They are immediately met with the smell of death — pungent, acrid, blood, decay, entrails. Bloodstains streak across the concrete floor that lead to the entry gates to the stands. It smells like a slaughterhouse, the stench so overwhelming Carlo has to hold his breath. Only then does he see the room where the dead bulls are dragged into after each fight. A young man peers through the open door, watches Carlo watching him, then quickly closes the door but not before Carlo catches a momentary glimpse of the dead bulls hanging on the chains by their feet. He heard something about that. A friend told him the bulls are butchered and the meat is given to the poor. How true that is, he doesn’t know.
Carlo glances at Charlotte to see if she noticed but she can’t see anything with her head lowered, her lustrous brown hair hiding her face, her hand covering her nose and mouth, desperate to relieve herself from the stench of death. He takes her by the hand and leads her to the gate and up the stairs in order to find their seats. She hasn’t said a word since entering the arena.
It started the moment they entered their room at the Hostel Opera. Too small, no view, and no amenities, not even a coffee maker or a desk, but at least it had a bathroom. Charlotte needs her coffee first thing in the morning, and the thought of going down to the lobby to use the vending machine — at two euro a cup — was inconvenient and unacceptable. Besides, it served instant coffee, that rancid, bitter brown water she can’t stomach. Then came the argument over which side of the bed they were to sleep. She wanted the side closest to the bathroom. He didn’t care but he made the mistake of asking what difference it made. Another tirade, this time about how men didn’t understand a woman’s needs. He let it go, and after what was deemed a passive aggressive act, she stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. In desperate need of a cigarette, he decides to let her be and stepped outside to smoke. When he returned, she was pissed off that he ‘stormed out’ in the middle of an argument, followed by her usual complaint that he smelled like cigarettes.
The arena is far from full. It’s not even half-full, and those in attendance are like them — or more accurately, like him — tourists and Hemingway aficionados who want to experience the corrida for themselves. Charlotte wants nothing to do with it.
He told her he was open to do whatever she wanted but he reiterated he was going to see a bullfight the following Sunday, the only Sunday they would spend in Barcelona. She didn’t have to come, he told her. She was free to do whatever she wanted. She reluctantly agreed to join him, poking fun at him for wanting to see a bullfight due to his love of Hemingway. Hemingway was only partly the reason, he told her. Charlotte didn’t buy it, nor cared what his reasons were. It’s still barbaric, inhuman, she told him, and she doesn’t understand why he even wants to see it. She always knew he concealed his macho tendencies, but it came out in subtle ways. This was one of them, though he was in denial of it. Perhaps it was the age difference between them, fifteen years, which was rather significant. Could it be a generational difference or was it something more? His passion for Hemingway’s stories were also another red flag, how he could admire such a man whose misogyny and racism in his work and life was well documented, which then led to an argument over that. Arguing over Hemingway’s literary merits or his failings as a human being was as absurd as the argument over which side of the bed was closer to the bathroom, so he just gave in, and tried to change the subject, which she once again found passive aggressive. She demanded to know the source of his hostility, a hostility he denied possessing. He just wanted her to know he was eager to attend the corrida, that she didn’t have to join him, that he’d be perfectly alright if she decided to do something else. She turned off him, began to unpack, throwing her items into the dresser drawers, then stomped off to the bathroom to claim her side of the sink. He didn’t say anything, allowed her to blow off steam, then sat on the edge of the bed trying to figure out how they were going to spend an entire week together, the first time they would be doing so since they began dating a few months earlier. They each saw red flags everywhere and an increasingly thickening pall fell over the room.
Their seats are out in the open, under the blazing mid-day sun, the sky a cloudless crystal blue. Charlotte can think of a million other things she’d rather be doing, perhaps enjoying some churros and chocolate at a café, or lying on the beach, or enjoying a gofra by the Cascada Fountain in Parc de la Ciutadella, or indulging in tapas and wine under the watchful gaze of Gaudí’s masked balconies. Anywhere but here. What kind of man enjoys such a thing? She should have picked up on his macho tendencies early on but she chose to ignore them.
