at my concern. “I’m not going to interfere,” he said. “It’s their business. They’ve got to settle it one way or the other. It’s a matter of honour.”
“How stupid!You’re all crazy!”
“You don’t understand,” said one of the onlookers. “You’re foreign so you don’t understand. We Andalusians are a very proud people and honour is important to us.”
“You’re just a blood-thirsty lot of hooligans and you’re enjoying every minute of this.”
Everyone laughed and Anita, who was now in tears, said: “They’re right.There’s nothing we can do about it.”
Desperately, we shouted to Ricardo to stop but our words fell on deaf ears. They continued to pound away at each other relentlessly to the ever-increasing excitement of the spectators. Most of the couples had now stopped dancing and were pushing forward to get a better view. Even the band was taking a lively interest. They stopped playing and sat down to watch from their advantageous position on the raised dais.
The crowd began to take sides and I heard several men making bets on the winner. The air rang with shouts. “Come on, Miguel, let him have it!” “Go on! Kill him, Ricardo!” The males, all brimming with testosterone, were certainly enjoying themselves but some of the girls were frightened and covered their eyes, crying “Ay! Ay! Ay!” Others giggled.
I looked around to see if someone in authority, perhaps the manager of the dance hall or the caretaker might appear and put a stop to the fight but there was no sign of any such person although one of the girls said someone had gone to fetch the police.
Although Miguel was a fierce fighter, Ricardo seemed to have the advantage due to his superior height and having landed the first damaging blow. Moreover, Miguel’s face was now pouring with blood which hampered his vision.The end was near. Catching his opponent in an unguarded moment, Ricardo struck him a shattering left hook to the jaw which sent him reeling back to collapse, senseless, on the floor. I felt slightly sick and not a little worried about Miguel who was lying very still.
“Go and see to him, Luciano,” I urged, “Ricardo may have killed him.”
Luciano laughed. “That’s nothing! Nothing a bucket of cold water won’t cure. Now if it had been knives – as it could well have been – then that would be a different matter.”
I turned to Anita.“Let’s get out of here!” I whispered.
Ricardo, whose face was bruised and puffy but otherwise seemed alright, was putting on his jacket and tie. Honour had been satisfied and he seemed well pleased with himself.
Not so pleased were those men who had placed bets on Miguel. An argument had broken out about Ricardo’s tactics and others joined in.There were heated exchanges and, to my horror, these quickly developed into violent scuffles. Soon the whole place was in uproar.
Meanwhile, Miguel had recovered his senses and was helped to his feet. He stood swaying unsteadily and looking about him in a daze, shaking his head and wiping his battered face with his sleeve. The floor was spattered with blood and everywhere people were fighting.The dance had turned into an ugly brawl and all because of Anita.
I grabbed her arm and pushed her towards the exit. “That’s it!” I said.“Let’s get out quick!”
“Yes,” she agreed, trembling,“it’s terrible.We’ve got to get out of here.”
Luciano noticed our retreat and rushed over. “Where are you going?” he wanted to know.“Wait for us!”
“Just going to the cloakroom. Back in a moment,” I lied.
No sooner had we reached the exit, than a band of stern-faced civil guards arrived and pushed their way in through the door, roughly thrusting people aside and brandishing weapons. We got out in the nick of time to avoid further trouble and ran, fleet-footed, through the streets until we were safely out of reach.
“Que horror!” panted Anita. “What a disgusting scene! I’ve had quite enough of these hot-blooded Andalusians. Let’s go back to Madrid tomorrow! Back to civilization: back to Desmond!”
CHAPTER TWENTY
MOUNTAIN GOATS
One of my favourite haunts in Spain’s Capital City was the Retiro Park. On a previous visit I had taken digs in the Calle Ibiza which was within easy walking distance of the park. I used to wander daily along its paths, discovering little secret paved areas where one could bask in the sun, sheltered from any wind by cypress hedges, and watch the old ladies sitting on benches, gossiping and nursing their pet dogs. I also delighted in seeking out the various statues that nestled among the rose bushes and I enjoyed strolling beside the Estanque.This was a large lake bobbing with little rowing boats where the madrileños liked to relax on warm evenings. Sometimes, Rafael and I would hire one of these boats and spend a pleasant half hour rowing to the accompaniment of Spanish music played over a loud speaker. Each boat had a number and when our time was up, the number would be called and we would have to head for shore.
But on this particular day there were neither boats nor music on the lake. It was mid winter, the trees were bare, there were no roses and the park was practically empty. Nevertheless, even in this inhospitable season, the Retiro still seemed beautiful. I was aware that someone was walking beside me and I felt a warm glow of happiness. I looked up and saw the handsome, pensive face of the man I loved, introspective and silent as usual, locked in a private, impenetrable world that was his alone.The wind was bitterly cold but his tall form, close to my side, shielded me from its knife-edge. Luis! I said and reached out to touch him but my hand felt nothing but the cold January air and my voice, uttering his name, was heard only by a solitary cat stalking along the path ahead. What was happening to me? Was I going mad? So strong had become my passionate longing for him that it was even causing me to hallucinate! Despite all efforts to banish him from my thoughts, his ghost haunted me constantly, tormenting me every night by entering my dreams and now it even appeared in daydreams: dreams of what might have been here in Madrid. I cursed my imagination.
