Paco flipped his arms as if holding a cape, then winked at Sophie. "Perhaps I will show you a few moves later, señorita?"
"Or maybe I will." Michael pulled her close, snuggling her to his neck and placing a soft kiss on her forehead.
Maria stiffened on the seat beside them.
With a loud cheer from the crowd, the gates opened, and Michael grasped Sophie's arm. A military band marched forward, playing the Spanish national anthem.
Sophie rose with the others, setting her sketch pad on the bench and mimicking their clenched-fist salute. Passion radiated from the crowd's voices, and Sophie's heart swelled. As tears flowed down the cheeks of those seated around her, Sophie remembered—for the first time since entering the arena—that war raged just outside the city. Something the people had not forgotten.
One thousand voices rose in perfect harmony. Though she understood the words, every time Sophie attempted to sing, she stumbled over them. Michael sang heartily, as if he'd been born and raised in Madrid. Beside him, Maria Donita's voice rose above the rest, not due to her strong presence, but rather because the crowd around her seemed to soften their own voices in appreciation of her beautiful refrain.
The song came to an end, and cheers erupted again as eight matadors entered the arena. They marched, straight-backed, to blaring trumpets and the cheers of the adoring crowd.
Sophie scanned their faces, attempting to remember each one, wondering if they would all exit as triumphantly. "I imagined the bullfighters to be tall and brawny like football players, but that is not the case."
"Their strength is in their agility," Michael answered. "Besides, wait until you see the fight. I couldn't imagine a football player moving with such form and grace—it would be like an elephant in a ballet."
The matadors' black hair glistened in the sun. She'd heard of the fine costumes typically worn, suits of light as they were called. Yet today the mantillas and fine satin suits were put away, and matadors wore only the monos of the militia fighters, reminding the people again of the purpose of today's fight.
The procession through the arena included banderilleros and picadors, in addition to the matadors. Paco took great care explaining their role to Sophie as they entered the arena. Once the procession was over, only two matadors remained.
Sophie followed the gaze of the others and turned her attention to the bull in the closed stall. He snorted and pawed the ground.
"The foreordained death of the bull is as sacred as the Mass," Michael explained. "And the possibility of death of the matador displays passion, tension, and truth. You're right, Maria." He patted Maria's hand. "It is much more than sport."
The gate lifted, and the bull rushed out. The creature's squinted eyes attempted to adjust to the light of the arena. It seemed so alone and angry, and Sophie winced as she saw that it was already wounded by tiny lances in its neck.
As if chasing the bull, two assistants ran into the ring.
"What are they doing?" Sophie watched as they waved their capes, and the bull made a few passes.
"They're testing the bull to see if he's brave or treacherous." Paco leaned forward and pointed into the ring. "See how he's watching every movement? Each bull enters the ring only once. If for some reason he leaves alive, he never returns. They are too clever, too quick to learn the weaknesses of the matadors."
"Every bullfighter prefers a brave bull," Michael added, lifting his camera and snapping a few shots.
"A brave bull will charge every time," Maria said, the movement of her fan speeding up as she looked at Sophie. Sophie noted a warning in the young woman's voice, something the men hadn't seemed to pick up.
"Yet a coward is hard to read. It is far more dangerous, to be sure," Paco added.
"That bull looks very brave." Maria scooted closer to Michael's side. "That matador best be on his guard."
Ignoring Maria, Sophie turned her attention to the arena. Her pounding heart quickened even more, and she held her breath as the matador stood balanced on his toes with the bull racing toward him. He stretched the cape at arm's length in front of him, making an arch with his lean body. The bull raged past, and the matador's stomach drew in so tightly Sophie was sure there was no room for him to even take a small breath of air.
"There are four parts to every fight," Michael said. "The cape play by the matador, the thrusts by the picadors on their mounts, and then the placing of the banderillas, which are those long wooden shafts. Only then does the death blow come with the muleta."
"Muleta?"
"Yes, it's a sword concealed behind that beautiful cape," Maria Donita said.
Feeling tension building in her limbs, Sophie lifted her sketchbook and began to draw. She noted the lumpy flesh on the bull's back—the way it quivered as he propelled his body down the length of the arena. His vain charges to the broad and beautiful capes wielded by the toreros brought cheers from the crowd.
Next a horse and picador, its mounted rider, entered the ring and stood fixed like a statue. Revulsion at the thought of bleeding horses caused Sophie to pause, her pencil in midair.
"Is that bull really going to charge that blindfolded horse?" A sick feeling washed over her, and she looked away.
Michael patted her cheek. "Yes, he's free to gore it as the picador attempts to drive his long lance deep into the bull's neck muscles. The lance will weaken the bull and make him vulnerable to the torero's sword."
Sophie continued to watch, but not with the passion of the crowd. Instead, she focused on the page, attempting to catch every small detail on the dramatic stage set before her.
When the first matador finished, one of the officials offered him the ears and tail of the bull he'd slain.
"Is that some type of trophy?"
"Exactly. It proves that it was a clean kill and perfect cape work."
The sun slipped lower in the sky as, one by one, the bulls were downed and dragged out of the arena. Eventually, only trails of blood and one matador remained.
