The Square—A Wedding in La
Bombilla—The Asphalt Caldrons.
The betrothal of El Carnicerin and Justa was formally
arranged, Senor Custodio and his wife bathed in rose
water, and only Manuel believed that in the end the
wedding would never take place.
El Carnicerin was all together too haughty and too
much of a fine fellow to marry the daughter of a ragdealer;
Manuel imagined that now the butcher’s son would
try to take advantage of his opportunity. But
for the present nothing authorized such malevolent
suppositions.
El Carnicerin was generosity itself and showed delicate
attentions to his sweetheart’s parents.
One summer day he invited the whole family and Manuel
to a bull fight. Justa dressed up very fetchingly
in her best to make a worthy companion to her lover.
Senor Custodio took out his finest apparel: the
new fedora, new although it was more than thirty years
old; his coat of doubled cloth, excellent for the
boreal regions, and a cane with a horn handle, bought
in El Rastro; the ragdealer’s wife wore a flowered
kerchief, while Manuel made a most ridiculous appearance
in a hat that was taken from the shop and protruded
about a palm’s length before his eyes, a winter
suit that suffocated him and a pair of tight shoes.
Behind Justa and El Carnicerin, Senor Custodio, his
wife and Manuel attracted everybody’s attention
and left a wake of laughter.
Justa turned back to look at them and could not help
smiling. Manuel walked along in a rage, stifling,
his hat pressing tightly against his forehead and
his feet aching.
They got into a street car at Toledo Street and rode
to the Puerta del Sol; there they boarded art omnibus,
which took them to the bull ring.
They entered and, guided by El Carnicerin, sat themselves
down in their respective places. The spectacle
had begun and the amphitheatre was packed. Tier
upon tier was crammed with a black mass of humanity.
Manuel glared into the arena; they were about to kill
the bull near the stone wall that bounded the ring,
at a short distance from where they were. The
poor beast, half dead already, was dragging himself
slowly along, followed by three or four toreros and
the matador, who, curved forward, with his red flag
in one hand and his sword in the other, came behind.
The matador was scared out of his wits; he stood before
the bull, considered carefully just where he was to
strike him, and at the beast’s slightest movement
he prepared to escape. Then, if the bull remained
quiet a while, he struck him once, again, and the
animal lowered his head; with his tongue hanging out,
dripping blood, he gazed out of the sad eyes of a
dying creature. After much effort the matador
gave him the final stroke and killed him.
The crowd applauded and the band blared forth.
The whole business struck Manuel as pretty disagreeable,
but he waited eagerly. The mules came out and
dragged off the dead bull.
