Charles Beaumont - Selected Stories Part 46

He shook his head. Again he reached for her, again she was not there.

"Heiiiiiii! _Toro!_" the woman said, softly.

Juanito lunged, missed, slammed against the wall.

"_Toro!_ _Toro!_"

Then he felt the velvet in his hands. Soft as light, hot as a wound! So hot!

"Wait, Senor Galvez!"

He took his hands away, fingers spread, and watched as Andree removed first the slender black ribbon from her throat, then the dress, the shoes, the silk stockings . . .

"Now, my torero," she whispered, coming toward him, "let us see some of this style Don Alfredo talks about!"

In his mind there was not the blackness of true sleep, but, instead, bright afternoon sun, the colors of the crowd, the sand against his slippers, wind, and the toril gate, opening, and from it thundering--Andree . . .

"No!"

He felt the firm, familiar grip around his arms.

"Not yet, Enrique. I'm tired. I've got to sleep some more!"

"Like h.e.l.l!" Enrique's voice was loud. "Up!"

Juanito leaped when the water struck his face. The sudden movement made him aware of the ache in his head, in his muscles, of the empty throb in his stomach.

"What a filthy mess you are!"

He opened his eyes, carefully, and closed them. He tried to remember. "What time is it?"

"Late."

"1--Enrique, Enrique, get me a gla.s.s of water."

"Get it yourself!"

Painfully, he moved to the sink and drank until he could drink no more. Then he turned and said, "I'm sorry."

The older men grunted. He walked to the window and stood there for a time. Finally, after many minutes, he said, "Forget it."

"You're not angry?""No," said Enrique COrdoba. His face took on a new expression: an expression of kindness, gentleness. "These things, they happen," he said. "You're young. I guess that once won't hurt you. How do you feel?"

"Fine," Juanito lied.

His manager lighted a cigar and puffed on it. "You never had one with cla.s.s before," he said.

"How did you like it?"

Juanito smiled. The ache in his stomach was great, but his relief to know that Enrique was not angry was greater. "You shouldn't have left me, poppa," he said.

Enrique's face darkened. "Don't call me that," he said.

"Just a joke."

"This is not the time for jokes, stupid. This is a time for thought."

"I've never been much good at it. You're my brains--"

"No! I am not your brains! I am not your poppa! I am only Enrique, only that, understand?"

"Sure!" Juanito said, holding back his anger and his confusion. "Sure, all right." He tried to whistle a miriachi tune, then stopped because it sounded bad. "You--want to take a trip down to the pens?" he asked. "I'd like to see my _novillo_."

"No, bad luck on the first one. I've seen him, he's nothing special. Just a big ox with horns."

"Big, you say?"

Enrique shrugged. "Nothing," he repeated. "You'll have no trouble."

"I still can't believe it," Juanito said, rubbing water into his hair. "Yesterday we were starving.

That guy in Villa de Nombre de Dios--you remember?--Diaz; he wouldn't even let me touch his precious seed bull. And now, today--"

Enrique slapped his hands together. "No time for mooning," he said. "There are newspapermen coming. We'll have to rake out this corral."

Two hours later the men came. One, a thin fellow with a mustache kept smiling; but that, Juanito understood, was because he did not expect much of a _novillero_. _Novilleros_ almost always fell on their faces the first time out.

But not I, he thought.

And thought this until an hour and a half before the time of the event, with the people already filling the stands, seating themselves, discussing prospects. Then Enrique laid out the expensive suit of lights.

Slowly, as though modeling an exotic statue, he dressed Juanito. Starting first with the _talequilla_, the pants, skin-tight; and then, the ta.s.sels on the knees; the shirt, the jacket, the vest, and the slim red four-in-hand tie.

"So, diestro," he said, moving back.

Juanito looked at his image in the mirror. It was the first _traje de luces_ he had ever worn, and he felt great excitement and pride. "_Diestro_," he murmured, rolling the word over and over in his mind.

"Enrique, if feels right, Enrique. Such a brave outfit. Who could be afraid and dressed like this?"

The manager picked up his cigar and relighted it. "Nice fit," was all he said.

"Maybe," said Juanito, grinning, "we should leave me home and send the suit to fight, huh?"

Enrique did not laugh; he picked up the mona, the pigtail, and clipped it to Juanito's head.

"Come on," he said.

They went out to the waiting car and rode in silence through the crowded streets to the Plaza.

When the car stopped, Enrique said: "How do you feel? I mean, _really?_"

"Fine, fine."

"Liar!"

Juanito shook his head. "No," he said. "It's true. How else could I feel on the greatest day of my life? The day we dreamed about and talked about, Enrique, all those years! Remember? Think of them:'

The manager started out of the automobile. He was perspiring heavily, and his fingers trembled.

The sounds of the crowd could be heard, then suddenly, the music. He fell back against the seat and closed his eyes."Christ in His pain!" he said.

