Men without women
“Is Chaves hurt bad?” the second waiter asked Manuel.
“I don’t know,” Manuel said, “Retana didn’t say.”
“A hell of a lot he cares,” the tall waiter said. Manuel had not seen
him before. He must have just come up.
“If you stand in with Retana in this town, you’re a made man,” the tall
waiter said. “If you aren’t in with him, you might just as well go out
and shoot yourself.”
“You said it,” the other waiter who had come in said. “You said it
then.”
“You’re right I said it,” said the tall waiter. “I know what I’m talking
about when I talk about that bird.”
“Look what he’s done for Villalta,” the first waiter said.
“And that ain’t all,” the tall waiter said. “Look what he’s done for
Marcial Lalanda. Look what he’s done for Nacional.”
“You said it, kid,” agreed the short waiter.
Manuel looked at them, standing talking in front of his table. He had
drunk his second brandy. They had forgotten about him. They were not
interested in him.
“Look at that bunch of camels,” the tall waiter went on. “Did you ever
see this Nacional II?”
“I seen him last Sunday didn’t I?” the original waiter said.
“He’s a giraffe,” the short waiter said.
“What did I tell you?” the tall waiter said. “Those are Retana’s boys.”
“Say, give me another shot of that,” Manuel said. He had poured the
brandy the waiter had slopped over in the saucer into his glass and
drank it while they were talking.
The original waiter poured his glass full mechanically, and the three of
them went out of the room talking.
In the far corner the man was still asleep, snoring slightly on the
intaking breath, his head back against the wall.
Manuel drank his brandy. He felt sleepy himself. It was too hot to go
out into the town. Besides there was nothing to do. He wanted to see
Zurito. He would go to sleep while he waited. He kicked his suitcase
under the table to be sure it was there. Perhaps it would be better to
put it back under the seat, against the wall. He leaned down and shoved
it under. Then he leaned forward on the table and went to sleep.
When he woke there was some one sitting across the table from him. It
was a big man with a heavy brown face like an Indian. He had been
sitting there some time. He had waved the waiter away and sat reading
the paper and occasionally looking down at Manuel, asleep, his head on
the table. He read the paper laboriously, forming the words with his
lips as he read. When it tired him he looked at Manuel. He sat heavily
in the chair, his black Cordoba hat tipped forward.
Manuel sat up and looked at him.
“Hello, Zurito,” he said.
“Hello, kid,” the big man said.
“I’ve been asleep.” Manuel rubbed his forehead with the back of his
fist.
“I thought maybe you were.”
“How’s everything?”
“Good. How is everything with you?”
“Not so good.”
They were both silent. Zurito, the picador, looked at Manuel’s white
face. Manuel looked down at the picador’s enormous hands folding the
paper to put away in his pocket.
“I got a favor to ask you, Manos,” Manuel said.
Manosduros was Zurito’s nickname. He never heard it without thinking of
his huge hands. He put them forward on the table self-consciously.
“Let’s have a drink,” he said.
“Sure,” said Manuel.
The waiter came and went and came again. He went out of the room looking
back at the two men at the table.
“What’s the matter, Manolo?” Zurito set down his glass.
“Would you pic two bulls for me to-morrow night?” Manuel asked, looking
up at Zurito across the table.
“No,” said Zurito. “I’m not pic-ing.”
Manuel looked down at his glass. He had expected that answer; now he had
it. Well, he had it.
“I’m sorry, Manolo, but I’m not pic-ing.” Zurito looked at his hands.
“That’s all right,” Manuel said.
“I’m too old,” Zurito said.
“I just asked you,” Manuel said.
“Is it the nocturnal to-morrow?”
“That’s it. I figured if I had just one good pic, I could get away with
it.”
“How much are you getting?”
“Three hundred pesetas.”
“I get more than that for pic-ing.”
“I know,” said Manuel. “I didn’t have any right to ask you.”
“What do you keep on doing it for?” Zurito asked. “Why don’t you cut off
your coleta, Manolo?”
“I don’t know,” Manuel said.
“You’re pretty near as old as I am,” Zurito said.
“I don’t know,” Manuel said. “I got to do it. If I can fix it so that I
get an even break, that’s all I want. I got to stick with it, Manos.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I’ve tried keeping away from it.”
“I know how you feel. But it isn’t right. You ought to get out and stay
out.”
“I can’t do it. Besides, I’ve been going good lately.”
Zurito looked at his face.
“You’ve been in the hospital.”
“But I was going great when I got hurt.”
Zurito said nothing. He tipped the cognac out of his saucer into his
glass.
“The papers said they never saw a better faena,” Manuel said.
Zurito looked at him.
“You know when I get going I’m good,” Manuel said.
“You’re too old,” the picador said.
“No,” said Manuel. “You’re ten years older than I am.”
“With me it’s different.”
“I’m not too old,” Manuel said.
They sat silent, Manuel watching the picador’s face.
“I was going great till I got hurt,” Manuel offered.
“You ought to have seen me, Manos,” Manuel said, reproachfully.
“I don’t want to see you,” Zurito said. “It makes me nervous.”
“You haven’t seen me lately.”
“I’ve seen you plenty.”
Zurito looked at Manuel, avoiding his eyes.
“You ought to quit it, Manolo.”
“I can’t,” Manuel said. “I’m going good now, I tell you.”
Zurito leaned forward, his hands on the table.
“Listen. I’ll pic for you and if you don’t go big to-morrow night,
you’ll quit. See? Will you do that?”
