In the Eye of the Bull (Bullfight in Seville, a short story)
In the Eye of the Bull
(Bullfight in Seville)
It was a great bullfight in Seville, Spain, in a way. Rosa and I were excited about being introduced to the young good looking matador, he must had been no older than twenty-one. A young couple was sitting about ten-feet away from us in the arena, Americans like us. The bull had gored the young matador; he had caught the blind spot with his eye when the young matador swung his cape in front of his horns, and for a second couldn’t see those long thick horns, and gored him in his armpit, throwing him clear in the air above him. Rosa looked my way caught my attention, and shrugged her shoulders to show her discontent. To my understanding there had not been a goring in a long while here, it was 1997. The second matador was called in, to replace the wounded one, while he was being taken out on a stretcher: both being about the same height, weight, built, and age. Both matadors were slack in their approach, and careless, a lack of skills it appeared, it took the second matador six times sticking the sword into the back extended hump of the bull, before it dropped to its knees, he had missed the mark every time. The bull was a young, skinny bull, weak to start out with, but he wasn’t careless, and he had courage.
Rosa and the other American woman, in her late twenties, were leaning backwards, as I and the young man leaned forward.
“Help me clean my glasses,” I asked Rosa.
“This looks too bloody for me,” she said. (The second matador was pushing in his sword for the sixth time into the bull’s upper back, but somehow as he’d leaped up, and stuck the bull coming down, the sword, dropped down four to six inches beyond its intended target.)
“At least we’re not bored, that’s the main thing.” I told Rosa.
After the bullfight, Rosa and I jumped up into the isle, before we got stuck into the slow moving lava type crowd.
If anything, it was one super high for me. At this very moment my heart was pounding like voodoo drums. As I looked behind me, all I could see were heads and shoulders up and down the isle, all heading my way.
“Where do you suppose everyone is going in such a hurry?” asked Rosa.
“No place, it’s just kind of traditional in such events to hurry up and get out of the place. It’s kind of like throwing your garbage on the floor, our under the chair, no reason to do it, they got dumpsters, but you do it anyhow, without thinking, automatically, as if the other guy is going to find some hidden treasure out in the parking lot, so you got to get there first.”
“You do have a nice way of wording things, dear.”
In front of us was a stand where an old Spaniard sat selling souvenirs.
“Here, let’s look at these things, while everyone passes us by.” I said to Rosa.
“Hello, señor and señora,” said the Spaniard, the seller, and sole proprietor.
“I say, do you have any replica bulls?” I said to the Spaniard, and Rosa added, “Habla ingles?” (Do you speak English?)
“Si Señora,” he replied.
“Sorry, I should have asked,” I said to both Rosa and the seller, then looked about for the replica bulls, and couldn’t see any.
“Oh look,” said Rosa, “the miniature matador jacket and hat.”
“How was the bullfight?” asked the Spaniard.
“Bloody, just simply bloody!” said Rosa.
“Wonderfully bloody,” I added. (The Spaniard was uncertain if to smile or frown, and therefore, gave us both a blank look.)
“It’s was a spectacle!” said Rosa “even the bulls charged the old and weak looking horses, the picadors were on. I couldn’t help but feel bad about it all.”
“Yes, it’s not the prettiest of sights, but you got to look deeper than that, below the surface at a bullfight,” I said to Rosa, hoping the Spaniard would take my side but he was only interested in selling, and remained with an indifferent face.
“Do you feel ok?” asked the seller to Rosa.
“I’ll be fine,” Rosa remarked.
“Dear,” commented Rosa, “will you buy the toy jacket and hat for me?”
“Yes, yes, of course. You weren’t bored at least at the bullfight.” I remarked, repeating, “Yes, we’ll take the hat and jacket,” looking back at the seller.
“Ah, good choice señora,” said the seller to Rosa. I kind of laughed, without laughing out loud, but I think it showed on my face. I mean, it would have been a good choice whatever item she would have picked out, he wanted to sell.
“No,” said Rosa, “who could be bored at such an event.”
“All right,” said the seller “is there anything else?”