"What is it?" Juanito asked. "You sick?"

"Yes," said Enrique COrdoba. "Yes! Sick!" He covered his face with his hands. "Juan," he said, in a m.u.f.fled voice, "listen to me. Listen to me. I'm a fool and more stupid than the most stupid ox and I'm putting a knife into my own throat to tell you this--" He removed his hands from his face. His eyes were berry-black and cold, now; moving. "I am not a killer!" he said.

"I don't understand what you're saying."

"Then _listen_, I tell you! If you were not so dumb, so stupid, you'd have guessed it yourself!

This deal--it's fake, all of it. Fake, Juanito! Engineered. You comprehend?"

"No."

"Why do you think Don Alfredo took you on?"

"Because he saw me fight, because he liked my style!"

"Your style! My mother. You have none, Juanito; none at all! This will hurt, very deep, but we're through, anyway, all through, so I'm going to give it to you straight." The older man paused, then went on, his words rushing together: "You're no good. You never were. I have seen _espontaneos_ a hundred times better. But I stuck with you because you knew how to steal, anyway, and I did not like to be alone.

It's true that for a while I thought I could teach you a little--but I couldn't; no one could. You were hopeless. Guts; nothing else." Another pause. "One night, when we were starving, here in the city, I went to the Cafe de los Ninos. To see if I could borrow some money. I ran into a boy named Pepete, who worked for Don Alfredo. He told me something. Maybe it would interest me--"

"Go on, Enrique."

"I will! The boy told me that business was getting bad at the Plaza. No torero, he said, had been killed for a long time. Too long. The people were losing enthusiasm. They were getting bored."

Juanito's fingers rubbed hard against the gold lame of his suit.

"I got drunk," continued Enrique, "and this Pepete, he took me to the hotel of the Impresario.

One thousand pesos that fat slug offered me, Juanito. One thousand! To a man who had not eaten in a week!"

"What did he offer you the one thousand pesos for, Enrique?"

"Use your head! It's simple. For the sum I would guarantee an unskilled _torero_. Camara watched you in that pitiful spectacle with Perez's bull a few days later, to make sure. And the deal was settled. You see?"

Juanito sat very still for several minutes, listening to the music and the people. Unable to believe it yet, he said: "You did not think I could stand up to a _novillo_?"

"_Novillo!_" Enrique wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "Listen, the bull they have got for you knows Latin. He has fought before, on the ranch; many times. He's twice as smart as any torero could ever be."

"And--the girl, Andree, last night?"

"Of course! To be absolutely certain. The girl, the drinks!"

"Everything."

"Everything." Enrique lowered his voice. "Let's go," he said. I have a third of the money, it will take us a few miles, then we can hide for a month or so . . ."

Juanito checked the hot rush of tears. Thoughts were leaping in his brain. He turned to the window, and saw the gaudy poster that had been pasted to the wall of the Plaza.

GRANDIOSA CORRIDA! GRANDIOSA CORRIDA!.

3 MAGNIFICAS RESES 3!.

FRANCESCO PEREZ -- MONOLO LOMBARDINI -- JUAN GALVEZ.

"No," Juanito said, turning back.

The older man stopped wiping his face. "Are you crazy?" he said.

"Maybe I am.""Juanito, believe me, please: I have been in the business for twenty years. You don't have a chance. It's all against you. Three minutes you'll last, not a second more."

_Grandiosa Corrida_ . . . _Juan Galvez_ . . . Juanito opened the door. _Galvez_ . . .

"Don't be a fool! I'm telling you the truth!"

"I know. I don't doubt you."

"Then what are you doing? Come on, now, while we have time!"

"Time? For what? For starving again, for stealing and running away? Time for that, Enrique?"

"It's better than having your guts slashed out by a filthy animal."

"Is it?" Juanito looked at the man who was his friend. "Let's go," he said. "It's getting late. Don Alfredo must be worried about his investment:'

Enrique Cordoba hesitated. "You think you'll be lucky," he said. "Sure. You think you'll go into the ring and fight like Manolete, huh! Cut both ears and the tail, and spit in Don Alfredo's eye. Juanito, I betrayed you. I admit it. But you must believe what I say now. Only in stories does it happen the way you think. The truth is that you are a dead man the moment you walk away from the burladero. One pa.s.s, two, maybe even three--you will have confidence. So, a little closer this time. Perhaps a Chicuelina; why not? But the animal ignors the cape. Suddenly you see that he's coming toward you. You want to run, but no, that would be cowardly. Better to suck it in and pray. But G.o.d does not hear you, Juanito.

And now it's too late. Too late! The horn goes in like a razor, deep, and starts up, through your belly--"

"You have the tools?" Juanito asked.

Enrique COrdoba stared; then he sighed. "I have them." he said.

"Get them ready."

Invisibly, the older man straightened. Something was in his eyes; something entirely new. "Yes,"

he said in a quiet voice.