They ran past cafés. Over the tiles. Two Spanish children, boy and girl. Boy with that straw hat and girl with that red Spanish dress and curly black hair. Over the tiles their feet went clip clop. Red and white bunting and blue quiet hung. They were heading towards the sound. The cheering and the sorrow. To the bullring they ran. To the house of tragedy they headed.
Amongst the confetti and the flags and all the cheering three men sat drinking. And the three men talked. It was the man with the Spanish moustache and that black black hair, the man who takes off his round glasses to speak, who was talking now, “It’s loud today,” he said, smiling with his lips and his moustache.
“Yes,” said the boy, sitting straight.
“Not since Belmont has it been this loud,” said the father of the father, the one with fingers cracked from arthritis, the one with liver spots and hair that had thinned and lost itself. The one who spoke only of bullfighting.
“Belmont, you hear that son, Belmont,” said the man.
“He had a good wrist,” said the boy, smiling.
“The best wrist,” said the oldest.
“This one has a better wrist,” said the boy.
“He’s English. He is called Matthew Browning and he is English,” said the man, glasses off, contemptuous.
“His heart is Spanish,” said the oldest. “That’s all that matters.”
____
The sheets were creased like broken glass and he never turned the light on. There was a oak stand shaped like atlas. There was a bowl of apricots and a sand timer and Matthew Browning sat staring out of the hotel window at England, he could make it out through the dried tack and the smudge, past the hills, past the days. He whirled the last of the whisky round and round in the glass between his legs.
“Sir,” he looked up, in the darkness he saw a Spanish boy hopping from foot to foot. Flicks of hair peeked out behind his neck. Matthew had forgotten his name, Lopez? How long had Lopez been there? Matthew nodded and knocked back the last of the whiskey he’d been drinking.
“There is, sir, a big bull and, a small bull,” said Lopez
“The small bull first,” said Matthew.
“Sorry, I do not speak English,” Matthew repeated it in Spanish and the boy left him, he poured another glass of whiskey and looked back at England.
____
Latin on the tombstones and Latin on the church doors. Flowers like red tortillas grew and granite gravestones stood. There was a white church pitched on the hillside where orange grass grew. Santiago Del Toro leant on the picket fence, lantern emitting blue light, moths oriented, he batted them away and lit a cigar with a gold lighter, the breeze came and went whilst he smoked.
He had an X drawn across his face by a Lisbon bull, that was his last fight before the Englishman, he was waiting for his boy.
“Is it done?” said the man with the X on his face.
“Yes, it is done,” said the boy with black patches beneath his eyes.
“Good, good,” drawing out the O’s, “We will be rich men.”
____
Matthew twisted the cuff-links, silver things, her name upon them, Maria upon them. He put on his croissantish hat and looked at England. The cuff-links were all he had of Maria. He sighed, and went back to watching the afternoon.
____
There was a smell of blood and sweat as men came and took away the dead bull. It’s horns raked two grooves in the sand and the boy turned to the father.
“I told you he had a good wrist,” he smiled, “He is Spanish in his heart.”
“He makes the Spaniards look like cowards, where were the cowards from?”
“I do not know,” said the old man, shaking his head, “Spain becomes more and more a land of cowards, Santiago Del Toro, he is a coward, he quit because a braver man stole his contracts, he is afraid to go over the horns, no Matador should be afraid to go over the horns, that’s where you can kill the bull quick and fast and no Matador should kill a bull slowly and painfully, the Englishman goes over the horns and he is not even Spanish, he is English and he goes over the horns,” he shook his head more, “I will appreciate the art form but not the artists. Who ever heard of a Spaniard not going over the horns!”
They waited in the noise and a wife and her husband came.
“We have no sitting,” she said, she wore an orange dress. The husband went and stood in front of her.
“Are these our seats?” he showed the ticket to the three and the three nodded and three became five.
____
People were leaving for the cafés, dusk was making the sky red and there was a crescent of orange on the sand. The bull out, lunging, bucking, charging, and the pinks and yellows of the banderillos flashing. The bull stamped it’s hooves and snorted smoke and was then lead this way and that by pink and yellow. It came to a halt, hooves spread and head down the horns pointed towards him.
Matthew Browning bowed to it and then stood as tall as possible.
____
“Why do they do that?” said the husband, the man with the spectacles took them off.
“Why do who, Do what?” said the man who was always shining his spectacles.
“The matadors, why do they bow?” said the husband.
“It is a Spanish thing,” said the man who was always shining his spectacles.
“To taunt?”
“Yes, to taunt.”
“But it’s a confused animal.”
“Sir, the bull is calm.”
“And the crowd, they cheer at the mocking, do they not care?”
“Sir, we respect the bulls more than you English.”
“American.”
“Ah, so you would rather it’d be in a burger?”
“It’s cruel.”
“Sir, it is tragedy. The bull is well fed, it knows it’s fate.”
