Malaga - excerpt from "Toreador"

Fernando looked up and for a moment I saw anguish in his eyes. But as his eyes looked into mine their expression softened and I was happy to see a smile appear on his gorgeous face. His eyes crinkled and he shook himself a little, as if to expel some demons.

“Nada, mi bonita,” he said, standing up and pulling me up with him. “Nothing, my pretty. Let’s go and have some fun.”

It was twilight when we hit the street, the sunset lending an orange-pink glow to everything. Fernando took my hand, no trace of his earlier unease visible in his demeanor. We set off at a leisurely pace, leaving the hotel Maestranza in the direction of the paseo maritimo, which ran along the waterfront of the Malagueta beach.

“There’s a great flamenco place near here,” Fernando said, strolling beside me in that fluid way of his. One of my hands was ensconced in his, but there was some distance between us.

“It’s been years since I’ve seen a flamenco performance. And even then I don’t think it was a very authentic one.” I said.

“Then you are going to enjoy this, you’ll see,” Fernando smiled.

The place Fernando took me to was tucked away in a side street and I’m sure that if you didn’t know it was there you would not have noticed its existence. The sign outside which said “La Caverna” was only dimly lit and the doorway was small and barely visible. Fernando led me inside holding on tight to my hand. And as soon as we were inside I could see why – it was obviously a popular place with the locals. We could hardly find room to stand, but somehow we made it to the bar and Fernando ordered a glass of wine for me and water for him.

As I waited for him to get our drinks I surveyed the place. It was surprisingly full for this early hour, the only free space the slightly raised, very big square stage at the back of the dark, low-ceilinged room. On both sides of the stage was a low wooden chair and behind it a dark red velvet curtain hung. Fernando appeared at my side and said:

“Looks like we’re not going to be able to sit down.”

“It looks that way,” I agreed.

“The first guitarists should be out any minute; I asked,” he said.

I sipped my wine and moved my body in a little closer to his, thinking he would put his arm around me. But instead I felt him stiffen a little and move away the tiniest bit. It reminded me of his similar reaction back at the hotel and I wondered again why he was behaving in this uncharacteristic way.

I was toying with the idea of saying something when, without any type of announcement, three men appeared from behind the curtain onto the stage. Two of them carried guitars and one a box. The three of them had thick black hair that fell in curls and waves to their shoulders and their skin was dark and pockmarked. The one with the box, a scowl of concentration on his face, set it down, sat on it and looked to the guitarists, who were making themselves comfortable on their little chairs. A hush came over the bar as the three regarded each other and then simultaneously broke into an upbeat rumba. The box turned out to be a percussion instrument, which I watched with fascination for a moment, never having seen one.

I enjoyed the music and became entranced as people started to pair up and dance. If you didn’t know how, there was really no way to move to this strident, vigorous rhythm, so I was happy to watch others. The dancers, men and women dancing in couples, expressed a controlled sensuality that was impossible not to watch. Raw emotion mixed with an animal grace that infused their bodies. I turned to look at Fernando, meaning to smile at him and show my enjoyment of the place he had brought me to, but I caught on his face an expression I had not expected to see. Preoccupation and something that looked very much like fear. I wanted to bring him back to the moment so I moved in front of him, my back to him, and pulled his arms around me to rest on my tummy. After a moment’s hesitation he squeezed me hard and buried his face in my neck, under my hair. I could feel soft his lips there and I closed my eyes to savor the sensation.

An hour must have gone by in which we were unable to speak because of the loudness of the music in the small space. We watched the dancers, listened to the musicians and then as suddenly as they had appeared, they left the stage.

Fernando kissed me with a feather-like touch of his lips and said:

“Would you like to get something to eat or watch more of this?”

I realized I was hungry so opted for the former.

Out in the street night had fallen and the air was filled with the delicious salty tang of the sea. I breathed it in and closed my eyes, holding tight to Fernando’s hand.

He smiled for the first time since we had left the hotel.

“Are you having a good time?” he asked.

