Sweet Torment

by Flora Kidd

'Nothing was offered,' she protested wildly, hurt beyond bearing by his bitterness.

  'So you keep saying. I don't have to believe you,' he sneered.

  The waitress came with their food. She set the plates before them, poured more coffee and went away. Juan began to eat at once. Sorrel, still stunned by his attack, watched him enviously. Apparently losing his temper didn't affect his appetite.

  Eventually she began to eat knowing that if she didn't she would regret it later. This was the last time she would be with him, for this afternoon while he

  was performing in the last act of the lidia, luring the

  bull to its death under the blazing sun, she would be on

  her way to Mesiellin. There was nothing he could do to

  stop her from going once he had left her to go into the

  arena.

  The silence between them as they ate was made all the more tense and noticeable by the noise of voices coming from the other tables. To Sorrel the food tasted of nothing. She forced it down a dry throat unwillingly thinking of the forthcoming bullfight and what might happen during the course of it to the man who was sitting opposite to her. He might be killed, so how could she part from him in anger? How could she let her brief yet close relationship with him end in bitter words?

  Unable to finish the food, she laid down her knife and fork, gulped down more coffee, then looked across at him, her glance lingering on the scar which slashed his cheek. Could she possibly bridge, if only for a few minutes, the differences in attitudes which yawned between them?

  `Juan, I ... I'm sorry I can't be what you want me to be,' she, said huskily, reaching a hand across the, table towards him.

  He finished eating, laid his fork down on his empty plate, wiped his mouth on a paper serviette and gave her an underbrowed glance. The cold hostility expressed in his eyes shocked her.

  'How do you know what I want you to be?' he retorted. 'You've never let me tell you. You've spent nearly all the short time we've had together leaping to false conclusions, making wrong assumptions about me, judging me. Why? What the hell are you trying to do? Punish me for what some other guy did to you?'

  'No, I'm not,' she was stung into denying. Forgetting her desire to part from him amicably, she got to her

  feet and grabbing her bag moved out from behind the table, only to find him there.

  'Where do you think you're going?' he demanded. -To the airport,' She spat at him. 'I'm going as far away as I can from you! '

  The buzz of conversation from the other tables died down. She was aware of heads turning, of eyes staring at herself and Juan. Pivoting on one heel, she started towards the door of the restaurant, but Juan's hand shot out, gripped her arm bruisingly and she was swung round to face him. Although the anger leaping in his eyes like pale fire frightened her, fury because he had dared to lay a hand on her in a public place in front of an audience of avidly curious men, some of whom were already beginning to grin and make remarks, made her try to wrench her arm free from his grip.

  'How dare you touch me!' she stormed, her cheeks burning with the blood which had rushed to them.

  'Listen,' he grated between set white teeth, putting his face so close to hers she could see the texture of his skin and the faint tiny needle-pricks edging the scar on his cheek. 'It was you who decided to play rough back there at the ranch, so rough it's going to be from now on until you're tamed, little bull. You can forget any promises you made to Monica. You're going to stay and watch the lidia this afternoon ...'

  'No, no! ' She shook her head wildly so that her shining hair shimmered. 'You can't make me watch it, you can't!'

  'I can, and you're going to be there right to the end of it, sitting in the President's box with Diego Cortez, the promoter, and his wife when I make my bow after I've killed the bull. You'll wait for me until I've done what I have to do this afternoon and then when it's over we'll go to the church next door to the arena and make

  our marriage vows before the priest.'

  'Our marriage vows?' she repeated in a hoarse whisper, fear and fury suddenly giving way to astonishment.

  'Yes. I didn't intend to propose to you in this fashion before spectators, but you've forced my hand by your silly, stubborn behaviour. Now you know what I want you to be. I want you to be my wife, for better or worse, in sickness and in health. Surely to God you can find. nothing immoral about that?' He gave an impatient glance as some of the men, who were obviously familiar with him, began to cheer him on with some hand-claps. 'Come on,' he urged. 'Let's get out of here.'

