Chapter 16 Chapter fifteen

At noon on Sunday, July 6th, the holiday celebrations "broke out".The scene is hard to describe in other words.Throughout the day, people from the four villages came in an endless stream, but they mixed with the people in the city and were not noticed by others.The square under the scorching sun was as quiet as usual.Villagers stay in small hotels away from the city center.There they are drinking and getting ready for the festival.They are new arrivals from the plains and mountains, and need to gradually change their values ​​about money.They can't just go to a cafe where that stuff is expensive.They eat cheap food and wine in small hotels.The specific value of money is still measured by the labor time and the amount of grain sold.Later, when the carnival climaxes, they don't care how much money is spent, or where it is spent.

On the first day of San Fermin celebrations, the villagers came to the small hotel in the alley early in the morning.In the morning, as I crossed the streets to go to mass in the cathedral, I heard their singing from the open taverns.They are getting more and more excited.There were many people attending the eleven o'clock mass.San Fermin is also a religious holiday. I walked down the hill from the cathedral and down the avenue to the cafés in the square.It was just before noon.Robert Cohen and Bill sat at a table.The marble-topped dining table and white wicker chairs have been removed and replaced with cast-iron tables and simple deck chairs.The cafe is like a warship stripped of unnecessary things and ready for battle.Today the waiter will not let you sit quietly and read the newspaper all morning without asking what wine and food you want.As soon as I sat down, a waiter came over.

"What would you like to drink?" I asked Bill and Robert. "Sherry," Cohn said. "Jerez," I said to the waiter. Before the waiter could bring the wine, a firework bomb announcing the start of the festive celebrations was shot up in the square.The fireworks exploded, and a cloud of gray smoke hung high over the Gajari Theater across the square.The cloud of smoke hanging in the air was like a blossoming shrapnel, and while I was watching, another firework bomb went up, sending out wisps of smoke in the bright sun.When it exploded, I saw a blinding flash, and then another cloud of smoke appeared.At the same time as this second firework bomb went off, so many people came in the arcade which had been empty a minute before, that the waiter, holding the bottle over his head, managed to squeeze his way through the crowd to our table.People flocked to the square from all directions, and the sound of reed pipes, fifes and drums was heard from far and near in the street.They were playing the riau-riau, the squealing of the flute, the pounding of the drum, and children and adults walked and danced after them.When the flute died down, they all squatted down in the street, and when the reed pipes and fifes began to blow sharply again, and the dull, monotonous, thunderous drums began again, they all jumped up and danced.You just see their heads and shoulders heaving in the crowd.

In the square, there was a man bent over to play the reed pipe, and a group of children followed behind him, shouting and tearing his clothes.He walked out of the square, played the reed to the children who followed him, walked in front of the cafe, and turned into the alley.We see his expressionless, pock-marked face as he blows and walks, with the children following behind, yelling and tugging at him. "He's probably a local jerk," Bill said. "My God! Look over there!" A group of dancing people came from the street.The street was packed with dancers, all men.They followed their flute players and drummers, all dancing to the beat.They belonged to a certain club, all wearing blue overalls, red scarves around their necks, and holding a large banner on two long poles.As they approached, surrounded by crowds, the banners danced up and down with their dance steps.

The banner reads: "Long live the wine! Long live the foreign guests!" "Where are there foreign guests?" Robert Cohen asked. "That's what we do," Bill said. Firework bombs have been fired non-stop.The cafe was full.The people in the square gradually thinned out, and the crowds crowded into the various cafes. "Where's Brett and Mike?" Bill asked. "I'm going to find them right now," Cohen said. "Lead them up here." The festivities have officially begun.It will last seven days, day and night.Dancing, drunkenness, noise, non-stop.All this can only happen during festivals.In the end, everything becomes like a dream, as if whatever you do can't cause any harm.During a binge, it might seem out of place to think about the consequences.All through the feast, even in the moments of silence, you have the feeling that you have to shout to be heard.It feels the same way about your every move.This is the carnival, and it lasts for seven full days.