“I thought dear I was going to vomit for a moment, when he stuck that sword…you know, umpteen times.”
“He was positively bloody from his upper back to his hoofs.”
“Oh, please be quiet about all this blood stuff, I had enough for one day! Are you turning into a sadist?”
“Maybe, but surely not a pacifist,” I said.
“Maybe you two would like handkerchiefs, with bulls on them?” asked the proprietor.
“Not really, can’t say they do a thing for me.” I stated.
“Dear, they could be cheap, wonderful gifts.”
“Yew, I suppose so. It was a spectacle was it not?” upon reflection.
“That poor old skinny horse he just dropped to his boney knees when the bull plowed into him.” Said Rosa, with a tighten face, and grimace.
“Yes indeed, it was a dreadful moment I suppose for the picador.”
“Do you want to buy the handkerchiefs? And will you be paying in dollars or pesos,” asked the seller.
“I want to go someplace and eat—yes, in dollars how much?”
“Next time Rosa; I’ll not get front row seats.”
“Dear, you are hard-shelled; I never did see the horn go into his armpit,” remarked Rosa.
“I told you at the time the matador was in an awkward position, a blind spot and the bull took advantage of it, he saw it, with his eye, I saw the bull looking at the opening, and I told you, ‘look, he’s going for it,’ and you were looking through your fingers, hoping not to see what you did see.”
“Everything, twenty-dollar sir,” said the Spaniard.
“What! For these little items, are we at the Hilton here or what?” I said to the seller.
“Be a good chap dear, just pay the man, you took up all his time, and all the customers he might have had, he lost because you and I were talking, talking, like a dozen chuckerring birds.”
“Here you go,” I gave the man a twenty-dollar bill and Rosa and I walked up to the street. A car was waiting for us to take us back to the hotel. Smoothly across the city, along the river we rode. You could see the cathedral tower from the car, attached onto the side of the church.
“This bullfight is my last one,” said Rosa as we neared our hotel.
“I don’t think so I said,” and left it at that, knowing Rosa would come no matter what, before she’d let me go alone, she married a sidekick, more than a husband.
4-4-2009 Dedicated to Rosa
(Bullfight in Seville)
It was a great bullfight in Seville, Spain, in a way. Rosa and I were excited about being introduced to the young good looking matador, he must had been no older than twenty-one. A young couple was sitting about ten-feet away from us in the arena, Americans like us. The bull had gored the young matador; he had caught the blind spot with his eye when the young matador swung his cape in front of his horns, and for a second couldn’t see those long thick horns, and gored him in his armpit, throwing him clear in the air above him. Rosa looked my way caught my attention, and shrugged her shoulders to show her discontent. To my understanding there had not been a goring in a long while here, it was 1997. The second matador was called in, to replace the wounded one, while he was being taken out on a stretcher: both being about the same height, weight, built, and age. Both matadors were slack in their approach, and careless, a lack of skills it appeared, it took the second matador six times sticking the sword into the back extended hump of the bull, before it dropped to its knees, he had missed the mark every time. The bull was a young, skinny bull, weak to start out with, but he wasn’t careless, and he had courage.
Rosa and the other American woman, in her late twenties, were leaning backwards, as I and the young man leaned forward.
“Help me clean my glasses,” I asked Rosa.
“This looks too bloody for me,” she said. (The second matador was pushing in his sword for the sixth time into the bull’s upper back, but somehow as he’d leaped up, and stuck the bull coming down, the sword, dropped down four to six inches beyond its intended target.)
“At least we’re not bored, that’s the main thing.” I told Rosa.
After the bullfight, Rosa and I jumped up into the isle, before we got stuck into the slow moving lava type crowd.
If anything, it was one super high for me. At this very moment my heart was pounding like voodoo drums. As I looked behind me, all I could see were heads and shoulders up and down the isle, all heading my way.
“Where do you suppose everyone is going in such a hurry?” asked Rosa.
“No place, it’s just kind of traditional in such events to hurry up and get out of the place. It’s kind of like throwing your garbage on the floor, our under the chair, no reason to do it, they got dumpsters, but you do it anyhow, without thinking, automatically, as if the other guy is going to find some hidden treasure out in the parking lot, so you got to get there first.”
