vision was impaired. He worked accordingly. It was not brilliant bullfighting. It was only perfect bullfighting. The crowd wanted the bull changed. They made a great row. Nothing very fine could happen with a bull that could not see the lures, but the President would not order him replaced.
“Why don’t they change him?” Brett asked.
“They’ve paid for him. They don’t want to lose their money.”
“It’s hardly fair to Romero.”
“Watch how he handles a bull that can’t see the color.”
“It’s the sort of thing I don’t like to see.”
It was not nice to watch if you cared anything about the person who was doing it. With the bull who could not see the colors of the capes, or the scarlet flannel of the muleta, Romero had to make the bull consent with his body. He had to get so close that the bull saw his body, and would start for it, and then shift the bull’s charge to the flannel and finish out the pass in the classic manner. The Biarritz crowd did not like it. They thought Romero was afraid, and that was why he gave that little sidestep each time as he transferred the bull’s charge from his own body to the flannel. They preferred Belmonte’s imitation of himself or Marcial’s imitation of Belmonte. There were three of them in the row behind us.
“What’s he afraid of the bull for? The bull’s so dumb he only goes after the cloth.”
“He’s just a young bullfighter. He hasn’t learned it yet.”
“But I thought he was fine with the cape before.”
“Probably he’s nervous now.”