  His hand still gripping her arm, he urged her forward, and feeling like a puppet being manipulated by a strong-handed puppeteer Sorrel went with him, her will still overcome by her amazement at his proposal.

  Out into hot bright sunshine they surged, to cross the space between the restaurant building and a door which opened into the built-in area beneath the tiers of seats. Through the door into a narrow dark passage way he pushed her, stopping her in front of another door. He rapped with his knuckles on the door and the-sound brought her out of her daze. Once more she tried to wrench her arm free and failed.

  'You're crazy,' she muttered. 'You must be, to want to marry a woman you've known only three days.'

  'Not crazy, just able to make up my mind quickly when I have to because I happen td know what I want and recognise it when I see it,' he retorted, and slanted her a sardonic glance. 'You could say my experience with other women has helped.'

  Hearing a voice call out, he turned the knob of the door and thrust it open, pushing her roughly before him into a surprisingly spacious office in which two people were sitting, a man who was lounging behind a

  big desk and a woman who was sitting on a couch.

  'For dios, Juan, you're cutting it fine.' The man behind the desk came to his feet. He was of medium height and had wide shoulders. His bush of wiry dark hair was greying at the temples and his small dark eyes were bright and shrewd between creased lids. He was wearing a lightweight grey suit, a crisp white shirt and a neat dark tie, a typical Colombian businessman, and was holding a long fat cigar between his teeth. 'Don't you realise the parade of the toreros begins in ten minutes and you're not in your matador costume?'

  'I got here as soon as I could,' said Juan coolly. 'You have made the arrangements for me?'

  'Si, we have made them.' The woman spoke and rose to her feet to come across to them. She was tall and shapely, beautifully dressed in an elegant dark red tussore silk, and there was something familiar about her tawny-grey eyes which were set under fine slanting eyebrows. She held out a slim hand to Sorrel and smiled. 'I am Eugenia Cortez.' She waved a hand to the big man., `And this is Diego, my husband. Juan has told us about you, Sorrel—do I say your name correctly?—and you are welcome to sit with us this afternoon.' She sent an affectionate glance in Juan's direction. 'Do not worry, amigo,' she added softly, 'I shall take care of your bride-to-be.'

  'Muchas gracias. I knew I could depend on you,' he answered, and bent his head to kiss her on both cheeks.

  `Go with God,' murmured Eugenia, returning the embrace, then turning to Sorrel who was standing in stunned surprise, shook her arm and urged her towards Juan. 'Go on, embrace him and give him your blessing. Don't you realise that this afternoon he is taking his life in his hands?'

  There wasn't much point in saying 'I can't' or 'I

  won't' here, and anyway she didn't want to, because now that she was about to be parted from Juan her one impulse was to cling to him and beg him not to go into the arena that afternoon. Going up to him, she placed her hands on his shoulders, slid them round his neck and drew his head down.

  'Please be careful,' she whispered, and touched her lips to his, intending to kiss him only fleetingly. But his arms came about her, crushing her against the warmth of his body, and even during that brief moment he managed to convey that his interest in her was sensual so that when he thrust her from him to go from the room she had to steady herself with a hand on the back of a chair while
her breath came unsteadily through her still parted lips.

  `So you are to marry my nephew, and yet I hear of you only yesterday,' said Eugenia, strolling back to the couch and sinking gracefully down on it. Diego had left the room on the heels of Juan, urging him to hurry, and the two women were alone.

  'Your nephew?' exclaimed Sorrel. She was suddenly feeling extremely awkward and wished she was wearing something more elegant than the casual gypsy-style summer skirt and simple cotton blouse.

  `Si. Did you not know?' Eugenia raised surprised eyebrows. 'I am the younger sister of Rodrigo Renalda, Juan's father. Come and sit down and tell me where you and Juan met. I find this sudden decision of his to marry you this evening most exciting and romantic, but very much in keeping with bullfighting tradition. Marriage for a bullfighter is often a rushed affair and sometimes, unfortunately, takes place in a hospital just before he dies.' She noted Sorrel's swift uncontrollable shudder and reached a hand out to touch her arm corn-

  fortingly. 'Forgive me, I shouldn't have mentioned that.'

