Chapter 17 Chapter Sixteen

It has been raining all morning.Fog from the sea covered the mountains.The top of the mountain was out of sight.Gao Gang looked gloomy and forlorn, and the outlines of trees and houses changed.I went out of town to watch the sky.Dark clouds from the sea were rolling in towards the mountains. The flags in the square hung wet from their white poles, the banners were wet and glued to the facades of the houses, and the steady drizzle, mixed with the rustling torrential rain, drove the people under the arcades, and the square was filled with Puddles were formed, the streets were wet, darkened, and deserted; yet the revelry went on without end.Just being driven into hiding.

The covered seats in the bullring were packed with people who sat sheltering from the rain while they watched the Basque and Navarran dancers and singers perform, followed by the dancers of the Carlos Valley in their National costumes danced along the street in the rain, the sound of wet drums was hollow and muffled, the foremen of each dance team rode heavy-footed tall horses in front of the team, their national costumes were soaked by the rain, and their horse capes were also wet .People crowded in the cafés, and dancers came in and sat down, stretched their feet in tightly wrapped white leggings under the tables, shook the rain from caps with bells on them, and spread their colorful coats to dry on the chairs.It's raining hard outside.

I left the crowd in the cafe and went back to the hotel to shave and get ready for dinner.I was shaving in my room when there was a knock at the door. "Come in," I called. Montoya entered the room. "Hello?" he said. "Very good," I said. "There is no bullfight today." "Yeah," I said, "nothing but rain." "Where are your friends?" "In 'Irune'." Montoya smiled awkwardly. "Listen," he said. "Do you know the American ambassador?" "Yes," I said. "Everyone knows him."

"He's in town now." "Yes," I said. "Everybody saw the gang." "I saw them too," Montoya said.He stopped talking.I continue to shave my face. "Sit down," I said. "I'll send for some wine." "No, I have to go." I shaved my face, soaked my face in the washbasin, and washed it with cold water.Montoya stood there looking more and more awkward. "Listen," he said. "I just got a message from them from the 'Grand Hotel' that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Laronda to come over for coffee after dinner." "Okay," I said, "It won't do Marcial any harm."

"Marcial is going to be in San Sebastián all day. He and Márquez drove there this morning. I don't think they'll be back tonight." Montoya stood awkwardly.He waited for me to speak. "Don't take this letter to Romero," I said. "Do you think so?" "certainly." Montoya was very happy. "I'm asking you because you're American," he said. "If it were me, I would do it this way." "Look," Montoya said. "People are fooling the kid like this. They don't understand his value. They don't understand what he means to us. Any foreigner can come up to him. They start with a cup of coffee in the 'Grand Hotel', and a year later, they completely ruined him."

"Like Algabeno," I said. "Yes, like Algabeno." "There are plenty of them," I said. "Now here's an American woman looking for bullfighters." "I know. They pick young ones." "Yes," I said. "Old guys are getting fat." "Or as mad as Calvary." "Oh," I said, "that's easy. You just don't send him the letter." "What a nice guy he is," Montoya said. "He should be with his people. He shouldn't be involved in this kind of thing." "You don't want a drink?" I asked.

"No drink," Montoya said, "I have to go." He walked out. I went downstairs and out the door and walked around the square along the arcade.It's still raining.I looked in at the door of the "Irune" for my accomplices, but they were not there, so I walked around the square back to the hotel.They are eating in the dining room downstairs. They have eaten several courses and I don't want to catch up with them.Bill paid for someone to shine Mike's shoes.Whenever a shoe shiner pushed open the gate from the street and looked in, Bill would call him over to shine Mike's shoes.

"This is the eleventh time I've polished these boots," Mike said. "Hey, what a fool Bill is." The shoe shiner apparently spread the word.Another shoe shiner came in. "Want to shine your boots?" he said to Bill. "I don't want it," Bill said. "Wipe this gentleman." The shoe shiner knelt beside his peer who was doing it, and began to polish Mike's unshineable boot, which was already shining brightly in the electric light. "Bill is so cute," Mike said. I was drinking claret, and I was far behind them, so it was a bit off-putting to have this constant shoe shine.I look around the whole restaurant.At the next table sat Pedro Romero.Seeing me nod to him, he stood up and invited me to meet his friends.His table was next to ours, almost right next to each other.I made this friend, a bullfight commentator from Madrid, a little man with a tight face.I told Romero how much I liked his bullfighting, and he was delighted.We talked in Spanish and the commentator knew a little French.I reached over to our table for my bottle, but the commentator took my arm.Romero smiled.

