The Siren's Sting (39 page)

The warlord's wife turned to him and in a slow deep voice asked, ‘Will there be blood?'

Stéphane nodded vigorously. ‘Lots of it. Both man and beast's, if it is a good fight.'

This comment caught the attention of the men opposite and Stevie found herself drawn into conversation with Krok and the Korean guest. ‘Explain, please,' he said, his eyes sharp and focused behind the tea-dark lenses of his large glasses.

Stéphane glanced quickly at Krok to make sure he had permission to take the floor. ‘It is a supreme test of skill. The Spaniards are mad for it—it's in their blood. The bulls are bred especially for the fights by families who have been doing it for generations. The matadors also usually come from a long line of bullfighters and they are passionate to the point of obsession about their bulls.'

‘A dynastic pursuit,' observed the Korean with growing interest.

Stéphane nodded deferentially. ‘Quite. The greater the skill of the matador, the more exciting the fight, the more dangerous it is. And then, of course, the kill must be perfect.'

‘The kill?' boomed the warlord's wife, licking her lips.

Inside, Stevie shrank from her and those carnivorous lips that looked as if they might strip the very flesh from her bones.

Stéphane nodded again. ‘The matador has a slim sword called an
estoque
. When the timing is right—and the
corrida
is all about timing—the matador must plunge the sword between the shoulder blades and through the heart, hoping for a clean, swift kill. It's called
estocada
.'

After a short pause, the Korean asked, ‘And is it ever the other way around? Does the bull ever kill the man, or is it all just for spectacle?'

‘The bull does on occasion gore the matador. There are many injuries and occasionally—rarely, but it happens—the bull kills the killer.'

The Korean sat back with a satisfied sigh and smiled. He spread his short fingers and turned to Krok. ‘This I would very much like to see,' he said quietly.

Krok smiled. ‘Perhaps you will be lucky enough this afternoon.'

‘I would consider it a very good omen for our future business if this were to transpire.'

Stevie's mouth went dry; she was quick to read between the lines of conversation and knew exactly what the man was really saying. He was asking Krok to arrange for the matador to die in the ring. That wasn't in Krok's power, Stevie knew, but the cruel desire of the Korean shocked her. It shouldn't have, but even now, after all she had lived through in her line of work, she was not yet immune to certain human responses.

The main course was served, whole quails with detached, feathered heads resting on the plate where once the live head had been. The effect was very odd and quite unappetising. She saw that Stéphane didn't touch his meat; Henning leant in and whispered, ‘The heads don't match.'

‘Pardon?'

‘The heads of the birds don't belong to the bodies. The meat is quail—the heads belong to woodcocks. The heads and bodies don't match!'

Stevie had forgotten Henning's keen interest in ornithology. For some reason the mismatch bothered her as much as it seemed to bother him. She supposed that all was not as it seemed in the Palacio de las Maravillas, and that was true of the lunch as well. She swallowed and picked up her fork.

19

They were all issued grand
commemorative tickets for the
corrida
, stiff gold-embossed card with a painting of a matador passing a huge black bull. Stevie wasn't sure how she would feel about the bullfight; she had never attended one, never wanted to see a mad bull pitted against a matador, but there was no escaping this one. Krok had taken all the ‘
sombra
' tickets for the guests, the shaded seats being far more comfortable in the heat than the cheaper ‘
sol
' ones. The round, whitewashed arena was filled with smooth sand and a tier of wooden seating rose up steeply, affording everyone a good view.

Their seats were ringside, elevated above the action—above the picadors and trainers—but right at the front. The heavy wooden doors of the arena were right beside them and Henning took his place at the railing. Next to him, the theatre was cut away and he had a perfect view of the sand and the action below.

‘Amazing seats.' Stevie raised an eyebrow, feeling more nervous than she cared to admit. She glanced around at the crowd. The regular spectators had brought their own hampers and cushions, the women had fans. Everyone was dressed for a party, Krok's guests and the locals alike. The matador was very famous and the fight would be epic, historic, something they could tell their children and grandchildren about.

