“What goddamn fools we men are, aren’t we?”
“Yes, I suppose you can say that in truth. She has a fatal fascination.”
“What about her?”
“She is living in the house you once rented in the Chapultepec Park. At the moment she is unattached. Diaz gave her many expensive presents. She goes every night to the San Pablo night club where the rich Americans are. She arranges her life very well.”
Cade forced his mind away from the image that came suddenly of her brown, sensual beauty and the long black tresses acting as a shield to the most exciting body he had ever known.
“Could I come with you, Adolfo? I want to see Diaz fight.”
“That I can understand. Yes, there will be plenty of seats. It is only those who expect tragedy who go now to watch Diaz: the vultures who hope for death.”
“Yet you go?”
“It is an ending of a chapter,” Creel said, shrugging. “I have lived a little of my life with you, with her and with Diaz. It was because of him, I lost my tyres. We Mexicans remember small things like that. Perhaps I am also one of the vultures, but when something begins, I wish to see it finish.”
At 16.20 hours, they made their way down the steps to their seats at the barrera, right by the red-painted fence around the sanded ring. As Adolfo had said there were plenty of seats, but there was still a big crowd.
Below and a few yards from where they sat, Cade could see the sword handlers of the three matadors who were fighting that afternoon. He easily recognised Regino Franoco, wearing a white shirt with bishop’s sleeves and wine coloured trousers. He was honing a sword, his movements expert and practised, a sullen frown on his face.
Seeing Cade watching, Creel said. “Yes, he is still with Diaz... one of the faithful. When they threw bottles last Sunday, he wept.”
On the far side of the ring, in the direct light of the sun, they were forming up for the paseo.
Cade recognised Pedro Diaz who was in silver and black. He stood, waiting, flanked on either side by two matadors: both elderly and fat, one of them bald. Behind them were the men of the curilla. Behind them, the mounted picadors.
With their right arms swinging, the men began to march across the sand, followed by the bull ring servants and the mules.
Cade was aware of a feeling of sick excitement, aware too that his heart was thumping unsteadily. As the three matadors made their bows to the President, he examined Diaz.
Yes, Adolfo was right. There was nothing there now but a shell. The cruel, hawk-like face that had made one of Cade’s finest photographs was now slack and flabby. The small eyes moved uneasily, the thin mouth was twitching.
“He has the first bull,” Creel said.
Diaz walked over to Franoco. They spoke together, then Franoco took Diaz’s dress cape from him and spread it over the fence.
Diaz looked up and stared at the faces looking down at him. He looked at Cade, looked away, then stiffening, he looked back at Cade. He said something to Franoco who looked round quickly and also stared at Cade. The sudden entry of the bull made both men jerk around.
“He knew you,” Creel said in a satisfied voice.
Cade was looking at the bull that had come into the ring with a blind rush and was now trotting around in the sun, cutting at the air with his horns.
“Well, he is big enough,” Creel said and Cade thought this was an understatement. The bull seemed enormous to him.
A thin, shabby man ran out, trailing a cape. The bull charged, hooking with his left horn. He continued around the ring after he had lost the cape, then seeing another cape flopping at him, he charged again.
“Diaz will have to watch that left horn,” Creel said. “Aye! Aye! This is a big one!”
Cade looked down at Diaz, immediately below him. Diaz was watching the bull. Franoco was leaning over the fence whispering furiously at Diaz, a nagging, scolding, womanish expression on his handsome face.
“Shut up!” Cade heard Diaz say. “Give me the bottle!”
Franoco handed him a big, narrow-necked jug. Diaz drank. Cade saw him shudder as he handed the jug back.
“They think it is water,” Creel said, “but it is Tequila.”
There was a commotion going on in the ring. The bull had caught the horse and had flung it over. The picador, cursing, rolled clear. The capes took the bull away.
Diaz looked directly at Cade. He gave a sneering grin.
“So we meet again,” he said, pitching his voice so that Cade could hear. “I give you this bull but I owe you nothing. I am even sorry for you.”
The crowd along the seats either side of Cade leaned forward to stare at him. Franoco snarled at him and spat at the sand beyond the fence.
“Good luck,” Cade said. He meant it. The small, shell of the man incited his pity.
Creel said quietly, “He is very drunk.”
They watched the short, stocky figure walk out towards the bull. The banderillo had done his work. The scene was now set for the encounter between Diaz and the bull which stood solid across the far side of the ring in the sun.
Diaz seemed in no hurry to reach the bull. He was slightly unsteady on his short legs, and twice during the long walk he staggered. The crowd watched in silence.
Cade saw Franoco talking urgently to the other two matadors who listened, shrugged and nodded. Taking their capes, they trotted after Diaz. Three men of the curilla joined them. They formed a wide protective circle behind Diaz.
When he was within thirty yards of the bull, Diaz looked around. Seeing the men moving forward, he waved them away. He cursed them in Spanish. Some of the crowd began to whistle.
Cade saw Franoco was running frantically around the ring, between the fence and the seats, heading towards the bull.
“What that fool thinks he is doing, I can’t imagine,” Creel said. “He will only distract Diaz.”
Diaz was now within fifteen yards of the bull. He stopped, unfurled his cape and shook it at the bull. By now Franoco was immediately behind the bull, his hands clutching the top of the fence.
The bull’s tail went up as it charged.
It happened so quickly Cade was unable to see exactly what had gone wrong. He heard a thumping impact and he saw Diaz go up in the air and come down on the sand on the back of his head.
He heard Creel say, “Well, that’s it then,” and let out a long, hissing sigh.
The bull turned with the quickness of a cat The capes were flopping as the men ran in, but the bull was only aware of Diaz who was struggling up on his knees. Franoco sprang over the fence, but the speed of the bull beat him. The left horn chopped into Diaz’s chest slamming him against the fence. The horn struck again.
Franoco was screaming. He now had the bull by the right horn and was beating his fist on the bull’s nose.
Cade was only vaguely aware of the uproar. Like everyone, he was standing and shouting.
The bull shook his head and Franoco, like a string-less puppet was thrown away. He fell on his side. The bull charged, but the flick of a cape caught his eye and he charged over Franoco, one of his hoofs thudding into Franoco’s upturned face as the bull went with a rush across the ring, pursuing a running matador.
Three bull ring servants picked Diaz up. They ran with him out of the ring. Another of them helped Franoco to his feet, his face streaming blood.
“Let’s get out of here,” Cade said, sickened.
“Yes,” Creel said and the two men walked quickly up the steps and away from the ring.
As they reached the exit, Cade said, his voice unsteady, “How badly do you think he was hurt?”
Creel shrugged.
“He is dead. A chest wound like that is always fatal. He had no chance. The horn smashed the cage of his ribs.”
Cade wiped his sweating face. He was completely unnerved.
“Get me back to the hotel, Adolfo. I’m not staying here any longer. I hate this City.”