“I always have a good time when I’m with you,” I answered, putting my arms around him and drawing his face down to mine. He kissed me, but I felt a certain restraint and he gently but quickly broke out of my embrace.

We strolled back along the ocean front until we reached a restaurant named Sal Gorda, which, once we were inside, I saw was entirely decorated with bullfighting paraphernalia. Fernando told me the restaurant belonged to the matador Manuel Garcia’s family. We found a table against the wall under a mounted bull’s head and almost immediately a short balding man with glasses was clapping Fernando on the back.

“Hombre, I was wondering when you’d turn up!” he said cheerfully. “How have you been?”

“Manuel, let me introduce my friend Miriam,” Fernando answered, smiling as he pulled me forward.

“Encantado,” Manuel Sr. said, kissing my cheeks. “Enchanted.”

“Manuel owns this wonderful restaurant,” Fran told me with a twinkle in his eye. “And tomorrow his son and I are in the same corrida.”

Manuel Sr. smiled proudly.

“As always, I am both excited and terrified,” he said with disarming honesty. He took our drinks order and Fernando looked around the restaurant, seeming distracted and a little ill at ease. He did not meet my eyes.

I was toying with the idea of telling Fernando my discovery of my grandmother’s religion but just as I had decided that I would, his cell phone rang.

As soon as he answered it his face clouded over and he got up to take the call in private, at the back of the restaurant. I watched him there, gesticulating with one arm and obviously having an argument.

He came back to the table and still without really looking at me properly said he had to go. His uncle had arrived in Malaga earlier than expected and there was something they urgently had to discuss.

“What are you going to do?” he asked me, his tone softening a little. “Would you like to stay here and have your drink or go back to the hotel?”

“I’ll stay here,” I said, making the decision to my own surprise.

In the end Fernando stayed and had his drink too, before leaving. I wasn’t entirely sure why Luis would need to talk to Fernando in person at this time of night but I didn’t press the issue and after one more drink with Manuel and his very amiable friends I set off for a solitary stroll which lead me down to the beach. I took my shoes off and enjoyed the feel of the sand between my toes, walking right down to the water’s edge. The ebb and flow of the warm sea over my toes was very soothing and I felt myself relax a little. So the evening hadn’t gone quite as planned. But still here I was, in Malaga with Fernando. After a while I sat down in the sand and regarded the silver path the moon etched on the sea. Other people passed me on the sand: young couples, couples with children, and a few solitary strollers like me.

I sat there for a while, not wanting to hurry back to the hotel to sit in the room by myself for hours. But eventually I did get up and started back, taking Arenal St. As I was nearing the corner with Reding St., where the hotel was, I was surprised to find someone falling in step beside me. I looked up quickly, feeling panic rise in me when I didn’t recognize who it was straight away. But then the man beside me turned to me and I saw that it was Fernando’s uncle, Luis.

“Oh, hello,” I said, surprised and relieved. “I thought you and Fernando were together.”

“We finished,” Luis answered shortly. “I wanted a word with you as well.”

“You did?” I was even more surprised.

“I wanted to tell you that it would be in your own best interests not see Fernando anymore after you get back to Ronda,” he said clearly and without emotion.

I stopped in my tracks and looked at him.

“Now why on earth would you say that to me?”

Luis ignored my question and went on in the same manner as before.

“Don’t say anything to him tonight – you don’t want to upset him in any way before a corrida.”

I remained rooted to the spot. I was being told by Fernando’s close family member and mentor to stay away from him but to pretend, for now, that nothing was going on? My head reeled and I had a sudden strong urge to get away from this man, his bulk seeming suddenly menacing beside me.

“Good night,” I said and took off as fast as my shoes allowed me to.