That afternoon, a grand religious procession was held.People carried the statue of San Fermin from one church to another.Secular dignitaries and religious dignitaries all took part in the procession.There are so many people, we can't see these characters.There is a group of people dancing riau-riau at the front and back of the neat procession.A group of people in yellow shirts jumped up and down in the crowd.Every street leading to the square and the sidewalks on both sides were so busy that we could only see the tall colossal statues in the procession above the heads of the packed crowd: there were some wooden statues of Indians carved in front of cigar shops, and there were thirty feet tall, several Moors, a king and a queen.These simulacrums are solemnly twirling to the riau-riau dance music, as if dancing a waltz.

The crowd stopped in front of a chapel, the statue of Saint Fermin and the dignitaries filed in, leaving the guards and the colossus outside, and the dancer who had been dancing in the belly of the statue stood next to the stretcher on the ground, the dwarf They hold extra large balloons and drill around in the crowd.We entered the chapel and there was a smell of incense, and people filed in, but Brett was stopped at the door because she wasn't wearing a hat, so we had to go back out and walk back from the chapel down the main street back to the city.The sidewalks on both sides of the street were full of people. They stood in their usual places, waiting for the parade to return.Some dancers stood in a circle and danced around Brett.Around their necks were bunches of white garlic.They took Bill and me by the arm and pulled us into the circle.Bill started dancing too.They were all singing.Brett wanted to dance too, but they wouldn't let her.They were going to dance around her like an idol.The song ends with a piercing riau-riau.They hugged us and walked into a hotel.

We stopped at the counter.They made Brett sit on a barrel.The hotel was dark and full of people singing, at the top of their voices.Behind the counter someone poured glasses of wine from the taps of the barrels.I put down the drink money, but someone picked it up and stuffed it in my pocket. "I'd like a wineskin," Bill said. "There's a place down the street that sells it," I said. "I'm going to buy two," The dancers wouldn't let me out.Three men sat on the high casks next to Brett and taught her to drink out of wineskins.They hung a string of garlic around her neck.Someone insisted on offering her a glass of wine.Someone was teaching Bill a song.Sing into his ear.Tapping on Bill's back.

I explained to them that I was coming back.When I got to the street, I walked along the street looking for workshops that made leather wine bags.The sidewalks were crowded, many of the shops were boarded up, and I couldn't find the workshop.I watched both sides of the street until I came to the church.At this time, I asked a man, and he took my arm and led me to the workshop.The planking was done, but the door was still open. The workshop smelled of newly tanned leather and hot coal tar.Someone was stamping the finished wine bags, which hung in bundles from the ceiling.He took one down, blew enough, screwed the spout tight, and jumped onto the wineskin.

"Look! No leaks at all." "I want another one. Take the big one." He took down from the rafters a large wine bag that would hold a gallon, perhaps more than a gallon.Facing the mouth of the bag, puffing out his cheeks, he fully inflated the wine bag, and then stood on the wine bag with his hands on the back of the chair. "What are you doing? Take it to Bayonne and sell it?" "No. For drinking by yourself." He patted me on the back. "It's a man! Eight pesetas for two. Lowest price." The man who had printed the new wineskin tossed the printed wineskin into the heap and paused. "It's true," he said. "Eight pesetas is cheap. "