I stood beside the lake looking down into the water at my own reflection, perhaps to assure myself that I really was alone. A sad, plain girl stared back at me, her face pinched with cold, straggly hair whipped into thin strands. Could this pathetic, unattractive creature be me?
Overcome by unhappiness, I collapsed onto a nearby bench and, knowing I was quite alone, allowed myself a thoroughly good howl. After a while the black mood passed and I felt a sense of relief. I dried my swollen eyes, blew my nose, and tried to collect my thoughts. All this had to stop, I told myself severely. Things couldn’t go on like this. I had to forget him: forget him completely.
I shivered as a biting gust of wind swept about me. The grey clouds parted for a minute and a few pale streaks of weak sunshine cast mottled shadows across the path. In th
e distance, I saw two figures walking towards me; they were Desmond and Anita from whom I had earlier made my escape. As they came close I saw that he had his arm round her and they were looking very happy.Anita spotted me and waved.“Where have you been?” she called. I wiped my face hurriedly, hoping they would not notice that I had been crying.
What an odd pair they made! She was looking as lovely and well groomed as ever. No amount of buffeting by the wind could disarrange those short, thick curls and her face was not pinched. On the contrary, it was aglow with warmth and happiness and her eyes were, as usual, sparkling. Beside her, the tall figure of Desmond, lean and Quixotic, looked strangely out of place. He was still wearing his ageing duffel coat with the missing toggle, and the rest wrongly fastened so that one side of his coat was shorter than the other.
“What on earth are you doing here, sitting all by yourself?” Anita demanded to know. “Aren’t you cold? After all that lovely warm weather down in the south, it feels really cold.”
“No doubt you are familiar,” said Desmond, “with that proverbial Spanish saying: The air of Madrid can kill a man without blowing out a candle. Certainly there is some truth in it but you must remember, dear Anita, that English women do not feel the cold. They are accustomed to it, their own climate – that is to say the climate of their native land – being, generally speaking, so inclement.”
He was back on his old hobbyhorse and I was in no mood to put up with it.
“I know, I know,” I said angrily,“Hardy Weeds can weather any amount of cold, unlike delicate blossoms, of course.They stand up to storms, they can be trampled underfoot – you can do anything to a Hardy Weed and it will bounce right back because it doesn’t have any feelings, you know!”
Anita disentangled herself from Desmond and came over to where I was sitting. She put a hand on my shoulder and peered at me anxiously. “Whatever’s the matter? This isn’t like you at all. Something’s upset you. In fact…” she examined me closer,“I think you’ve been crying. What’s happened? Why are you sitting here brooding all by yourself?”
“I’m not brooding. Leave me alone!” I snapped, turning away from her.
“You are in a bad mood! That’s what comes of being on your own. It’s not good for you. Let’s go and ring Rafael.”
Desmond cleared his throat. “Unaware as I am of the exact nature or cause of her discomposure, it is, of course, difficult for me to comment, but on the other hand, I would venture to suggest that, from a general observation of her appearance and manner, she would appear to be suffering from a considerable degree of nervous tension. In such cases, a change of atmosphere is often considered beneficial and I would therefore recommend that we make immediate arrangements for an excursion into the mountains for the purpose of ski-ing and inhaling the fresh health-giving air.”
If he’d said that in English, I thought, it would have sounded like an excerpt from a Wodehouse novel: Jeeves advising Bertie Wooster.
“Oh! What a wonderful idea!” exclaimed Anita, “I’ve never been ski-ing.Tomorrow’s Sunday.We could go tomorrow.What do you think? Shall we ring Rafael and tell him? Or, better still, we could invite José Luis to join us.Yes, that’s a better idea. He’s sure to cheer you up.”
I smiled, amused at her unshakeable faith in José Luis as a remedy for all ills.
“Neither of them,” I said. “I have someone else in mind. Someone who is a great skier.”
“Who’s that?” she asked, intrigued.
“Oh, just another friend of mine. Chap called Daniel. I met him at a party last year when I was here and I know he’s a good skier because he told me he goes up into the mountains every Sunday in the winter. He’s mad about ski-ing so he’ll probably make a good instructor.”
“How many more friends do you have in Madrid?” laughed Anita.“Come on! Let’s ring him now!”