His behavior in bed was another red flag. Although she enjoyed having sex with him, he always dominated, never allowing her to take the initiative. Even when she tried to take a more dominant role, by the time they were finished with their lovemaking, she was again the submissive. He always insisted she call him when she got home, or even saw her home, despite it taking him well out of his way, which she initially perceived as a lack of trust, as if she were going to run off with some other guy the moment they parted. Later, she’d come to understand that he just cared that she got home safely but still, it irritated her, as if she weren’t capable of taking care of herself, that she needed a man to be her protector. He generally behaved as if she were nothing but a helpless little girl always in need of protection. She was twenty-four years old, she lived alone, held down a good job, she could very well take care of herself. She already had a father. She needn’t feel as if she were dating another.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m all right’, she says.
‘You don’t want to be here, I know’, he says. ‘We’ve already been over this. You didn’t have to come. You could have gone your own way. I told you before we got here I was going to see a bullfight and you didn’t have to go if you didn’t want to.’
‘And what, wander around by myself?’
‘You could have gone to a café, or taken a walk. We could have met up afterwards.’
‘It’s all right’, she says. ‘We’re here now, so let’s not fight. I’ve had enough arguing. That’s all we’ve been doing since we got here.’
He doesn’t say anything and lights a cigarette. Charlotte waves the smoke away from her face, then slides over a little to distance herself from it. He pretends not to notice all the dramatics, gazes out across the arena, watches the groundskeepers smooth out the sand.
The trip has done nothing to patch things up. If anything, they’d gotten worse. She’s been edgy, irritable, petulant, but he admits he hasn’t been any better. He knows he hasn’t been the most thoughtful boyfriend, perhaps a little too wrapped up in himself and his own pleasures and desires, but she isn’t much different — stubborn and demanding, always wanting things her way.
‘Is the smoke bothering you?’
‘You know how much I hate smoking.’
He takes one last drag before squashing the cigarette under the tip of his shoe, which he sees as a concession, giving in to her demands, allowing her to dictate the terms.
The first time he lit a cigarette in her presence they were walking through Washington Square Park after having dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant, one he’d been raving about. She didn’t find the meal all that special and thought he ate like a pig, spilling marinara sauce all over his shirt, wiping his mouth with his hands, guzzling multiple glasses of red wine, and stuffing hunks of sauce laden bread into his mouth. He liked to enjoy himself, he told her, and a good meal was something to revel in. Blame it on his background, he told her, descendants of Sicilian peasants for whom the family table was more than just for nourishment, then teased her about her genteel upper middle class New England upbringing, something she didn’t appreciate, the first of a series of red flags. When that pack of cigarettes came out of his pocket, she grimaced, then recoiled in horror as she watched him take that first pleasurable drag. She didn’t know he smoked, though he assumed she could probably smell it all over him as most people did. She got quiet then, retreated into herself, but she liked him and she didn’t want something like this to come between them. If there were to be a future between them, he’ll give them up. It wasn’t such a sacrifice to make if you truly loved someone.
‘You promised me you were going to quit’, she says, not looking at him, her eyes scanning the near empty arena.
‘I know’, he says. ‘It’s not easy. Non-smokers never understand this.’
‘It’s a disgusting habit.’
‘So is biting your nails.’
‘You do it, too.’
‘I’m just trying to make a point. Smoking is an addiction, like a drug. If I were a drug addict I’d have more sympathy, I suppose.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Let’s face it, drug addicts have a disease. Smokers are treated like lepers. If I were addicted to heroin or alcohol instead of nicotine, people would be more sympathetic. Besides, there was once a time when smoking a cigarette wasn’t considered anything. Now you’re a derelict.’
‘Why do you have to be so dramatic? All I’m saying is it’s a disgusting habit and I don’t like it and I wish you’d quit. Is that too much to do for me?’
He doesn’t say anything, looks around the arena, surprised by how empty it is. He had expected a much larger crowd but he supposes all the anti-bullfighting graffiti outside the arena should have signaled the art had fallen out of favor, at least in Barcelona. It’s only a matter of time before it’s banned altogether, so his reasoning for seeing it now is even more imperative. He may not ever get another chance.
‘They should ban it’, Charlotte says. ‘It’s cruel and barbaric. There’s no need for it.’
‘What about fishing, or boxing for that matter?’
‘Hunting, too’, she says. ‘Trophy hunting, anyway, another favorite of your idol. I’m surprised you haven’t signed up for a safari yet.’
