Twilight Breakout Page 14

  “One more thing.” With both hands on the bar she lifted herself up and sat along the bar, below the hang-ing hams, sliding the bowls of vegetables away from her and motioning me to come up.

  CHAPTER 28

  The crowds moved in unison through the bright streets, the old legs lifted then dropped, the plastic gro-cery bags swinging, the loud chatter of older men who have been drinking but are still sober and the guttural sounds of people marking there territory. ‘El Pueblo’, the village, in Spain is the stalwart of tribal culture. Their ‘fiestas’, their foods, their customs, their women. What at first is quaint, original and traditional slowly wears you down until your dieing to walk up Fifth Ave. talking to yourself. It’s them against whoever isn’t one of them. This was their one bullfight a year, and they were in fiestas. Caravaca, face of the cow.

  The fiestas were to commemorate the horses laden with wine that broke the the Moor’s blockade of the city in the Middle Ages. Men would race beautifully dressed horses through the streets and up to the castle at the top of the town, free wine for everyone. A village in fiestas changes, it becomes something else, transcending the heavy weight of tradition and entering into a world of drunken pleasure, long meals, old friends and people from other places. I really don’t think one can feel the release that occurs until you’ve known the psychological oppression of village life.

  We had been out late the night before, getting home after the half an hour ride through tight curves and villages. Fabio’s hair was still wet from his midday shower, his eyes red, his uncle Pepe strode beside us, rubbing his large eyes and taking long sniffs from his moist nose. The raucousness of the crowd accentuated our silence. “You said you’ve seen Jose Tomás.”

  Three beers returned me to the of the previous night’s communal spell, dancing in the streets, chatting up everything that walked; I had entered into the magic of the fiestas. I felt very far from anywhere, content with being an escape artist. Still remembering the night with Mencia, which I had been savoring for weeks. She took away the desire to do more the chat them up. I had been careful, I’d used a condom and told Fabio not to say anything to needlessly scare her, for which he agreed, adding there was no use to scare his wife about anything either. I was at peace with all of my passions, ready to enjoy myself for as long as I could before taking a trip back to Valencia when I thought it was time. “I saw him in La Mancha with Irene, he’s very good, slow, calm, graceful, if the bulls are halfway decent I think you’ll enjoy him.”

  “Joaquin Vidal in ‘El Pais’ wrote an article on him the other day, and he doesn’t throw compliments around, but he really spoke highly of him.” Their was a loud crack then a thump that came from a street leading down from where we were, the sound of quick footsteps and the cries of fear. We moved with the crowd towards the intersection, the car stood looking down on the broken glass, the driver beside it, his hands on his head. The girl laid some ten feet away from the car, her bear feet and thick legs still, the shoes upside down beside her. Silent, one arm trembling and the pool of blood growing around her.

  Nobody dared touch her as the crowd opened to allow the paramedics from the nearby bullring to get through. The man repeated “I didn’t see her, I just didn’t see her.” A women put her arm around him while the paramedics action, which began frantic, waned to shaking heads. “Mother of God, the poor girl.” The broken red moped sat silently next to the car, like a dead horse. We dispersed with the crowd while the girl was slowly lifted into the ambulance, off to see more death. The voices slowly began to rise, filled with the clichés appropriate for the scene, or the banter of names, so and so’s daughter, cousin etc. The march went on, her sad end to be slowly forgotten.

  I walked behind some bushes to urinate before en-tering the ring, they were high enough to block the view of the people walking above on the street. My stream rebounded off the hard dirt, drilling a small hole. A loud screech sent me jumping back, almost falling on myself pissing, the cat showed her teeth to me when I saw behind her the just born kittens. When I finally reached the line were Fabio and Pepe stood I was trem-bling at what more could happen that day.

