“Why do they do it?”
Felix shrugged. “Hambre hace mas daño que las cuemas. Hunger is more painful than horns.”
Jaime returned holding four tickets. “We’re all set,” he said. “Let’s go in.”
Megan felt a growing sense of excitement.
As they approached the entrance to the huge arena, they passed a poster plastered to the wall. Megan stopped and stared at it.
“Look!”
There was a picture of Jaime Miró, and under it:
WANTED FOR MURDER
JAIME MIRÓ
ONE MILLION PESETAS REWARD
FOR HIS CAPTURE
DEAD OR ALIVE.
Suddenly it brought back to Megan the sober realization of the kind of man she was traveling with, the terrorist who held her life in his hands.
Jaime was studying the picture. Brazenly he pulled off his hat and dark glasses and faced his portrait. “Not a bad likeness.” He ripped the poster off the wall, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
“What good will that do?” Amparo said. “They must have posted hundreds of them.”
Jaime grinned. “This particular one is going to bring us a fortune, querida.” He put his hat and glasses back on.
What a strange remark, Megan thought. She could not help admiring his coolness. There was an air of solid competence about Jaime Miró that Megan found reassuring. The soldiers will never catch him, she thought.
“Let’s go inside.”
There were twelve widely spaced entrances to the building. The red iron doors had been flung open, each one numbered. Inside the entrance there were puestos selling Coca-Cola and beer, and next to them were small toilet cubicles. In the stands, each section and seat was numbered. The tiers of stone benches made a complete circle, and in the center was the large arena covered with sand. There were commercial signs everywhere: BANCO CENTRAL…BOUTIQUE CALZADOS…SCHWEPPES…RADIO POPULAR…
Jaime had purchased tickets for the shady side, and as they sat down on the stone benches, Megan looked around in wonder. It was not at all as she had imagined it. When she was a young girl, she had seen romantic color photographs of the bullring in Madrid, huge and elaborate. This was a makeshift ring. The arena was rapidly filling up with spectators.
A trumpet sounded. The bullfight began.
Megan leaned forward in her seat, her eyes wide. A huge bull charged into the ring, and a matador stepped out from behind a small wooden barrier at the side of the ring and began to tease the animal.
“The picadors will be next,” Megan said excitedly.
Jaime Miró looked at her in wonder. He had been concerned that the bullfight would make her ill and that she would attract attention to them. Instead, she seemed to be having a wonderful time. Strange.
A picador was approaching the bull, riding a horse covered with a heavy blanket. The bull lowered its head and charged at the horse, and as it buried its horns in the blanket, the picador drove an eight-foot lance into the bull’s shoulder.
Megan was watching, fascinated. “He’s doing that to weaken the bull’s neck muscles,” she explained, remembering the well-loved books she had read all those years ago.
Felix Carpio blinked in surprise. “That’s right, Sister.”
Megan watched as the pairs of colorfully decorated banderillas were slammed into the bull’s shoulders.
Now it was the matador’s turn. He stepped into the ring holding at his side a red cape with a sword inside it. The bull turned and began to charge.
Megan was getting more excited. “He will make his passes now,” she said. “First the pose verónica, then the media-verónica, and last the rebolera.”
Jaime could contain his curiosity no longer. “Sister—where did you learn all this?”
Without thinking, Megan said, “My father was a bullfighter. Watch!”
The action was so swift, Megan could barely follow it. The maddened bull kept charging at the matador, and each time he neared him, the matador swung his red cape to the side and the bull followed the cape. Megan was concerned.
“What happens if the bullfighter gets hurt?”
Jaime shrugged. “In a place like this, the town barber will take him over to the barn and sew him up.”
The bull charged again, and this time the matador leaped out of the way. The crowd booed.