Читать книгу The Matador's Crown - Alex Archer - Страница 15

6

Much as she was ambivalent about the corrida—she was neither for nor against bullfighting—Annja had to admit the atmosphere of the bullring satisfied her love of competitive sporting events. She wasn’t convinced, though, that the corrida was competitive, unless that competition was between the matadors.

Sea scented the air, combined with sweat and women’s perfume. Cádiz didn’t have a stadium for bullfighting so they had driven back to the mainland to Jerez de la Frontera, where the summer festival featured two weeks of fights.

The audience was colorful, peopled with stalwart aficionados sporting cigars, straw hats and beers who had probably never missed a fight in decades, alongside tourists toting seat cushions emblazoned with the stadium’s logo. And local women wearing the flamenco-style dress, which ruffled in many layers from the knee down to the ankle. Odd. They must be dressing for the tourists.

Flamenco guitar music played over the loudspeaker, and down in the barrera—the outer row of seats that circled the ring—an impromptu set of dancers stomped out a beat, arms twisting above their heads. The people in the grandstands around them clapped compas and cheered them on with shouts of “Olé!”

This was a medium-size bullring, probably seating around ten thousand. Garin led her to what he’d said was his usual seat on the shady side of the ring. The most expensive and exclusive seats were in the shade, and in the contrabarrera, which was the second circle of seats around the ring. Close to the action, it was the place to sit for the best view of the matadors, who stood behind the barriers while eyeing up their competition, the bull. Just before the contrabarrera was the circular barrera, where Annja believed Hemingway used to be photographed sitting with cigar in hand.

The first matador had left the ring minutes earlier, and as Annja had learned from the advertisement outside the stadium, there were only two fighters today. Normally there were three, sometimes as many as six. Manuel Bravo would walk onto the grounds soon. Right now they were dragging out the dead bull from the previous fight, harnessed to two mules, accompanied by the orchestra, which played a lively paso doble. A cleanup crew followed with rakes to sweep sand over the blood so as not to spook the next bull.

Annja knew Spaniards were zealous about their national pastime. More than a pastime, it was a sport highly revered throughout the ages. Though the sides for and against bullfighting were equally passionate. She’d watched a few bullfights on YouTube and found she could relate to the art of the fight, yet she couldn’t help but want to look away when it came time for the kill.

Garin tipped his cigar to her before the next fight. The man possessed a wicked charisma. Yet with his twisted morals, he wore the costume of a villain as easily as the hero.

Annja winced. Hero was too powerful a label to give the man. It was also a label used too often and easily by the media. Real heroes never expected to be recognized for a brave act. At his best, Garin Braden tended toward helpful citizen. At his worst? She did not want to be in his vicinity.

The man was an enigma. He’d lived for more than five hundred years thanks to the sword she controlled. He was connected to the battle sword, having been there when Joan of Arc had been burned at the stake. He’d witnessed the British soldier break her sword and scatter the pieces among the crowd who had damned Joan and made her a martyr through their own ignorance.

For some reason Garin and his friend Roux, whom Garin had been apprentice to at the time of Joan of Arc’s burning, had both obtained immortality that fateful day. And a lifelong connection to the ineffable sword.

The two men had tracked the pieces over the centuries, and when finally the last piece had been placed, Annja had touched the sword—and as it had become whole, it had also become a part of her. She had not asked for possession of such an object, nor had she anticipated anything of the sort. But now that she did wield the sword, she did so as if it had always been meant for her. It was, in fact, her destiny. Only she could bring it forth from the otherwhere, and as soon as she released it, it was made intangible once again, unless she allowed another to hold it. Then the battle sword would maintain its solid state until she decided it should not. She couldn’t explain the innate process even if a gang of terrorists held AK-47s to her heart. That was just how it worked.

Garin wanted the sword—hell, she’d let him hold it for a few moments of wonder—but she hadn’t decided if it was because he believed keeping it whole would render him mortal or if breaking it would ensure his continued immortality.

Either way, she never let down her guard around Garin Braden.

She accepted the beer he offered her, which had been delivered to his hands moments after they sat down. Obviously, he held some status here. Then again, the man could make things happen no matter where he was. That wasn’t incomprehensible magic, but rather confident command honed over centuries.

She hadn’t taken time to shower after he’d dropped her at the hotel, she’d been so involved in research. She still wore the ponytail she’d hastily tied back this morning after her escape from the hostel, which had dried tightly and was probably looking pretty scrappy right now. Add to that her dark, loose camo pants, standard wear for Annja Creed, adventurer and archaeologist, and a T-shirt. Garin was just lucky she hadn’t dug her boonie hat out of the backpack. But from where they sat the sun promised to stay out of her eyes.

“So how is it you always manage to stumble upon dead bodies, Annja? That’s, what? Two in one day.” He tilted his beer bottle to her in salute, then swallowed down half.

“I think I have a kind of dead-body radar, actually. It does kick in more often than not. I’m never to blame, of course.”

