and have a steady job like this, while, at the same time, being a bullfighter.
“Go on to the meeting, Ignacio,” he said. “I will respond for your work.”
“The two of us,” said the older waiter.
“There isn’t enough for one,” said Paco. “Go on to the meeting.”
“Pues, me voy,” said the tall waiter. “And thanks.”
In the meantime, upstairs, the sister of Paco had gotten out of the embrace of the matador as skilfully as a wrestler breaking a hold and said, now angry, “These are the hungry people. A failed bullfighter. With your ton-load of fear. If you have so much of that, use it in the ring.”
“That is the way a whore talks.”
“A whore is also a woman, but I am not a whore.”
“You’ll be one.”
“Not through you.”
“Leave me,” said the matador who, now, repulsed and refused, felt the nakedness of his cowardice returning.
“Leave you? What hasn’t left you?” said the sister. “Don’t you want me to make up the bed? I’m paid to do that.”
“Leave me,” said the matador, his broad good-looking face wrinkled into a contortion that was like crying. “You whore. You dirty little whore.”
“Matador,” she said, shutting the door. “My matador.”
Inside the room the matador sat on the bed. His face still had the contortion which, in the ring, he made into a constant smile which frightened those people in the first rows of seats who knew what they were watching. “And this,” he was saying aloud. “And this. And this.”
He could remember when he had been good and it had only been three years before. He could remember the weight of the heavy gold-brocaded fighting jacket on his shoulders on that hot afternoon in May when his voice had still been the same in the ring as in the cafe, and how he sighted along the point-dipping blade at the place in the top of the shoulders where it was