‘Hemingway is not my idol, okay? I enjoy his books. I don’t try to emulate the man.’
‘Oh, please…’, she scoffs. There’s a part of you who lives vicariously through his exploits, admit it.’
‘What if I do?’
‘It says a lot about you.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
She’s seething now, slides away again, her arms crossed, staring into the distance, a petit Vesuvius on the verge of erupting.
The first time she felt he was dismissive of her was after having seen their first movie together. He loved it, she hated it, and when pushed to explain why she disliked it so much, he dismissed her reasons as trivial. She just didn’t understand it, he told her, and whenever people don’t understand something, their first impulse is to destroy it. It enraged her that he didn’t feel she could actually have an opinion of her own and no amount of mansplaining would change her mind. Was she not allowed to judge it in her own way? Was his opinion handed down from on high? She feels he often dismisses her, never taking her opinions seriously on anything, always swatting them away like a pestering gnat.
The fanfare begins. The picadors, banderilleros, and the matador’s entourage enter the ring parade around to the smattering of applause. The matador then makes his entrance, removes his montera and bows to the virtually nonexistent crowd. The matador is young, merely a kid, no older than twenty-five, if that. He’s rather small and slight, with boyish features and a boyish build. Carlo can’t imagine him facing a half ton bull. He wouldn’t stand a chance if anything was to go wrong. The bull would easily toss him around like a rag doll. The bull then enters the ring, begins charging, sizing up its opponents.
‘What happens now?’
‘Tercio de varas’, Carlo says. ‘The part of the lances. The matador observes how the bull reacts to his fluttering cape, his way to gage the bull’s aggressiveness. They also look for vision problems and unusual head movements, or if the bull favors a particular part of the ring, what it considers his territory. If it tries to reach it before attacking the matador’s cape directly, it usually means it’s a dangerous bull.’
None of it makes sense to Violetta, particularly the terms he’s using, and she’s not even sure if he even understands what he’s saying, merely regurgitating what he’d read in Hemingway’s books. The bull looks massive next to the diminutive matador. When the bull charges the cape, the matador gracefully allows the cape to glide over its head as it passes, followed by a cry of ¡Olés! and a smattering of applause. This isn’t so bad, Charlotte thinks. It’s actually quite interesting, the graceful moves, like a ballet between the matador and the bull. She’s paying more attention now, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, cupping her face with her hands. Carlo is pleased to see her taking an interest and feels perhaps she’s willing to learn something new, something she doesn’t often do. If there’s one pet peeve Carlo has, it’s a person’s lack of intellectual curiosity and he found Charlotte lacking it in the most disturbing of ways. If something didn’t interest her, she tuned out, retreated into her own world. I know what I like and like what I know, without giving anything unknown to her its fair chance. They ran into this problem over films, television shows, books, and music, where he tried to turn her onto something he found incredibly interesting only to be met with utter disinterest.
They argued about many times over the course of the past few months and it got so bad at one point he didn’t see the point in continuing to see her. How can he be with someone who didn’t take an interest in anything other than what they were already familiar with? How can a human being function in such a way? This is why it surprised him when she suggested they travel together. He didn’t think she’d ever want to leave the confines of New York City, the city she now called home, the city she pretends was always in her blood, but she never shed that New England provincialism, her patrician ways. It was her suggestion they come to Barcelona, a city a friend of her’s had been to a short time earlier and regaled her with tales of wine, food, tapas, and cosmopolitanism. At least she was interested in something, he figured, and jumped at the chance since he had always wanted to visit Spain himself. He would have preferred Madrid, Seville, or Granada, but Barcelona was fine with him. They had bullfights there too and he could finally get to see one, after a lifetime of wanting to, up close and personal. Of course Charlotte being who she is, immediately began to plan a strict itinerary, all of which were based on her desires, which he was okay with, provided he was given the chance to attend the corrida, even if he had to attend it by himself. Whether Charlotte was merely paying lip service or was accepting of this one condition, he didn’t know, but once the trip neared, he could see she wasn’t all that thrilled with the idea, hence when the arguing began.
Enter the picadors, on highly padded horseback, carrying lances. The sight of the horses immediately attracts the attention of the massive bull who charges one of the horses, driving its horns into the thick, heavy padding, pushing it up against the wall with such fury it nearly lifts the horse off its hoofs. The picador plunges the lance into the bull’s neck and the blood begins to stream down its hide. Charlotte shoots Carlo a look, her eyes wide and full of tears.
