prologue of "Torero"

I crossed the Plaza de España towards Puente Nuevo, and made my way to the terrace of the Parador, where I ordered a glass of white wine. It was early evening and the sky was the color of nectarines. The white buildings on the other side of the Tajo, which looked like they were sculpted into the cliff-face, were bathed in a pink hue. The scent of jasmine and the murmur of subdued conversations around me lulled me into a sense of contentment despite my inner turmoil.

As I sipped my glass of cold house wine I allowed myself to think about my upcoming departure. I had grown up in Madrid but had spent many summers visiting my abuela, grandmother, here in Ronda and now my visit was drawing to an end. I closed my eyes for a moment and allowed myself to think of Francisco. I thought of his slender, graceful body which moved like a dancer’s, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground. I thought of how he seemed slighter when he stood in front of the huge aurochs-like bulls, the toros de lidia which he faced on an almost daily basis. I thought about that smile that he seemed to have only for me and the way his face lit up when he saw me. I pictured the intense restlessness that overtook him before a corrida, a bullfight, and the total calm that replaced it as soon as he walked into the ring. I thought of all these things and felt a small knot form itself in my stomach.

I took another sip of my wine, the glass dripping condensation, and glanced towards the people crossing the Puente Nuevo. It was tourist season so there was quite a throng, but I had no trouble making out Francisco’s loose limbed body striding towards me with that quiet physical confidence that he possessed. As he got closer to my table I saw he had that special smile on his face.

“Hola gaupa,” he said quietly, standing in front of me. “Hello, beautiful.”

“Hola,” I answered, looking into his eyes.

“Care if I join you?” he asked, with his soft Andalusian lisp.

“Please,” I said, waving my hand towards an empty chair. He pulled it out and sat down, making even this mundane movement seem like a dance form.

“What time does your flight leave on Sunday?” he inquired

“4.00pm out of Jerez de la Frontera,” I answered.

“I’ll drive you to the airport,” he volunteered.

“Thanks,” I said, surprised. “I thought you would want to take it easy after your fight on Ubrique on Saturday.”

“Driving you to the airport is hardly strenuous exercise,” Francisco smiled.

“Will you be coming to the fight?” he added casually.

I didn’t answer. Seeing him in a bullfight was a bizarre mixture of torture and ecstasy. It was terrifying to see him face such enormously powerful and dangerous animals and yet it was exquisite to watch his grace and courage. His mastery over the massive animals was something I did not tire of observing. But due in part to superstition, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see it the day before I left.