lowered the napkin and with head following the movement, swung his arms in the motion of a slow sweeping verónica. He turned, and advancing his right foot slightly, made the second pass, gained a little terrain on the imaginary bull and made a third pass, slow, perfectly timed and suave, then gathered the napkin to his waist and swung his hips away from the bull in a media-verónica.
The dishwasher, whose name was Enrique, watched him critically and sneeringly.
“How is the bull?” he said.
“Very brave,” said Paco. “Look.”
Standing slim and straight he made four more perfect passes, smooth, elegant and graceful.
“And the bull?” asked Enrique standing against the sink, holding his wine glass and wearing his apron.
“Still has lots of gas,” said Paco.
“You make me sick,” said Enrique.
“Why?”
“Look.”
Enrique removed his apron and citing the imaginary bull he sculptured four perfect, languid gypsy verónicas and ended up with a rebolera that made the apron swing in a stiff arc past the bull’s nose as he walked away from him.
“Look at that,” he said. “And I wash dishes.”
“Why?”
“Fear,” said Enrique. “Miedo. The same fear you would have in a ring with a bull.”
“No,” said Paco. “I wouldn’t be afraid.”
“Leche!” said Enrique. “Every one is afraid. But a torero can control his fear so that he can work the bull. I went in an amateur fight and I was so afraid I couldn’t keep from running. Every one thought it was very funny. So would you be afraid. If it wasn’t for fear every bootblack in Spain would be a bullfighter. You, a country boy, would be frightened worse than I was.”
“No,” said Paco.
