Montoya smiled. “Tonight,” he said. “Tonight at seven o’clock they bring in the Villar bulls, and tomorrow come the Miuras. Do you all go down?”

“Oh, yes. They’ve never seen a desencajonada .”

Montoya put his hand on my shoulder.

“I’ll see you there.”

He smiled again. He always smiled as though bullfighting were a very special secret between the two of us; a rather shocking but really very deep secret that we knew about. He always smiled as though there were something lewd about the secret to outsiders, but that it was something that we understood. It would not do to expose it to people who would not understand.

“Your friend, is he aficionado, too?” Montoya smiled at Bill.