Matador, Mi Amor. William Maltese

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      Finally, the car turned right into a lane that bisected a grove of olives. The trees betrayed their age by displaying gaping holes that often formed tunnels from one side of a tree trunk to the other. A novice would have insisted such trees had likely seen their last days. However, the trees’ full canopies of delicate leaves, silvery-gray on the bottom and dark green on top, parenthesizing clusters of small black fruit, proclaimed otherwise.

      After the barrenness of the land through which she’d just driven, Alyssa found this bit of visible green decidedly refreshing.

      The grove gave way to a coppice of old and impressive oaks, attractive as only those particular trees can somehow be. Suddenly, in amongst them appeared the first evidence of well-manicured lawn, and—yes—water spurting rhythmically from a sprinkler system. Alyssa’s dreams of a bath were suddenly resurrected.

      The hacienda sat amongst more oak, olive, and fruit trees. It was a large house, in the Spanish style, with white-washed adobe and red brick, the latter echoing the ferrous content of the soil in the area. The windows, large and overhung by balconies, were lined with lattices of iron grillwork seemingly so insubstantially delicate as to remind Alyssa of a lace mantilla she’d seen in the duty-free shop at the airport in Madrid.

      Also, suddenly, there were flowers, complete carpets and tapestry-like cascades of them, gold and red, blue and white, able to survive within the parameters of this small oasis where they would quickly have perished beyond the availability of life-giving water.

      When the car door opened, and Alyssa stepped out, the first thing she smelled was how the perfumes, exuded by the many blossoms, hung so heavily—almost palatably—within the air.

      “Flavio will see to your things,” Ramón informed, giving Alyssa immediate leave to precede him up the three steps to the entranceway leading to the main door of the hacienda. The whole access area was embraced by a cupping grape arbor that’s intricate weave of vines and wood supports dangled delectable clusters of green grapes and dappled the sunlight.

      One of two massive panels, each inset with its own polished bronze bull-head whose metal nose ring acted as a door knocker, came open. Before Ramón could introduce the emerging, heavy-set woman to the new mistress of the house, though, a commotion erupted somewhere around a corner of the building, out of sight.

      Ramón glanced at Alyssa, his look one of my-God-what-can-possibly-be-happening-now-?

      “Mara!” he yelled, by way of instructing the plump woman just through the door that Alyssa Dunlap was now fully in her charge, with or without formal introductions. He was quickly off and running to find the cause of the to-do.

      “Viene…viene!” Mara insisted, coming to shoo Alyssa into the house, much like a mother hen moved to protect her brood from a fox in the hen house.

      Alyssa complied, but only because she couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Certainly, she wasn’t yet confident enough in her new position to insist on following Ramón to the source of the continued confusion that sounded very much like men fighting.

      What was going on, here?

      If she were expecting answers from Mara, she was disappointed.

      “What’s happening?” she asked finally, having yet to discover that Mara’s realm was the house, and anything beyond its walls was usually of no concern of hers.

      “Men!” Mara said, by way of all-encompassing summation and flashed a wide and welcoming smile.

      “Fighting?” Alyssa asked, uncertain whether she asked a question or made a statement. It made no difference, since Mara paid no mind, on either account.

      “I’ll show you to your room,” the portly woman said instead. Her English was good, albeit with a decidedly sing-song cadence that seemed almost Oriental. “We’ll get you a nice bath, and I’ll bet you’re ready for some fresh clothes, now, aren’t you?”

      “Indeed,” Alyssa admitted. Since she doubted any access to the continuing brawl outside, even if she wanted it, which she didn’t, she decided to let it run its course. If Mara wasn’t concerned, why should Alyssa be? Most likely, Mara’s insinuation that men were simply men was apropos for even this particular occasion.

      “This way,” Mara instructed and led the way through a large living room and up a wide flight of stairs.

      The second floor had rooms that opened up from a balcony that overlooked the living room. Alyssa’s suite offered access to a second balcony that overlooked the inner courtyard of the hacienda.

      “Beautiful!” she exclaimed, looking down on the tranquil loveliness of palm trees, cacti, flower beds, well-trimmed shrubs, geometric walkways, benches, and a central splashing fountain. For the first time, Alyssa had some comprehension of just how truly large the hacienda was.

      “Sí, muy hermosa,” Mara admitted before disappearing into the bathroom. There was the inviting sound of hot and cold water blasting to mingle within a white-porcelain tub.

      There was as rap on the door, and Alyssa moved automatically to open it. Mara beat her to the punch, though, emerging from the bathroom with surprising speed. Alyssa wondered at the keen sense of hearing which had allowed Mara to hear the knock over the bath water.

      The opened door revealed a young boy, probably in his early teens. He had a head of dark curly hair, dark black eyes, and clear, dark-complexion. He was dressed all in white, except for his sandals, which were made of twisted yellow hemp fiber. He carried a wood-and-tile tray on which was a frosted silver pitcher of liquid, a glass, and a plate tented by a linen napkin,

      Mara plucked off the napkin, critically eyeing the arrangement of small sandwiches she’d uncovered. When everything under her scrutiny apparently passed her inspection, she silently nodded the youth her permission for him to enter the room and place the tray on one of the available small tables. His job complete, he beat a hasty retreat, punctuated by a shy smile when Alyssa, for a brief moment, managed to catch his eye.

      “Something light to eat,” Mara said, “and some lemonade, from freshly squeezed lemons, to hold you over until later.” She poured the latter.

      “Yes, please” Alyssa accepted the glass, appreciating its coolness against her fingers and palm. Although a slight breeze somehow managed to enter over the balcony, the heat of the progressing afternoon, out-of-doors, was still evident within the room.

      “Fresh lemonade, a bite to eat, a nice bath, followed by a brief siesta, and you’ll be feeling yourself, again, in no time,” Mara promised, as if she were a doctor prescribing the ultimate cure. “You’ll see.”

      “Yes,” Alyssa said, more than ready to agree. She found it enjoyable to be in the company of this friendly servant, more so than with the obviously ill-at-ease Ramón. At least, Alyssa had sensed intuitively Ramón had been made ill-at-ease—likely by her. She knew just enough about Spain to suspect its men were still so steeped in their false illusions of “macho” as not to appreciate being placed completely under a woman’s authority.

      Why had Lalo Montego, Spain’s most macho of macho, left his bulls and his estate to Alyssa, instead of to, Adriano, his own son? No one had yet been able to answer that question to Alyssa’s satisfaction—and certainly not to the satisfaction of her mother.

      “Lalo always was screwing up his loyalties,” Karen had said to her daughter. “But, then, he ever only professed СКАЧАТЬ