“You do have a nice way of wording things, dear.”
In front of us was a stand where an old Spaniard sat selling souvenirs.
“Here, let’s look at these things, while everyone passes us by.” I said to Rosa.
“Hello, señor and señora,” said the Spaniard, the seller, and sole proprietor.
“I say, do you have any replica bulls?” I said to the Spaniard, and Rosa added, “Habla ingles?” (Do you speak English?)
“Si Señora,” he replied.
“Sorry, I should have asked,” I said to both Rosa and the seller, then looked about for the replica bulls, and couldn’t see any.
“Oh look,” said Rosa, “the miniature matador jacket and hat.”
“How was the bullfight?” asked the Spaniard.
“Bloody, just simply bloody!” said Rosa.
“Wonderfully bloody,” I added. (The Spaniard was uncertain if to smile or frown, and therefore, gave us both a blank look.)
“It’s was a spectacle!” said Rosa “even the bulls charged the old and weak looking horses, the picadors were on. I couldn’t help but feel bad about it all.”
“Yes, it’s not the prettiest of sights, but you got to look deeper than that, below the surface at a bullfight,” I said to Rosa, hoping the Spaniard would take my side but he was only interested in selling, and remained with an indifferent face.
“Do you feel ok?” asked the seller to Rosa.
“I’ll be fine,” Rosa remarked.
“Dear,” commented Rosa, “will you buy the toy jacket and hat for me?”
“Yes, yes, of course. You weren’t bored at least at the bullfight.” I remarked, repeating, “Yes, we’ll take the hat and jacket,” looking back at the seller.
“Ah, good choice señora,” said the seller to Rosa. I kind of laughed, without laughing out loud, but I think it showed on my face. I mean, it would have been a good choice whatever item she would have picked out, he wanted to sell.
“No,” said Rosa, “who could be bored at such an event.”
“All right,” said the seller “is there anything else?”
“I thought dear I was going to vomit for a moment, when he stuck that sword…you know, umpteen times.”
“He was positively bloody from his upper back to his hoofs.”
“Oh, please be quiet about all this blood stuff, I had enough for one day! Are you turning into a sadist?”
“Maybe, but surely not a pacifist,” I said.
“Maybe you two would like handkerchiefs, with bulls on them?” asked the proprietor.
“Not really, can’t say they do a thing for me.” I stated.
“Dear, they could be cheap, wonderful gifts.”
“Yew, I suppose so. It was a spectacle was it not?” upon reflection.
“That poor old skinny horse he just dropped to his boney knees when the bull plowed into him.” Said Rosa, with a tighten face, and grimace.
“Yes indeed, it was a dreadful moment I suppose for the picador.”
“Do you want to buy the handkerchiefs? And will you be paying in dollars or pesos,” asked the seller.
“I want to go someplace and eat—yes, in dollars how much?”
“Next time Rosa; I’ll not get front row seats.”
“Dear, you are hard-shelled; I never did see the horn go into his armpit,” remarked Rosa.
“I told you at the time the matador was in an awkward position, a blind spot and the bull took advantage of it, he saw it, with his eye, I saw the bull looking at the opening, and I told you, ‘look, he’s going for it,’ and you were looking through your fingers, hoping not to see what you did see.”
“Everything, twenty-dollar sir,” said the Spaniard.
“What! For these little items, are we at the Hilton here or what?” I said to the seller.
“Be a good chap dear, just pay the man, you took up all his time, and all the customers he might have had, he lost because you and I were talking, talking, like a dozen chuckerring birds.”
“Here you go,” I gave the man a twenty-dollar bill and Rosa and I walked up to the street. A car was waiting for us to take us back to the hotel. Smoothly across the city, along the river we rode. You could see the cathedral tower from the car, attached onto the side of the church.
“This bullfight is my last one,” said Rosa as we neared our hotel.
“I don’t think so I said,” and left it at that, knowing Rosa would come no matter what, before she’d let me go alone, she married a sidekick, more than a husband.
4-4-2009 Dedicated to Rosa
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 10:09 PM
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