Sanibel Scribbles (47 page)

The matador led the big black animal into the center of the ring. The
picadores
stabbed the bull. “In order for the bull to follow the cape smoothly, it needs to be slowed a bit. Its head must be lowered,” explained Rafael. The picador pierced the animal with a few knives, correcting any defects in its charge. “Now, the bull won’t hook to the right anymore, and it won’t swing up its horns as often.
Tal cosas
could have killed the matador if not adjusted.”

A trumpet sounded to signal the final act of the drama. The matador,
with sword in hand, asked the president if he could kill the bull. The president gave permission, and the matador dedicated the animal’s death to his mother!

The creature, now angrier than ever, jumped around, arching its shiny black back and neck and kicking up its hind legs.

Rafael watched below as he confessed.
“Soy triste
. I have been unhappy for many years, Victoria. My wife only wants my money. She does not want to talk to me. She does not care what I say or what I feel. We are not friends. We are strangers, and we always have been. Our marriage has confidentially been declared a mistake. She loves my possessions, not me. She doesn’t laugh when I laugh, and she doesn’t cry when I cry. Her face looks like stone.”

Married!? He was married! His sudden truth stunned her. Instinctively she had known it. Thank goodness she had never given into her romantic impulses. He did not look at her. Instead, he continued watching the sight below. Maybe she hadn’t heard him correctly. How could he make such a confession and act as if nothing had changed between them?

After positioning the bull exactly where he wanted it, the matador lifted his sword to shoulder level and waved the
muleta
slowly, to guide the dangerous horns past his right hip. His target: a three-inch-wide opening
entre
the shoulder blades.

“If he misses the target zone, he’ll hit bone, and the fans will be outraged at him,” said Rafael. The steel thing hit the target, but it wasn’t well placed, and it didn’t kill the bull.

“The matador must be scared to death.”

“Death is not the enemy, Victoria. Fear of death is,” stated Rafael.

She wanted to scream at him for having a wife. She couldn’t believe it. She had known he had a secret, and she continued to meet with him. He was also a beautiful man both inside and out, and of course he should be married. This she should have expected. She couldn’t get mad at him and his situation, nor could she get mad at this country for its custom. In fact, she couldn’t take her eyes off the scene below, and the more she saw, the more she wanted to know … about the Spaniards, the country, and Rafael’s sadness.
“Digame mas, mas.”
She told him to tell her more.

“When I pulled up to the curb to ask you for
direcciones
, I noticed
tres cosas,”
said Rafael.
“Primer
, I noticed your expressive eyes as you listened when I talked.” He pointed to her features as he spoke, staring at her.
“Segundo
, I noticed the several differing tones of your voice.
Tercer
, your smile.”

The matador used a shorter sword, fitted with a crossbar close to the tip. As he pierced the base of the
toro
‘s skull, Vicki looked around at the fans to see if they, too, were crying. No, they were clapping. Only Rafael had tears rolling down his cheeks.

Why could she not feel his sadness? She wanted to tend to Rafael but had a hard time taking her eyes off the arena below. It said so much about Spain, and the people as a whole. It revealed much about the people, perhaps more than any conversation could ever reveal. She wanted to go, again and again, to buy a season’s pass. She wanted to stay in Spain longer.

The bull collapsed on the ground, and people, and Vicki, shouted louder as a team of mules dragged the dead animal out of the arena. Everyone waved handkerchiefs.

Rafael pinched her ear. “They are requesting that an ear be given to the matador,” he said in Spanish.

“Well, not mine,” she shouted back in the same language.

Rafael laughed. “No, not a human ear, the bull’s ear. The matador gives the ear to the butchers in exchange for the bull’s body.” The matador ran around the arena once, as if the waving handkerchiefs meant more than applause. Another trumpet sounded, which meant time for the
segundo
bull to enter the sunny arena. The crowds cheered for
mas, mas
.

