Part 46 (1/2)

He shook his head. Again he reached for her, again she was not there.

”Heiiiiiii! _Toro!_” the woman said, softly.

Juanito lunged, missed, slammed against the wall.

”_Toro!_ _Toro!_”

Then he felt the velvet in his hands. Soft as light, hot as a wound! So hot!

”Wait, Senor Galvez!”

He took his hands away, fingers spread, and watched as Andree removed first the slender black ribbon from her throat, then the dress, the shoes, the silk stockings . . .

”Now, my torero,” she whispered, coming toward him, ”let us see some of this style Don Alfredo talks about!”

In his mind there was not the blackness of true sleep, but, instead, bright afternoon sun, the colors of the crowd, the sand against his slippers, wind, and the toril gate, opening, and from it thundering--Andree . . .

”No!”

He felt the firm, familiar grip around his arms.

”Not yet, Enrique. I'm tired. I've got to sleep some more!”

”Like h.e.l.l!” Enrique's voice was loud. ”Up!”

Juanito leaped when the water struck his face. The sudden movement made him aware of the ache in his head, in his muscles, of the empty throb in his stomach.

”What a filthy mess you are!”

He opened his eyes, carefully, and closed them. He tried to remember. ”What time is it?”

”Late.”

”1--Enrique, Enrique, get me a gla.s.s of water.”

”Get it yourself!”

Painfully, he moved to the sink and drank until he could drink no more. Then he turned and said, ”I'm sorry.”

The older men grunted. He walked to the window and stood there for a time. Finally, after many minutes, he said, ”Forget it.”

”You're not angry?””No,” said Enrique COrdoba. His face took on a new expression: an expression of kindness, gentleness. ”These things, they happen,” he said. ”You're young. I guess that once won't hurt you. How do you feel?”

”Fine,” Juanito lied.

His manager lighted a cigar and puffed on it. ”You never had one with cla.s.s before,” he said.

”How did you like it?”

Juanito smiled. The ache in his stomach was great, but his relief to know that Enrique was not angry was greater. ”You shouldn't have left me, poppa,” he said.

Enrique's face darkened. ”Don't call me that,” he said.

”Just a joke.”

”This is not the time for jokes, stupid. This is a time for thought.”

”I've never been much good at it. You're my brains--”

”No! I am not your brains! I am not your poppa! I am only Enrique, only that, understand?”

”Sure!” Juanito said, holding back his anger and his confusion. ”Sure, all right.” He tried to whistle a miriachi tune, then stopped because it sounded bad. ”You--want to take a trip down to the pens?” he asked. ”I'd like to see my _novillo_.”

”No, bad luck on the first one. I've seen him, he's nothing special. Just a big ox with horns.”

”Big, you say?”

Enrique shrugged. ”Nothing,” he repeated. ”You'll have no trouble.”

”I still can't believe it,” Juanito said, rubbing water into his hair. ”Yesterday we were starving.

That guy in Villa de Nombre de Dios--you remember?--Diaz; he wouldn't even let me touch his precious seed bull. And now, today--”

Enrique slapped his hands together. ”No time for mooning,” he said. ”There are newspapermen coming. We'll have to rake out this corral.”

Two hours later the men came. One, a thin fellow with a mustache kept smiling; but that, Juanito understood, was because he did not expect much of a _novillero_. _Novilleros_ almost always fell on their faces the first time out.

But not I, he thought.

And thought this until an hour and a half before the time of the event, with the people already filling the stands, seating themselves, discussing prospects. Then Enrique laid out the expensive suit of lights.

Slowly, as though modeling an exotic statue, he dressed Juanito. Starting first with the _talequilla_, the pants, skin-tight; and then, the ta.s.sels on the knees; the s.h.i.+rt, the jacket, the vest, and the slim red four-in-hand tie.

”So, diestro,” he said, moving back.

Juanito looked at his image in the mirror. It was the first _traje de luces_ he had ever worn, and he felt great excitement and pride. ”_Diestro_,” he murmured, rolling the word over and over in his mind.

”Enrique, if feels right, Enrique. Such a brave outfit. Who could be afraid and dressed like this?”

The manager picked up his cigar and relighted it. ”Nice fit,” was all he said.

”Maybe,” said Juanito, grinning, ”we should leave me home and send the suit to fight, huh?”

Enrique did not laugh; he picked up the mona, the pigtail, and clipped it to Juanito's head.

”Come on,” he said.

They went out to the waiting car and rode in silence through the crowded streets to the Plaza.

When the car stopped, Enrique said: ”How do you feel? I mean, _really?_”