by Kahn, Denise
The picador held his lance high as his horse galloped, almost dancing around the bull. The picador brought the lance down and sunk it between the bull’s shoulders. The move required great strength. The rider’s grip was so strong on the lance that both horse and rider were practically lifted off the ground. Such was the picador’s art and his execution was perfect. As they came down, the bull turned his head and tried to ram his assailants, just missing the horse. At the next pass, when again the picador’s lance pierced deeply into the bull’s muscles, the heavy animal was quicker and gored the horse under his padding right in the stomach.
Jean dug her nails into Rodrigo’s hand.
The horse and bull were now both bleeding heavily, and their blood was smeared on their hides, but the picador went around the ring once again and drove in his lance a third time. He was obsessed with the technique of his art, and he demanded perfection. His job was to weaken the bull. He had succeeded. The bull was now ready for the matador.
Jean promised herself that never again would she go to a corrida.
“Now, coming is the matador’s biggest moment,” Rodrigo explained to Jean. “He must kill the bull just right, just with one blow. Then they will give him an ear, maybe two ears.”
“Are you enjoying this?” Jean asked Davina.
“Torturing an animal? Of course not.”
“They cut off its ears?”
“After it’s dead, after it’s dead.” She patted Jean on the knee.
“If the matador is very good,” Rodrigo added, “he will receive the tail as well. But he must be very good for this.”
The toreadors and matadors danced around the bull, each pass smooth and exactly calculated. There was no roughness. On the contrary, it was graceful. The bull had weakened considerably. Blood spurted from his shoulders and streamed down his neck and front legs. It was time.
The matador aimed the sword. “Hah, toro!”
The bull lunged forward as did the bullfighter, who guided the sword deftly between the bull’s heaving shoulders. For a moment it seemed as if they were one, and then the bull jumped back, as did the cape and the matador. The sword had been implanted perfectly. The animal went down. The matador stood before the bull. They looked at each other as if they had been in a great war, two warriors, the conquered and the conqueror bidding their last farewell. The bull gathered all his strength and tried to rise, but his legs buckled and again he went down.
“Thank God it’s over,” Jean said.
“There are always six bulls in a corrida,” Davina said, trying not to laugh.
Jean looked as if she had been slapped.
“Do you wish to leave?” Rodrigo asked her.
“Yes,” Jean said. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“We’ll go to the Café San Sebastian,” Rodrigo told his brother and Davina. “We’ll meet you there for dinner.”
♫
CHAPTER 15
Jean awoke at noon from the sound of the rocket blast on the second day of the week-long fiesta. The sound, she knew, meant the bullfights were about to begin.
The room was spinning. She looked around, trying to get her bearings, wondering where she was. Then it all came back, the wine, the boiling water, which wasn’t water at all, and the squid, and Rodrigo. Her head was about to explode. She had only to move her body from the bed to the bathroom, she told herself. Otherwise, her bladder would burst. She sat up and saw Rodrigo sleeping in a chair next to the bed. My god, she thought, did we…? She couldn’t remember. She was almost naked under the sheets. She never slept in her underwear. How was this possible, especially with this handsome man next to her? Why was he in the chair?
Rodrigo woke with a start.
“Jean, how are you?” he asked.
She felt her face turning hot. Did we or didn’t we? The answer was not on Rodrigo’s face. She did not know what to say. She went with the obvious. “I have a splitting headache.”
“I know. Too much aguardiente. I should have known better. It’s too strong. But I will fix you.”
What did that mean?
Rodrigo dialed room service, speaking rapidly in Spanish.
“Rodrigo, where are my clothes?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, I presume they were thrown somewhere.”
“I need to go to…”
“Yes, I understand.” He opened the armoire and brought out a large bath towel.
“Thank you.”
There was a knock on the door. Rodrigo went to answer the door. That was her cue. She quickly got up, wrapped the towel around her and went into the bathroom. When she came out, Rodrigo was pouring coffee for her. “Cream and sugar?” he asked.
“Please.”
“Okay. Here drink this and then this,” he said handing her the coffee and a shot glass of aguardiente, the clear whisky that in Spanish and Portuguese was called, literally, boiling water.
“That will kill me,” she said.
“No, guapa, it will cure you from your hangover. You will see. Trust me.”
“What does guapa mean?”
“It means beautiful.”
“Have you been here all night?”
“Yes.”
“Did I - did I do anything…?”
“No, no. I’m afraid you passed out at San Sebastian’s, so I carried you to the hotel.”
“You carried me here?”
“Yes.”
“And then… What happened to Davina and Alejandro?”
“They went to their room. I stayed here.”
“You stayed here?”
“Yes, with you.”
”With me?”
“Yes.”
Jean couldn’t bear it any longer. “Would you please tell me what happened last night.”
“Very well. You passed at out at San Sebastian’s. Then I carried you here. I’m sorry, I already said that. I put you on the bed…”
“You already said that too.”
“Yes, you are right.” He held her hands in his. “I called Davina and asked her to come and take your clothes off.”