I paid the money and came out to Zheyuan Hotel on Shunyuan Road.It was darker inside and very crowded.Brett and Bill were gone, they were said to be in the back room.The waitress at the cabinet filled me with these two wineskins.One holds two liters.The other held five liters.Two sacks full of wine, three pesetas and sixty centimos. A stranger at the counter offered to pay for the drinks for me, but I ended up paying for them myself.The person who is going to pay for my drink buys me a drink.He wouldn't let me buy wine and return it to him, but said he wanted to take a sip from my new wine bag to clear my mouth.He turned the big six-liter wine bag upside down, squeezed his hands, and the wine sprayed into his throat. "Okay," he said, handing the wine bag back to me. In the back room, Brett and Bill sat on lute barrels, surrounded by dancing people, each with their arms around each other's shoulders, and each singing.Mike sat at a table with a few shirtless men eating a bowl of tuna in onion vinaigrette.They were all drinking, rubbing the oil and vinaigrette in their bowls with slices of bread. "Hi, Jack. Hi!" Mike called me. "Come here. Meet my friends. We're having a snack." Mike introduced me to the group.They named themselves to Mike and asked someone to bring me a fork. "Don't eat their food, Mike," Brett called from the barrel. "I don't want to eat all of your meals," I said when someone handed me a fork. "Eat," he said. "What are the things here for?" I unscrewed the cap of the spout on the big wine bag and handed it to everyone present.Everyone straightened their arms, turned the wine bag upside down and took a sip. Among the singing, we heard the music played by the procession passing by outside the door. "Is the parade coming?" Mike asked. "Nothing," someone said. "Nothing. Go ahead. Hold the bottle up." "Where did they find you?" I asked Mike. "Someone brought me here," Mike said. "They said you were here." "Where's Cohen?" "He's passed out," Brett said aloud. "Someone put him somewhere." "Where?" "I have no idea." "How would we know," Bill said. "He's probably dead." "He's not dead," Mike said. "I know he's not dead. He's just passed out with anisette." While he was talking about ouzo, someone in the room looked up, took out a bottle from under his coat, and handed it to me. "No," I said. "No more, thank you!" "Drink. Drink. Lift up! Lift up the bottle!" I took a sip.The wine smelled of licorice and warmed from the throat to the stomach.I feel the heat in my stomach. "Where the hell is Cohn?" "I don't know," Mike said. "Let me ask. Where's the drunk buddy?" he asked in Spanish. "You want to see him?" "Yes," I said. "Not me," Mike said. "This gentleman wants to see." The man who gave me the ouzo wiped his lips and stood up. "Let's go." In a back room, Robert Cohen was sleeping peacefully on several wine barrels.It was so dark in the room that he couldn't see his face clearly.They covered him with a coat, folded another coat and put it under his head.Around his neck was a large wreath made of twisted garlic, hanging down on his chest. "Let him sleep," the man whispered. "It doesn't matter to him." Two hours later, Cohen reappeared.He went into the front room with the bunch of garlic still hanging around his neck.The Spaniards cheered when they saw him enter.Cohn rubbed his eyes and grinned. "I slept through it," he said. "Oh, where," said Brett. "You literally died," Bill said. "Shall we have some dinner?" Cohn asked. "you want to eat?" "Yes. What's the matter? I'm hungry." "Eat those bulbs of garlic, Robert," Mike said. "Hey, I ate the garlic." Cohen stood still.This time he fell asleep and his alcoholism disappeared. "Let's go to dinner," said Brett. "I need to take a shower." "Come on," Bill said. "We're taking Brett to the hotel." We said goodbye to everyone, shook hands with everyone, and then came out.It was getting dark outside. "What time do you think it is?" Cohen asked. "It's already the second day," Mike said. "You slept for two days." "No," Cohen said. "What time is it?" "Ten o'clock." "We've had a lot to drink." "You mean we drank a lot. You fell asleep." As we walked back to the hotel in the dark street, we saw fireworks going off in the square.Looking from the alley leading to the square, the square is crowded with people, and people in the center of the square are dancing. The dinner at the hotel was extraordinarily sumptuous.This is the first festive meal, the price is twice as expensive, and a few extra dishes are added.After dinner, we went out to play.I remember I decided to stay up all night to watch the cows crossing the street at six o'clock the next morning, but I was too sleepy around four o'clock, so I fell asleep.Those others stayed up all night. My own room was locked and I couldn't find the key, so went upstairs to sleep in a bed in Cohen's room.The carnival in the streets continued through the night, but I fell asleep soundly sleepy.I was awakened by the explosion of fireworks, which was the signal for the release of cattle from the cattle pens on the outskirts of the city.The cattle were to gallop across the street to the bullring.I slept so deeply that when I awoke I thought it was too late.I put on Cohn's coat