White City of Tel Aviv

CAMERA presentation at Temple Israel, Porstmouth

I had been looking forward to the CAMERA (Committee for Accuracy in Middle East Reporting in America) presentation to be held at our temple on October 17^th. I guess I should have known better. The first speaker was Ari Alexenberg of the Israel Action Center of the Jewish Community Relations Council of Greater Boston. A Temple member and knowledgeable and affable man, he started off by quoting Jose Maria Aznar:

“Israel is a fundamental part of the West. The West is what it is thanks to its Judeo-Christian roots. If the Jewish element of those roots is upturned and Israel is lost, then we are lost too. Whether we like it or not, our fate is inextricably intertwined.” (The Times, June 17, 2010)

This is not the exact same quote that he used, but they were words to that effect, also spoken by Aznar. I was pleased and surprised that anyone in this country would start off their speech by quoting a Spaniard. Spain is almost completely ignored in the US, for reasons I have still to figure out.

Alexenberg went on to explain that the 2001 conference on racism in Durban, South Africa, was the start of the “soft war” against Israel. It was a conference that rapidly turned into a hate-fest directed at Israel, where it was accused of genocide, of being an apartheid state and of crimes against humanity. And this was all before the current coalition government, which includes Yisrael Beteinu and Shas, came into power . It’s all in the choice of words, Alexenberg told us. The campaign to delegitimize Israel is stronger in the European Union, where Arabs, post-Zionist Jews and the political left wing are busy using a strategy that blurs the lines between legitimate criticism of Israel and outright attacks on Israel, questioning its right to exist.

Next Alexenberg mentioned Natan Sharansky’s 3 “D”s: Double-standards, Delegitimizing and Demonizing. The campaign to delegitimize Israel seriously limits its right to defend itself. Whenever it takes any action it has to be on the defensive right from the start.

The next speaker was Steven Stotsky, a senior research analyst with CAMERA and a man singularly lacking in charisma. After some technical difficulties with his laptop he presented us with a slideshow in which he highlighted the following, to name but a few.

On October 13^th 2010 the Netanyahu government offered a freeze on all settlement building in return for recognition (by the Palestinians) of Israel as a Jewish state. The Palestinians’ answer was no.

The Arab countries around Israel occupy 5,000,000m2. Israel occupies 10,000m2. Stotsky told us that this fact is worth keeping in mind when “land for peace” is being discussed.

In 1967 the UN passed resolution 242 which calls Gaza and the West Bank “disputed” rather than “occupied” territories.

Anti-Zionism is anti-Semitism. It is denying the Jewish people a state of their own.

The UN Human Rights Council has passed more resolutions condemning Israel than all the other 191 countries combined. Apparently there is a standing item on the agenda that is Israel’s human rights violations.

The following Jews were named for their extreme views and strong efforts to delegitimize Israel: Richard Falk, Ilan Pappe, Neve Gordon and Norman Finkelstein.

Organizations to be avoided as anti-Semitic are: Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, Jewish Voice for Peace, International Solidarity Movement and Jews for Justice for Palestinians.

When Jeff Goldberg (I have always enjoyed his advice column in The Atlantic) was mentioned, his name was followed by “not a great friend to Israel.” I was surprised, although at this point maybe I shouldn’t have been. After all, Goldberg, for one, has come down hard on J Street after it is becoming less and less clear if they are really pro-Israel. And speaking of which, the last person Stotsky mentioned was Daniel Levy of J Street, who allegedly said that the founding of Israel was wrong.

The next speaker was Jerry White. I didn’t take a single note of his presentation because as soon as he started to talk I knew I wasn’t going to like what he had to say. Although I did not realize to what extent that would turn out to be true. He had a loud, strident manner of speaking and although he seemed amusing (if grating) at first, it soon became clear that he was arrogant and pompous. He told us that we have an insidious enemy in our midst, and that enemy is every liberal progressive “Jew” (his speech marks). He urged us to listen to Conservative talk radio and befriend Evangelical Christians (all of whom want us to return to Israel to bring about their Messiah's Second Coming, not because they care in the least about us). Then he told us to stay away from the New York Times and PBS and ended by calling left wing Jews “vermin.”