‘I can’t watch this!’
She leaps to her feet and begins running towards the exit.
‘Wait, where are you going?’
‘You can stay if you want’, she says. ‘I’ll meet you outside. I can’t watch this… I just can’t!’
‘Wait, come back…’
She pauses just before heading down the stairs and looks back into the arena, the picador driving its lance further into the bull’s neck as it continues to attack the horse. She lowers her head, then wipes the tears from her eyes, then slowly makes her way back to her seat. She removes a tissue from her handbag and begins dabbing her eyes.
‘How can you stand it? How can you sit there and enjoy this?’
‘You don’t have to stay’, he says. ‘Go ahead, find a café and I’ll meet you there in an hour. I don’t need to stay for all six fights.’
‘There are six of these things?’
‘Usually, but I don’t need to see them all. If you don’t want to stay, that’s all right with me.’
‘No’, she says. ‘I’ll stay — but I can’t promise you I’ll be looking. So much blood, I think I’m going to be sick. Why do they do that?’
‘It’s to injure the bull, to prevent it from raising its head. It makes the bull less of a threat when the matador performs his passes.’
‘How fair is that?’
‘That’s a good point.’
He tried to explain to her once before that the bullfight can be a bloody, violent spectacle, not for the weak of heart, and especially not for those who love animals, which Charlotte did with an almost motherly passion. He couldn’t see how she would want to witness such a thing. Not that he didn’t have a love of animals, nor was it that he had a particular infatuation with the art. It was to experience it, to see it for himself, and draw his own conclusions. Seeing them as a little boy on television and reading about them in Hemingway’s books was one thing. Intellectual curiosity, to determine for himself if the art lived up to the romanticism he’d only read about. Either Charlotte wasn’t listening or was simply being dismissive, he didn’t know, which is why he was surprised that she agreed to accompany him. He kept reiterating that it was going to be the real thing, not what one sees in the movies, and he wasn’t even sure if he was prepared for it, but his childhood memories of watching it on television with his father was thought to be enough of a preparatory armor for what he may actually witness.
The bleeding bull slowly moves towards the center of the ring as the picadors make their strategic retreat. The banderilleros now enter the ring, each possessing a pair of banderillas. They entice the bull to charge, and it does so, with the force of a freight train despite its heavy bleeding. The banderillero waits, and waits, then plunges the sharp tipped banderillas into the bull’s shoulders.
‘Oh, I can’t see this’, Charlotte says. ‘What the fuck are they doing now?’
‘It’s to further weaken the bull. By thrusting the banderillas into the bull’s shoulders it causes them to lose more blood, exhausting it. I imagine it also further enrages them.’
‘You sound like you’re enjoying this.’
‘It’s not a matter of enjoyment. Pure intellectual curiosity.’
God, how she hated hearing those words. Intellectual curiosity. He’d chided her many times for allegedly not possessing any, which wasn’t true. She had plenty of interests, but since those interests aren’t anything to him — and his not any of hers — she’s the one who is close minded. He says this every time she doesn’t take an interest in anything he finds fascinating. It’s patronizing, juvenile.
Twice she had already thought about breaking it off with him due to his constant patronizing, his lofty pretensions. She never knew why she continued to put up with it. Her friends already advised she give him the hook, move on, and find someone else, someone who would treat her like an equal and not always talk down to her. It was a painting at the Museum of Modern Art which once set off a firestorm, an early work of Picasso, ‘Harlequin at the Lapin Agile’, which he loved and she didn’t. He spent at least a half hour standing before it, his eyes tracing every line, absorbing every color, while she wandered away to look at the other paintings in the gallery, paintings which were more pleasing to her eye. She thought the Picasso was an okay painting. She’d seen better and she didn’t understand what he found so fascinating about it. Then she made the mistake of telling him she thought Picasso was overrated. She didn’t hear the end of it for the rest of the day. What did she know? She wasn’t familiar with his work. She’s only drawn to the work that everyone else knows. That’s when she first learned Picasso was his favorite artist, which she saw as another red flag, for he too was known for being a misogynist, treating his women like dog shit, using them to fuel his art then casting them aside when they no longer suited his purposes. Hemingway and Picasso. Interesting, she thought. What did this say about him? Later that same evening she told him she found his admiration for these men problematic, that it said something about him, which he rejected out of hand, became defensive, and drew a distinct line between the artist’s work and the artists themselves. She couldn’t do that, she told him. Then how can you possibly enjoy anyone, he said. All of them are problematic. She didn’t like his tone when he said that, again finding it patronizing and dismissive. That’s when he accused her of lacking intellectual curiosity and being close minded. She should have ended it right then and there but she didn’t, still believing their differences didn’t matter, that, over time, she’d be able to change him. It just needed a little time and effort.