“Course not. Not my sword-wielding adventuress. How is the sword, by the by?”

“True, straight and always there when I need it.”

“They say the man in the hotel room was killed by a sword.”

“Really? Why didn’t you mention that on the drive out of town?”

“You didn’t ask about it.”

She gaped at him.

With a shrug, he added, “I suspect the authorities decided to keep the details from you in case you could be goaded to cough up said details.”

“And how do you have the details?”

“I heard it on the radio.”

Officer Soto had mentioned a media leak. Was there a mole on the force? Interesting. Perhaps there was a dirty cop who had an interest in artifacts?

She watched as the parade of banderilleros and picadors preceded the next matador into the ring. “Can you get more information for me?”

“Why? Who was Diego Montera to you?”

“I didn’t know him. But this hit close. As I’ve said, I had only recently unearthed the bull statue.”

“Alas. I so had hopes for your descent into nefarious deeds.”

“We can’t all be unscrupulous like you, Garin.”

“Of course not.”

“I took pictures.”

“Ah, there’s my girl.”

“The Cádiz police erased them from my camera.”

He gave her a look that said “did you expect anything less?”

“The murder isn’t my concern,” she said. “But it could aid my investigation into the stolen artifacts. I know you have connections. I wouldn’t ask if I couldn’t get answers some other way.”

He nodded, but didn’t say he would look into it for her. Annja marked her request off as Ignored. It was a lot to ask. But generally he didn’t mind helping her, so his silence gave her concern.

Garin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his pale linen pants. His attire was de rigueur for hot Spanish summers. He wore the look well, but then he always seemed to blend into any situation or country. Despite his size and sometimes menacing presence, he had that everyman look.

Cheers erupted around them, and Annja turned her attention to the ring. The matadors spilled out onto the sand ring in suits of black and blue and violet. The man she pinpointed as the principal matador wore a brilliant gold traje de luces or “suit of lights,” along with a black felt montera hat, fuchsia stockings and the classic black flat shoes that reminded her of ballet slippers.

“That’s Manuel Bravo, simply called El Bravo. Fearless. He is this generation’s greatest bullfighter from Cádiz,” Garin explained. “He completed one hundred corridas last year and is on schedule to do the same this season. The man’s a marvel.”

One hundred fights in one season was a marker the pro matadors worked toward. It was an elusive goal, but those who made it were honored and guaranteed a full fight schedule the following season. A great matador could earn up to twenty-five thousand for one fight, so a hundred fights in a season added up nicely.

Annja couldn’t share the excitement the surrounding crowd displayed as they cheered and waved white handkerchiefs and colorful scarves at the matador.

“Though I’m not willing to get out a flag and protest,” she said, “I’m not sure how I feel about the blood sport.”

“It is not a sport, Annja,” Garin reprimanded her. He tilted his beer bottle toward the ring. “Bullfighting is an art, a spectacle. But never a sport.”

“Okay. I defer to your expertise to explain it to me.” Crossing her arms and leaning back in the chair, she braced herself to be convinced.

“I will do my best, but you must know there are over thirty different ways to describe the placement of the torero’s sword according to depth, position and entry point. Tauromachy is an elaborate art. I think we’ll just enjoy it today, okay?”

Right now it wasn’t the matador who swung the cape before the hulking bull, but rather a banderillero dressed in a smart red costume detailed with jet beading. El Bravo stood off beside a portion of wood fence, a barrier the matadors could flee behind during a bull’s attack. The matador was tall and slender. Regal in his suit of lights, he studied each move the bull made as his assistant goaded the animal with the magenta-and-yellow cape.

“Why doesn’t El Bravo test the bull himself?” she asked.

“That’s his assistant’s job. El Bravo needs distance to take it all in. Looking for which horn the bull favors, and whether or not the beast charges straight and with its head down or high. This one is calm. A good bull.”

“How would you know a bad bull?”

“Those cartoons that feature the snorting bull that paws the ground with a hoof? That is a bad bull. Too cocky and fearful. Easily riled and nervous. The matador desires a calm, brave animal to put him to the ultimate test.”

“The bull being an herbivore,” she mused, “it’s surprising they charge a man at all.”

“Rhinoceroses are herbivores. I wouldn’t want to stand alone before one of those tanks.”

“Point made.” Annja noted the matador’s keen eye on the bull as it lowered its head to charge the cape. “Do they know what they’re getting before the bull comes to the ring?”

“Not usually. The bulls are selected before the fight in the sorteo. The matador never does the selection. He sends his second in command, who pays close attention to horn size, sharpness and shape. But it’s difficult to determine the animal’s mien in a small stockyard.” Garin finished off the beer. His attention swerved to her. “I assume you’re going to stick around and look into the murdered man’s life?”

“Like I said, I’ll leave that to the police. It’s curious, if you ask me, that someone would leave behind a piece such as the bronze bull at the scene. Even if the murderer had no idea the value of the object, he—”

“Or she,” Garin interjected.