Now the funny thing is that I knew that his name was White and that he was originally from Canada, but it took going to his break out session to confront him for the penny to drop. And even then it took a while. He was sitting in the library with a small group of people, amongst them a familiar face.

“Lily!” I exclaimed. “How are you?”

“Oh hello” she answered. “Have you spoken to Karen lately?”

“Not very recently,” I answered.

“She’s pregnant.”

“Mazal tov!” I said, as inside it was beginning to dawn on me: this man who I had come to argue with was my good friend’s father-in-law. Oh well, I thought. I am not one to be shut up that easily.

I opened by saying: “You said that you’d be happy if people were angry with you when you had finished speaking. Well, be happy. I’m angry.”

He seemed more taken aback than anything else.

“Are you telling me that I cannot be a liberal progressive and a Jew?” I went on.

“No, you cannot,” he answered coolly. “You will have to relearn your Jewish values.”

“And who gave you the authority to decide who is a Jew?” I asked.

Someone else piped up at this moment and backed me up.

Before I had had enough of listening to his loud and deeply narrow-minded views, I asked him if he thought that Avigdor Lieberman might have something to do with Israel’s current unpopularity.

“Avigdor Lieberman is a great man,” He answered.

Lehitra’ot, Jerry.

Malaga

Excerpt from "Toreador"

When I awoke from my fitful night’s sleep Fernando was gone. The rumpled sheet on the couch confirmed to me where he had slept. I got up and headed to the shower, where I lingered for a long time. I couldn’t help but fantasize that Fernando would join me under the cascading water, but when I got out to dry myself I was just as alone as I had been before. I got dressed in a little white dress covered in small red flowers and tied my long hair in a high pony-tail. Then I headed downstairs to the hotel lobby, where the receptionist told me that Fernando was having breakfast with his entourage in a café next door. Hesitating only a moment, I left the hotel and found where they were easily enough. They were quite a crowd and their voices traveled out into the street. I walked into the café and saw them all seated at a long table littered with the remnants of breakfast.

Javier was the first one to see me and he gestured for me to join them in an unusually friendly manner. I walked over to the table full of only men feeling self-conscious and a little uncomfortable, and noticed that Fernando did not even look up. When I saw this I almost turned and walked back out, but I pulled up a chair beside Javier and he immediately ordered me a cup of café con leche.

“Buenos dias, señorita,” he said, turning to me with a small smile. The rest of the table mumbled the same words and the combined effect was that of a wave washing over me. Fernando glanced up at me and I saw something close to pain twist his face. I wondered if his uncle had something to him about me, but I knew there was no way I was going to find out what was wrong until after the fight. The idea was like a knife in my heart and the day stretched like a desert before me.

Breakfast was a fairly leisurely affair for the cuadrilla. Lots of coffee was consumed and the upcoming fight was discussed from all angles: the bulls, the toreros sharing the cartel (including Javier Conde, whose father I had met the night before), the weather and the president of La Malagueta were some of the topics they touched on. I listened to everything and did my best to avoid looking at Fernando. When Fernando got up, the rest of the cuadrilla and I followed suit. The cuadrilla headed back to their hostel down the street and Fernando waited uncomfortably for me. When I reached his side he made an effort to look at me and said:

“I’m going to be resting until Pablo comes to help me dress at around 3.30pm. You are free to come, of course, but I won’t be very good company.”

I looked into his eyes. I still saw something there that didn’t look quite right.

“I’d like to go and walk around a bit,” I said. “I’ll be back later.”

Fernando nodded and smiled a little.

“Have fun. I’ll see you when you get back.” He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and disappeared into the hotel.

I had decided than rather than spend the rest of the day enduring an uncomfortable situation, it made more sense to walk away from it and to do some sightseeing – I was particularly interested in seeing the Juderia, the Jewish quarter. And sometimes it was lonelier to be somewhere you didn’t feel wanted than to be by yourself.

