Indiscretion Page 23

  ‘I insist, Alexandra.’ He gave her a smile. ‘After what you survived today, we must make sure you at least get there in one piece.’

  Alexandra relented, deciding it was easier than protesting further. Salvador motioned to the posadero and asked for food to be sent up to the room. Saying goodnight and leaving the others to their bowls of stew, which had just arrived on the table, Alexandra made her way up the stairs with Salvador, both of them silent.

  She was thankful for the scrupulously clean sheets and the washbasin in her room, as well as the hot stew that the waiter carried upstairs. If she had a good night’s sleep, she would be a new person in the morning, she explained to a concerned Salvador as they said goodnight at her door.

  ‘I learned long ago that sleep is the best remedy for many an ailment,’ she could not resist telling him pointedly. For a moment she thought her subtlety was lost on him for he merely looked back at her, his brow slightly furrowed. But as he leant into the door-frame there was something in his gaze that she was unable to decipher.

  ‘Sleep and mend,’ he said almost gruffly. ‘You look exhausted.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern, Salvador. Now, please, go and join the others and enjoy the rest of your evening.’

  At this she saw his eyes cloud over and he stepped back. She sensed that he was silently donning his armour again. Before closing her door, for the briefest of moments she watched his tall figure disappear down the corridor. Then she went inside quickly, not wanting to see if he looked back.

  * * *

  The following afternoon, La Plaza de Toros in Ronda was drenched with the blinding white glare of a fierce sun. Since the end of the eighteenth century, the huge, tragic amphitheatre with its floor of red sand, reminiscent of the Roman arenas of old, had been the scene of many a bloody and barbarous combat between man and beast.

  There was a roar of applause as Don Vincente Herrera and his guests entered the President’s box, reserved for the most important aficionados, the devotees of bullfighting. The Herreras, like other great Andalucían families, had survived the civil strife of the 1930s through a mix of caution and cunning. They now enjoyed the enviable position of being popular, not only with the Spanish people who loved the young torero, Don Felipe, but also with the Franco regime.

  Fascinated, Alexandra watched people from all walks of life pack on to the crowded terraces that sizzled in the baking sun. There were foreigners passing through, onlookers simply curious to see the spectacle, and committed lovers of bullfighting. Aristocrats and respectable middle-class men squeezed in with workmen and peasants. Another group of aficionados ate and drank noisily a few boxes away, while elegant women and pretty señoritas in flamboyant clothes, their arms laden with flowers, chattered as they looked for their places, or simply sat in their seats expectantly. They were there to take part in this fierce entertainment, mingling regardless of social class and oblivious to the heat and dust.

  Alexandra had been given the honoured position on the right of Don Vincente himself; Ramón was on her other side, Salvador almost immediately in front of her. She could see the side of his chiselled, handsome face, and was so close to him that she could have reached out and touched his thick dark hair. The thought made her quiver slightly with a frisson of excitement, which she quashed hastily for the events of yesterday were still a confused whirl in her head but she was determined to block them out.

  Doña Isabel was seated on the other side of Salvador. A fleeting pang of jealousy scythed through Alexandra as she noted the possessive way in which the Marquesa was leaning over him, and how dazzling she appeared in her magnificent dress of fawn-coloured organza and a matching feather hat, which, although old-fashioned, suited her aristocratic looks. Alexandra was acutely aware of the plainness of her own ensemble: the pale yellow silk dress with its delicate lace bodice and her wide-brimmed hat decorated with camellias. What she had deemed elegantly simple now appeared almost dull next to the Marquesa’s outfit.

  Esmeralda, on her host’s left, looked as ethereal as ever in a pearl-grey silk suit, which set off her fair complexion and unfathomable grey-blue eyes. She seemed further away than ever and, not for the first time since they’d left El Pavón, Alexandra wondered how long it would be before she plucked up courage to flee the ancestral home. In the row behind, two young members of the Spanish nobility were competing for Mercedes’ affections and she was clearly enjoying the attention.