"Drink here," he said in English.He's shy about speaking English, but he's willing to speak it in his heart, and when we got on with it, he asked me to explain a few words that he wasn't quite sure about.He was anxious to know what Corridadetoros was called in English and what its exact translation would be.He felt wrong to translate it into bull-fight (bullfight) in English.I explained that bull-fight means lidia to toro in Spanish. The Spanish word Corrida means the running of bulls (running of bulls) in English. — French is Course de taureaux.The commentator chimed in.There is no Spanish equivalent for bull-fighi.

Pedro Romero said he learned some English in Gibraltar.He was born in Rhonda.Not far north of Gibraltar.He started bullfighting at the bullfighting school in Malaga.He has only been doing it for three years now.Bullfight commentators made fun of him for saying a lot of words in the Malaga dialect.He said he was nineteen.His brother was a shotgunner for him, but he didn't live in the hotel.He lived in an inn with some other men on Romero's errands.He asked how many times I had seen him in the ring.I told him he had only seen it three times.In fact, there are only two times, but I don’t want to explain again if I made a mistake.

"Where did you see me another time? In Madrid?" "Yes," I lied.I had read about his two performances in Madrid in the Bullfight newspaper, so I could handle it. "First appearance or second?" "the first time." "The first time was bad," he said. "It was stronger the second time. Do you remember?" he asked the commentator. He is not restrained at all.He talked about his bullfight as if it had nothing to do with him.No complacency or self-praise in the slightest. "I'm very glad you liked my pit bull," he said. "But you haven't seen my real skills. If I meet a good cow tomorrow, I will try my best to show you." He smiled a little after he said this, lest the bullfight commentator and I should think he was talking big. "I'm dying to see what you do," said the commentator. "You convince me with the facts." "He doesn't like my pit bull very much," Romero told me.He is serious. The commentator explained that he liked it very much, but the matador's skills were never fully realized. "Let's see tomorrow, if a good job comes up." "Did you see the bulls coming out tomorrow?" the commentator asked me. "I see. I watched it come out." Pedro Romero leaned forward. "What do you think of these cows?" "Very robust," I said. "There are about twenty-six arrois. The horns are very short. Don't you see?" "I see," Romero said. "They're less than twenty-six arrois," said the commentator. "Yes," Romero said. "They have bananas on their heads, not horns," said the commentator. "You call those bananas?" Romero asked.He smiled at me. "You don't call horns a banana, do you?" "No," I said. "Horns are horns." "They're short," Romero said. "Very, very short. They're not bananas, though." "Hey, Jack," Brett called from the next table, "you left us alone." "Just for a moment," I said. "We're talking about cows." "You're so cool" "Tell him cows don't have horns," Mike yelled.he's drunk. Romero looked at me inexplicably. "He's drunk," I said. "Borracho! Muyborracho!" "Will you introduce us to your friend," said Brett.She kept her eyes on Pedro Romero.I asked them if they would like to have coffee with us.They stood up.Romero's face was dark.His demeanor is courteous. I introduced them and they were about to sit down but there weren't enough seats so we all moved to the big table against the wall to have coffee.Mike ordered a bottle of Fantadol, and a glass for each.Followed by a series of drunken talk. "Tell him I don't think there's anything better than a pen," Bill said. "Tell him, tell him. Tell him I'm a writer, and I'm ashamed to show people." Pedro Romero sat beside Brett, listening to her. "Go ahead. Tell him!" Bill said. Romero looked up and smiled. "This gentleman," I said, "is a writer." Romero stood in awe. "That one too," I said, pointing to Cohen. "He looks like Villalta," Romero said, looking at Bill. "Is Rafael like Villalta?" "I don't see where the elephant is," said the commentator. "Really," Romero said in Spanish. "He's very much like Villalta. What's that drunk gentleman doing?" "Nothing." "Is that why he's drinking?" "No. He's expecting to marry the lady." "Tell him cows don't have horns!" Mike yelled drunkenly across the table. "What did he say?" "He's drunk." "Jack," Mike called. "Tell him that cows have no horns!" "Do you understand?" I said. "Understand." I know he doesn't understand, so it doesn't matter what I say. "Tell him Brett wants to see him in those green trousers." "Shut up, Mike." "Tell him how Brett wants to know how he got those trousers on." "shut up" All the while Romero was fingering his glass and talking to Brett.Brett spoke French, and he mixed a little English with Spanish, laughing as he spoke. Bill filled everyone's glasses. "Tell him Brett wants to go in—" "Hey, shut up, Mike, for Christ's sake!" Romero looked up, smiling. "Needless to say, I understand that," he said. At this moment, Montoya entered the house.He was about to smile at me, but