Following on from Part One of the first Chapter of David Yates’ novel, The Last Bullfighter, read on for the rest of the chapter. Coming to you every weekend until Christmas on VentnorBlog. Ed
Part Two
Below the main stand, an office door crashed open, and a large, rough-looking man in a red shirt and dark brown waistcoat burst in, “How much? How much? How much did we take today? There must have been thousands of Euros! Here, let me finish off counting my money.”
Valera brushed aside the clerk with a sweep of his fat, hairy arm, and sat behind the cashier’s desk to continue counting the notes and coins into orderly bundles and piles.
“Yes. This was a good Corrida de Toros – bullfight – today. I knew it would be. Another few afternoons like this and I’ll soon be a very rich man indeed. Me, Valera! The son of a goat farmer! Once I was a great bullfighter and now I own more fighting bulls than almost anyone else in Spain. Soon I’ll be one of the richest men on the Costa del Sol!
Valera sat in the clerk’s chair. It was obvious that he hadn’t shaved for several days, and he was dripping with sweat. The enormous, dirty fingers of one hand flicked coins into the palm of the other and stacked them in rows. Counting completed, Valera stuffed a wad of notes into his back pocket, slammed the safe door shut, spun the dial and turned the key.
“Right, now for some more sport. Where are my guns?”
In the corner of the office, he wrestled with the door of a tall, slim metal cabinet containing five double-barreled shotguns.
“I think you shall have the honour today,” he whispered, as he tugged two weapons from their racks and kissed them gently. “You shall be the ones to entertain me tomorrow morning, now that those bulls are out of the way.”
A group of nearly fifty men sat on the long wooden verandah of the bar facing the broad sandy beach. Many smoked thin, dark cigarettes and spat on the floor at the end of nearly every sentence. Glasses of strong spirits were raised in toasts, and bottles of dark red wine were emptied in endless succession.
“Hey,” called one of the men, “Here comes Valera.”
The black Mercedes screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust outside the bar, and two men ran forward to open the door.
“Valera. Good to see you Senor. Here, let me take your guns and get you a drink.”
Valera swaggered into the bar, drained his large glass in one easy swallow and called out,
“Nice to see you again men. I’ve had another good day at the office. Barman, please get all my friends a drink.”
The men cheered and crowded round to pat their leader on the back and pass on congratulations for the day’s impressive opening to the new bullfighting season.
“Oh Valera, the encierro – running of the bulls – was spectacular. Even better than the Fiestas de San Fermin at Pamplona. That first bull was magnificent. You must have fed him on the best food in the whole of Spain to send him into the ring looking so strong and dangerous. I wish I knew your secret Valera.”
“There’s no secret my friend, just lots of good grass. If God hadn’t meant them to be killed in the bullring, he wouldn’t have made them bulls.”
“Valera. You truly do have a way with the bulls.”
“Yes, yes, yes, compadres. I know I have a way with the bulls, but I also have a way with the birds too. So are you ready for a fine shoot in the morning men?”
“Yes Valera,” they shouted in response.
“Well men, let’s drink the night away and be ready for them when the sun rises eh?”
Thousands of swallows had massed over the North African coast. They waited for the right numbers, the right time and the right feel in their wings to begin their flight across the sea to the rich feeding grounds far beyond the horizon. As they waited, they kept in training by swooping in great clouds, and their wings turned in unison like leaves on a great tree blowing in a stiff breeze.
“Sree-sree-sree,” they called.
The conversation amongst the birds that morning was about food – lots of food, in the marshlands and on the wide-open grasslands to the north; so much food that their bellies would swell and their chicks would grow big and strong ready to survive the winter. But there were other less enthusiastic eyes amongst the flock as it turned one last time and started heading across the narrow strip of sparkling sea far below.
“Here we go then,” called one swallow. “Remember last year. Remember how many we lost trying to cross the coastline? Three or four thousand wasn’t it? My parents and my brother were shot by those men on the beach with their damn guns.”
“I lost relations too,” called another. “Surely there must be a safer place to cross to our summer feeding grounds?”
“We’ve always crossed the sea at this point. Always have and always will. Come on, brace yourselves, we’re almost over the coast now.”
Far below, on the strip of pale orange sand that snaked between the land and the sea, Valera and his men raised their guns to the approaching dark cloud.
“Wait for my command men. Blast them in the flanks to keep the main body in the centre. Reload as fast as you can. Are you ready?” Valera didn’t wait for a reply. “Fire,” he screamed.
The first volley caught the migrating birds by surprise, and those that weren’t sent spiraling, quickly scattered in all directions. Upwards and downwards they flew, to the left and to the right – as fast as their beating hearts and wings would carry them. Another loud volley of thunder ripped through the sky and hundreds more birds jerked and fell. “This is worse than the last time boys,” yelled one of the swallows. “I don’t think any of us will get through this year.”
The veteran of last year’s emigration called out warning instructions as long as he could, until he was also struck by one of the tiny round pellets of lead. As the birds fell around his feet like confetti, Valera’s face widened with drunken delight. This was his sort of sport.
Images:
Jon Eben Field
L’eau Bleue
Nick Farnhill