The Jewish quarter, on Agustin and Alcazabilla streets was picturesque but there was nothing much left of its history. I was informed by some friendly people in the bar where I stopped for another coffee, however, that this was going to change. Apparently the current Jewish community in Malaga was planning quite an overhaul of the neighborhood, including rebuilding the synagogue. I managed to pass the whole morning walking around the city, but I did eventually start to feel quite tired so I headed back to the hotel. When I opened the door I found the room quiet and dark; I saw that Fran was asleep on the bed. His vulnerable expression was one I loved and it was extremely difficult for me not to bend over and kiss him. Instead I made my way over to the sofa and lay down. Within minutes I was asleep, tired as I was from not sleeping the night before and from all the walking I had done.

When I awoke and sat up, I saw Fernando kneeling in front of a makeshift altar, his back to me. The altar consisted of several photos of different virgins whose names I did not know, three candles, a rosary and two small statues of virgins. For a moment I watched, transfixed. Then I saw that Luis was in the room as well and when he saw me looking at me he gestured for me to come over to him. Reluctantly I did so. When I was at his side he whispered:

“I didn’t want to wake you, but could you make yourself scarce until the corrida starts while Fernando gets ready? It is best if he has no distractions.”

I shook my head, as much to get rid of this day as my grogginess. Why was Fernando allowing his uncle to treat me this way? Or did he have no idea of what was going on? Although I would have had little problem with getting out of the way if Fernando had asked me himself, I didn’t understand why Luis was acting the way he was. With resignation I made my way downstairs and out into the street. I started to walk in the general direction of La Malagueta, Malaga’s bullring, wondering what to do with my time. I passed an inviting terrace where I sat myself down and ordered a large cup of coffee. I had not had any lunch but I couldn’t face the prospect of eating. As I sipped the strong hot coffee I felt myself calm down a little. After all, what did I know about bullfighters, really? It was not that hard to imagine that they would need to be able to focus utterly on the job at hand. And keeping in mind the effect Fernando and I seemed to have on one another, I could definitely see how I would be a distraction. But what if he was using his uncle as a means to pushing me away? Part of me wanted to get on a train and head back to Ronda. But another part, the less proud one, wanted to just ride out the day to see if it would end on a happier note.

I arrived at La Malagueta half an hour before the start of the fight. I was just wondering how I was going to get in without paying when I saw Javier, wearing his suit of lights, near the main entrance. I waved to him and he beckoned me over. I followed him through the entrance where the picadors and their horses would later enter the ring. I found myself in the callejon, the passageway that runs around the entire ring just in front of the first row of seats. Miguel, the mozo de espadas, hoisted me up into the first row of seats where I found a spot right next to the entrance through which the bullfights would appear. I could look down on Fernando’s head, and I did. The time passed surprisingly quickly this way and the next thing I knew the alguaciles were riding into the ring, followed by the toreros.

Fernando was the senior matador, so he headed the procession on the left. His three banderilleros made up the second row. As I watched them I realized my body was tense, as if I were ready to jump up out of my seat. I took some slow, deep breaths and tried to relax. The first bull in the ring was Fernando’s. He was a big brown bull, weighing 548kg, by the name of Caprichoso. With a flourish and a smile Fernando dedicated the bull to the audience, a common and always well-received gesture. As I watched the ensuing fight, I almost forgot the last twenty-four hours. Caprichoso and Fernando connected and put on a beautiful show. At times, Fernando let Caprichoso come so close to him I felt like my heart might stand still. The culmination was a swift and merciful death for the bull and two ears for Fernando. I watched the other two matadors as closely as I was able to, wanting to learn more about this beautiful, brutal art form, but I was easily distracted by Fernando’s presence at the side of the ring (the senior matador is responsible for helping the others out if something should go wrong) and found my eyes wandering in his direction more often than not.

