Charles Beaumont: Selected Stories (24 page)

Maybe not, though.
Maybe not.

THE MUSIC OF THE YELLOW BRASS

by Charles Beaumont

Even now he could not believe it, so quickly had it happened, so unexpectedly, and after so many years. How many? Juanito tried to remember. Three. No; four. Four years of sleeping in filthy boxcars, on park benches, on the ground with only his dirt-stiffened cape for protection against the angry winds; of stealing, and, when he could not, begging; of running in the path of Impresarios ("Next year!")-and all the long nights, dreaming. And now. Now!
"How do I look?" he asked.
"All right," said Enrique COrdoba, shrugging.
"Just all right? Just that?"
The older man said, "Look, Juanito, look. You're skinny. A scarecrow."
"So?" The boy smiled. "In the traje de luces it will be different. No belly for the horn. Huh?"
"Right."
"Are you annoyed with me, Enrique?"
"No."
"You act that way."
"And you act like a fool!"
"Because I'm happy? Because I show it?"
They walked in silence.
"I know. You're afraid I'll put on a bad show; that's it. You've worked for me and got me a fight at the Plaza and you're thinking, Maybe he won't do well-"
"Shut up."
For another two blocks they walked, not speaking. Then Juanito saw the big white sign, saw the glass doors of the hotel and, beyond, the rich wine-colored rug and the crystal chandeliers, and his heart beat faster.
"Relax," whispered Enrique.
They went into the hotel. At a thick ivory door, the older man seemed to hesitate. Then, in solid motions, he rapped his horny knuckles against the wood, once, twice.
"Enter!"
The door opened to a vast, luxurious room hung in bright tapestries and decorated with puntillas and capes and swords of antique silver, and, over the bar, the head of a bull.
Juanito tried to swallow, but could not. He looked once at the people, who were talking loudly and moving, then directed his blurred gaze toward Enrique.
A voice said: "Hola!"
Enrique did not smile. Instead, he nodded and touched his brow. "I hope that we're not late, Don Aifredo."
Juanito felt the approach of the giant Impresario. A heavy hand touched his shoulder. "Hola, Matador. Are you afraid to look at us?"
"No, Seńor."
Don Aifredo, Alfredo Camara, who had stepped around him as though he were a cockroach yesterday, was grinning widely. His face was shiny with sweat and there were sacks beneath his large wet eyes. He leaned forward. "How is it, then? Are you in shape?" he asked. "All ready for tomorrow?"
"Yes, Seńor."
The hand thumped Juanito's back. "Good!" Then Don Alfredo turned and cried, in a high, squeaking voice: "Attention! Attention!"
The people in the room stopped talking. Juanito recognized some of them: Francesco Perez, who only last week cut both ears and the tail; Manolo Lombardini, the idol of the season; the great Garcia, who never smiled and never left a ring without a smear of blood across his thighs…
"You've heard me talk of my new discovery," said Don Alfredo. "Well, here he is. Juan Galvez!"
There was applause; the first applause that Juanito had ever heard. A sweet, exciting sound!
"So, at last you see him. But you do not truly see him, as I have, facing the horns. Then he is most fearsome, most beautiful. Eh, Seńor COrdoba?"
Enrique nodded again.
"So close, my friends! It is a marvel. I know. Would I allow him in the Plaza otherwise?"
Some of the men laughed. Others did not.
Don Alfredo pointed to a girl in a black dress and snapped his fingers. She poured tequila into two glasses and gave the glasses to Enrique and Juanito.
"The other is his manager, also his mozo de espada: Enrique COrdoba. He came to me a month ago, to plead for his boy. 'We are filled up!' I told him; and, you know, 'Come again next year-'"
Garcia chuckled and shook his head.
"But wait, this fellow is persistent. Most persistent. 'Don Alfredo,' he says, 'I ask only that you watch my boy work out. In the Plaza. Watch and you will see that he is a star.' What they all say, huh? But, as it happened, Perez was going to be there-to work off a hangover, isn't that so, Francesquito?"
The great Matador made a motion with his hands. "No." he said, "that isn't so. You're a liar and a bandit."
"Unkind!"