"There is no middle ground when it comes to bullfighting. People either think it's crude and barbaric or a great art," Michael said as he snapped a shot of the last matador entering the arena.
Sophie gave no answer.
When the last matador approached, the crowd rose to their feet with wild applause even before the bull was released. Though the matador's dark hair and light eyes made him wickedly handsome, the dejected look on his face nearly brought tears to Sophie's eyes.
"His brother was killed yesterday on the Guadarrama front," Paco explained. "He would not be here today if this weren't a charity event."
Sophie snatched up her notebook and continued her sketch. With quick strokes she hoped to relate the tense excitement of the event. Yet she could not capture the spirit of patriotism that ignited the air, and the image seemed flat and lifeless on the paper.
She started to tear the page from her notebook when Michael's hand covered hers. "Leave it there. It's not perfect, but it's a memory just the same. . . ."
She lifted her eyes just in time to see the matador march across the sand, his boots moving in time to the music. A black hat sat straight just above his eyebrows.
As the music crescendoed, a gigantic red bull roared into the ring. Sophie held her breath, her eyes fixed on the man who appeared so alone in the center. As the bull circled the perimeter, the matador lifted his bright red cape high in the air, swaying it to catch the bull's attention. The bull snorted and sped up, closing the gap between it and the man.
Yet the matador stood motionless, and Sophie gasped as he pulled the cape even closer to his body. "What is he doing?"
Michael held up his hand, silencing her.
Just as the animal reached the cloth, the man spun, twisting the cape around himself, and the bull plowed into empty air. He repeated the dance three more times—the bull's horns just grazing his body. And it wasn't until Michael's laughter broke through her consciousness that Sophie realized she was on her feet as the matador killed the bull with
one perfect thrust. She was both horrified and enthralled. The rest of the audience joined her, standing, then they tossed bouquets of carnations into the ring. Some men even tossed their hats.
Then over the gates jumped many milicianos, lifting the man to their shoulders . . . yet the matador's face was not one of triumph. Even with his hands covering his face, Sophie noted his trembling shoulders and tears dripping from his chin. She sat down again at the sight of the bull being dragged away. Her stomach felt queasy.
"Someday, I will bring you back for the display of the gypsy bullfighters," Michael said. "Though cowards, their style and elegance cannot be matched."
"I can appreciate the fight, but I'm not sure I want to come back anytime soon. It just seems so unfair." Sophie closed her sketchbook. "The bull didn't seem to have much of a chance."
"Now that sounds very American. And I'm sure a slaughterhouse would make a better end?" Michael's voice was terse, and he released her hand. "Besides, the matadors only make it look like they have the upper hand. Many are killed each season."
"Oh, Michael, be kind to the girl. She is a foreigner, after all. She knows no different."
"I'm a foreigner too, remember?" Michael's voice calmed, and he offered his arms to both Sophie and Maria as they rose.
Maria patted his chest. "Did you forget Spain's blood is in your veins? It brought you home. And only true sons and daughters of Spain are destined to remain here."
Chapter Eleven
No hay mal que por bien no venga.
There is nothing bad that does not bring some good.
Spanish proverb
Flower arrangements of red carnations covered every available surface of the chapel. Faces of family and friends smiled back as Sophie stepped down the aisle to the wedding march, her powder blue dress swishing around her legs as she walked.
Her glance passed over the admiring audience and back to the front, where the groom waited. Yet she paused midstep as she noticed a bride already at his side.
First the groom turned to look at her—Michael. Then the bride turned—Maria Donita—divinely beautiful in a black dress with red poppies. Maria opened her mouth and laughter spilled out, but as Sophie rushed toward the woman, the laughter was replaced by a bloodcurdling wail.
As the wail continued, Maria's mouth widened, covering her whole face with a black, yawning cavern. Sophie bolted upright in the darkness of her hotel room, perspiration—or tears—stinging her eyes and wetting her face. She placed a hand over her pounding heart while trying to shake off the horrid nightmare, then jumped out of bed.
After taking a calming breath, she again heard the wailing sound and rushed to the open window to scan the street below. The only one occupying the street—lit by the first pink rays of dawn—was an old man yanking a gray donkey's halter rope, attempting to urge it forward. The donkey, rump plastered to the pavement, held his head high despite the old man's best efforts to drag it down so he could lead the animal. In frustration, the farmer picked up a large straw broom from the cobblestone street and swung it wide and hard, striking the side of the donkey's head, and it shrieked again. If Sophie hadn't seen it for herself, she'd never have believed a woman's screech could come out of a donkey's mouth. She fanned her face, trying to calm her frayed nerves.
She returned to the large, overstuffed bed, found the residual warmth of her body, pulled the feather comforter back over herself, and burrowed her cheek into the massive feather pillow. Hoping to avoid her interrupted nightmare, she concentrated instead on her favorite dream since she was ten. The one where she was a bride in a flowing gown, step, step, stepping down the aisle of a church filled with flowers toward an adoring groom. Family and friends were gathered with joyful and expectant faces.