  Perhaps if she told Eugenia everything the woman would see how impossible it was for her to stay and marry Juan, might even help her to return to Medellin, thought Sorrel.

  'You said you had heard about me already from Juan,' she said. 'When did he tell you?'

  `He came into Copaya last night to see us, to ask us make arrangements for a quick wedding after the fight this afternoon. But I had heard about you before he came, from my niece Inez. She called on me on her way to Bogota. She was full of mischief as usual, telling me of how she had sent a message to Juan saying that a beautiful English princess with glorious red hair had come to visit him. She was very intrigued by your sudden arrival at the ranch just as she was leaving and was convinced that Juan had invited you to live with him as his mistress. Had he?'

  'No. I ... I went to see him to ask his help in saving Monica Angel's marriage,' Sorrel began, saw Eugenia's fine-featured Spanish face crease with puzzlement and at once launched into an account of how she had met Juan on El Sombrero and all that had resulted from that meeting.

  `And that was the only reason you came all the way from Medellin to the ranch by yourself?' exclaimed Eugenia. Tor dios, you are impetuous! Didn't anyone warn you that it isn't always safe for a young woman like you to wander about the countryside? Anything might have happened to you.'

  `Well, it didn't,' retorted Sorrel, lifting her chin. 'At least, not until I tried to leave your nephew's house to go back to Medellin.'

  `And what happened then?'

  'He tried to stop me. Then when I did get out of the house eventually he came after me and insisted that I stay the night.'

  'Good. I am glad to hear it,' said Eugenia emphatically. 'He did what was right.'

  `Right?' exclaimed Sorrel. 'You call taking my clothes away from me and locking me in the room where I was to sleep right?'

  A twinkle came into the tawny eyes which were watching her.

  'He was only thinking of your safety,' said Eugenia. 'And then this morning he ... he made love to me,' Sorrel added huskily.

  'But of course, Juan would. Even in that awful skirt and blouse you are very lovely in an exotic way, like one of our red orchids, and Juan has a great appreciation of the exotic,' said Eugenia quite seriously. 'Didn't you like him making love to you?'

  'I ... I ... Oh yes, I did,' admitted Sorrel, and covered her flushed face with her hands. 'But it's all wrong. I can't be what he wants me to be. We hardly know each other.'

  'Often the getting to know each other comes after the marriage, not before,' replied Eugenia.

  'There are so many differences between us. We had different upbringings, have different attitudes to so many things.'

  `So? You think that unusual?' queried Eugenia in surprise. 'I can assure you it isn't. Always people from different backgrounds are marrying each other. Differences can make an interest and can always be bridged by love.' She rose to her -feet. 'Come, it's time we went up to the box to be there for the parade of the toreros.'

  'I'm not coming,' said Sorrel stubbornly. 'I can't watch a bullfight, I can't, I can't! I shall be sick.'

  If she could persuade Eugenia that she would really be ill, would be an embarrassment if she watched the performance, maybe the woman would leave her here in this office and then later she would be able to slip out and find a taxi to take her to the airport.

  `But you must be there,' Eugenia was speaking sternly. 'Juan will be expecting you to be there. Come now, this is a time when you have to put him before yourself.'

  `What difference will it make to him whether I'm there or not?' protested Sorrel.

  At that moment the door opened and Diego stepped into the room.

  `Are you ready to come now, both of you, to watch the parade?' he asked, his shrewd eyes flicking from Sorrel to his wife and then back again. `Que tiene? What's wrong?' he asked, closing the door behind him.

  `She doesn't want to see Juan perform. She says she will be sick.' Eugenia sounded disgusted. 'Tell her, Diego. Tell her why she has to be there, why she mustn't let him down today of all days.'

  'I'm not letting him down,' cried Sorrel defensively.

  `You will let him down if you don't come to watch him,' said Diego. 'Eugenia, you go ahead, because our other guests have arrived.' He held the door open for his wife, then closed it again, leaned against it and folded his arms across his chest, staring at Sorrel.