and went out to the balcony.The side streets below were deserted.All the balconies were full of people.Suddenly, a group of people came from the street.They jostled and ran.They passed the hotel and ran down the side street to the bullring, followed by a group of people who ran even faster, and then a few stragglers who were running desperately.There was a short gap behind the crowd, and then the herd of cattle bobbing their heads up and down.Their figures disappeared around the corner.One fell to the ground, rolled into the ditch, and lay motionless.But the herd ignored it and just ran forward.They run in groups. The herd was out of sight, and there was a wild howl from beyond the ring.The cry lasted for a long time.At the end, a firework bomb exploded, indicating that the bulls had broken through the crowd and entered the bullpen in the bullring.I went back into the house, went to bed and lay down.I had just been standing barefoot on the stone balcony.I knew my mates must have gone to bed at the bullfight and I fell asleep again. Cohn came in and woke me up.He started to undress and went to close the window because someone from the balcony of the house across the street was looking into our house. "Did you see that scene?" I asked. "I see. We're all over there." "Is anyone hurt?" "A bull rushed into the crowd in the bullring and picked seven or eight people down." "How does Brett feel?" "Everything happened so suddenly, before people got agitated, it passed." "I wish I woke up sooner." "We don't know where you are. We went to your room, but it was locked." "Where are you staying tonight?" "We danced in a club." "I'm so sleepy," I said. "My God! I'm so sleepy right now," Cohen said. "Is there an end to this matter?" "Not in a week." Bill pushed open the door and poked his head in. "Where are you, Jack?" "I saw the cows run by on the balcony. How?" "Excellent." "Where are you going?" "Go to sleep." No one got up before noon.We dined at tables placed under the arcade.The city is full of people.We had to wait to get a vacant table.After dinner, we rushed to Cafe Irune.It was full, and the closer it was to the start of the bullfight, the more people there were, and the tables were getting more and more crowded.Every day before the bullfight, the crowded room was filled with a low hum.No matter how crowded the cafe is usually, it will not be so noisy.The buzz goes on and on, and we jump in and be a part of it. For every bullfight, I order six tickets.Three of them are the first row of seats in the bullring stands, the first row of seats next to the fence of the bullring, and three are seats in the bullring stands above the entrance and exit, with wooden backs, on the half slope of the circular stand superior.Mike thought it was best for Brett to sit up high when watching a bullfight for the first time, and Cohen was willing to sit with them.Bill and I were going to sit in the front row, and I would sell the extra ticket to the waiter.Bill told Cohen what to look out for and how to look at it so that it wouldn't focus on the horse.Bill had seen a series of bullfights one year. "I'm not worried about being overwhelmed. I'm just worried about being bored," Cohen said. "You think so?" "Don't look at the horse after the cow has arrived," I said to Brett. "Watch the bull's charge, watch how the spearman manages to avoid the bull's attack, but if the horse is attacked, as long as it doesn't die, you don't look at it." "I'm a little nervous," Brett said. "I'm worried about whether I can see it from the beginning to the end." "It's okay, you will feel uncomfortable watching the part where the horse is on the field, and nothing else, and the confrontation between the horse and each cow is only a few minutes. If you don’t feel comfortable looking at it, you don’t want to look at it.” "She's fine," Mike said. "I'll take care of her." "I don't think you'll be bored," Bill said. "I'm going back to the hotel to get the binoculars and the wine bag," I said. "See you later. Don't get drunk." "I'll go with you," Bill said.Brett smiled at us. We walked around under the arcade so as not to cross the square in the sun. "I'm sick of that Cohen," Bill said. "Too much of his Jewish arrogance to think that seeing a bullfight would only bore him." "We'll get a telescope and watch him later," I said. "Let him go to hell!" "He stuck there and refused to go." "I'd like him to stick there." On the stairs of the hotel we meet Montoya. "Come on," Montoya said. "Would you like to meet Pedro Romero?" "Sure," Bill said. "Let's go see him." We followed Montoya up a flight of stairs and down the corridor. "He's in room eight," Montoya explained. "He's getting dressed and ready to go out" Montoya knocked on the door and pushed it open.It was a dark room, lit only by a window facing the alley.There were two beds, separated by a monastery partition.Turn on the lights.The young man was wearing a bullfight suit, standing straight with a straight face.His coat was draped over the back of the chair.His girdle was almost finished.His black hair glistened in the light.He was wearing a white linen shirt, which his attendants had belted about him, and stood up and stepped aside.Pedro Romero nodded, absent-minded