For many years the face of the groom had eluded her, until the day she met Michael. He was so different from Boston's homegrown guys. Growing up in Washington, D.C., and Spain, Michael had an air of classiness mixed with Spanish charm. Even the fellow artists at the museum seemed boring compared to the international journalist. Michael's ruggedly handsome features would have been enough to capture her interest, but he was also smart and sophisticated.
She smiled and sighed as she remembered their first date. Instead of offering her the typical dinner and theater tickets, Michael had chartered a small speedboat and whisked her off to Little Brewster Island in Boston Harbor, where they picnicked on the sandy beach, then walked the trails to the crest of the hill. There he photographed the harbor and the city beyond while she sketched, appreciating him as much as the landscape before her.
Five years her senior, he'd traveled the world and seen his photos published in some of the country's top magazines. At the time Sophie met him, Michael was taking six months to catch his breath and spend time with his parents, who'd recently moved to Boston. Yet even during this breather, he worked for the local paper. And even around Boston, his camera had seemed an extension of his arm. He babied it and spoke to it lovingly, as one would a cherished child, as he snapped the photos. As the sun began to set, she watched as he took an almost transparent piece of cloth and placed it over the lens of his camera.
Sophie had leaned in close, breathing in his scent of soap and fresh air. "What's that for?"
"This silk will make the photo appear hazy, as if capturing the ocean mist. Except for this one part, you see." He showed her where the cloth had been cut away, leaving a small opening over the center of the lens. "I'll center this clear spot on that boat in the distance. Only the boat will be in focus, and it will make it seem as if it is sailing through a dream." He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "After all, being with you is like a dream come true."
"How's that?" Sophie had rested her head on his shoulder. Her heart pounded and she couldn't hide her slight smile.
"I always pictured myself with someone like you. Someone in love with art and life. I think, Sophie, that this day is just the start of something beautiful."
They had talked and laughed as if they'd always been friends, capturing the scenery around them on film and paper until the fading sunlight made that impossible. Then, after the sun had slipped away, they'd explored Boston Light, the oldest lighthouse in the country, sitting atop the rocky cliff. In the distance, the glow from the lighthouse danced on the water in circular swirls, and her heart mimicked the dancing within her chest.
Late that night, after Michael had dropped her off back home, grinning and smelling of saltwater spray, she had the dream again. Only it was his smiling face awaiting her at the end of the aisle. And his engagement ring six months later brought that dream one step closer to coming true.
Sophie withdrew her left hand from under her comforter, extending it in the pink predawn light to study appreciatively the thin platinum band with seven small European-cut diamonds. Then she stretched and kicked the covers off, padding to the closet where the dress for her wedding hung. She removed it from the hanger and pressed it to her, turning to the full-length mirror. It was all she’d ever wanted. Yet since being here she questioned if Michael still wanted the same. Maria's face came to mind, followed by the image of soldiers marching down the street—their faces set with determination as they headed to the front. The war compromised their safety; that was certain. But Sophie knew, deep down, this other woman posed an even greater threat.
She walked to the small desk with the phone, considering calling Michael's apartment to ask him to meet her—to get everything out in the open. Then she remembered he'd left the city last night on assignment and wouldn't be back until later that afternoon.
A longing to see the former tenderness and love in his eyes filled her chest until she couldn't stand the ache. With heavy steps, she returned the dress to the closet and wondered if the nightmare had been a harbinger of what lay ahead.
Sophie gently set her sketchbook and pencils on the shaded, grassy area near a cluster of trees in the small city park near her hotel. The building beside her had a window cracked open, and she heard the rattle of t
ypewriter keys pounding like the distant machine guns she imagined on the front lines. She settled on the grass, trying to determine what she should sketch.
An old man and woman sat on a bench at the street corner, with a small suitcase set between them like a table and two white teacups steaming with what she assumed was tea. The man's jowls hung from his jaw, and after taking a sip from his cup, he let out a long sigh. A faded blue scarf covered the woman's head tightly, pressing down on her forehead as if creating a permanent scowl.
Sophie tried to imagine them as a young couple in love. Had they danced in fields of flowers together? Had she, with a child on her hip, watched him from the window of their small cottage as he chopped wood for their fire?
As she sat there, Sophie watched washerwomen transform the landscape around her. It was as if the clothes they pinned to their lines were the strokes of a brush, adding color to the gray landscape. Red socks, a blue blanket, crisp white nightshirts. A small blue dress. Grey trousers. Another woman added to the color until colors fluttered across the grey brick buildings like ornaments on a Christmas tree.
Sophie heard her name called and looked up to see José strolling up the sidewalk, a broad smile filling his face.
"Mimo, guess what? My mission, it has been accomplished." He squatted before her, took both her hands in his, and squeezed. "I have a gift for you. Something you want more than anything."
"A gift?"
"Sofía, you wished for an apartment, and one has opened up with dear friends. You'll love Benita and Luis. They are like a second family to me here in Madrid. Although in my opinion, Benita spends far too much time with those foreign Baptist missionaries."
"Please don't tease me like that, José. You know what Michael said. I only have a few days left until I return to France."
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