As Juanito listened to the exchange, standing there with the fat hand clamped upon him, his eyes wandered past Perez to the corner of the room.
A woman was there, a young woman, in a bright red dress of velvet which showed off her smooth skin and her high, large breasts.
She was staring.
"Like all toreros!" roared Don Alfredo. "An eye for beauty. Hey!"
The woman walked toward them, slowly, her hips moving beneath the velvet dress.
"This," said the Impresario, "is Andrée. I think she has noticed you, Galvez!"
With a grunt, Enrique moved away.
"Well, young fellow, don't you want to make the lady's acquaintance?"
The woman smiled. Again, Juanito could not swallow. He touched her outstretched hand.
The Impresario's high voice shrieked: "A shy torero! God deliver me!"
The woman came closer. "I am happy to meet you at last seńor Galvez," she said.
"Yes, but you will be happier tomorrow night! For then he'll be the talk of Mexico!"
Juanito imitated her motions with the glass. The tequila was like fire in his throat. It made his eyes water.
"He weeps at the thought," cried Garcia solemnly.
"It shows he is sensitive," answered the Impresario. "Listen, everybody: I'm not through with the introduction! Where was I?"
"Robbing a blind grandmother," said Perez. "You were forced to kick her senseless-"
"Quite! Now listen; we had access to a novillo. Small, but dangerous. Right, Francesquito?"
"Always," said Perez.
"When you were through, remember? I saw this Cördoba. How he got through the guards, I could not guess. Anyway: 'Let my boy show you!' he said; 'Only watch him for a few minutes!' I demurred. 'Suicide!' I told him. But, like I said, he is persistent. To shut him off, I granted his wish." Camara turned to the woman. "Andrée, do you know what happened then?"
"No. Tell me."
"This boy, Juan Galvez, sprang into the ring with the dirtiest capote I have ever seen, and right off-right off, with an experienced bull!-he made a perfect Chicuelina!"
"No."
"Yes! Then another, then a half-veronica-God, how excited he made me! Like a spectator. My mouth was open."
The girl next to Lombardini giggled.
"Silence. For ten minutes he worked this novillo; then-"
"Then?"
"He was tossed. Of course." Don Aifredo shrugged. "But it was not his fault: the bull by this time knew man from cape. However, do you think he was fazed by it, this Galvez? He was not fazed by it! Up again and some of the finest passes I have witnessed since the time of El Gallo!"
The woman in the velvet dress turned. "Ole," she said, softly.
"So, well, you can see, all of you, why I did not hesitate to put him on the same bill with Perez and Lombardini." The large man snorted. "And if you two charlots are not careful, the little boy will steal all the glory, too!"
Juanito's body tingled. Even to be in the same room with these men to whom he had seen before only as gods in gold thread, that was enough; but to hear these words.
"Great caution, Galvez," said Garcia, wagging his finger, "or the ears I cut will be yours."
Everyone laughed. Then the Impresario released his grip. "I tell you what," he said. "You and Andrée get acquainted. Enjoy yourselves."
"Yes, Seńor."
"Good." Camara slapped Juanito's arm, hard, and wandered back to the crowd of people. Surprisingly, Enrique was drinking. In long swallows. Drinking, then filling up, and drinking more.
"What shall I call you?" asked the woman whose name was Andrée.
"Whatever you like."
"Juanito?"
"If you wish."
A fast tune began to play on the phonograph; couples began to dance.
"Don Alfredo tells me you have style."
"I try. You-follow the bulls?"
"Oh yes," she said. "It's a passion."
They looked at one another, silently, for a moment; then Juanito said, "Excuse me, please," and walked to the other side of the room.
"Enrique, let's go home," he said.
"What? Why?"
"I'm tired."
Enrique shook his head. "It would be an insult to Don Alfredo," he said. "Do you want to offend the man who's giving you your big break?"
"No, of course not. But-"
"Then, relax. It's early: only nine. Drink a little, talk to the woman."
"You said women were bad for me."
"Only the bunis. This one is all right. She's got class. Don't you like her?"
Juanito knew that she was staring at him. "Yes," he said. "She is very beautiful."
"Then what?"
"I don't know."
"Aah! Take your sad face away from here, then, so I can enjoy myself!"