When it was time for his second bull, the fourth one out, his work with the cape left me breathless. It was absolutely stunning. He received the bull straight out of the door down on one knee, and the pink and yellow cape swirled above his head as the bull thundered past. As the bull turned back toward him he was ready and received him with a chiquelina, a movement that brought the bull close past him and ended up by wrapping the cape around his body. I was utterly bewitched by what I was witnessing. After several more breath-taking passes – butterflies and veronicas – the picadors entered the ring. The bull was a strong one, 569kg, midnight black, named Granero. Fernando took him to the picador twice and then placed the banderillas himself. It was terrifying to watch and I was glad when it was over. I was so absorbed in watching the corrida that it took me a moment to fully realize that Fernando was looking at me, and walking towards where I was sitting with his montera in his hand. When I did realize what was happening I stood up and took the montera from an out-stretched hand that was passing it from Fernando to me. I felt a huge grin break out on my face and on Fernando’s face I saw a more controlled but nonetheless genuine. It was as if our distance of the past day had never been. The faena that Fernando performed was a true work of art, better even than I had seen him perform in Seville. The killing was so swift and clean that the bull fell almost immediately, and the crowd went wild. The whole plaza seating was white with the waving of handkerchiefs. Fernando was awarded two ears and the tail, a rare trophy. He was carried out on shoulders and without hesitation I left my seat and made my way outside, hoping to be able to get to him. I was still clutching his montera to my chest, and, seeing it, the crowd outside made an effort to let me through. When I reached Fernando he was back on his own two feet, surrounded by people wanting to congratulate him, touch him and ask for his autograph. He was just handing someone back their pen when he spotted me and his face broke into that smile I had grown to love. My heart lifted as he opened his arms as best as he could and I stepped into them. The crowd broke into cheers and whistles as we kissed, and even though the rigid jacket of his suit of lights created a barrier between us I felt my familiar desire for him well up inside me. He must have felt it too because he started to work his way through the crowd towards where the van stood with Pablo ready at the wheel. It was customary for toreros to go to and from the plaza in a vehicle – you would never see one walking the streets in his suit of lights, no matter how close the hotel may be. He continued to be polite to his fans, posing for photos and signing autographs, but his progress towards the vehicle was steady and he didn’t let go of my hand. I could see several press photographers also present, snapping away at Fernando and at me – I guessed that we would be featured in the gossip magazines within the next few days.

We finally made it to the van and got into the back. I hadn’t been inside it before and I was interested to see that it was separated from the driver by a thick black screen. As soon as the door was closed and the blackened windows provided privacy, Fernando said:

“Help me with my jacket, mi amor.”

My heart beat faster at the sound of his voice speaking the endearment. As soon as the jacket was off I lost myself in his arms. All was forgiven. I didn’t care what had happened before – this moment was pure joy. The hotel was close and soon we were falling into the room together.

“I have to shower before everyone gets here,” Fernando said breathlessly. Wordlessly I accompanied him into the bathroom and under the pounding water of the shower we devoured each other as if it were the first time. When it was over I felt my tears mix with the water from the shower, and when Fernando turned off the shower he saw that I was crying. Still wet, he pulled me to him.

“I’m so sorry for what I put you through,” he said. “I should have warned you, but I thought it would be different for me this time.”

“What do you mean?” I whispered.

“I always withdraw emotionally and physically before a fight, but I thought that with you I wouldn’t do that,” he explained. “I’m sorry, my love.”

My heart was practically bursting with forgiveness. How could it not? As I toweled myself dry, Fernando pulled on some shorts and combed his thick, black hair.

“Will you put on a t-shirt, too?” I asked. “I don’t like the way some of those women look at you.”

Fernando threw back his head and laughed.

“That’s the most adorable thing I have heard for a long time,” he said, pulling on a white t-shirt with a smile.

Rejoneador Sergio Galan

Excerpt from "Toreador"

When I got home I was tempted to go back to Abuela’s study to keep reading her letters, but I was tired so I ended up napping in front of the TV for about an hour. I woke up groggy and went to splash cold water on my face and brush my long dirty blonde hair. I applied a little make-up, locked the front door and headed for Armiñan road. The bar was much more crowded that it had been the night before. Jaime’s entire cuadrilla were there with their assorted friends and family members, as well as regular customers and tourists. It took me a moment to spot Raquel. She was leaning into Jaime who was sitting on a bar stool beside her at the bar. They were both listening intently to someone who had his back to me, and as I got a little closer I realized it was Fernando. My heart fluttered a little in my chest and for a second I hesitated in my stride although I was not entirely sure why.