“Victoria, estoy sufriendo,”
whispered Rafael as he stood up and tugged on her sweater so she’d follow him. The fight wasn’t over, but he led her down the bleachers and out to his car.

They drove into the country with a clear sky overhead. “Bullfighting—
hoy
isn’t all that it once used to be, Victoria,” said Rafael.

“Why not?”

“Now it shares the fame with soccer matches.”

“It looked pretty significant to me,” she said.

“Tambien
, there have been changes in Spain’s economy. Many ranches were sold. On the ranches in the past, owners could selectively breed
los toros
. Breeding the right sort of bull for a fight almost classified as an art, or a science, I don’t know which. No, bulls of today don’t always have the space for exercise and natural grazing on ranches.”

“The bulls looked healthy,” she said.

“They aren’t as wild as they once were.”

They pulled up to a brown acorn-style cottage, and Vicki was pleased to notice horses, not bulls or sheep, grazing behind a white picket fence. Several smaller cottages were up and down the hill.

Rafael got out of the car, telling her to stay put, and walked up to a building that looked like an office. When he went inside, she quickly rummaged through his glove compartment, in search of anything that might have his last name on it. But, like her own glove compartment, Rafael kept a tidy car with not a crumb of evidence.

He returned to the car and told her he had rented horses for a few
horas
, but she refused to take part in the adventure. She credited herself as too smart for that. In fact, she was borderline paranoid. She refused to be murdered somewhere in the country of Spain on her semester abroad. She also noticed her mind getting a bit dramatic, but she blamed it on television and movies. A simple horseback ride in the country on a gorgeous, calm day almost always led to murder in the movies.

“No. I don’t want to ride horses at a time like this. You’re married, and you should be riding horses with your wife.” She knew she said it in English, and she felt a nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach, moths killing butterflies – they were taking over.

They sat together on the trunk of his Mercedes, which was parked inconspicuously under the shade of towering trees.

“Ay, Victoria.” Rafael reached above him and pulled an oak leaf off a low-hanging branch. “I married young. Many years ago, I discovered that my wife had cheated on me, over and over again. I should have known. I loved her more than she loved me. I should have read her face. She looked like stone.”

He made an awful stone face, freezing all his expressions. “No laughter,
no tears, no yelling. Numb to life. I’ve never seen emotions come from her. She is made of makeup and designer clothes, my designer clothes, and nothing more.”

“Well, you did choose her to be your wife, and now, you probably have a family with her—kids you are responsible for.”

“No, Victoria. She refused to have children, telling me only after we were married that children demand too much attention. The truth is, she demands too much attention, and children would take that away from her.”

“You wanted children?”

“Si,
si, claro que si.”
He extended his arms up and outward in a fashion like the trees around them. “But she went and had surgery without telling me. In Spain, do you realize how abnormal this entire thing is?”

“Rafael, this is abnormal for anywhere in the world. Have you discussed divorce?”

“Si, si
. No, no. My country, under Franco, didn’t allow divorce.”

“But Franco is dead, Rafael.”

“But fear is alive, Victoria.”

“Then you too will die,” said Vicki.

“I will not die!”

“No, but you are living a dead life.”

“I am alive now that I know
Victoria de los Estados Unidos. Si
, I am alive again.”

“¿Quien estas, Rafael?”

“No. My name is not important. I want you to know me, Rafael.” He pounded on his heart.

“I can’t know you if I don’t know your past. I do not know you,” said Vicki.

She got up and walked away, and he followed. “I practiced law, as many university students in
España
do. Then, I inherited money from my father. He owned banks throughout Spain, so I do not have to work, ever again. I am made of old money, but designing clothes is my passion in
vida
, my only passion, next to my new friendship with you,
mi preciosa.”

She felt a smile for the first time since they had arrived at the ranch.
She tried to contain it, but couldn’t. She didn’t want to be a stone, numb to emotions, especially to a man so appreciative of details. Emotions happened like reflexes, yet Rafael cherished them after years of living without.

“Follow me,” he said. “I have a surprise for you.”

