“How can I trust you? A man with such perfidious kidneys? A man with such a diabolical bladder?”
“Excuse me.” The voice came from the seat behind me. “But I couldn’t help overhearing. If there is some difficulty in the area mentioned, perhaps I can be of service. I am a urologist and kidney specialist. Also, I am interested in getting to Pamplona for the bullfights. So, anything I can do to expedite matters-—”
“If you want me to fly this plane to Pamplona,” Captain Flagella told him, “then I must insist that this man be examined thoroughly before take-off to insure that he does not bring about another riot in mid-air.”
“If the gentleman is agreeable-” the doctor said.
“Anything to get the show on the road.” I followed him back to the john, where he examined me. “This scar here, M'sieur,” he asked curiously. “What sort of operation is that from?”
“An abortion,” I told him.
“An abortion?”
“Yes, an abortion.”
“Oh.” He thought about it a moment. “I begin to understand why our pilot is so concerned.”
“Never mind that. It had nothing to do with my kidneys. It didn't affect them, did it?"
“No.”
“Or my bladder?”
“No.”
“And I’m not an aerial risk elimination-wise?"
“No.”
“Then will you please tell him that so we can get going!"
“Oui.”
Captain Flagella was finally convinced that it was safe to take off. Shortly after we were in the air, he came hurtling down the aisle and plunged into the john. It was the first of many such trips which marked our flight. The passengers noticed, and there was a great amount of buzzing about it. The doctor, however, said nothing until just after we had landed safely in Pamplona. But his words then vindicated me completely.
“I believe,” he whispered to me, “that our pilot actually projected his problems onto you. Poor fellow. He needs help badly. It is obvious that his kidneys are shot. I wonder what could have happened to him to cause such a condition?”
I didn't enlighten the doctor. I ignored Captain Flagella’s farewell glower as I disembarked from the plane. I hailed a taxi, and en route to the hotel I found out from the driver that Raoul Mendes was scheduled to fight in two days. I also found out the name of the cafe where the bullfighters hung out. I tipped the driver well, followed a bellboy up to my room, hit the sack, and slept the day away. That evening I set out for the cafe the driver had told me about.
It was jammed. The bar was knee-deep in picadors, matadors and their cliques. The rest of the place was thick with tables around which the tourists sat to ogle the bullfighters. I found myself at a small table with one of these tourists, an American, bearded and determinedly beat. I bought him a glass of wine.
“Do you know Raoul Mendes?" I asked him.
“Sure. A competent torero. But just a little show-offy. Too flashy with the cape for my taste. Now, you take-—”
“Is he here?” I interrupted.
“Who?”
“Raoul Mendes.”
“Oh, him. Yeah. Sure he’s here."
“Could you point him out to me?”
“He’s in the center of that crowd over there, just to the left of the bar. The skinny fellow with the tight eyes and the permanent grin. See how white those teeth are. That’s because he has three different sets and he changes them three times a day. His own teeth were knocked out by a Barcelona-bred beast. They are really tough, those bulls. Over a thousand pounds of muscle on the—”
“Does he have a lady friend?” I interrupted again.
“No. Altered, poor champion. They all are."
“Altered? You mean Mendes? I didn’t know that bullfighters--”
“Not Mendes,” he enlightened me. “Not the bullfighters. I mean the Barcelona bulls. They are altered. To make them meaner.”
“Oh. I was asking about Mendes. Does he have a girl friend?"
“Him? Yeah. A redhead.”
“Is she here?”
“Yeah. She’s around somewhere. She always trails along with him.”
“Can you point her out?”
“Take my advice and steer clear of her, buddy. This Mendes is a tough hombre. And he doesn't like anybody fooling with his woman.”
“I’ll remember that. Now will you point her out?”
“Okay.” He shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”
I turned in my seat to follow his outstretched arm. The finger at the end of it was pointing straight at a girl who had just stepped up to the outer fringes of the crowd around Mendes at the bar. She was tall and slender, with red hair. She matched the descriptions both Françoise and Gina had supplied. Her tomato-colored hair was cropped short.
“Thanks,” I told my countryman. “See you around.” I strode directly over to the girl at the bar. “Hi,” I greeted her. “I'm Steve Victor. I’d like to talk to you.”
I'd addressed her in English, but she answered me in a fast-chattering Spanish dialect. It took me a moment to translate it. “How do you do. I am glad to meet you. You have very nice muscles. Just right for the embrace. Let us go now.” She took my arm.
“What?” I was dazed.
“Let us go now. Your arms are empty. Do you want them filled?”
“Well, yeah. Sure. But--”
“Then let us go. You just came in on the plane today, didn’t you? I saw you at the airport. So tonight you must prove your manhood for the first time on Spanish soil. Don’t worry, you will not regret it. I will take good care of you.” She tugged at my arm, pulling me away from the bar and toward the cafe doorway.
“Look,” I said, growing more confused by the minute, “couldn’t we talk in English? My Spanish isn’t too good, and I’m not sure I’m reading you right.”
“No. Only Spanish. Come. You must face the moment of truth with me. Don't you want your first piece of Spanish tail?”
“Well, yeah, but--”
“Then hurry. I don’t have all night, you know. After all, there are other men waiting.”
We were outside the cafe now, and she was pulling me along down the street. “Can’t we stop for a minute and talk?” I tried again.
“But no!” She kept leading me at a half-trot. “You want to stick it in, don’t you? Well then, we must not tarry. This may be your last chance. For tonight at least. Unless—” She paused for a brief instant and looked boldly into my eyes. “Unless you are afraid,” she challenged me.
“Certainly not,” I told her proudly. “After all, I am the man from O.R.G.Y."
“I thought you came from America.”
“I do. O.R.G.Y. is the name of the research organization for which I—”
“Later,” she interrupted, urging me to resume our former headlong pace. “Tell me later. We must run now if you are going to dip your lance tonight.”
Dizzy, I seemed to have no choice but to allow myself to be propelled along by her. She led me to a large enclosure at the far end of the street. There was a small door in the fence. She opened it and led me inside. A few more stops and I found myself on one side of a bullring.
“What the—?”
“El Toro!” she screamed and dived into the shadows.
I lost sight of her there. Mystified, I turned to look out over the bullring. None too soon. Charging toward me, steam coming out of its nostrils in the moonlight, was what looked like a ton of enraged beef on the hoof. I turned tail and sprinted for the shadows where the redhead had vanished just as fast as I could.
“Olé!” She shot past me, heading straight for the bull.
“Hey! What are you-—?”
And then I saw what she was doing. A cape in one hand and a short pike in the other, she was leading the beast with the aplomb of an experienced toreador. In her tight-fitting blouse and slacks, with her short-cropped hair, her silhouette did indeed seem like the slim-hipped stereotype of the expert Spanish bullfighter. The cape twirled around her body, and she barely seemed to move as she avoided the horns of the charging bull. Deftly, she plunged the pike into the shoulder-muscle just behind the thick neck and pulled it free. The animal emitted an outraged bellow, but it didn‘t seem to faze her. She merely waved the cape at him again, skipped out of his rampaging path, and once again plunged the pike into his hide. Then, contemptuously, she waved the cape to set him charging sidewise to her, turned her back on him, and slowly walked over to join me.