The mountain railway took us to a point close to the ski resort of Navacerrada but the rest of the journey had to be made on foot. It was hard going, encumbered as we were with our skis, and our upward trudge through the snow was not made any easier by the fact that both Anita and I were wearing trousers and ski boots belonging to the men, which were several sizes too large for us.We had tried to pad out the boots with assorted socks originating from both Desmond and Daniel but they only succeeded in making our feet feel even worse.They were heavy, bulky and clumsy. However, they did keep out the cold very effectively, as did the thick sweater that Daniel had lent me. The sun was shining and the snow glittered brightly under a clear blue sky.All around were pine trees, their branches powdered with snow and, here and there, tiny delicate crocuses pushed their mauve heads bravely through the white carpet, reminding us that spring was not too far away.
Desmond and Anita were way ahead of us, deep in conversation as usual, but this time I wasn’t left alone. All my depression of the previous day was forgotten because I was with Daniel, one of my favourite friends. Kind and generous to a fault, he was utterly unaware of his own good looks and charm – the complete opposite of José Luis. Like most of the other people I’d met in Madrid, I had come to know him through my English friend, David, who patronised the family’s small grocery business. It was tucked away down a back street in one of the less salubrious districts of the city and there, in his father’s dark little shop, Daniel worked long and exhausting hours and Sunday being his only day off, he made good use of it to indulge in his two favourite interests: ski-ing and bullfighting.
I recalled my first experience of the National Fiesta that previous year when he had dragged me reluctantly to a bullfight. Having spent his week’s hard-earned wages on two of the best seats in the shade, I could hardly tell him that the thought of spending two hours watching six great beasts being ritually tortured to death in a particularly barbarous and messy way, was not my idea of a pleasant Sunday afternoon’s entertainment. In fact, my built-in revulsion for such things would have been totally incomprehensible to Daniel. At the time, I had some difficulty in reconciling his amiable nature with this apparently insatiable lust for blood. It was only after getting to know the Spanish character better, with its obsessive curiosity about the mystery of death, that I began to understand it.
I do not know who had suffered more that hot afternoon, the bulls or me. Daniel did his best to assuage my anguish by pointing out the various pases or movements of the cloak. By the end of the afternoon I had learned the difference between a pase natural, a verónica and a mariposa; but the most vivid image left in my mind was that of a once proud, beautiful and powerful animal staggering, bemused, around the ring, vomiting its life blood onto the sand with half a sword protruding grotesquely between its shoulders. The most frightening thing about that afternoon was that after being forced to witness the deaths of six bulls and the wounding of a horse, a picador and an espontáneo (a member of the public who had climbed into the ring to try his luck), I had become almost immune to the sight of blood and its accompanying dramas. I wondered whether this sinister desensitising process might occur among soldiers in the battlefield. Certainly, from observing Daniel’s reactions, it was clear that to him the bull was not a suffering creature made of flesh and blood with nerves and feelings and a will to live, but merely a means by which the bullfighter could test and measure his own skill and valour.
When we’d left the ring Daniel had been decidedly depressed. It had not been a good bullfight he assured me. It was the first of the season and the toreros were not in good form so I should not judge all bullfights by this one. He would take me to others that would be better. However, I had promised myself never to take him up on this offer.
Now, as we wended our way up through the pine trees, weighed down by our skis, I reminded him of that distant April afternoon and he laughed. “That was a terrible corrida! I felt ashamed at having taken you to such a spectacle. Come back to Madrid this summer and I’ll show you what bullfighting is really about!”
“I think I shall go home in the summer. I can’t stay here indefinitely.
But, talking of bullfighting, I know another madman like you, an aficionado called Felipe who lives in Burgos.You two should meet some time – you’d get on so well.”
“I do have other interests,” Daniel assured me, putting an arm round me. “We can talk of other things, you know, like how well you’re looking; Spain really suits you, and what fun I’m going to have teaching you to ski!”
“You know, Daniel,” I said gratefully, “you really are a good friend.”
“Señorita,” he responded, “if we were not both wearing such thick gloves, I would kiss your hand.”
I smiled. In Daniel I felt I had someone resembling an older brother in whom I could, to some extent, confide.
“I’ve been a bit depressed lately,” I confessed. “But being here with you is a real tonic.”
Daniel looked surprised.“Why depressed? I can’t imagine you depressed.What’s the matter? Aren’t you happy here in Spain? Are you homesick for England?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s just that there have been ups and downs in my life lately and now happens to be one of the downs.”
“I see.A personal matter?”
“Maybe.”
“Someone has made you unhappy, perhaps?” he suggested with insight.
I nodded and turned away, feeling a fresh surge of misery. Daniel squeezed my shoulder. “Forget him!” he said in the softest of voices.“Forget him, whoever he is. No one should be allowed to take away your alegría. No one in the world.”
“Dearest Daniel, if only it were that easy! If only life weren’t so complicated.”
“Those two don’t seem to be having any problems, anyway,” observed my companion, indicating the ever-diminishing figures of Desmond and Anita.
“That’s another thing that bothers me. My best friend’s got herself tied up with someone totally unsuitable. Desmond’s too old for her and, let’s face it, he’s a pedantic bore.”
Mad Dogs and an English Girl Page 23