  'It is easy to see, senorita,' he said his voice husky from too much smoking, 'that you know very little about bullfighting and the men who take part in it. You know how this sport of ours began, eh?'

  `No, I don't,' Sorrel shook her head, feeling as if she were being lectured by a stern schoolmaster for having neglected her studies.

  `It grew out of man's age-old hunt for food,' Diego

  continued slowly, 'from the time when primitive men stalked the wild bulls and slaughtered them in the open country for their food. Then later when the animals became more domesticated in eleventh-century Spain Spanish knights and Moorish chieftains used to compete against each other hunting and killing bulls in the fields. The knight rode on a horse with a lance and he employed footmen to line up the bulls for the kill. Ah, I see you're beginning to be interested now.'

  Sorrel had stopped staring at her hands and had raised her head to listen more closely.

  `What people used to do for sport in the eleventh century has no part of the twentieth century,' she argued. 'It's a degrading spectacle, nothing more.'

  `So you really believe we are more civilised in this century?' he scoffed, 'when we slaughter each other with bombs?' He shook his head from side to side. 'No, I do not believe we are. Human nature doesn't change much and a man still responds to the challenge the wild beast presents, likes to test his courage against brute strength. By the eighteenth century the importance of the footman who took his life in his hands and went forward to lure the bull with deceptive movements of his cape had increased. He became the hero of the sport, not the knight on horseback, and gradually it ceased to be a fight and became more of a dramatic performance in which the skill and artistry of the matadors can be compared to the skill and artistry of actors on the stage.' He paused and looked at his watch. 'But there isn't time to tell you more. All I have to say is that like any other star performer a matador is temperamental. After all, he is playing with death. One false move, one little mistake and the bull is the victor. That is what happened the last time Juan performed. Something, about which I'm not free to tell you, happened before

  he went into the arena, something which disturbed his concentration so much that he made a mistake and was gored. Now today I don't want him disturbed in any way. If he looks up to the box at the beginning of the faena and sees you're not there he is going to wonder where you are, might be distracted and possibly gored. Do you want that to happen?'

  Sorrel shook her head slowly.

  'No, I don't want him to be hurt again, ever,' she said in a low stricken voice. 'I
don't want him to fight any more either.'

  `Perhaps he won't, once he has married you,' said Diego. 'His father retired in order to marry. But Juan owes it to himself and to his fans to fight just once more so that he can retire gracefully, without the stigma of cowardice attached to his name. Now come, my dear, I'm sure you would like to help him achieve his aim by being there. I promise you it won't be too bad. You can always cover your eyes if it becomes too much for you to watch.'

  Sorrel thought of the scar on Juan's cheek, then remembered the picture of the bull tossing him into the air which was on the wall of a room at the ranch house, she remembered Jovita saying that he had nearly died and knew she had to suppress her own dislike of the sport and go to watch this last fight of Juan's.

  'I'll just comb my hair,' she said, rising to her feet and smoothing her rumpled skirt, 'and then I'll be ready to come with you. I wish I was more elegantly dressed, but this is all I have to wear.'

  'You look lovely as you are,' said Diego gallantly, kissing his fingers to her and smiling. 'And I knew you would put Juan's wishes first once you realised what was at stake.'

  They went up a flight of wooden steps which led from

  the end of the passageway straight into the box-like structure, decorated with flowers and flags, which was situated in the middle of the tiers of seats set round a circle of bright sand. The parade was already in progress and the crowd was cheering noisily, drowning out the sound of the small band of drums, pipes and bugles which marched in front of the picadors and banderillos whose job it was to torment the bulls with picas and barbed sticks. Behind them came the matadors, each one of them wearing a glittering costume and responding to the cheers of the crowds by waving their three-cornered hats, and as they came level with the box Sorrel saw quite clearly the flash of Juan's grey eyes as he looked towards her and made a bow.

  Her eyes never left him as he sauntered round the arena, his red cape over one shoulder, walking with that graceful swagger of hips and shoulders which was so much a part of his role as a matador, and she hardly heard the names of the other guests in the box as Eugenia introduced them.