  ‘The Plaza de Toros is the most ancient bullring of the Peninsula,’ explained Don Vincente to his guest. He was a stocky man with a thick moustache and black hair that was swept back from his forehead. His chest in its brocaded jacket was puffed out, and he had never once stopped extolling the virtues of his son, Don Felipe, or boasting about his estates since Alexandra had first been introduced. She was relieved that his endless stream of conversation had at last settled upon something other than his family.

  ‘It is entirely built of wood and dates back to 1784,’ he continued. ‘Legend tells the story of a young soldier who completely demolished it on the day of its inauguration, by toppling a column in the same way as Samson destroyed the temple. La Real Maestranza de Caballería, the oldest equestrian corporation in Spain, rebuilt it and used it to celebrate its games and tournaments.’

  ‘Are there many bullrings in Andalucía?’ Alexandra was not particularly keen to engage Don Vincente in another detailed discussion, but she was aware of the need to appear polite. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Doña Isabel place a hand on Salvador’s shoulder and laugh extravagantly at something he’d said.

  ‘Yes, indeed, and my son has fought in many of them.’ Don Vincente’s expression darkened slightly. ‘Though Felipe has been careful not to fight in the Estremadura capital of Badajoz, where the bullet holes of a civil war massacre are still visible in the old bullring. My son prides himself on being identified with no political side, you understand. He is the people’s hero.’

  Alexandra smiled dutifully and turned her gaze back to the colourful crowds. Doña Isabel’s loud, distinctive laugh sounded again. Alexandra did her best to ignore the small pantomime going on under her nose, certain it was being staged for her benefit. She felt foolish and small; out of her depth once more. To cover her wounded feelings, she turned to Ramón, suddenly feeling the need for his light banter.

  As the clock struck three, Don Vincente waved his handkerchief. Thundering applause met his signal; a trumpet blew. From the patio, two mounted men in King Philip II outfits galloped across the ring and stopped opposite the President’s box. They doffed their caps and bowed low. Alexandra watched Don Vincente nod, and then they rode back to their place.

  Ramón leant over. ‘They are the algacils,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘The President’s orders are transmitted through them. The paseo is about to start.’

  A deathly hush filled the arena. The ceremony was heralded by a fanfare of bugles, marking the solemn entrance of the bullfighters and their assisting cuadrillas. At the head of the procession rode the two algacils on horseback, followed by the matadors on foot, wearing dazzling brocaded jackets decorated with gold tassels. Then came the banderilleros and the picadores; and finally, bringing up the rear, the areneros, mounted on mules adorned with little bells.

  As this bright cortège paraded round the arena, Alexandra was reminded of gladiators’ processions in ancient Rome. It stopped to salute the President and the toreros exchanged their ceremonial capes for working ones. At this stage, Don Vincente stood up and threw the key towards the red door of the bulls’ enclosure. An algacil caught it in his plumed hat, his dexterity meeting with a clamour of appreciation from a relieved crowd.

  Ramón inclined his head towards Alexandra. ‘It is said that if the key to the toril falls to the ground, the bullfight will be a bad one,’ he explained.

  The ring cleared, the clarion sounded, and heads turned towards the toril entrance. As the two red doors fell back, all of Alexandra’s previous distractions dissolved; she held her breat
h in eager expectancy and the first bull was released into the ring to the frenzied acclaim of the public.

  It was a magnificent animal, black and glossy, with an enormous head and smooth, sharp horns — a real brute with the spirit of a fighter. Alexandra recoiled a little in her seat as the beast hurled itself into the middle of the arena. Two banderilleros ran across his course, trailing a cape. The bull charged and missed.

  Don Felipe, meanwhile, who had been standing behind a barrier watching his adversary, now strutted haughtily over the reddish sand of the arena. He was wearing the dress of the matador: black silk breeches drawn in at the hips and a bolero in gold brocade, decorated with sequins, tassels, studs and epaulettes, which set off his golden hair, sun-tanned complexion and his proud bearing.

  Taking the large red cape in both hands, he waited. The animal paused, sniffed the air, and then charged, head down, in a bold attack, horns gleaming.

  Don Felipe stood motionless, defying his opponent. He leant slightly forward until the last moment and then, just as the horns were about to strike the cape, he moved his arms slowly in a sweeping motion, pivoting lightly on the balls of his feet, causing the head and body of the bull to pass by him.