Juanito stepped back. So long he had known this man, so well; but never had he seen this mood upon Enrique. Perhaps, he thought, it is his way of being excited. Certainly; yes!
"Care to dance?"
The woman, Andrée, was moving slightly in time to the music. Young, Juanito decided. Not so young as his own nineteen years, maybe. But not much over. The flesh was firm everywhere, and everywhere smooth: incredibly smooth!
"If you don't," she said. "I'll tell Don Alfredo and he'll be angry. Now, take my arms."
"I'm sorry, but I-"
"No, no! You're doing fine. Just twirl me a little, this way; now back, so. Wonderful!"
The music grew louder and faster and soon Juanito was remembering the steps that whore from Tijuana had taught him. He was beginning to like the nearness of the woman, though it still frightened him, and he particularly liked it when she clapped her hands and threw her head back and then touched her hips to his.
"Well done!" cried a voice, Don Alfredo's.
"Yes!" said Andrée. "He is light on my feet!"
Juanito got the joke and laughed. From the corner of his eye, he watched the other men, the great Matadors, and saw that they were dancing, also, with their women.
I am one of them, he thought, remembering the endless dream.
They accept me, I am one of them!
Andrée was perspiring now. Her rich black hair, like tiny slender strips of dark metal, hung about her face; her eyes were ponds in which the lights were swimming; and her lips, to Juanito, were the softest and fullest in all the world, half-open always, revealing the whitest and straightest of teeth, the most quickly darting tongue that ever hid in the warm night of a girl's mouth…
"More tequila, torero?"
He started to say no, no more, but in a flash the woman was gone, and in a flash, back again.
"To us," she said.
Juanito drank. Then, as his limbs were losing all their weight, the music slowed, and the woman pressed her body close to his and put her face next to his.
"Andrée," he said.
She made a catlike sound in her throat.
"Andrée, who are you with?"
She pulled her head back lazily. "With you," she murmured.
"No. That isn't what I mean. Whose… woman are you?"
Only the deep sound again, from her throat.
"Garcia's?"
"Don't worry," she said. "You didn't steal me."
"Perez's?"
"I'm here as Don Alfredo's guest. He is a relative."
"Oh."
"'Oh'? You sound disappointed, Seńor Galvez. Tell me, does the fruit always taste better when it's stolen?"
Juanito blushed hotly. "No," he said, "No, no."
"Then why are you so afraid to take a bite?"
Her flesh burned against his, then, and his mind began to swirl. He saw the bull's head, dead eyes staring blindly down…    "Forgive me," he said, and made for the corner where Enrique had been drinking. As he walked he saw that most of the other guests had departed. Of the Matadors, only Lombardini remained, asleep on the floor.
A clock read ten minutes until midnight.
"Hey, torero! Are you lost?"
Don Alfredo thrust out a pudgy hand. He came close, smelling of liquor and colognes.
"I didn't know it was so late," said Juanito, looking away from the fat, glistening face. "Have you seen Enrique?"
"Your manager? The ugly one?"
"Enrique, my mozo."
"He is gone," said Don Alfredo Camara, grinning. "Too much tequila."
Juanito felt a tightening in his chest. On this night of all nights, for Enrique to desert him! To go without a word! "When did he leave?"
"An hour ago. Two hours. Why?"
Once more, Juanito could not find the words.
"He was going to take you with him," said the large man, lighting a fresh cigarette from the one he had been smoking, "but I pointed out, how unfair! I told him we'd take care of you. And… have we?"
"Yes, Seńor."
"So, then, everything is okay." The fingers dug into Juanito's arm. "Take it from one who knows, you must be calm, relaxed, the night before the big fight. So important. Believe me."
"Yes, Seńor."
"The going home early is an old wive's tale, a fantasy. It doesn't work. You try to sleep, but instead you dream about the next afternoon. It grows real in your mind. So real. You hear the crowd screaming and you see the toril gate opening… so? No sleep at all. Next day you're a wreck. Logical, Juan Galvez? Reasonable?"
Juanito nodded. It went against everything he'd ever heard, against Enrique's advice, but it sounded right, somehow. Certainly it was true that he would dream
"I apologize, Don Alfredo."
"For what? Go, now, go back and have some fun. Get yourself exhausted. Then sleep soundly!"