and demure as we shook hands.Montoya said a few words that we are bullfight fans, we wish him success and so on.Romero listened very carefully, then turned to me.He is the most beautiful young man I have ever seen in my life. "Look at the bullfight," he said in English. "You can speak English," I said, feeling like an idiot. " "No," he replied with a smile. There were three people sitting on the bed, and one of them came up to us and asked if we spoke French. "Do you want me to translate for you? What do you want to ask Pedro Romero?" We thank you.What is there to ask?The lad was nineteen years old, and there was no one else present except for a entourage and three helpers, and the bullfight was only to begin in twenty minutes.We wished him "Muchasuerte", shook hands and came out.When we closed the door, he was still standing, straight and handsome, alone, staying in the house alone with a few helpers. "He's a nice guy, don't you think?" asked Montoya. "It's really pretty," I said. "He looked like a matador," Montoya said. "He has the airs of a bullfighter." "He's a nice guy." "We'll see him in the ring soon," Montoya said. We saw the big leather wine-skin lying against the wall in my room, so we took it and the glass, locked the door, and went downstairs. This bullfight is wonderful.Bill and I were in awe of Pedro Romero.Montoya sat about ten seats away from us.After Romero killed the first cow, Montoya caught my eye and nodded.This is a real matador.Haven't seen a real bullfighter for a long time.As for the other two, one is pretty good and the other is not bad.Although the two bulls that Romero dealt with were not very powerful, no one could compare with him. Several times during the bullfight I looked up through the binoculars to watch Mike, Brett, and Cohen.Everything seems to work for them.Brett didn't look excited.All three of them were hunched over the concrete railing in front of them. "Give me the binoculars," Bill said. "Does Cohn look bored?" I asked. "The Jew!" After a bullfight, it's almost impossible to move in the crowd outside the ring.We couldn't squeeze out, so we had to move slowly towards the city with the whole stream of people like a glacier.Our mood was uneasy, just like every time we watched a bullfight, and at the same time very excited, just like watching a wonderful bullfight.The carnival continues.With the sound of drums and flutes, groups of dancing crowds broke through the flow of people everywhere, each occupying one side.The dancers were surrounded by the crowd so that their dazzling intricacies could not be seen.You just see their heads and shoulders flashing up and down.We finally squeezed our way through the crowd and walked to the cafe.The waiter made room for the rest of us, and we each ordered a glass of absinthe and watched the crowd and dancers in the square. "What dance do you think this is?" Bill asked. "It's a hoda dance." "There are all kinds of dances to this dance," Bill said. "The music is different, and the dancing is also different." "The dance is very beautiful." In front of us, a group of boys danced in a deserted part of the street. Their dance steps were intricate and their faces were absorbed.When they danced, they all looked at the ground.Rope-soled shoes rattled on the pavement.Toes touch.Heels touch.The balls of the big toes touch.The music stopped abruptly, the dance routine ended, and they danced away down the street. "Here comes our friend," Bill said. They were coming across the road. "Hi, friends," I said. "Hello, gentlemen!" said Brett. "Save us a seat? That's great." "Hey," Mike said, "what's the guy named Romero is awesome. Am I right?" "How lovely he is," said Brett. "Wearing those green pants." "Brett can't get enough of those green trousers." "Hey, I'll definitely borrow your binoculars tomorrow." "what do you think?" "Excellent! Needless to say. Ah, what an eye-opener!" "How's the horse?" "It's impossible not to look at them." "Brett could see it," Mike said. "She's an amazing bitch." "They did get a horrific treatment," Brett said. "I've been watching, though." "Are you feeling okay?" "I'm not panicking at all." "Robert Cohen is dead," Mike interposed. "You were blue Robert then." "What happened to the first horse really hurt me," said Cohen. "You're not bored, are you?" Bill asked.Cohen chuckled. "Yes. I'm not bored. I hope you'll forgive me for saying that." "Fine," Bill said, "as long as you don't get bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to throw up." "Not that far. Only for a little while." "I thought he was going to vomit. You're not bored, are you, Robert?" "Forget it, Mike. I said it, and I regret it." "He did, you know. He was livid." "Oh, come on, Michael." "You should never be bored watching a bullfight for the first time, Robert," Mike said. "Otherwise it would be bad." "Oh, come on, Michael," said Brett. "He said Brett was a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a charming, strong bitch." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "I hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she had a big appetite." "The appetite won't always be that good." Bill told Mike to stop talking about Cohen and start talking about something else.The waiter brought some glasses of absinthe. "You really like watching bullfights?