The bull now paces around the ring, six banderillas hanging from its shoulders, even more blood pouring down its hide. Charlotte is in tears now, barely able to watch the bull wobble on its legs, breathing heavily from near the center of the ring, dazed and confused. There’s an odd silence around the arena, it’s lack of spectators only enhancing the absurdity of the entire affair.
‘There’s hardly anyone here’, she says. ‘Why do they even bother?’
‘I don’t know. I guess it’s the same as any other sporting event. The show must go on.’
‘This is hardly a sport’, she says, ‘and I’m not so impressed with the matador’s so-called bravery. If he were truly brave, he’d face that bull when it’s at full strength and not about to die on its feet. Poor thing… They shouldn’t allow this. It’s barbaric.’
Carlo doesn’t say anything and unconsciously reaches for his pack of cigarettes, then remembers Violetta’s aversion to it. He’s not in the mood to kick off another argument over his smoking so he lets it go, though part of him wants to light one anyway just to prove a point, but he errs on the side of caution. He looks at her, her dark hair covering half her face, the tears streaming down her cheeks, both her hands clutching the fabric of her shirt, he wonders why she’s torturing herself by remaining there. He gives her credit, though. He never thought she’d last two minutes but here she is.
The matador enters the ring alone to face his opponent, an opponent who appears to have given up the ghost. He approaches the bull and begins waving his cape, trying to attract the bull’s attention but the bull doesn’t seem to want to continue.
‘Bulls are color blind’, Carlo says. ‘It’s the movement of the cape which attracts them. The capes are red to mask the bloodstains.’
Charlotte doesn’t know this nor does she care. She just wants the spectacle to end. The poor bull, bleeding and panting, seemingly resigned to its fate.
‘What happens if the bull decides not to charge?’
‘I don’t know’, he says.
But the bull still has some life in it and charges the matador, who then performs the first of many passes. There’s a pathetic chorus of ¡Olé! from the sparse crowd, followed by a smattering of anemic applause. Again the bull seems to have lost its will to fight, standing before the matador who continues to taunt it with his cape. It takes some work to get the bull to charge again, only this time the matador mistimed his move and the bull charges past him, knocking him to the ground. There’s a reaction from the crowd, some of whom leap to their feet. The matador scrambles away and is again back on his feet, trying to attract the bull’s attention, which seemed to be focused more on the crowd than his opponent.
‘All that blood…’, Charlotte says.
Carlo doesn’t say anything, is now focused on the action in the arena.
‘What happens if the matador misses, if the bull gores him?’
‘He’ll be tossed around like a rag doll’, he says, ‘and will most definitely be killed. I mean, he’s not a very big man, is he? That horn can conceivably go right through him. Don’t let the condition of the bull fool you. It still has a lot of power.’
‘Have bullfighters ever been killed in the ring?’
‘Many times.’
Her stomach turns somersaults. It’s bad enough watching this poor creature being tortured, she can’t imagine witnessing a human being being ripped to pieces, though a part of her feels he’d deserve it.
The matador cautiously approaches the bull, snaps his cape, causing the bull to turn and face him. The bull charges his opponent, coming a little too close again, only this time the matador remains on his feet and performs a near perfect pass, which gains the approval of the crowd, whatever there is of one.
The moment of truth arrives and the odd silence returns to the arena. The bull stands before its opponent, bleeding, tired, a little unsteady on its feet. The matador removes the sword from under his cape, positions himself for the kill.
‘I don’t think I can watch this’, Charlotte says.
‘Close your eyes, then. You probably won’t want to see it.’
