Two men with identical moustaches – obviously the doctor’s companions – bobbed past, chanting “Bush! Bush! We love George Bush!” and fumbling a silver camera. Their fuzzy, self-conscious pronunciation – Boosh! Boosh! We luf Jhoj Boosh! – gave the words an awful quality: the men seemed insincere, even coached. They started to giggle.
Andalusia
The banderillero swaggered across the dry yellow sand, knelt in front of the bullgate, crossed himself – slowly, carefully – and spread out his pink cape. He was perhaps my age, probably younger. From our cheap seat, near the top of the Plaza de Toros, Claire and I could not see or hear the gate open. We saw only a blur of brown muscle, the flash of a cape, their meeting, melting, and then the banderillero rolling to the side, away.
The bull paused, sniffing. It was the second of six: blood had already been spilt in the ring. Its head oscillated, eyes acknowledging the crowd and, perhaps, its circumstances at the centre of a confusing spectacle. Again it charged.
The youngster played with the fresh bull. He treated it with mock disdain while approaching and then, when it leapt, with an urgent respect. Each strut was deliberate, proof that he had the skill, and the balls, to be a matador. Continue reading Andalusia>>