  His veronica was greeted by enthusiastic shouts from the masses. It was plain to Alexandra that Don Felipe was the star of this lethal duel, in which man and beast confronted each other in a game of skill and death. She found herself curiously entranced by the sheer charisma of his performance. True, he didn’t have the immediate effect on her that Salvador had. At that thought, she couldn’t help but glance at the man sitting so closely in front of her. Only yesterday those broad shoulders had towered over her and that muscular arm had pulled her to him for a kiss she could still feel on her mouth … Now it was the Marquesa who seemed to be delighting him with her winsome smiles and flashing eyes, clutching his arm at every charge of the bull, every gasp from the crowd.

  Now the second fanfare resounded. The picadores, dressed in their short jackets, chamois leather trousers and wide castoreno hats, entered the arena astride their blindfolded horses. Alexandra wondered what sad fate awaited those poor, grotesque creatures equipped with padded mattresses strapped around their girths.

  The picador, Miguel Pereda, sat motionless astride his mount, facing the bull. Suddenly, he drove his lance into the animal’s neck and a large red stain spread across it. The beast charged once, twice and then, mad with rage, rushed brutally, horns down, towards its opponent. At this the horse reared up and staggered back on to its hind legs, neighing shrilly. The picador fell and the bull swept upon him in fury.

  The cry that went up from the crowd seemed to Alexandra to be merely the expression of her own, which was caught in her throat. A terrible nausea swirled in the pit of her stomach and she would have left her seat, had she felt able to stand.

  In a second, Don Felipe strode briskly over and was using his cape to keep the fierce creature from the fallen man. In one swift movement, the beast turned and charged right at him. Calmly, and majestically throwing out his chest, elbow bent, his eyes fastened on his adversary, the matador waited motionless for the assault, diverting it with a simple twisting of the hips before thrusting his pic victoriously at the last moment, al quiebro, into the bull’s shoulder.

  Mad with enthusiasm at the sight of such bold, hand-to-hand fighting, the crowd started to shout hysterically, throwing flowers, hats and handkerchiefs into the arena.

  The clarions trumpeted a third time, announcing the third and final death match, the tercio de la muerte. Don Felipe, taking the sweeping scarlet muleta and the sword, went over to the grandstand to salute the President.

  It was the first time Alexandra had seen the young man close up. On the night of the ball he’d been wearing a red mask that had screened part of his face. However, she had been too preoccupied with her mysterious ‘stranger’ to take note of anybody else.

  Don Felipe suddenly stopped in front of her, a brilliant smile lighting up his hard features. He peered at her through long, dark eyelashes that only partially concealed the smouldering look in his eyes. Against the blondness of his hair, his eyes appeared almost unnaturally black. He bowed low, then, his gaze becoming more intense, in a theatrical gesture he threw Alexandra his black velvet hat, thereby dedicating the bullfight to her. In a moment, he turned to face the danger alone, walking deliberately up to the bull, his sword hidden under the scarlet folds of his muleta.

  Caught up in the whole drama and overflowing with emotion, Alexandra failed to notice the bleak expression on Salvador’s face as he watched the torero’s manoeuvres.

  ‘He’s offered you his life as a gift,’ whispered Ramón beside her, nodding at the velvet hat clutched in her lap. ‘It’s the greatest homage a bullfighter can pay a woman and Don Felipe doesn’t hand out his attentions lightly. Usually, he dedicates his fight to the whole arena.’ Ramón paused and leaned further towards her. ‘And don’t look now but I think his sister is none too pleased. The expression on her face could sour milk! Anyhow, tradition demands that at the end of the combat you give him back his hat with a gift inside it.’

  Alexandra’s eyes widened. It was intoxicating to be the centre of such attention from the matador, though inside she felt confusion warring with her rescued pride. She watched him stalk across the arena. Alexandra disliked seeing animals suffer; still, she couldn’t help but follow the ceremony with fascination, holding her breath for this hero who waltzed with death.