Raquel saw me first, of course, and greeted me cheerfully.

“There you are!” she said. Fernando turned and smiled at me, and I noticed immediately that the smile seemed strained and did not reach his eyes.

“Good evening,” he said.

“Good evening,” I answered. Then I turned to Jaime and said, because I had not had a chance to do so before:

“I really enjoyed watching you this afternoon. You must be exhausted.”

“Too keyed up to feel tired,” he answered with a grin. “I drew good bulls and feel very fortunate today.”

Fernando shook his head and said: “I’m sorry I missed it.”

He didn’t explain, however, why he had. He also made no mention of Javier and I having spoken. I had no way of knowing if he had even heard about it. I sort of hoped that he hadn’t. He now asked me what I would like to drink and within seconds, it seemed, I had a vodka lemon in my hand. I took a long draught thankfully.

“So tell me what you thought of your first corrida,” Fernando said, his full attention on my face.

“Well, I have to be honest and say that I was prepared to hate it, but actually, I thought it was rather beautiful.” I answered, trying not to be disconcerted by his proximity and by his dark, dark eyes.

“What in particular did you find beautiful?” he asked.

“The bulls are breath-taking,” I said. “The color of the sand; the movements of the torero, his suit of lights – I was very moved by the corrida as a whole. I really had no idea how many rituals it involved…”

Fernando smiled at me, and this time it reached his eyes and they crinkled enchantingly.

“I’m not really finding the right words,” I smiled too. “I feel quite naïve amongst all of you.”

“You will find more words as you become more familiar with the art,” Fernando said. “You were lucky to see such a good corrida. If you had seen a bad one you would have almost certainly had a different opinion of our fiesta nacional.”

“What would a bad corrida look like?” I asked, curious.

“Bulls that don’t charge; bulls that charge with their horns so low they stick them in the sand and do somersaults. And toreros who don’t know what to do with them. It can be an unpleasant sight, believe me. The more cowardly a bull is, the more he makes the corrida look like a one-sided affair. The beauty of a good corrida lies in the rapport between man and bull.”

I smiled, enjoying listening to his voice as well as the words he spoke.

“Jaime tells me you just lost your grandmother. I am very sorry. You must feel her loss deeply.”

“Thank you, I do.” I said, feeling my eyes well up at his sympathetic tone.

“And you also just got your degree?” he went on, obviously wishing to change the subject for my sake.

“Yes, in journalism.” I was absurdly pleased that they had been talking about me.

“Well, just promise me you won’t work for the prensa rosa,” Fernando said a trifle bitterly. The so-called “pink press” was the name given to the gossip magazines in Spain.

I regarded him sympathetically.

“It must be hard, not being able to draw breath without all those cameras on you all the time.”

“It can become claustrophobic and inhibiting at times, yes,” he agreed.

Fernando studied my face for a moment. I thought he was going to say something else but in the end he made no comment. Instead he signaled to the barman for two more drinks. Although the bar was packed and Raquel and Jaime were sitting a few feet from us, it seemed like we were alone, cocooned as we were in our conversation.

“I am participating in a bullfight at the Real Maestranza in Seville next weekend,” Fernando said, handing me my drink. “Do you think you would like to come? As my guest?”

I almost choked on the sip of vodka lemon I was just taking, so I took a moment to answer.

“I would really enjoy that,” I finally managed, my smile a little wider than I would have liked.

“Great. That’s settled, then. I will give Jaime tickets for the three of you.”

At this moment, somewhat to my dismay, Javier joined us. He mumbled a “good evening” in my direction and then looked at Francisco.

“Ah, Javier,” Fernando said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’d like you to meet Sofia. Sofia, this is Javier Cruz, my banderillero de confianza, my right hand man. What’s with the grave expression, hombre?”

