Authors: Denise Kahn
PARIS
CHAPTER 13
The concert in Paris was at the Olympia Theater. Jacques and Jean watched from the back as Davina took the stage. She greeted the audience in their native tongue. "
Bonsoir
,” she said. “It is always a pleasure to be back in France. As you might know, I spent many years in your beautiful country and I would like to dedicate my first song to
la Belle France
, a song composed by that great
chansonnier
, Charles Trenet.”
The lights dimmed and a solitary spotlight illuminated Davina's face.
"Douce France,"
she sang to the country she had come to love.
The French adored her. The morning edition of Le Figaro said she was
un phénomène
.
Jean woke up more tired than she was when she went to sleep after the concert and the exclusive club, where all of them, even Davina’s pilots and Bianca, danced until dawn. She looked at her watch. It was almost noon. She got into the shower and turned on the hot water, then the cold, and then hot again, hoping this would revive her. Drying herself, she looked in the full-length mirror. The ugly scars under her breasts had almost disappeared. She put on clothes Davina had loaned her. The jeans were a little loose and so was the shirt. She and Davina were the same height but Davina was more muscular, more athletic. Jean suddenly realized that she was very hungry. Before she could eat, she had to take her pills, her cocktail, as the doctor called it.
Jean found Davina nursing a Coke at one of the outdoor tables that were part of the hotel’s restaurant. Her face was very serious. She seemed depressed. Jean considered giving Davina her privacy, but Davina waved to her.
“Is that the only thing you drink?” Jean asked.
“Beside champagne and an occasional brandy, yes. And water of course.”
“I don’t mean to disturb you, you seem…”
“You’re not. I just came from seeing a friend in the hospital. She’s in a coma.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Jean,” Davina began, pretending to be very serious. “Tell me the truth. Have you ever been to a bullfight?”
“No! No kidding. Oh, I think I get it,” Jean said. “Am I going to a bullfight?”
“Yup.”
♫
SPAIN
CHAPTER 14
It was already forty degrees Celsius in the shade, hot enough to make a tomato wilt, and the air crackled with an invisible energy that was everywhere in Pamplona on this, the first day of the feast of San Fermin. Flowers and balloons adorned the facades of the buildings, shops and balconies. Men, young and old, overweight and slender, jostled one another in the street. They were dressed in black pants and white shirts. They wore a red sash tied around their middle and a red scarf around their neck. These were the runners.
It was tradition, as Davina explained to Jean. “The men are out to prove that they really are macho. The tourists do it for sport or to impress their girlfriends. I wanted to run myself, but they don't allow women. Really pissed me off.”
“I had a feeling you were crazy,” Jean said.
One of the runners called out to Davina.
“What did he say?”
“Probably just what you thought he said.”
Now the runner got down on his knees and pretended to be pleading.
“Now that’s a hansome Spaniard, but what’s he saying?”
Davina did not answer, instead she climbed over the wooden barricade, and arms outstretched, went to the runner. They embraced and kissed passionately.
Jean remembered to close her mouth when Davina and her man walked arm-in-arm back to the barricade.
"Jean, this is my fiancé, Alejandro del Valle."
“Oh, how do you do.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” Alejandro said. “But you must excuse me, ladies. It’s almost time.” He gave Davina a quick kiss on the lips.
“
Cuidate.
Be careful,” Davina cautioned him and she climbed back over the barricade.
“Why is
he
running? Surely he doesn't need to prove that he's a macho man.”
“Yes, we all know that," Davina sighed. "But he’s a Spaniard, and he respects his country's traditions.”
The sound of a rocket exploding announced the release of the bulls from the corrals at the edge of the town. A small group of men came running down the street. Behind them, a larger group, slower; then a third group running very fast, and then yet another group of runners, supposedly the bravest and noisiest of them all. They ran as fast as they could, shouting and screaming. The bulls were right behind them.
A bull was practically upon a runner but the man quickly jumped on the barricade in front of Davina and Jean. The bull threw up his head, gouging the wood of the barricade instead of the runner with its horns. The crowd screamed and clapped, and some people ran to hide until the bulls had passed through the streets and were in the
corrida,
the bullring.