As they sat waiting for the picadors, Stevie looked about. All the women spectators opposite her in the
sol
seats were fanning themselves with their lace and paper fans. It looked like a thousand butterflies were resting there, fluttering delicately. Circe slid into her seat—Marlena could only be Circe—in a black lace dress that clung to her like skin to a snake. Aristo was at her side, a figure of devotion and ferocity, the maleness of his defiance and desire matching that of the bullring and the macho matadors. Everyone facing death in the ring; men of blood, every one, just as Krok had said; she was surrounded by them. Well, perhaps not Henning. He was not a man of blood. It was not as straightforward as that.

There was a ripple of fans and voices as the huge wooden gates opened and the picadors on their horses rode slowly into the ring. The picadors wore black hats and carried lances decorated with paper garlands. Their horses were covered in heavy mattress-like quilted material. Stevie whispered to Henning, ‘Why are the horses wearing blankets?'

Henning leant in—possibly closer than strictly necessary. ‘It's to save their bellies from the horns of the bulls.'

‘I thought it was the matador who dealt with the bull?'

‘Ultimately. But the horses are there to warm up the bull, give him a taste for goring and ramming. The picadors stab the bull a few times, to rouse him even more.'

This was a true blood sport. Stevie's sensibility recoiled but she would reserve her judgement until she had witnessed the whole spectacle.

A smaller door giving onto the ring opened and there was a hush. Suddenly, like a locomotive from a tunnel, rushed the black bull. ‘
Toro! Toro! Toro!
' shouted the crowd as the beast stormed into the ring, clouds of sand flying up from its hooves. The bull caught sight of the horse and stopped. It lowered its head and charged, catching the horse under the belly with its horns and lifting the animal high into the air, knocking it and its rider into the side of the arena. The picador whirled and gave a stab at the bull with his spear, drawing first blood.

The bull drew back, changed direction, and charged around the ring angrily, looking for something else to charge. He found the second horse and it too was rammed. The picador stabbed the other side and the bull charged off, heading straight for the first horse and rider, barely recovered from the previous assault. The rider struggled to turn the horse side on, the bull gored, the horse and rider were knocked to the ground in a cloud of dust.

Like swallows, the other picadors darted from behind the wooden barriers armed with their stiff pink and yellow capes. They dashed about, trying to distract the bull, to draw him away from the fallen pair. The bull snorted and bucked, charging first one then the other. The spectators groaned as one picador fell and was almost trampled under the bull's thundering hooves. He rolled away, another picador jumping in to distract the bull. There was a murmuring in the crowd.

Henning muttered, ‘The crowd is anxious. There's word the bull is mad—
loco
—the way he went for the horses and the picadors. The crowd want the fight stopped.'

‘Can they do that?'

‘The crowd carry the bullfighting tradition within them. If a bull is unacceptable to them—or a matador for that matter—they can stop the fight.'

The horses had left the ring and the picadors and trainers were in deep conversation by the side of the ring.

‘They're saying this beast comes from a long line of dangerous bulls. His father gored seven
toreros
, one of whom died. It will ultimately be up to Jesulin, the matador, to decide. He is young, and passionate about his art.'

‘I think you would have to be.'

Stevie watched as the bull raced around the arena, sand flying up around him, bucking and snorting. He was a terrifying sight, related more to the Minotaur than to any bovine creature she was familiar with. Finally, the bull was locked back into its pen. Indecision, and the crowd was growing restless. Stevie's eyes found Krok, sitting between Skorpios and the new owner of the
Molotov Rostok
. He beckoned to one of the trainers, who approached. Krok said something to him and the man shook his head. Krok spoke again, good eye bulging now. This time the man removed his hat and, after a pause, gave a single tiny nod, turned and descended to the ring.

The crowd, impatient now for a decision—this bull or another—began to stamp its feet. The whole wooden arena shuddered with every pulse, the angry heart of tradition beating in the stifling heat. And then Jesulin walked into the ring.