Javier shrugged and made no allusion to the fact that we had met the day before. Instead, he said:

“A word, maestro?”

To my satisfaction Fernando looked a little irritated.

“Can’t it wait?” he said.

“Not really, maestro,” Javier answered.

Fernando sighed a little and turned to me.

“Excuse me one moment, please.”

“Of course,” I said.

Fernando and Javier headed outside and I lost sight of them.

“How is it going?” Raquel asked me as soon as they were out of earshot.

I smiled and was about to make a funny remark at my own expense when I realized that Jaime was sitting right next to Raquel and was all ears. So instead I said:

“Pretty great. How about you?”

Raquel smile widened and she squeezed Jaime’s hand.

“It’s been a wonderful day and now it’s a fabulous night.”

Jaime laughed.

“That’s the truth. Where’s Fernando?”

“He went to talk with Javier a moment,” I told him.

Jaime’s face clouded over for a second but returned to normal so quickly that I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it.

“Fernando is fighting in Seville next weekend,” he said.

“I know,” I beamed. “He’s invited me.”

“That’s wonderful!” Raquel said, unable to hide her delight. “We can all go together!”

“That’s what he suggested,” I agreed. I glanced towards the door but he was still outside.

“What exactly is a banderillero de confianza, anyway?” I asked Jaime and Raquel, lowering my voice a little. I still felt like such a novice amongst all these professionals and aficionados.

“He’s the head banderillero – usually the one who has been with the matador the longest,” Jaime explained. “Most matadors are very close to their whole cuadrilla and to their apoderado.”

I nodded and asked: “What’s an apoderado?”

“A manager. He organizes all the fights and everything. Fernando’s apoderado is his uncle, Luis.”

Raquel laughed.

“Sofia is getting a crash course in bullfighting,” she said.

Jaime and I joined in her laughter.

“It’s true,” I said. “And here I was, without ever haivng had any interest.”

“What changed?” a low voice beside me said. I turned to see that Fernando had rejoined us. I blushed immediately and Raquel came to my rescue.

“It’s my fault for dating a torero,” she said and batted her eyelashes playfully at Jaime.

We all laughed but I could see that Fernando had come back in a different mood than he had been in before he left. He seemed preoccupied although I could see he was making an effort to hide it.

The next hour or so passed in a pleasant blur of conversation between the four us, with frequent interruptions from friends of both Jaime and Fernando. We dined on tapas again and then people started to drift off in small groups, heading home to bed. It had been a long day for everyone. And even though we Spaniards never like to let the day end, always trying to prolong it as much as possible, the time had come to take leave of this day. I said good night to Raquel and Jaime and Raquel and I gave each other a quick hug.

“Call me tomorrow,” she said in my ear. “When you get up – I can come over and keep you company.”

Fernando was waiting by the door for me and when I wished him good night, he moved his body very close to mine to kiss my cheeks, a hand on each arm. My body filled with warmth from the touch of his hands and I was overcome by a desire just lean my head on his chest and let his arms envelop me.

“Buenas noches,” he said.

I felt dizzy for an instant and it took me a moment to pull myself together. Suddenly Javier’s voice cut through the silence.

“Are you coming, Fernando?” he said from inside the car waiting by the curb.

“Can we give you a lift?” Fernando offered.

“I live very close by,” I answered, not wanting to lose sight of him but also feeling silly to have them drive me such a short distance.

“No matter,” he said. “Let us drive you.”

He opened the door for me and I slid in the back seat. Javier turned and gave me tight smile as Fernando took his place beside him in the passenger seat. I gave them the address and we were there in less than five minutes. Fernando got out and opened the door for me again, and once more I got to enjoy the feel of his hands on my arms, his lips on my cheeks.

“I hope to see you again soon,” he said, his breath hot in my ear.

I made my way to the bedroom on shaky legs, pulled off my clothes and fell naked into bed. I was asleep almost instantly, Fernando’s voice still in my head.