  The first five bulls had been irregular; there had been ears cut, boos, and loud applauses, a typical bull-fight in a village, entertaining without ever transmitting strong emotion which is the essence of a bullfight: the emotional communion between bullfighter, bull and the public. The crowd cheered the last bull as he came rac-ing out onto the ring, small and well armed. This was Jose Tomás’s last bull and many were hoping for an inspired ‘faena’. He stood behind the wood barrier watching carefully, his underlings throwing their gold capes out from behind the barrier to bring the bull to-wards the bullfighter. He finally stepped out, and the bull immediately went towards him, the first pass was abrupt with a bent knee. After passing him the bull sped around, the bullfighter’s leg was now straight and the cape made a long slow swish to the sounds of ‘olay’. Again, again, always slow and calm, the body erect and the head staring down. A fine start.

  After a strong blow from the picador the bull stood breathing hard, the bullfighter waiting with his open cape, offering three slow passes that brought the crowd to its feet. Finally there was emotion but the doubt re-mained whether the bull would maintain its strength and allow the young torero to work with the muleta.

  The banderillas had been placed and the torero walked to the center of the ring slowly, he unfolded the red cloth and began to approach the bull, which had recuperated from the previous punishment and seemed concentrated and alert, his head raised, the blood still dripping from his underside. The torero moved slowly toward him from 20 yards across the ring. Within his pain and suffering the animal launched into a gallop, raising his head, only lowering it as he passed into the cloth, the sun dipping, the orange light marking the ap-proach of night. The ‘olays’ rang out as the animal found courage and strength in his genes. The slow fae-na continued, the music playing, the bull rendering all his strength and will in a desperate attempt to destroy his assassin. The torero had made almost all his passes on the left side, the bull’s ‘good’ side. After series of ‘naturales’ on the left the torero crossed his arm to fin-ish the series on the right, the bull dipped and the bullfighter rose above the animal and was thrown be-hind him to another collective sigh of fear from the public, the music stopped, the bull turned and forced his horn into the bullfighters back turning him over without puncturing him.

  The bullfighter lay on the red speckled sand, the underlings leading the bull away from him. The animal stood, raising and lowering his large trunk to breath, looking on like a beat up boxer in the late rounds after he lands a lucky punch. I imagined his pain and des-peration, the blood flowing continuously from the picador’s wound. He must have hoped that his victory would bring him peace, the bullfighter got up to the ap-plause of the public, chasing off his underlings and once again approaching the bull who looked on, now resigned to his doom, galloping slowly, into to the cloth of certain death.

  The torero returned from the side of the ring with his shiny iron sword making a few more passes before stopping the bull whom he had squared in front of him. The music stopped on a drum beat, the sword was slow-ly raised to the exaggerated heaving of the animal’s chest. One more lunge for life and the sword entered cleanly, leaving only the handle showing between its shoulders. He walked slowly to the railing as his legs began to give out, the crowd raucous in their applause, the white handkerchiefs flowing in a wave, the bull stumbled and fell. All eyes turned to the bullfighter who strode below the presidents balcony to raise the blood stained sword. An underling mercifully placed a knife into the back of the animals head, it turned over, legs raised in death.

  *

  The table rested outside the old house on the dry path that came down from the main house and went off around the mountain rising in front of us. The same house where we had eaten the lamb weeks before. No longer was I uncomfortabl
e in the surroundings, it had just taken time for me to adjust to the rhythm of rural life. Work and eat. These were the two poles around which all was centered. Instead of working I read, drank and walked in the mountains, my insatiable appe-tite still accompanying me.

  We were talking around the table after a ‘merien-da’, a snack between lunch and dinner. The ‘merienda’ had gotten carried away, three hours listening to Irene’s mother talk about the ‘good’ old days, which meant the Franco era when the farm made fortunes. The subsidies from the European Community only served to pay the interest on the loans that would soon, as far as I could tell, wind up making farm property of the banks. Old abandoned houses specked the more than 8,000 acres, once inhabited by the many people needed to harvest and maintain the farm before mechanization slowly sent them to France or Barcelona, leaving only 4 or 5 people working full time.