“Why?”
“It would not be proper for me to do this.”
“I see.” She didn’t. “Then what?”
“Then Davina and Alejandro left.”
“Alejandro was here too?”
“Yes. You were asleep and I brought the chair close to the bed. I was afraid you might get sick during the night so I stayed with you.”
“That’s all?”
“No.”
Here it comes, she thought.
“You talked in your sleep, you said something but I could not understand. I asked you what you said but you did not answer me, so I took your hand and that seemed to calm you. You went back to sleep. I held your hand and watched you for about an hour.”
“And then?”
“And then I fell asleep myself in the chair still holding your hand.”
Jean looked down at their hands, at Rodrigo’s hands. She lifted her head and looked in his eyes. She saw warmth and kindness, something she was not used to seeing in a man. She put her lips to his. “Thank you, Rodrigo.”
“For what?”
“For caring and for being such a gentleman.”
“I was worried about you. Besides, you are very beautiful and what man would not want to stare at your lovely face all night? But I do care about you. You are special to me, Jean Conrad.”
“And you are special too.”
Rodrigo kissed her tenderly. She did not refuse. He kissed her again, more passionately this time.
“Rodrigo, I’m afraid. I-I was married once…“
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Davina told me. Do not be afraid.”
She had never made love. She knew only brutal sex. Rodrigo treated her like a delicate virgin, and for the first time in her life, Jean knew what it meant for a man and a woman to be passionate.
/> ♫
MADRID
CHAPTER 16
Madrid's Bernabeu soccer stadium was filled to capacity, one hundred thousand people, Davina's largest live audience. She would give them a show that would keep them talking for a long time. She asked her friends to sit in the audience rather than stay backstage. They did not press her for her reasons. Jacques, Alejandro and Rodrigo, with Jean on his arm, kissed her and left her with her privacy for her usual pre-show ritual of pacing and cursing in Spanish.
The stage, a large wooden platform, was set up in the middle of the soccer field.
Jacques was horrified at her makeshift dressing room, more or less four curtains in a rectangular spot on the grass. “The great Davina does not dress in the mud on a soccer field!” he protested. But there was nothing to be done about it, and Davina did not mind.
The spotlights dimmed and the orchestra began playing the overture. Davina stepped onto center stage and greeted her audience in Spanish: "Que placer estar de nuevo en España entre amigos y queridos... What joy to once again be in Spain between friends and loved ones, between the sun and the mountains, the warmth and hospitality of this wonderful country. Spain and its people will always be very special in my heart.”
Davina looked at Alejandro, letting him know that this song was for him. She sang. Eres el alma de mi vida, el hombre que yo amo... You are the soul of my life, the man I love...
Throughout the concert, which went on for almost three hours, Davina incorporated songs with special meaning for her friends. To Jacques, she sang a French song...J’attendrais, ... I will wait, night and day, I will always wait, my love, for your return... She sang to Jean and to Rodrigo. To all the beautiful girls I shared wonderful moments with… I thank them and cherish their offerings, and I now confess to them that I found the woman my heart has dreamed of…
The audience couldn't get enough of her. The smoothness and the elegance of her subtle beauty combined with her velvet and crystal vocal chords made the performance magical. The men wanted to make love to her. The women wanted to be her friend. They wanted to be a part of her uniqueness. She had touched them all. Many eyes were wet, as Davina's were, when she sang the last song of the evening. Un adios a media voz…a goodbye with half a voice…True to her lyrics, her voice became almost a whisper and seemed to only have half of its potency as she sang the song’s emotional goodbye.
Jacques understood now what he had not been able to grasp the first time he heard Davina sing at his wedding. Davina did not simply sing the music. She became the music. It was an obsession of the heart that came through her singing.
Jean and the three men went to meet Davina. Jacques arrived first. "As always the best, and thank you for the dedication. You are pure finesse," he said kissing on the cheeks.
"Amor, thank you. I am positive tonight was the best performance of your life. I don’t think you will be able to surpass it. You were magnificent," Alejandro said.
Davina was beaming. She really did feel good about her performance, and Alejandro confirming it, was the best compliment she could have hoped for.
"Davina, really!" Rodrigo said. "You should be ashamed of yourself."
"Oh oh, what did I do?"
"Would you just look at Jean. She's been crying like a puppy, and all through the concert! She is so sensitive—but I like it," he said grinning, "you were increible, beautiful creatura. Never, ever, stop singing! Your audience would never forgive you, and I wouldn't either.
"Oh yes Davina," Jean said hugging her friend, "thank you so much, it was all so beautiful. I don't know what to say. The guys here have said it all already anyway, but I hope you know that we all love you very, very much."
Davina was ecstatic. She knew the concert had gone well, and the people she loved the most had made it magical.
"Thank you all so much., I love you too, more than anything else in this world, but I think it is high time to tear this city apart! Let’s party'!" She exclaimed.
The little group did not need much coaxing. They were out of the stadium and headed for fun in no time at all.