It seemed as if the entire city, including all the tourists, was at the
corrida.
From the stands, they watched the runners enter the arena, the bulls prancing right behind them. Down in the bullring, the men who perhaps harbored such dreams acted as if they were professional bullfighters. They would call out to a bull, holding out a shirt or a piece of red cloth. One of the runners, who had already instigated the crowd to applaud, came too close, and the bull, seizing the opportunity, swung his head and caught the man, goring him in the back. The bull lifted the runner off the ground with his horns and threw him. The spectators gasped en masse. The injured man lay immobile on the dusty ground. Other runners worked at getting the bull’s attention away from him. Another rocket went off and the heavy animals were led out of the arena.
Jean was very pale. "Why would anyone want to do this?"
Alejandro, who had come out of the bullring to join them, supplied the answer. "For fun,” he said.
“Fun? If it’s fun, it’s dangerous fun.”
“Ah, but life is full of danger,” Alejandro said, smiling broadly. “Here in the
corrida
, you meet danger face to face. You calculate it, overcome it and defeat it. That is why it is fun. It is the joy of being a conqueror, a victor, and defying the danger."
“But that man didn't do any of that, and now he's probably dying."
“Yes, but he did not calculate correctly. He was not a good player, and now he is the conquered. I'm afraid he’s paying for it with a
cornada
."
Jean turned her head away from the arena.
“Shortly, you will see the reverse operation," Alejandro continued.
“How do you mean?" Jean asked.
“The
corrida
will begin shortly. Then it is only one man against one beast and the odds are in the man's favor. Being an American, I have a feeling you might change your mind about the gored man. You might even be somewhat happy about it."
“No, no, I don’t think so.”
“I have seen it with many Americans, even Davina," he said. "She sees things differently and in her own personal way, and it is her right to feel and think as she pleases.”
“Davina is happy to see a man get gored? Are you kidding? She probably couldn’t kill a fly.”
“Precisely,” Alejandro said. “Davina cannot kill a fly but she could possibly kill a man."
Jean looked at Davina. "What’s he talking about?"
“He’s a Spaniard,” Davina said and shrugged. “Animals will not hurt humans unless they have good reason to, usually to defend themselves. Animals don’t kill for sport. But people are different. People kill for no particular reason. I personally find this aspect of the human race cruel.”
“Its man against bull in the
corrida
,” Alejandro said. “The animal is defenseless no matter how hard he tries to protect himself, but the man isn’t defenseless. Physically he’s not as strong as the bull, but he has weapons to weaken the animal and to finally conquer it. If the man gets hurt or killed, he’s the one who has made a mistake. It
is
dangerous. It’s also an art, an art of grace and technique.”
“That’s the part I can enjoy,” Davina said. “Although it’s still cruel and unfair to the bull.”
Another runner joined them.
“Rodrigo!” Davina exclaimed. “
Como estas
? How are you?"
“
Bien, guapa
, I am well, beautiful, and you?" he said, hugging her.
“Jean, this is Rodrigo del Valle, Alejandro's brother."
Rodrigo took Jean's hand and bowed, in the typically Spanish way, holding her hand very close to his lips but not kissing it.
“How do you do."
He had the same build and the same good looks as his older brother—dark thick hair but dark eyes, and a strong athletic body that showed through his white shirt, wet with perspiration.
The announcer's voice came over the loudspeaker. "Welcome to the Feria de San Fermin! We are honored that you have come to celebrate with us. A special salute to the distinguished guests we have among us today. His Excellency Don Alejandro del Valle..."
Alejandro stood and bowed to the applauding crowd.
"The singer Señorita Davina Walters...”
Again and again the crowd cheered as the announcer continued presenting prominent personalities. The arena was packed. All the seats were occupied except for one, the President's. As soon as he arrived, the
corrida
could begin. The spectators grew impatient, as usual.
Three of Spain's greatest matadors were scheduled to fight and there was a buzzing of voices and other sounds throughout the stadium, like a million swarming locusts, waiting for the trumpets to announce the start of the bullfight. Women wore flowers in their hair and fanned themselves with
avanicos
.