“Or she, should have been able to take one look at it, known it was an artifact and pocketed it.”

“Perhaps their morals for stealing were stronger than for taking another man’s life?”

“That makes no sense.”

“Why? I’m not much for theft myself. Yet if faced with a situation where I had to defend my life by taking another’s life, I wouldn’t question the choice.”

“Are you suggesting whoever killed Diego did it in self-defense? A knife to the back is hardly a defensive wound.”

“No. Just showing you there are many ways to reason a man’s actions.”

“Explain to me, then, a man’s choice to watch another man murder an animal before a crowd?”

“Ah, but it’s not a defenseless animal. Name one other situation where an animal raised for slaughter is allowed the opportunity to defend its life?”

Annja opened her mouth to reply, but said nothing. He had a point. A vague, far-reaching point.

“Besides, the man isn’t safe from danger,” he added. “The matador faces danger for us all. He offers us that risk we are unwilling to take for the thrill of near death.”

“This coming from a man who I know takes risks daily.”

“Well.” Garin shrugged. “I’m speaking about the others.”

The common people was the unspoken part he left out. So like Garin, and not at all offensive when delivered with his charming smirk.

The matador had stepped out from behind the fenced barrier and swirled the magenta-and-yellow cape to attract the bull’s attention. The cape moves were called veronicas, named after the veil Veronica had used to wipe the sweat from Jesus as he marched to his doom.

“Left horn,” Garin muttered. “He’ll present the cape to that one because that’s the dominant one.”

The crowd cheered when the bull passed close to the matador, one deadly ebony horn brushing his hip. The matador didn’t step back, but instead leaned in toward the bull, bringing man and beast together as one. The bravery required to maintain that stance and not step aside was incredible, at once brutal and graceful. Annja nodded, impressed.

“As I’ve said, bullfighting is an art,” Garin said into her ear to be heard over the approving shouts of “Olé.”

And yet the word matador translated to killer. Annja took another sip of her beer, avoiding comment.

“The crowd doesn’t attend to witness a grisly murder,” Garin continued, “but rather the art of man against beast as each offers his very life in a competition that pits grace and style against ferocity and danger.”

She could buy into that. To a point. “Except when the picador enters, then the grace and style fades and the cheating begins.”

Garin shook his head and popped open another beer that again seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. “Annja, I won’t even try. I had expected you, of all people, to have an open mind about this event.”

“I can look at it objectively.” There was a certain art to bullfighting. “Just call me a nonpartisan observer.”

She understood the first capework performed by the matador was designed to tire the bull, to seek out its weaknesses and exploit them. It was a mind game between man and beast. It was the moment when the bull showed its mettle, be it gentle and awkward when approaching the cape or determined and ferocious with each charge. It was also the first time the bull had ever seen a man on foot and not mounted on a horse.

But her carefully restrained judgment nudged loose as the picador rode in on his horse, wielding the long spear he would use to poke the bull in the shoulder muscle to further weaken it. Rumors held that often the horse was drugged to keep it docile and less skittish.

The horse the picador rode was shielded with a heavily padded mattresslike fabric and was turned to one side to give the bull a charging target, diverting its attention from the matador, who had successfully avoided all the bull’s charges, giving the beast nothing to connect with. The picador provided the bull something to charge after so many false charges against the matador, to give it encouragement as the beast’s instinct to charge the cape might fade.

With his eight-foot lance, the picador stabbed the bull in the morillo, the huge neck muscle, in an effort to make it swell and weaken the animal. Before the picador could maneuver the horse to move in for the second lance, the crowd hissed as the bull pinned the horse against the wood barrier surrounding the ring. The picador flew off over the side of the barrier and into the contrabarrera, leaving the horse alone with the bull. A horn penetrated the horse’s unprotected chest and the dying whinny forced Annja’s attention back to Garin.

The man wasn’t watching. His gaze followed the matador, who’d retreated behind the protective barrier. The matador was no fool. As much as Garin argued that bullfighting was an art, the horse was the most unsuspecting victim of it all.

“So what brings you to Cádiz?” she asked, unable to take in what was happening below. “You mentioned you were already here. What, were you following me?”

“I had no idea you were in the city until Roux’s call.” He nodded toward the ring. “Manuel is a good friend. He’s invited me for the week. I’ll introduce you to him following the match.”

It would intrigue her to meet the man who currently caped the bull away from the dying horse. A man who stood arrogantly bold and waited for the bull to charge before swishing the cape behind him and redirecting the bull’s aim.

To more rousing cheers of “Olé,” the matador worked a crowd-pleasing performance and even picced the bull himself, placing the bright blue-and-pink-ribboned barbed darts—which looked to Annja like big cocktail sticks—at the hump of the bull’s neck with a daring charge directly at the animal. The trick was to jump high and to the side to avoid the horns. Normally this act was performed by the banderilleros, but some matadors chose to do it themselves out of machismo and to further impress the crowd.