They continued to fight through the fourth bull and the fifth and then on the sixth when Matthew Browning came out and bowed to the big bull, the wife interrupted.
“Who is that man?”
“He is Matthew Browning,” said the man who was always shining his spectacles. She flicked through her dictionary.
“Is he English?” said Maria.
“Yes, like you,” said the man who was always shining his spectacles.
“I am Maria.”
“I think you have misunderstood,” she flicked through the dictionary.
“Yes, yes I am English.”
____
Matthew Browning lead the bull in swift veronicas. He brought the bull close. Arched back and swept the cape away. Lead it round again. Showed it his legs and lead it with the cape again. He flicked the cape at the last and it leapt. He lead it round and round.
Tired and panting it stood. Smoke was rising from the sand then and, like a magician, he emerged and gathered his sword. Floodlights were on beneath the indigo sky, so when the smoke was gone, the bull stood still, four shadowed and kicking dirt.
It charged and he lead it past him with the cape, it’s hooves skidding and then it toppled, he stood and discarded the cape, he aimed down the sword at it’s collar. He charged.
____
“2000?”
“Yes, 2000.”
“2000, pesos?”
“Yes, 2000 pesos.”
“Santiago that’s a lot.”
“What can I say, I’m a gambler.”
“2000 though?”
“Yes, 2000,” Santiago slid the money over the counter.
“You want to place 2000 on Matthew losing to his second bull? It’s 568 to 1.”
“I know the odds.”
“Fair enough,” The cashier took the money. Santiago observed dryly.
“Good, good,” Santiago nodded.
“I think I am 2000 richer.”
Santiago wagged his finger and turned to leave, speaking over his shoulder to the man, “hahaha, we shall see. We shall see.”
____
Pain erupted as his wrist buckled. He shot over the bull and was thrown about between the horns. Rolled over the back and then dumped onto the dirt. He swore. Coughed blood. And crawled. He stumbled and scrambled to his feet, slipping on the sand and then staggering towards his assistant, left hand out held.
His sword stood broken in the sand and the bull stood and snorted and did not charge.
“Sword, give me a damn sword!” he took it in his left and placed it in his right and forced the fingers closed around it, his fingers bulbous. He looked down the sword and charged again. The sword broke and he went over the horns.
He got up on his right hand and fell again. He got up and limped towards the assistant. He held out his hand for a sword and the assistant shook his head, Matthew slapped him and took the sword, he looked at the crowd, all hunched over, and then said a single word.
“Maria?”
____
“What did he say?” said the husband. The man took off his glasses in anger and turned to him.
“I do not know.”
“It looked like Maria, Maria do you know him?”
“Yes,” she said and her eyes glistened, “yes, I do.”
“Well, who,-Oh my god.”
____
Matthew was broken onto the sand and thrashed about by the bull’s horns. He and it were surrounded by smoke. The banderillos came and ushered the bull away and with the help of his sword he pushed himself back onto his feet. It charged then and tossed him over it’s back. He landed in a heap and got up again. He saw the bull’s left ear twitch and stood up straight, it charged and he folded away and placed the blade in it’s throat. It crashed to the floor and then stood again, stood on wobbling legs, it tried to charge but couldn’t and it stood screaming, weak and unable.
Matthew limped away, throwing the sword so it bounced off the sand and clutching his gut with his good hand, he staggered out of the arena. He came out into a street market, placed on a cobbled hill. Fruit stalls stood and no one was about. He limped further and then tottered and leaned against a wall, breathing deep long breathes, he tried to walk again and crashed into a stall of apricots, he lay there whilst fruit rolled away and wobbled in the cobbled cracks. He lay there bloodshod as the sound of running boots echoed.
____
The bull dribbled blood and the husband looked away only to see Maria gone, he left the three sitting there.
“There was something under it’s skin, some sort of metal plate or something, somebody must have placed it last night,” said the man with his glasses off.
“Yes, the sword didn’t even go in,” said the boy, not smiling, not at all.
“Nothing could break a sword but some sort of metal,” said the man now shining his glasses.
“Someone will be rich tomorrow,” said the old man.
“What?” said the boy and the man both.
“It has to be some betting firm, nobody who loved the art would have done that?”
____
She knelt before him. He was bloody and his hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat. He touched her cheek with his broken hand.
“Death delivers you back to me.”
She shook her head and wept.
“How was I?”
“You were a fool.”
“I saw you before I died.”
“Your not dead yet.” He looked around and picked up an apricot, then he looked back at her.
“Is this not heaven?”
“No, no, not at all.” He nodded and noticed the ring.
“Is he still a good man?”
“Yes, he is a kind man.”
“He forgave you?”
“Yes.”
“Good, good, I was foolish to try.”
“I was foolish to let you.” He smiled.
“Mistakes are what makes us.”
She wept into her hands and he reached round and patted her back and at some point the patting stopped.