Finally, the President made his entrance and the crowd cheered. His seat in the grandstand was next to Alejandro's group. As he entered, he stopped to greet the women in the loge in the typically Spanish way.
The President sat down. That was the signal. The trumpets rang out the unique and distinct bullfighting theme, which was the signal for the performers to march into the arena. The first three men with the tri-cornered hats were the matadors, literally, the killers. Then came the toreadors, the ones who play with the bulls. Behind on horseback were the picadors, who spear or poke the bulls with their long lances. Behind them were the servants of the ring and the teams of mules who take away the dead bull.
The three matadors bowed in front of the President's box and turned back into the arena. They swung their capes from side to side and the trumpets blared. The first bull came charging into the ring. Once in the middle, he stopped and looked around. The bullfighters closed in on him, their capes swaying. "
Hah, toro, hah
!" one of the matadors shouted. The bull, eyeing the cape, charged at the bullfighter who, on the bull's contact with the cloth, rotated the cape into one of the most revered and difficult maneuvers of the sport. The crowd cheered.
Then the matadors, one by one, went out into the center of the arena with colorful
banderillas
. As the bull charged, the matadors skillfully inserted the
banderillas
into the animal’s heavy muscled neck. As the sharp points of the short spears penetrated under the skin, the bull jumped up and down, making the red and yellow
banderillas
twirl and swing around. Blood trickled down the animal’s shoulder and sides. Jean thought she was going to be sick. Rodrigo put an arm around her. Davina saw her bury her face in his shoulder.
The bull had half a dozen
banderillas
of assorted colors flopping up and down from his shoulders when the picador made his entrance, circling the heavy beast. The rider, in black vest and hat, rode a horse clad in a padded coat as protection from the bull’s horns.
The picador held his lance high as his horse galloped, almost dancing around the bull. The picador brought the lance down and sunk it between the bull’s shoulders. The move required great strength. The rider’s grip was so strong on the lance that both horse and rider were practically lifted off the ground. Such was the picador’s art and his execution was perfect. As they came down, the bull turned his head and tried to ram his assailants, just missing the horse. At the next pass, when again the picador’s lance pierced deeply into the bull’s muscles, the heavy animal was quicker and gored the horse under his padding right in the stomach.
Jean dug her nails into Rodrigo’s hand.
The horse and bull were now both bleeding heavily, and their blood was smeared on their hides, but the picador went around the ring once again and drove in his lance a third time. He was obsessed with the technique of his art, and he demanded perfection. His job was to weaken the bull. He had succeeded. The bull was now ready for the matador.
Jean promised herself that never again would she go to a
corrida.
“Now, coming is the matador’s biggest moment,” Rodrigo explained to Jean. “He must kill the bull just right, just with one blow. Then they will give him an ear, maybe two ears.”
“Are you enjoying this?” Jean asked Davina.
“Torturing an animal? Of course not.”
“They cut off its ears?”
“After it’s dead, after it’s dead.” She patted Jean on the knee.
“If the matador is very good,” Rodrigo added, “he will receive the tail as well. But he must be very good for this.”
The toreadors and matadors danced around the bull, each pass smooth and exactly calculated. There was no roughness. On the contrary, it was graceful. The bull had weakened considerably. Blood spurted from his shoulders and streamed down his neck and front legs. It was time.
The matador aimed the sword. “
Hah, toro
!”
The bull lunged forward as did the bullfighter, who guided the sword deftly between the bull’s heaving shoulders. For a moment it seemed as if they were one, and then the bull jumped back, as did the cape and the matador. The sword had been implanted perfectly. The animal went down. The matador stood before the bull. They looked at each other as if they had been in a great war, two warriors, the conquered and the conqueror bidding their last farewell. The bull gathered all his strength and tried to rise, but his legs buckled and again he went down.
“Thank God it’s over,” Jean said.
“There are always six bulls in a
corrida
,” Davina said, trying not to laugh.
Jean looked as if she had been slapped.
“Do you wish to leave?” Rodrigo asked her.
“Yes,” Jean said. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“We’ll go to the Café San Sebastian,” Rodrigo told his brother and Davina. “We’ll meet you there for dinner.”
♫