Juanito watched as the Impresario turned and weaved his way back to the couch and sprawled, giggling, over the woman in the black dress.
"Your keeper is missing?"
The words were mocking. He wheeled. Andrée was smiling at him, her body still moving to the music.
"Enrique is not my keeper," he said, in a slow, even voice.
"No? Who then?"
He took a step toward her. "No one." He pulled her quickly to him and pressed with all his strength. "No one," he repeated, angrily. "No one. You understand?"
Her eyes were big. When she tried to slip from his grasp, Juanito pressed harder. "Yes," she said, finally. His hands moved up to her hair; slowly he forced her lips to his, then, feeling a river of strange new sensations sweeping over him, he released the woman.

She stared at him, a difference in her eyes. Then she walked to the ivory closet door and returned.
"Help me," she said.
He held the dark fur jacket.
"Have you a car?"
"No," he said.
"I do." She put her arm through his. "Come on."
Juanito cast a glance back at the room. Don Alfredo was peering behind a gray curtain of smoke; there was no expression on his face, no expression at all.
The door closed.
In another room, in another part of the city, another door closed.
"Pour us a drink," the woman said, pointing to the nightstand next to the large yellow bed.
J uanito took a curved silver flask from the drawer, unscrewed the top and let it dangle by this tiny steel necklace. His heart was pumping fast, the way it used to when he would steal into the big ranches at night and work the bulls by starlight and shadow. He was afraid. And that was why he knew he must not run, must not take a backward step.
He tilted his head and let the liquid fire sear down his throat; then he carried the flask to the woman.
She drank. He saw the muscles of her neck moving.
Together, in minutes, they emptied the silver flask.
Then the woman took off her coat, flinging it into a corner. In the dim light of the single shell-shaded lamp, her red dress burned into Juanito's eyes.
He moved toward her. Quickly, she stepped aside, twisting her body and laughing.
He shook his head. Again he reached for her, again she was not there.
"Heiiiiiii! Toro!" the woman said, softly.
Juanito lunged, missed, slammed against the wall.
"Toro! Toro!"
Then he felt the velvet in his hands. Soft as light, hot as a wound! So hot!
"Wait, Seńor Galvez!"
He took his hands away, fingers spread, and watched as Andrée removed first the slender black ribbon from her throat, then the dress, the shoes, the silk stockings…
"Now, my torero," she whispered, coming toward him, "let us see some of this style Don Alfredo talks about!"
In his mind there was not the blackness of true sleep, but, instead, bright afternoon sun, the colors of the crowd, the sand against his slippers, wind, and the toril gate, opening, and from it thundering-Andrée…
"No!"
He felt the firm, familiar grip around his arms.
"Not yet, Enrique. I'm tired. I've got to sleep some more!"
"Like hell!" Enrique's voice was loud. "Up!"
Juanito leaped when the water struck his face. The sudden movement made him aware of the ache in his head, in his muscles, of the empty throb in his stomach.
"What a filthy mess you are!"
He opened his eyes, carefully, and closed them. He tried to remember. "What time is it?"
"Late."
"1-Enrique, Enrique, get me a glass of water."
"Get it yourself!"
Painfully, he moved to the sink and drank until he could drink no more. Then he turned and said, "I'm sorry."
The older men grunted. He walked to the window and stood there for a time. Finally, after many minutes, he said, "Forget it."
"You're not angry?"
"No," said Enrique COrdoba. His face took on a new expression: an expression of kindness, gentleness. "These things, they happen," he said. "You're young. I guess that once won't hurt you. How do you feel?"
"Fine," Juanito lied.
His manager lighted a cigar and puffed on it. "You never had one with class before," he said. "How did you like it?"
Juanito smiled. The ache in his stomach was great, but his relief to know that Enrique was not angry was greater. "You shouldn't have left me, poppa," he said.
Enrique's face darkened. "Don't call me that," he said.
"Just a joke."
"This is not the time for jokes, stupid. This is a time for thought."
"I've never been much good at it. You're my brains-"
"No! I am not your brains! I am not your poppa! I am only Enrique, only that, understand?"