  What had began with Irene, her mother, Fabio and myself and now included the foreman Paco, the shep-herd and Frito. The shepherd stood against the door with a beer in his hand, his sheep 100 yards above on the face on the mountain, his dogs looking at him for directions. Bizarre noises came out of his mouth and his arm moved, the dogs immediately running up or down the hill to keep the animals in place while he en-joyed his beer. The sound of the bells around several of the sheep were constant, occasionally picking up speed when they all moved at once.

  Empty plates and glasses filled the table, sad empty bottles rose into the silence that had finally arrived, announcing the end of the sentimental chat. The shepherd moved the animals down the mountain and the close to 500 sheep and 30 goats walked passed us towards the corrals. One of the maids began clearing the table while Paco and Irene argued about an old maid who had recently died, maids being a favorite topic of conversation. I excused myself and began a stroll to enjoy the last hour of spring sunlight.

  I stepped across the vegetable garden below the house where we had eaten, the tomatoes and pepper plants were still young, waiting for their fruit to appear. I continued below a large Laurel tree nestled inside a patio protected by a stone wall, above which a water reservoir poured its water slowly down the hill to irri-gate the fields. I reached a circular metal tunnel that allowed access to the farm below the highway. It was big enough to allow a tractor to pass through and I made a sound to hear the echo ring around me, after which I heard what sounded like a baby crying, echoing in the tunnel. I continued and found a newborn lamb, minutes old, the mother having given birth but continu-ing on with the rest of the flock.

  Usually the shepherd will leave the pregnant sheep in the corral if the thinks they are about to give birth, but this one must have escaped him. It lay on the ground, still covered in after birth, it cried out at me as it attempted to get on its feet, before falling, finally get-ting up again before stumbling and falling a second time. Once again it rose, this time more stable, calling out for me, then putting a fold of my jeans in its mouth looking for milk. I allowed it to continuing suckling on my Levi’s while I began to walk the path toward the corrals, the helpless animal stumbling beside me. It fell two or three more times, but always quickly getting back up on the brand new wobbly legs until we reached a rock rise in the pass which the animal would never have been able to scale. “I don’t know whether I should do this. I’m saving you only to later have you wind up on someone’s plate.” I tentatively cupped my hand and lifted the animal up the small incline, the shepherd visible now with the sheep drinking at the troth. He eyed me silently, taking the lamb from my hands and putting a tag on its ear. With that, he moved quickly toward one of the sheep who ran at the site of the shepherd. Finally under his control he opened the gate and kicked the sheep in a small coral with six other sheep and their lambs milking.

  The shepherd worked quickly to separate the new mothers who had been grazing with their young, allo-cating a few of the young lambs to goats with bursting breasts. In the meantime I watched the hundreds of sheep, it was the moment before nightfall, with the shepherd out of site. All the eyes were upon me, over a thousand eyes looking for direction. The dogs resting on the ground occasionally growling at any animal moving to far from the group.

  CHAPTER 29

  He stumbled out of the chair towards the bathroom, tired of remembering, looking in the mirror he opened his eyes wide in his now thin face, scaring himself with his own intense stare. How many hours had he sat in the old vinyl chair, there were two fingers left in the bottle. The lonely dark street radiated an intense silence, poorly lit, the ‘George IV’ sign from the whore house the only distraction. It blinked its green lights in a series of three movements, girls walked slowly out, chatting with the men they worked with, their undecipherable voices reaching the window. The light finally disappearing into the darkness.

  He became dizzy from leaning on the window, but he braced himself and remained to enjoy the silent peace of the now deserted street. Time lost its grip on his peacefully drunken mind, it seemed like a paradise without the noise and light to distract him. When the spell had passed he collapsed again into the chair, poured another drink and lit a cigarette. His face stared fixedly into the darker room until his eyes had adjusted and the spell returned. His hand opened a small leather phone book and the fingers began to move across the numbers, his head gently resting on the chair, the receiver by his side.