He popped the trunk of his car and took out a pile of black dresses and white cotton tops with sheer floral sleeves. “Try them on for me,
por favor.”

“Where should I try them on?” she asked.

“Aqui
. Here.”

She laughed with the excitement of new clothes, yet felt horribly shy, embarrassed to model in front of a man who worked with European models on a daily basis. Her emotions ran in circles. She felt honored that he wanted to give her this wardrobe. She also felt insecure that perhaps it was a hint that her clothes were ugly. What if they didn’t fit past her thighs? She would hug him anyway. No, she would hit him for being married. She felt in love, yet frightened. Were these the emotions he saw and liked on her face? Well, Rafael deserved credit himself. He was a man who provoked many emotions, and he stirred hers all at once.

“I designed them over the past few months with you, Victoria, in my mind.”

She walked behind a tree trunk, wishing it were a thick banyon instead of an oak. He could see part of her. Her stomach? Her thighs? She didn’t mind him seeing her stomach. She minded her thighs. She slid her top over her head then unsnapped her pants. As she struggled to pull them off, she knew the tree trunk no longer hid her behind. She tossed the pants on the ground and grabbed the black dress, hanging on Rafael’s finger. She pulled it up, wondering if it might get stuck at the waist. No, of course not. Designed by a successful European fashion designer, it had to fit. Well, now she’d find out if he really designed it for her, with her in mind. Yes, it pulled up over her waist and up to her neck perfectly, as if painted onto her body. If there was such a thing, she would declare it her soul dress, a dress made just for her, a dress perfectly in tune with her body, her style, her emotions. If the dress had cost four hundred dollars in America, she’d open a new credit card to buy it. She’d grow old wearing
this dress that he designed for her, sexy yet classic.

“I help you. I help you.” He piled her long blond hair in a bun on her head and zipped the dress up to her neck.
“Si, si
. I made this for you,
Victoria
, for you.”

She believed him now as she walked with a sway of her shoulders once around his Mercedes, spinning a couple times, then returned to where he sat on the car.

“¿Te gusta?”
she asked.

“¡Me encanta!”
She loved the dress, but knew she’d never have a place to wear it. She didn’t live a soap opera life, nor did she attend the type of American parties that called for this sort of dress. She longed to be a part of a social world that wore these dresses. However, no matter how dressed up she might become, she wanted to remain full of emotions, full of life.

He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close, kissing her for the first time on the lips.
“Te quiero,”
he whispered in her ear.

“No, no.” She wiped her lips and backed away, not sure where this dress and its maker might take her.

“Si, si. Te quiero,”
he said again, smiling.

She knew his words meant both love and want, and this she had to stop. Despite the fact that he had married a stone, he was still married to that stone. She wanted to kiss him, to hold his hand, to walk to places she had never seen with him, but she refused to do this with a married man. She felt pity for him, yet he had choices to make concerning his marriage, his situation.

“Te quiero,”
he said, pulling her close again. Then he whispered something else in her ear, and she had to pause to interpret. Her heart pounded in a way she never felt before, a pounding that terrified her more than her worst panic attack ever could, a pounding that excited her more than her first innocent kiss years before, a pounding that sounded as foreign as the sound of Madrid’s city streets back when she first arrived in this country. She had no idea her heart was capable of so many different rhythms, like rain, pounding, beating, pouring, dropping, and so on, depending on the season, the place and the other weather patterns occurring simultaneously.

“No!” shouted the woman from Holland, Michigan, a woman with
values, with fears, with dreams of her own, a woman who picked a tulip, then felt guilty for months, guilty on a deeper level than penalties and fines, guilty for having taken something that didn’t belong to her.

“Si, si.”
He kissed her neck slowly this time, whispering,
“Mas, mas.”

“No. I have to tell you something, Rafael.” She pushed him away.

“Si, si, digame,”
said the man from Spain, a native to a country with a rich history of passion and drama, a country drunk on romance.
“Te quiero.”