ERNEST HEMINGWAY - Premium Edition. Ernest Hemingway

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      Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It was a gloomy room with a little light coming in from the window on the narrow street. There were two beds separated by a monastic partition. The electric light was on. The boy stood very straight and unsmiling in his bull-fighting clothes. His jacket hung over the back of a chair. They were just finishing winding his sash. His black hair shone under the electric light. He wore a white linen shirt and the sword-handler finished his sash and stood up and stepped back. Pedro Romero nodded, seeming very far away and dignified when we shook hands. Montoya said something about what great aficionados we were, and that we wanted to wish him luck. Romero listened very seriously. Then he turned to me. He was the best-looking boy I have ever seen.

      “You go to the bull-fight,” he said in English.

      “You know English,” I said, feeling like an idiot.

      “No,” he answered, and smiled.

      One of three men who had been sitting on the beds came up and asked us if we spoke French. “Would you like me to interpret for you? Is there anything you would like to ask Pedro Romero?”

      We thanked him. What was there that you would like to ask? The boy was nineteen years old, alone except for his sword-handler, and the three hangers-on, and the bull-fight was to commence in twenty minutes. We wished him “Mucha suerte,” shook hands, and went out. He was standing, straight and handsome and altogether by himself, alone in the room with the hangers-on as we shut the door.

      “He’s a fine boy, don’t you think so?” Montoya asked.

      “He’s a good-looking kid,” I said.

      “He looks like a torero,” Montoya said. “He has the type.”

      “He’s a fine boy.”

      “We’ll see how he is in the ring,” Montoya said.

      We found the big leather wine-bottle leaning against the wall in my room, took it and the field-glasses, locked the door, and went down-stairs.

      It was a good bull-fight. Bill and I were very excited about Pedro Romero. Montoya was sitting about ten places away. After Romero had killed his first bull Montoya caught my eye and nodded his head. This was a real one. There had not been a real one for a long time. Of the other two matadors, one was very fair and the other was passable. But there was no comparison with Romero, although neither of his bulls was much.

      Several times during the bull-fight I looked up at Mike and Brett and Cohn, with the glasses. They seemed to be all right. Brett did not look upset. All three were leaning forward on the concrete railing in front of them.

      “Let me take the glasses,” Bill said.

      “Does Cohn look bored?” I asked.

      “That kike!”

      Outside the ring, after the bull-fight was over, you could not move in the crowd. We could not make our way through but had to be moved with the whole thing, slowly, as a glacier, back to town. We had that disturbed emotional feeling that always comes after a bull-fight, and the feeling of elation that comes after a good bull-fight. The fiesta was going on. The drums pounded and the pipe music was shrill, and everywhere the flow of the crowd was broken by patches of dancers. The dancers were in a crowd, so you did not see the intricate play of the feet. All you saw was the heads and shoulders going up and down, up and down. Finally, we got out of the crowd and made for the café. The waiter saved chairs for the others, and we each ordered an absinthe and watched the crowd in the square and the dancers.

      “What do you suppose that dance is?” Bill asked.

      “It’s a sort of jota.”

      “They’re not all the same,” Bill said. “They dance differently to all the different tunes.”

      “It’s swell dancing.”

      In front of us on a clear part of the street a company of boys were dancing. The steps were very intricate and their faces were intent and concentrated. They all looked down while they danced. Their rope-soled shoes tapped and spatted on the pavement. The toes touched. The heels touched. The balls of the feet touched. Then the music broke wildly and the step was finished and they were all dancing on up the street.

      “Here come the gentry,” Bill said.

      They were crossing the street

      “Hello, men,” I said.

      “Hello, gents!” said Brett. “You saved us seats? How nice.”

      “I say,” Mike said, “that Romero what’shisname is somebody. Am I wrong?”

      “Oh, isn’t he lovely,” Brett said. “And those green trousers.”

      “Brett never took her eyes off them.”

      “I say, I must borrow your glasses to-morrow.”

      “How did it go?”

      “Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spectacle!”

      “How about the horses?”

      “I couldn’t help looking at them.”

      “She couldn’t take her eyes off them,” Mike said. “She’s an extraordinary wench.”

      “They do have some rather awful things happen to them,” Brett said. “I couldn’t look away, though.”

      “Did you feel all right?”

      “I didn’t feel badly at all.”

      “Robert Cohn did,” Mike put in. “You were quite green, Robert.”

      “The first horse did bother me,” Cohn said.

      “You weren’t bored, were you?” asked Bill.

      Cohn laughed.

      “No. I wasn’t bored. I wish you’d forgive me that.”

      “It’s all right,” Bill said, “so long as you weren’t bored.”

      “He didn’t look bored,” Mike said. “I thought he was going to be sick.”

      “I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute.”

      “I thought he was going to be sick. You weren’t bored, were you, Robert?”

      “Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it.”

      “He was, you know. He was positively green.”

      “Oh, shove it along, Michael.”

      “You mustn’t ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert,” Mike said. “It might make such a mess.”

      “Oh, shove it along, Michael,” Brett said.

      “He said Brett was a sadist,” Mike said. “Brett’s not a sadist. She’s just a lovely, СКАЧАТЬ