For some reason she can’t look away. The bull charges and the matador delivers a clumsy estocada, with only the tip of the sword penetrating the bull’s thick hide. The crowd boos along with shouts of protests. The bull shakes the sword loose and it falls onto the sand. The matador scrambles to retrieve it. The bull stands before him again, tempting him, daring him to try it again. The matador snaps his cape and again the bull charges. The matador again plunges the sword into the bull’s neck, failing to obtain a clean kill. The sword wobbles, then falls to the sand once again. The crowd expresses its extreme displeasure now, booing the matador, shouting insults. It’s the loudest the sparse crowd has been since the beginning of the match.
‘What happens if he doesn’t kill the bull?’
‘It gets a reprieve. He only has a certain amount of time to do it. From the looks of it, it appears the bull may get one.’
‘He’s butchering the poor creature’, she says. ‘Why don’t they stop it?’
‘He still has a little time.’
The bull’s hide is now soaked with blood, is even more unsteady on its feet. Again, the matador draws his sword, entices the bull to charge. He plunges the sword in, only to miss again, the sword standing upright on the hump of the bull’s back. This time, the matador must perform a decabello, and takes hold the verdugo, and sinks it into the bull’s neck. The audience reacts, booing the matador as he walks out of the ring in disgrace. The bull wobbles, blood pouring from its nostrils, but it remains on its feet. Charlotte turns away, unable to look anymore, tears streaming down her face. She doesn’t see the puntillero rush towards the bull with the dagger in his hand administer the coup de grâce to further pierce the bull’s spinal cord. The bull staggers forward, looks around the arena, then collapses onto the sand.
‘Is it over?’
‘It’s over’, Carlo says.
‘Why is everyone booing?’
‘The matador didn’t perform well
Charlotte reluctantly peers into the ring and watches the team of mules begin dragging the bull around the arena.
‘It’s bad enough they had to torture the poor thing, they have to drag it around like that as well?’
‘It’s a way to honor it’, Carlo says, ‘if they are impressed with the bull’s performance.’
‘They should have allowed it to live.’
Charlotte wipes the tears from her red and swollen eyes, then blows her nose into the tissue.
‘I’d like to leave now, she says. I can’t watch another one.’
‘I didn’t think so. We can go if you want. I think I’ve seen enough.’
As they make their way down the stairs towards the exit, they don’t say anything to one another, each lost in their own thoughts. Again they are met with the smell of death and the door to the slaughterhouse room is again open. Carlo reaches for her hand but she won’t allow him to take it, starts picking up her pace. She doesn’t notice the open room and walks past it, towards the exit and out into the fresh air. He knows she’s upset and figures its best to let her sort herself out. He lights a much needed cigarette, lags behind a few paces so he can enjoy it before she starts complaining again.
She stops walking, turns to face him.
‘Did you really like that?
‘It’s not a question of whether or not I liked it, I told you. I just wanted to experience it.’
‘And what conclusion did you come to?’
‘I’m still processing it.’
She holds his gaze for a moment, glances down at the burning cigarette between his fingers, then abruptly turns and walks away, quickening her pace. He doesn’t chase after her, merely watches her over the burning point of his cigarette and realizes they still have four days left in Barcelona.
New York City, May 2022
About the Author
Julian Gallo is the author of ‘Existential Labyrinths’, ‘Last Tondero in Paris’, ‘The Penguin and The Bird’ and other novels. His short fiction has appeared in The Sultan’s Seal (Cairo), Exit Strata, Budget Press Review, Indie Ink, Short Fiction UK, P.S. I Love You, The Dope Fiend Daily, The Rye Whiskey Review, Latinoture, Angles, Verdad, Modern Literature (India), Mediterranean Poetry (St. Pierre and Miquelon), Borderless Journal (Singapore), Woven Tales, Wilderness House, Egophobia (Romania), Plato’s Caves, Avalon Literary Review, VIA: Voices in Italian Americana, The Argyle, Doublespeak Magazine (India), Bardics Anonymous, Tones of Citrus, The Cry Lounge (Germany), Deal Jam, 22/28, Active Muse (India), Zero Readers, Hominum Journal, Write Now Lit (Nigeria), Hominum Journal, MiniMAG, Paradox Magazine, Penman Review, Lowestoft Chronicles, and Flora Fauna (Upcoming).