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, not like it. I thought it was a good show." "My God, what a show! What an eye-opener!" said Brett. “It would have been nice not to have that scene where the horse comes in,” Cohen said. "Horses don't matter," Bill said, "and it won't be long before you don't notice any discomfort." "It was just a little too exciting at first," Brett said. "When the cow charged at the horse, I felt terrible for a moment." "These bulls are classy," Cohen said. "Very good cow," Mike said. "Next time I'd like to sit down." Brett sipped the absinthe from her glass. "She wanted to see the matador up close," Mike said. "They're worth seeing," Brett said. "That Romero was a boy." "He's a very nice guy," I said. "I've been in his house, and no one is as handsome as he." "How old do you think he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "think about it." The bullfight on the second day was much more exciting than the first day.Brett sat between Mike and me in the first row, and Bill and Cohen went up there.Romero is the protagonist of this game.I don't see Brett seeing any other bullfighters.The same goes for everyone but the unrepentant experts.It's all Romero's world.There were two other bullfighters, but they were too numerous to count.I sat next to Brett and explained to her what a bullfight was.I told her to look at the cow and not the horse when the bull charged at the spearman, and told her to pay attention to how the spearman aimed his spear in, so that she could see the way and figure out the whole thing. There is a purpose to the bullfighting process, and it is not just some indescribable horror.I wanted her to watch how Romero drew the cow away from the fallen horse with his cape, how he held the cow in place with the cape, and then coaxed the bull around with such smooth grace that it didn't waste its energy needlessly.She saw that Romero refrained from any rough movement, conserving the strength of the cows for the final blow when he needed them, not letting them pant and fidget, but breaking them down bit by bit.She also saw that Romero was always getting so close to the bull, so I pointed out to her the tricks other matadors used to do to give it the appearance of being very close.She knew why she liked Romero's cloaking and why she didn't like the others.Romero never deliberately twists his body, his movements are always direct, clean, and natural.The other two twisted their bodies like corkscrews, and when they raised their arms, they waited until the horns had brushed past them before touching the cow's belly, giving people a false and dangerous impression.This faux pas later got worse and was unpleasant.Romero's bullfights are truly emotional because he keeps his movements absolutely clean, always calmly brushing the bull's horns close to him each time.He didn't have to stress how close the horns were to his body.Brett saw that some movements, graceful when done close to the cow, would be ridiculous if done at a little distance from the cow.I told her that, since Joselito's death, bullfighters had developed a technique of pretending to be dangerous in order to create a false thrill, when in reality they took no risks.Romero was performing the traditional technique of maintaining a polished movement through maximum exposure of the body to the bull. This is how he held the bull in check, made him feel inaccessible, and at the same time prepared and gave him Take a fatal blow. "He never had any clumsiness," Brett said. "Unless he's scared," I said. "He's never afraid," Mike said. "He knows too much." "He knew everything from the beginning. The skills he brought from his mother's womb will never be learned by others in a lifetime." "My God, what a handsome face," said Brett. "I see she's in love with this pit bull boy," Mike said. "I'm not surprised." "Please, Jack. Don't tell her too much about the boy. Tell her how they beat their mothers." "Tell me again they're all drunks." "Yeah, that's scary," Mike said. "Get drunk all day and beat their poor old lady up." "That's what he looks like," said Brett. "Really?" I said. Some mules were used to trap the dead cow, and then the whip cracked, and the people started running, so the mule slammed forward, kicked its hind hoof, and suddenly ran away, and the dead cow had one horn sticking up. , the bull's head drooped aside, its body drew a smooth groove on the sand, and was dragged out of the red gate. "The next time the cow comes out is the last one." "No way," said Brett.She leaned forward against the railing.Romero waved his arms to tell the spearmen to take their positions, then stood at attention, holding the cloak against his chest, and looked across the field where the bulls were playing. After the show ended, we came out and squeezed tightly in the crowd. "Watching a bullfight is tiring," said Brett. "My whole body is as soft as a ball of cotton." "Ah, you go get a drink," Mike said. The next day Pedro Romero was not at the Miura Bull, which was a bad fight.There was no bullfight scheduled for the third day.But the carnival continued all day and all night.