“He was snotty to us, too.”
“Let’s go out and eat in the town.”
We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a girl coming up with a covered tray.
“There goes Brett’s lunch,” Bill said.
“And the kid’s,” I said.
Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German head waiter came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He was being polite.
“I haff a tabul for two for you gentlemen,” he said.
“Go sit at it,” Bill said. We went on out across the street.
We ate at a restaurant in a side street off the square. They were all men eating in the restaurant. It was full of smoke and drinking and singing. The food was good and so was the wine. We did not talk much. Afterward we went to the café and watched the fiesta come to the boiling-point. Brett came over soon after lunch. She said she had looked in the room and that Mike was asleep.
When the fiesta boiled over and toward the bullring we went with the crowd. Brett sat at the ringside between Bill and me. Directly below us was the callejón, the passageway between the stands and the red fence of the barrera. Behind us the concrete stands filled solidly. Out in front, beyond the red fence, the sand of the ring was smooth-rolled and yellow. It looked a little heavy from the rain, but it was dry in the sun and firm and smooth. The sword-handlers and bullring servants came down the callejón carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of fighting capes and muletas. They were bloodstained and compactly folded and packed in the baskets. The sword-handlers opened the heavy leather sword-cases