"Sure!" Juanito said, holding back his anger and his confusion. "Sure, all right." He tried to whistle a miriachi tune, then stopped because it sounded bad. "You-want to take a trip down to the pens?" he asked. "I'd like to see my novillo."
"No, bad luck on the first one. I've seen him, he's nothing special. Just a big ox with horns."
"Big, you say?"
Enrique shrugged. "Nothing," he repeated. "You'll have no trouble."
"I still can't believe it," Juanito said, rubbing water into his hair. "Yesterday we were starving. That guy in Villa de Nombre de Dios-you remember?-Diaz; he wouldn't even let me touch his precious seed bull. And now, today-"
Enrique slapped his hands together. "No time for mooning," he said. "There are newspapermen coming. We'll have to rake out this corral."
Two hours later the men came. One, a thin fellow with a mustache kept smiling; but that, Juanito understood, was because he did not expect much of a novillero. Novilleros almost always fell on their faces the first time out.
But not I, he thought.
And thought this until an hour and a half before the time of the event, with the people already filling the stands, seating themselves, discussing prospects. Then Enrique laid out the expensive suit of lights.
Slowly, as though modeling an exotic statue, he dressed Juanito. Starting first with the talequilla, the pants, skin-tight; and then, the tassels on the knees; the shirt, the jacket, the vest, and the slim red four-in-hand tie.
"So, diestro," he said, moving back.
Juanito looked at his image in the mirror. It was the first traje de luces he had ever worn, and he felt great excitement and pride. "Diestro," he murmured, rolling the word over and over in his mind. "Enrique, if feels right, Enrique. Such a brave outfit. Who could be afraid and dressed like this?"
The manager picked up his cigar and relighted it. "Nice fit," was all he said.
"Maybe," said Juanito, grinning, "we should leave me home and send the suit to fight, huh?"
Enrique did not laugh; he picked up the mona, the pigtail, and clipped it to Juanito's head.
"Come on," he said.
They went out to the waiting car and rode in silence through the crowded streets to the Plaza.
When the car stopped, Enrique said: "How do you feel? I mean, really?"
"Fine, fine."
"Liar!"
Juanito shook his head. "No," he said. "It's true. How else could I feel on the greatest day of my life? The day we dreamed about and talked about, Enrique, all those years! Remember? Think of them:'
The manager started out of the automobile. He was perspiring heavily, and his fingers trembled. The sounds of the crowd could be heard, then suddenly, the music. He fell back against the seat and closed his eyes.
"Christ in His pain!" he said.
"What is it?" Juanito asked. "You sick?"
"Yes," said Enrique COrdoba. "Yes! Sick!" He covered his face with his hands. "Juan," he said, in a muffled voice, "listen to me. Listen to me. I'm a fool and more stupid than the most stupid ox and I'm putting a knife into my own throat to tell you this-" He removed his hands from his face. His eyes were berry-black and cold, now; moving. "I am not a killer!" he said.
"I don't understand what you're saying."
"Then listen, I tell you! If you were not so dumb, so stupid, you'd have guessed it yourself! This deal-it's fake, all of it. Fake, Juanito! Engineered. You comprehend?"
"No."
"Why do you think Don Alfredo took you on?"
"Because he saw me fight, because he liked my style!"
"Your style! My mother. You have none, Juanito; none at all! This will hurt, very deep, but we're through, anyway, all through, so I'm going to give it to you straight." The older man paused, then went on, his words rushing together: "You're no good. You never were. I have seen espontaneos a hundred times better. But I stuck with you because you knew how to steal, anyway, and I did not like to be alone. It's true that for a while I thought I could teach you a little-but I couldn't; no one could. You were hopeless. Guts; nothing else." Another pause. "One night, when we were starving, here in the city, I went to the Cafe de los Ninos. To see if I could borrow some money. I ran into a boy named Pepete, who worked for Don Alfredo. He told me something. Maybe it would interest me-"
"Go on, Enrique."
"I will! The boy told me that business was getting bad at the Plaza. No torero, he said, had been killed for a long time. Too long. The people were losing enthusiasm. They were getting bored."
Juanito's fingers rubbed hard against the gold lame of his suit.
"I got drunk," continued Enrique, "and this Pepete, he took me to the hotel of the Impresario. One thousand pesos that fat slug offered me, Juanito. One thousand! To a man who had not eaten in a week!"