saw Pedro Romero, with a large glass of brandy in his hand, sitting between me and a woman with bare shoulders, laughing, at the table with drunks.He didn't even nod his head. Montoya walked out of the restaurant.Mike stood up to toast. "Let's all have a drink for—" he began. "For Pedro Romero," I said.Everyone at the table stood up.Romero took it seriously.We clinked glasses and drank them down, which I purposely made light of, because Mike was afraid he'd have to say he wasn't toasting at all.But at last it was settled peacefully.Pedro Romero shook hands with everyone and left with the commentators. "My God! What a sweet fellow," said Brett. "I'd love to see how he puts on that suit. He'll have to use a shoehorn." "I was going to tell him," Mike began again. "But Jack keeps interrupting me. Why don't you let me finish? Do you think you speak better Spanish than I do?" "Oh, stop it, Mike! Nobody's getting in your way." "No, I have to speak clearly." He turned his back. "You think you're a big deal, Cohn? You think you're one of us? Are you the kind of guy who wants to come out and have fun? For God's sake, don't make such a noise, Cohn!" "Oh, stop it, Mike," Cohen said. "You think Brett needs you here? You think you're here to entertain us? Why don't you talk?" "I said all I had to say that night, Mike." "I'm not one of your literati." Mike stood unsteadily, leaning on the table. "I'm not very smart. But I know when people hate me. Why don't you know when people hate you, Cohn? Come on. Go away, for God's sake. Take your Sad Jewish face. Am I wrong?" He scanned us. "Here," I said. "Let's all go to 'Irune'." "No. Am I wrong? I love that woman." "Oh, don't do that again. Never mind, Michael," said Brett. "Am I not right, Jack?" Cohen was still sitting at the table.Whenever he was insulted, his face turned sallow, but he also seemed to enjoy himself a little.Drunk boastful nonsense.About his affair with a titled lady "Jack," Mike said.He was almost shouting. "You know I'm right. Listen!" he said to Cohn. "Go away! Go away!" "But I don't want to go, Mike," Cohen said. " "Then I'll tell you to go!" Mike walked around the corner of the table to him.Cohen stood up and took off his glasses.He stood and waited, his face sallow, his hands lowered, proudly and resolutely meeting the attack, ready to fight for his beloved. I grabbed Mike. "Let's go to the cafe," I said. "You can't beat him up in the hotel here." "Good!" Mike said. "good idea!" We set off.As Mike staggered up the stairs, I looked back to see Cohen put his glasses on again.Bill sat at the table and poured another glass of Fantato.Brett sat staring blankly straight ahead.The rain had stopped on the square outside, and the moon was trying to peek out of the clouds.It was windy.A marching band played, and a crowd crowded across the square where the pyrotechnician and his son were trying out fireworks balloons.The balloon was always bouncing up in a sharp slant, and was either torn by the wind or blown against the houses on the side of the square.Some fell among the crowd.The spotlight flashed, and the fireworks exploded, scurrying through the crowd.No one danced in the square.Gravel is too wet.Brett Bill came out to join us.We stood in the crowd to watch the fireworks master Don Manuel Oquito stand on a small platform, carefully use the pole to send the balloon out, he stood higher than the heads of the crowd, and released the balloon in the wind.The wind blows the balloons off the ground one by one: Don Manuel Oquito is sweating in the light of the complicated fireworks he made, and the fireworks fall into the crowd and run rampant under the people's feet. clatter.People screamed every time the glowing paper ball caught fire and fell crookedly. "They're laughing at Don Manuel," Bill said. "How do you know his name is Don Manuel?" Brett said. "His name is on the program. Don Manuel Oquito, the city's pyrotechnician." "Illuminated balloons," Mike said. "The Lighting Balloon Exhibit. It says so on the program." The wind carries the sound of military music far away. "Hey, it would be nice to just put one in," Brett said, "this Don Manuel is really jealous." "He was probably busy for weeks arranging a group of balloons that would pop up to form the words 'Viva San Fermin'," Bill said. "Lighting balloon," Mike said. "A bunch of goddamn lighting balloons." "Come on," Brett said. "Let's not stand here." "Ma'am would like a drink," Mike said. "You're so sensible," Brett said. The cafe was crowded and very noisy.Nobody noticed us going in.We couldn't find an empty table.All I could hear was a clamor. "Come on, let's get out of here," Bill said. Outside, people stroll under the arcades.There were a few tables scattered with Englishmen and Americans in tracksuits from Biarritz.Several of the women glared at passers-by with long-stemmed glasses.Bill has a friend from Biarritz who has joined our party.She lingered at the "Grand Hotel" with another girl.The girl has a headache and has gone to bed. "Here's the tavern," Mike said.This is the Milano Bar, a low-class little bar where you can eat and dance in the back room.We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fantato.The