  Facing the bull, his right leg extended, arm outstretched, and holding his muleta low in his left hand, Don Felipe began his performance with the reckless courage that had made him famous, pushing bravery to the borders of suicide. Time and again he made the scarlet cloth fly between left and right hand in a continuous passing motion. With scarcely perceptible movements of his body, he parried the repeated attacks of the furious creature, each time tracing quarter circles with the cape to dodge its sharp-ended horns.

  Alexandra’s hands were clenched. Fingernails cut cruelly into her palms but the spectacle in the arena gripped her so intensely that she did not notice the pain. Her attention was riveted on the brilliant figure of the matador, her heart beating wildly, and she felt a strange tingling run up and down her spine.

  All of a sudden, Don Felipe flung the muleta back, completely uncovering his torso, which had as its only protection a shirt of such thin material that a pin could have pierced it easily. The exasperated beast rushed forward in frenzy and Alexandra noted with horror that only a hair’s breadth separated the young man’s chest from the cusped horns. Thinking he was done for, she buried her face in her shaking hands but Don Felipe was ready for him. Swift and dextrous, he struck the bull in the chest with the blade of his sword, which found its way smoothly to the creature’s heart.

  Covered in blood, the bull fell with a thunderous bellow that was drowned in the stamping of feet and cheers of joy from the crowd. Don Felipe had brought off the very difficult, notoriously dangerous and rarely seen manoeuvre, the recibir.

  Under a rain of flowers and handkerchiefs, and to the hysterical ovation of the crowd, who were demanding that he be given the ears of his victim, Don Felipe went up to the grandstand, this time to reclaim his hat.

  He walked slowly and with dignity, carrying his head high, his thin lips drawn into an almost cruel smile. For a fleeting moment, he made Alexandra feel uneasy. Yet, as this god of the arena, who had dedicated his bull to her, stood there before her, spotted with sand, sweat and blood, she was mesmerized.

  Suddenly, she remembered Ramón’s words: the gift to the matador. Her pulse throbbed furiously as she impulsively tore off a quirky-looking ring she’d worn since the day she had picked it up at a flea market in London, and slipped it into the black hat, which she now returned to its owner.

  The solemn matador nodded in gratitude. ‘From this day on, I will keep this ring close to my heart, in memory of the most beautiful and delicate being I’ve ever seen,’ Don Felipe said, staring intently at her
through the fan of his thick eyelashes.

  Alexandra smiled nervously back at him but then found her gaze skidding over to Salvador. She sensed with some satisfaction that he looked uncomfortable. Motionless, his jaw was clenched and a little blue vein throbbed almost imperceptibly in his right temple. Was he showing signs of jealousy, she wondered momentarily? Was that an irritated look Isabel was casting in his direction? Then a fresh wave of exuberant shouting went up from the masses and her attention was drawn back to the show.

  Already the mules were hauling the carcass out of the arena to the frenzied whistling of the crowd, while the areneros, armed with rakes, cleaned and smoothed the surface of the ground, throwing fresh sand on the splashes of blood.

  The trumpet sounded once more, the red gates fell back with a crash and in rushed a fresh bull amidst a cloud of dust. But Alexandra had had enough: though this game fascinated her, she also found it somewhat repellent. Fight after fight would be played out in the same setting, the first act of a scenario where form and content are always the same, yet the outcome remains uncertain. Which of the two adversaries will die: man or beast?

  Alexandra knew she would never again attend another bullfight.

  There were six bullfights that afternoon: six fights and six killings. Alexandra had never in her life witnessed such monstrous butchery. After the last fight, led by Don Felipe with his habitual charisma, his delirious fans rushed into the arena. There, they hoisted their idol on to their shoulders, preparing to take him around the town to the ‘Olés’ and cheers of the crowd.

  Not once during the performance had Alexandra shared a single look with Salvador. Only now — when the maestro was but a tiny gleaming speck, silhouetted in the light of the setting sun as they carried him out of the arena and everyone was rising from their seats — did her eyes meet those of her cousin. His regarded her with an ill-concealed irony that went straight to her heart. As Doña Isabel linked her arm firmly with his, Alexandra glared at Salvador furiously. She turned away and rejoined Don Vincente who, now a few seats away, was explaining to Ramón, with much gesticulation and a good deal of facial expressions, the many complexities and skills of his son’s technique.