"What did he offer you the one thousand pesos for, Enrique?"
"Use your head! It's simple. For the sum I would guarantee an unskilled torero. Camara watched you in that pitiful spectacle with Perez's bull a few days later, to make sure. And the deal was settled. You see?"
Juanito sat very still for several minutes, listening to the music and the people. Unable to believe it yet, he said: "You did not think I could stand up to a novillo?"
"Novillo!" Enrique wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "Listen, the bull they have got for you knows Latin. He has fought before, on the ranch; many times. He's twice as smart as any torero could ever be."
"And-the girl, Andrée, last night?"
"Of course! To be absolutely certain. The girl, the drinks!"
"Everything."
"Everything." Enrique lowered his voice. "Let's go," he said. I have a third of the money, it will take us a few miles, then we can hide for a month or so…"
Juanito checked the hot rush of tears. Thoughts were leaping in his brain. He turned to the window, and saw the gaudy poster that had been pasted to the wall of the Plaza.
GRANDIOSA CORRIDA! GRANDIOSA CORRIDA!
3 MAGNIFICAS RESES 3!
FRANCESCO PEREZ—MONOLO LOMBARDINI—JUAN GALVEZ
"No," Juanito said, turning back.
The older man stopped wiping his face. "Are you crazy?" he said.
"Maybe I am."
"Juanito, believe me, please: I have been in the business for twenty years. You don't have a chance. It's all against you. Three minutes you'll last, not a second more."
Grandiosa Corrida… Juan Galvez… Juanito opened the door. Galvez…
"Don't be a fool! I'm telling you the truth!"
"I know. I don't doubt you."
"Then what are you doing? Come on, now, while we have time!"
"Time? For what? For starving again, for stealing and running away? Time for that, Enrique?"
"It's better than having your guts slashed out by a filthy animal."
"Is it?" Juanito looked at the man who was his friend. "Let's go," he said. "It's getting late. Don Alfredo must be worried about his investment:'
Enrique Córdoba hesitated. "You think you'll be lucky," he said. "Sure. You think you'll go into the ring and fight like Manolete, huh! Cut both ears and the tail, and spit in Don Alfredo's eye. Juanito, I betrayed you. I admit it. But you must believe what I say now. Only in stories does it happen the way you think. The truth is that you are a dead man the moment you walk away from the burladero. One pass, two, maybe even three-you will have confidence. So, a little closer this time. Perhaps a Chicuelina; why not? But the animal ignors the cape. Suddenly you see that he's coming toward you. You want to run, but no, that would be cowardly. Better to suck it in and pray. But God does not hear you, Juanito. And now it's too late. Too late! The horn goes in like a razor, deep, and starts up, through your belly-"
"You have the tools?" Juanito asked.
Enrique COrdoba stared; then he sighed. "I have them." he said.
"Get them ready."
Invisibly, the older man straightened. Something was in his eyes; something entirely new. "Yes," he said in a quiet voice.
Juanito walked into the Plaza. Children screamed at him. He listened to the screams. He collected them. The screams, the soft smell of old wood and the sharp smell of the cattle, crowds above, the men who looked at him with sadness, love, respect; these things he forced inside him, forcing past and future out, for now, the golden now.
Within the Chapel, he touched the white lace, knelt and made the sign of the cross, as all toreros did.
Then, when it was time, he joined the puerta de cuadrillas, standing on the left of Francesco Perez, who saluted him; and, to the music of the yellow brass, marched out into the ring.
The moments filled him. Standing quite still in the afternoon sun, he watched Perez dispatch his bull; then, Lombardini, who was awarded one ear.
"There is an alternativa," whispered Enrique Córdoba. "You can pull out now." But Juanito did not hear the words.
Waiting, he searched the faces along the shady side of the barrera; and found her. "Va por ti, Andrée," he said. "I dedicate the death to you."
And then he heard the swell of sound, the trumpets; and he turned his head. The toril gate began to open, slowly.
Slowly, from the center of darkness, came a shape.
Juanito Galvez smiled. Stepping out onto the warm and welcoming sand, he wondered what he had ever done to deserve such good fortune.