As a matter of fact, Jaime Miró found himself intrigued with Sister Megan. Her behavior was not at all what he would have expected of a nun. She was miles away from her convent, traveling through strange territory, being hunted, and she seemed to be actually enjoying it. What kind of nun is she? Jaime Miró wondered.
Amparo Jirón was less impressed. I’ll be glad to be rid of her, she thought. She stayed close to Jaime, letting the nun walk with Felix Carpio.
The countryside was wild and beautiful, caressed by the soft fragrance of the summer wind. They passed old villages, some of them deserted and forlorn, and saw an ancient abandoned castle high on a hill.
Amparo seemed to Megan like a wild animal—gliding effortlessly over hills and valleys, never seeming to tire.
When, hours later, Valladolid finally loomed up in the distance, Jaime called a halt.
He turned to Felix. “Everything is arranged?”
“Yes.”
Megan wondered exactly what had been arranged, and found out very quickly.
“Tomás is instructed to contact us at the bullring.”
“What time does the bank close?”
“Five o’clock. There will be plenty of time.”
Jaime nodded. “And today there should be a fat payroll.”
Good Lord, they’re going to rob a bank, Megan thought.
“What about a car?” Amparo was asking.
“No problem,” Jaime assured her.
They’re going to steal one, Megan thought. It was a little more excitement than she had bargained for. God isn’t going to like this.
When the group reached the outskirts of Valladolid, Jaime warned, “Stay with the crowds. Today is bullfight day and there will be thousands of people. Let’s not get separated.”
Jaime Miró had been right about the crowds. Megan had never seen so many people. The streets were swarming with pedestrians and automobiles and motorcycles, for the bullfight had drawn not only tourists but citizens from all the neighboring towns. Even the children on the street were playing at bullfighting.
Megan was fascinated by the crowds, the noise, and the bustle around her. She looked into the faces of passersby and wondered what their lives were like. Soon enough I’ll be back in the convent where I won’t be allowed to look at anyone’s face again. I might as well take advantage of this while I can.
The sidewalks were filled with vendors displaying trinkets, religious medals and crosses, and everywhere was the pungent smell of fritters frying in boiling oil.
Megan suddenly realized how hungry she was.
It was Felix who said, “Jaime, we’re all hungry. Let’s try some of those fritters.”
Felix bought four of them and handed one to Megan. “Try this, Sister. You’ll like it.”
It was delicious. For so many of her years, food was meant not to be enjoyed, but to sustain the body for the glory of the Lord. This one’s for me, Megan thought irreverently.
“The arena is this way,” Jaime said.
They followed the crowds past the park in the middle of town to the Plaza Poinente, which flowed into the Plaza de Toros. The arena itself was inside an enormous adobe structure, three stories high. There were four ticket windows at the entrance. Signs on the left said SOL, and on the right, SOMBRA. Sun or shade. There were hundreds of people standing in the lines waiting to purchase tickets.
“Wait here,” Jaime ordered.
They watched him as he walked over to where half a dozen scalpers were hawking tickets.
Megan turned to Felix. “Are we going to watch a bullfight?”
“Yes, but don’t worry, Sister,” Felix reassured her. “You will find it exciting.”
Worry? Megan was thrilled by the idea. At the orphanage, one of her fantasies had been that her father had been a great torero, and Megan had read every book on bullfighting that she could get her hands on.
Felix told her, “The real bullfights are held in Madrid and Barcelona. The bullfight here will be by novilleros, instead of professionals. They are amateurs. They have not been granted the altemativa.”
Megan knew that the altemativa was the accolade given only to the top-ranked matadors.
“The ones we will see today fight in rented costumes, instead of the gold-encrusted suit of lights, against bulls with filed, dangerous horns that the professionals refuse to fight.”