A cheer that became a scream broke loose from the crowd; even Stevie gasped. It was as if all the rock gods and macho fighters of history had combined in one lean, dark-haired man. His presence made the air around him quiver. He would have been five foot ten at the very most, and yet he was a giant. He was dressed all in white, the gold embroidery on his short jacket and toreador pants glinting in the afternoon sun. He wore a black hat and a cape, and carried the long thin sword of the
torero
. He bowed briefly to the mayor, then searched the audience for Krok, who had set himself up like a prince in his box. Jesulin nodded his head to him in acknowledgement.

The young matador's posture was erect, almost that of a dancer, and indeed on his feet he wore what looked like embroidered black ballet slippers.

Stevie's pulse raced and she felt a surge of adrenaline. She did not want to be excited by the bullfight—everything about it repulsed her—and yet there, that Spanish afternoon, with a thundering beast, the smell of smoke and sage, Jesulin in the ring, she couldn't help but be caught up in it.

His eyes roamed the ring, cap in hand now. Stevie watched his face transfixed, and, light as dust, his eyes came to rest on hers. They burnt as black as coal and Stevie caught her breath. Then the gaze was gone. Stevie felt curiously shaken. Had she imagined that strange exchange of energy?

Jesulin slowly removed his cape and hat, and prepared his red cape. He walked solemnly, confidently towards the bull's gate. About twenty metres from the gate he stopped and got down on one knee. The crowd rippled with awe. It was an extraordinarily dangerous move, especially with such a strong and unpredictable bull. Jesulin held his cape out, supported by his sword, and took a moment. Stevie could almost feel the fire of concentration from where she sat.

He gave a small, sharp nod and the gate swung open. Then the thunder of hooves and the rush of one tonne of beast, half obscured by an inferno of dust. Jesulin, on the ground in front of the bull, spun like a diamond on his knee and the bull passed within centimetres of his body. He arched his back, accentuating the peril for the crowd, real as it was. The crowd, in turn, went wild. The bull reared to a stop, turned like lightning and froze. Eyes on his tormentor, he lowered his head and pawed the earth. Time slowed to match the tempo of the heavy black hoof; the crowd was silent.

The matador rose and stood squarely in front of the bull, chest raised in defiance, his motionless body a challenge to the beast. Suddenly the bull charged. Still the matador did not move, held his ground as the locomotive steamed towards him, long sharp horns aimed for the man's guts. The bull was three feet away; the matador twisted like a dervish, whirling his cape out to the side. The bull thundered through, snorting in fury at his horns having found no flesh, only the rippling cape and air. Stevie suddenly didn't want to watch the rest of the fight; she did not want to be in that ring of blood on that hot afternoon watching a man and a bull dance with death. But there was no way out.

Henning glanced at her. ‘You look pale,' he said quietly. ‘Is it the fight?' Stevie nodded and Henning reached out and took her hand in his.

The man next to Stevie, a handsome older Spaniard in a flat cap, turned and offered her a beer and a
jamon
sandwich from his picnic hamper. Stevie gratefully accepted. Perhaps it would help. ‘It's the
tercio de muerte
,' he said, opening a beer for Henning too. ‘The third of death.'

Stevie noticed foam on one side of the bull's mouth and she pointed it out to her new friend. ‘What is that?'

The man's eyes narrowed. ‘That is a bad sign.
Es un toro
loco . . .
or they have drugged him.' He nudged a fat man in a fedora whose face hardened as he too noticed the pinkish foam on the bull's mouth.

‘That is not a tranquillised bull,' the man in the fedora said. ‘He is no kitten. He is a mad one. If they drugged him, it wasn't to weaken him.'

Stevie's eyes widened. ‘What are you saying?'

The man in the fedora looked away, disgust on his face.

The bull charged again, and this time the tip of his horn caught the matador's shoulder blade, ripping the brocade jacket and opening a weeping red gash on the man's shoulder. Jesulin flipped and fell. The bull thundered up to him—out ran the
banderilleros
with their pink capes, trying desperately to distract the beast, to draw his fury towards them and forget the matador.

The bull would not be swayed. He charged through the men, scattering them like flies and made straight for Jesulin. The matador jumped to his feet and held out his cape, passing the wild bull close to his body, spinning to meet him on his way back. The crowd was in an uproar: they had never seen a bull so aggressive, so strong.