“Sure.”
Zurito leaned back, relieved.
“You got to quit,” he said. “No monkey business. You got to cut the
coleta.”
“I won’t have to quit,” Manuel said. “You watch me. I’ve got the stuff.”
Zurito stood up. He felt tired from arguing.
“You got to quit,” he said. “I’ll cut your coleta myself.”
“No, you won’t,” Manuel said. “You won’t have a chance.”
Zurito called the waiter.
“Come on,” said Zurito. “Come on up to the house.”
Manuel reached under the seat for his suitcase. He was happy. He knew
Zurito would pic for him. He was the best picador living. It was all
simple now.
“Come on up to the house and we’ll eat,” Zurito said.
* * * * *
Manuel stood in the patio de caballos waiting for the Charlie Chaplins
to be over. Zurito stood beside him. Where they stood it was dark. The
high door that led into the bull-ring was shut. Above them they heard a
shout, then another shout of laughter. Then there was silence. Manuel
liked the smell of the stables about the patio de caballos. It smelt
good in the dark. There was another roar from the arena and then
applause, prolonged applause, going on and on.
“You ever seen these fellows?” Zurito asked, big and looming beside
Manuel in the dark.
“No,” Manuel said.
“They’re pretty funny.” Zurito said. He smiled to himself in the dark.
The high, double, tight-fitting door into the bull-ring swung open and
Manuel saw the ring in the hard light of the arc-lights, the plaza, dark
all the way around, rising high; around the edge of the ring were
running and bowing two men dressed like tramps, followed by a third in
the uniform of a hotel bell-boy who stooped and picked up the hats and
canes thrown down onto the sand and tossed them back up into the
darkness.
The electric light went on in the patio.
“I’ll climb onto one of those ponies while you collect the kids,” Zurito
said.
Behind them came the jingle of the mules, coming out to go into the
arena and be hitched onto the dead bull.
The members of the cuadrilla, who had been watching the burlesque from
the runway between the barrera and the seats, came walking back and
stood in a group talking, under the electric light in the patio. A
good-looking lad in a silver-and-orange suit came up to Manuel and
smiled.
“I’m Hernandez,” he said and put out his hand.
Manuel shook it.
“They’re regular elephants we’ve got to-night,” the boy said cheerfully.
“They’re big ones with horns,” Manuel agreed.
“You drew the worst lot,” the boy said.
“That’s all right,” Manuel said. “The bigger they are, the more meat for
the poor.”
“Where did you get that one?” Hernandez grinned.
“That’s an old one,” Manuel said. “You line up your cuadrilla, so I can
see what I’ve got.”
“You’ve got some good kids,” Hernandez said. He was very cheerful. He
had been on twice before in nocturnals and was beginning to get a
following in Madrid. He was happy the fight would start in a few
minutes.
“Where are the pics?” Manuel asked.
“They’re back in the corrals fighting about who gets the beautiful
horses,” Hernandez grinned.
The mules came through the gate in a rush, the whips snapping, bells
jangling and the young bull ploughing a furrow of sand.
They formed up for the paseo as soon as the bull had gone through.
Manuel and Hernandez stood in front. The youths of the cuadrillas were
behind, their heavy capes furled over their arms. In back, the four
picadors, mounted, holding their steel-tipped push-poles erect in the
half-dark of the corral.
“It’s a wonder Retana wouldn’t give us enough light to see the horses
by,” one picador said.
“He knows we’ll be happier if we don’t get too good a look at these
skins,” another pic answered.
“This thing I’m on barely keeps me off the ground,” the first picador
said.
“Well, they’re horses.”
“Sure, they’re horses.”
They talked, sitting their gaunt horses in the dark.
Zurito said nothing. He had the only steady horse of the lot. He had
tried him, wheeling him in the corrals and he responded to the bit and
the spurs. He had taken the bandage off his right eye and cut the
strings where they had tied his ears tight shut at the base. He was a
good, solid horse, solid on his legs. That was all he needed. He
intended to ride him all through the corrida. He had already, since he
had mounted, sitting in the half-dark in the big, quilted saddle,
waiting for the paseo, pic-ed through the whole corrida in his mind. The
other picadors went on talking on both sides of him. He did not hear
them.
The two matadors stood together in front of their three peones, their
capes furled over their left arms in the same fashion. Manuel was
thinking about the three lads in back of him. They were all three
Madrileños, like Hernandez, boys about nineteen. One of them, a gypsy,
serious, aloof, and dark-faced, he liked the look of. He turned.
“What’s your name, kid?” he asked the gypsy.
“Fuentes,” the gypsy said.
“That’s a good name,” Manuel said.
The gypsy smiled, showing his teeth.
“You take the bull and give him a little run when he comes out,” Manuel
said.
“All right,” the gypsy said. His face was serious. He began to think
about just what he would do.
“Here she goes,” Manuel said to Hernandez.
“All right. We’ll go.”
Heads up, swinging with the music, their right arms swinging free, they
stepped out, crossing the sanded arena under the arc-lights, the
cuadrillas opening out behind, the picadors riding after, behind came
the bull-ring servants and the jingling mules. The crowd applauded
Hernandez as they marched across the arena. Arrogant, swinging, they
looked straight ahead as they marched.
They bowed before the president, and the procession broke up into its
component parts. The bull-fighters went over to the barrera and changed
their heavy mantles for the light fighting capes. The mules went out.
The picadors galloped jerkily around the ring, and two rode out the gate
they had come in by. The servants swept the sand smooth.