store was not full.Nothing fun. "What the hell is this place," Bill said. "It's still early." "Let's hold the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go see the British," Mike said. "I like watching the British." "They're badass," Bill said. "Where did they come from?" "From Biarritz," Mike said. "They're coming to see what's going on on the last day of this quaint festival in Spain." "Let me show 'em," Bill said. "You're a stunning girl," Mike said to Bill's friend. "When did you arrive?" "Stop messing around, Michael." "Oh, she's a lovely girl indeed. Where was I? What have I been looking at? You're a lovely girl. Have we met? Come with me and Bill. We'll show the English Let's go. "I'll take 'em," Bill said. "What the hell are they doing here at the festival? "Come on," Mike said, "just the three of us."We'll take these damn Brits to watch the show.Hope you are not British.I am Scottish.I hate the British.I'll give them some fun to see.let's go, bill. " Through the window we see the three of them walking arm in arm towards the café.Firework bombs continue to rise from the square. "I'll sit here a minute," said Brett. "I'm with you," Cohen said. "Oh, no!" said Brett. "For God's sake, you stay somewhere else. Don't you see me and Jack trying to talk for a while?" "No," Cohen said. "I want to sit here because I'm feeling a little drunk." "You insist on sitting with other people. That's no excuse. Go to sleep when you're drunk. Go to sleep." "Am I being too rude to him?" Brett asked.Cohen is gone, "My God! I hate him!" "He didn't add color to the joy." "He made me very unhappy." "His behavior was outrageous." "It's outrageous. He had a chance of not having to." "He's probably waiting outside the door now." "Yes. He'd do it. You know, I know what he thinks. He doesn't believe it's all a joke." "I know." "Nobody ever acted as badly as he did. Well, I'm tired of everything. And Michael. Michael's got enough." "Mike's been terribly embarrassed by what's been going on." "Yes. But You don't have to be so nasty." "Everybody's going to be nasty," I said. "Whenever there's a chance." "You won't," said Brett, looking at me. "I'd be a big jackass like him if I were Cohen." "Honey, let's stop talking nonsense. "Fine. Say what you like." "Don't be so awkward. I have no other confidant but you, and I'm in a particularly bad mood tonight." "You have Mike." "Yes, Mike. But is he doing well?" "Ah," I said, "it's embarrassing for Mike to see Cohn around, always wanting to be with you." "Don't I know, my dear? Please don't make me any worse than I am." Brett was fidgety like I'd never seen her before, looking away from me at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Okay. Let's go." I corked the bottle and handed it to the bartender. " "Let me have another drink," said Brett. "I'm in a bad mood." We each drank a glass of this smooth mild brandy. "Come on," Brett said. As soon as we were out, I saw Cohn coming out from under the arcade. "He's been right there," Brett said. "He can't live without you." "Poor fellow!" "I don't pity him. I hate him myself." "I hate him too," she said with a shudder. "I hate him for enduring the pain with such a sad face." Arm in arm, we walked along the alley, avoiding the crowds and the lights of the square.The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications on the edge of the city.We passed a hotel, and the lights from the doors shone on the dark, damp street, and suddenly there was music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked across the wet grass on the edge of the city and climbed the stone walls of the fortifications.I spread a newspaper on the stone, and Brett sat down.It was dark on the plain and we could see the mountains.A phoenix is ​​blowing high in the sky, driving white clouds across the bright moon.Below our feet were the black bunkers of the fortifications.Behind him are the shadows of trees and cathedrals, and a bright moon sets off the black silhouette of the city. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I'm miserable," Brett said. "Let's be silent." We looked out into the fields.The long rows of trees looked black in the moonlight.On the road into the mountains flashed the lights of a car.We saw the lights from the old castle on the hilltop.On the lower left is the river.The river swelled after the rain, and the calm river was darkened.Dark woods stretched on both sides.We sat and watched.Brett stared straight ahead.Suddenly she shivered. "cold." "Want to go back?" "Across the park." We climbed down the stone wall.It's cloudy again.It was dark in the woods of the park. "Do you still love me, Jack?" "Yes," I said. "Just because I'm incurable," said Brett. "What's the matter?" "I'm hopeless. I'm fascinated by that lad Romero. I think I'm in love with him." "If I were you, I would never." "I can't control whether I'm done. I'm tossing and panicking in my heart." "Don't go on." "Whether I control it or not, I've never been able to control myself." "You should stop here." "How can it be? I don't want to touch it?" Her hands were shaking. "I'm shaking like this all over." "You