Later That night Jean didn’t sleep well. She was dreaming of her accomplishments on her own stage at the theater in the heart of Miami.
♫
MIAMI 1978
CHAPTER 17
The spectators were enjoying watching the most beautiful women in Florida parade down the runway. The happiest moment of Jean Conrad’s life began after the emcee announced the runners up, the third place and the second. She was first. “The new Miss Florida, Jean Conrad! Congratulations!"
At eighteen she was destined for almost guaranteed success. The crowd in the theater gave her a standing ovation, cheering for the All-American girl crying on the stage. She was queen for a day. Not only was she a knockout; she had just graduated from high school with honors and a choice of scholarships. She could go to the college of her preference or become a professional model. Instead she chose Simon Grady. It was the biggest mistake of her life, but she was young and in love, or thought she was.
Simon Grady was a good-looking young man. His hair was the color of wet straw. But his eyes were his most prominent feature. They were blue, but an icy blue, and piercing. He seemed shy and polite. He had grown up in the gutters of Miami, but he fought his way out. He attended the same high school as Jean, but dropped out before graduating. His father was usually drunk. He did not know his mother. She left them when he was three.
Simon got himself a job in a garage that specialized in race cars. After working there a few months, he was asked to deliver a car to one of the race tracks. As he drove down to the grass below the oval, he felt for the first time in his life that he belonged somewhere, as if something or someone was reaching out and calling him. He stood there, in the middle of the track, watching, smelling and listening to the sounds of the cars and their masters. The smell of the oil and the other lubricants were like a perfume to Simon, and the sounds of the engines revving made his body tingle. He developed a huge erection. This was as good as sex, he thought. This is what it's all about, he was meant for this, he was born to be a part of it. That Saturday he saw his first race and that gut feeling was stronger than ever. The races hypnotized him. He knew his destiny.
Simon spent his days at the garage and his weekends at the track, attending every race he could get to. He hitchhiked as far as the Daytona Speedway. He worked on the cars and tested them on the track. He desperately wanted to race, and he wanted the money, the women and the trophies, in that order. But being a professional driver meant having a car, and he did not have the funds for one. So he waited and saved. Then the break he needed came through. Fats, a man at the garage where he worked, asked him if he would race one of his cars.
But Grady did not believe him. "Don't fuck with me, man," Grady said.
"I'm serious," said Fats, who was actually very thin. He said he was in a bind and Grady would be doing him a favor. "My driver got busted, the asshole."
"You're not shitting me, are you?" Grady said, coming out from under a car.
"Look, kid, I need a driver for the weekend. I'm one of the sponsors and my car has to be entered, whether it wins or not. If you want the job, you got it, and don’t give me any shit. “
"You bet your ass, man, I'll do it. Hey, what’s in it for me?"
Fats took out a fifty-dollar bill. "Here. If you win, you keep the pot. I think its five hundred bucks. If you lose, go buy yourself a beer with the fifty.”
"Yeah, man, yeah!"
That Saturday, to everyone's astonishment, the rookie on the track won his first race. That was the beginning of his career as a professional driver. Fats hired Grady for the remainder of the season. Grady won most of the races. He established himself as one of the state's fastest drivers in one short season. By then he had made enough money to buy himself the cars he wanted—one for racing and another for pleasure. He went back to his old high school to show off. That’s when he met Jean Conrad. He asked her if she wanted to go for
a ride. Simon Grady had become a local celebrity of sorts. Jean did not hesitate to get into his car.
They were married in a civil ceremony three months later. They had one guest, their best man, a friend of Simon's, Johnny Thornton, who also worked at the tracks. They left City Hall and went to their house. It belonged to Jean. Her mother had willed it to her upon her death.
When Simon and Jean got home, Simon’s mood had changed. He knew that Jean and Johnny had something going on. He could tell from the way she looked at him, the son-of-a-bitch. He was furious. "You fucking bitch!" he shouted, slapping her face.
Jean was shocked. She held a hand to her red cheek. "What the hell was that for?"
"I saw you looking at Johnny."
"Simon, don't be ridiculous. He was our best man. You know I love you."
"You're a lying cunt," he said, hitting her in the face again.
Jean screamed. Blood trickled from her nose into her mouth. She touched the warm red liquid and gasped. He picked her up and threw her onto the bed. "I’ll teach you a lesson, you whore," he said, tearing at her clothes.
Jean felt more pain, on her face, her head and between her legs.
When he finished with her, Simon left the house. He wanted to go gamble. He wasn't sure where, the dogs or the horses.
Conchita, the Cuban woman next door, had heard Jean’s screams. She looked out from behind the curtain of her kitchen window and watched Grady drive off. He slammed the door so hard that it popped back open. Conchita found Jean inside.
Conchita went to the bathroom, found a towel and soaked it with cold water. "Dios mio." She gently dabbed at the blood. The blood and the water trickled down Jean’s throat, making her gag. Jean tried to speak but moving her mouth was too painful.
"Do not speak now. You go hospital, yes?"
"No," Jean moaned.