shouldn't be going on." "I can't help it. I'm screwed anyway. Don't you see?" "No." "I'm going to do something. I'm going to do something that I really want to do. I've lost my self-esteem." "You don't have to do that." "Oh, honey, don't make it hard for me. How do you want me to put up with that goddamn Jew hanging around me and Mike doing like that?" "really." "I can't keep getting drunk like this" "Yes" "Oh honey, please stay with me. Please stay with me and help me get through this." "of course." "I'm not saying it's the right thing to do. For me though, it's the right thing to do. God knows, I've never felt so cheap." "What do you want me to do?" "Go," said Brett. "Let's go find him." In the park, we walked together in the dark along the gravel path under the trees, out of the woods, through the gate, and up the main street leading into the city. Pedro Romero in the café.He sat at a table with other matadors and bullfight commentators.They are smoking cigars.They looked up at us as we entered.Romero smiled and bowed to us.We sat down at a table in the middle of the room. "Bring him over for a drink." "Wait a minute. He'll come." "I can't look at him." "He looks handsome," I said. "I've always been doing whatever I wanted to do." "I understand." "I really feel like a bad woman." "Come on," I said. "My God!" said Brett. "Women suffer a lot" "yes?" "Oh, I really think I'm a bad woman." I looked over to that table.Pedro Romero smiled slightly.He stood up after talking to the person at the same table.He walked over to our table.I stood up and shook his hand. "Would you like a drink?" "You must have a drink with me," he said.He asked Brett for permission with his eyes before sitting down.He is very polite and thoughtful.But he kept smoking that cigar.It matched his face very well. "Do you like smoking cigars?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I used to smoke cigars." Smoking added a little air to him.It makes him look old.I pay attention to his skin, which is clean and smooth, dark and dark.He has a triangular scar on his cheekbone.I caught him watching Brett.He sensed some kind of communication between them.He must have felt Brett's hand when he reached out to shake it.He is very cautious.I think he's pretty sure of it, but he's going to make no mistakes. "Are you playing tomorrow?" I asked. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was injured in Madrid today. Did you hear?" "Never heard of it," I said. "Is the injury serious?" He shook his head. "Never mind. Here," he said, spreading his palms.Brett reached up and opened his fingers. "Ah!" he said in English, "do you often read people's palms?" "Sometimes. Don't you mind?" "No. I'd love to." He spread one hand flat on the table. "Tell me I'll live forever and be a millionaire." He's still very refined, but he's more confident. "Look," said he, "does my hand tell me I'm in luck?" He laughed.His hands are very delicate, with thin wrists. "Thousands of cows," said Brett, completely normal now.She looks so cute. "Okay," Romero said with a smile. "A thousand duros per head," he told me in Spanish. "Say more." "It's a lucky hand," said Brett. "I think he will live a long life." "Tell me. Don't tell your friends." "I just said that you will live a long life." "I know that," Romero said. "I will never die." I tapped the table with my fingertips.Romero noticed.He shook his head. "No. You don't have to. The cow is my best friend." I translated it for Brett. "So you killed your own friend?" she asked. "Often thing," he said in English before laughing. "That way they can't kill me." He looked across the table at Brett. "You speak English well." "Yes," he said. "Sometimes it's pretty good. But I can't let people know. It's very inappropriate for a bullfighter to speak English," "Why?" Brett asked. "Very inappropriate. The common people will be displeased. Not yet." "why not?" "They won't be satisfied. It wouldn't be like a matador." "What does it mean to be like a bullfighter?" He smiled and pulled his hat down over his eyes, changed the angle of his cigar, and changed the expression on his face. "Like the man over there," he said.I glanced over there.He imitated Nacional's expression perfectly.He smiled, and the expression on his face returned to normal. "No. I must forget English," "Don't forget it now," said Brett. "Forget it?" "right." "Ok." He laughed again. "I like a hat like that," said Brett. "Okay. I'll get you one." "Go ahead. You will pay attention to it." "Sure. I'll make you one tonight." I stand up.Romero followed suit. "You sit," I said. "I must find our friends and bring them here." He glanced at me.This last look is asking if I understand.I do get it. "Sit down," Brett told him. "You must teach me Spanish." He sat down and looked at her across the table.I walk out of the cafe.Everyone at the matador's table watched me out with cold eyes.This taste is not good.Twenty minutes later, I came back and popped into the café to have a look. Brett and Pedro Romero were gone.The coffee cups and our three empty wine glasses were still on the table.A waiter came up with a rag, picked up the glass, and wiped the table.