have won her over the way he did me. With the same allure, the same charm. She watched him grow, whereas I knew him as a grown man; but Iâm sure both of us were captivated by his poise, his presence, that gift for warmth that came to him from somewhere deep inside. In my case, I donât know if it was the eyes, so deep you could drown in them, or those hands, which could make you shiver if you imagined them running over your skin, under your skirt . . . or the smooth neck into which you would love to sink your teeth . . . Iâd better not go on.
Iâve always had a thing for older men. I mean, youâre really sweet, Terradillos, but a bit too green for my taste. Come back to see me when youâre riper. Alejandro was about fifteen years older than meâwhich, considering how young I was at the time, was quite some gap. The most handsome man Iâve ever known was my father, may he rest in peace. Look, there he is, in his silver frame, as befits a man like him. Did I tell you that my father was a bullfighter? I adored him.
On the evenings when there was a corrida, he, my mother, and I would go to my paternal grandmotherâs house, because there was hot water there, and he could get ready more comfortably. My grandmother lived with two of her sisters, and these three old ladies would busy themselves with my mother, preparing his costume and laying out freshly laundered towels on the side of the bathtub, together with a perfumed soap that was kept for his exclusive use. My father would go into the bathroom and emerge after a while no longer himself but transformed into some magical creature, an enchanted being resplendent in pink silk embroidered with gold thread and sequins, and as handsome as the blessed Saint Stephen. We said good-bye to him (ânever wish him luck,â my mother warned me, when I was barely old enough to say anything), and I went to sit on the balcony between the geranium pots, with my legs hanging down either side of a post, to watch him as he left the house, and went, gleaming, down the cobbled street. Immediately my mother and her sisters put on their mantillas and took down from her niche Our Lady of Perpetual Help; my mother lit the candles, and the four of them set to reciting Hail Marys until his safe return.
They never went to see him
torear,
and they never dared turn on the radio during his absences. The hours passed, and I would either watch them pray or entertain myself looking at picture books until the moment came to return to my place on the balcony to witness his arrival at the end of our street, where the car left him, looking more real, more earthly now, but still as handsome as a count, perhaps with a trace of blood on his cheek, perhaps with a tear in his clothes, but never, thank Godâas we had secretly fearedâborne home on a stretcher, mortally wounded. He died when I was ten, from a pulmonary embolism, would you believe, of a tiny clot that had formed in some secret place in his veins, and not, as I always imagined, losing streams of blood before his public. Thatâs life. Look at him and tell me if youâve ever seen anyone more handsome.
Donât imagine that Alejandro was like him. He wasnât, either in looks or temperament. The mere suspicion of blood made Alejandro queasy. He couldnât bring himself to step on an ant or shoo away a horsefly. I could never talk to him about bullfighting; he went to pieces just at the idea of it. The mere thought of any action that might induce pain made him ill. He could never understand why anyone would want to fight. My father, on the other hand, understood it very well. My father was slender and graceful as a reed. Alejandro, too, was skinny, but he had flesh where it mattered. The first time I saw him at the MartÃn Fierro, I thought,
Jesus, Iâd gobble him up under the sheets,
and I noticed that Quita wasnât exactly indifferent to him either. Because
Iâve always had a thing for older men. I mean, youâre really sweet, Terradillos, but a bit too green for my taste. Come back to see me when youâre riper. Alejandro was about fifteen years older than meâwhich, considering how young I was at the time, was quite some gap. The most handsome man Iâve ever known was my father, may he rest in peace. Look, there he is, in his silver frame, as befits a man like him. Did I tell you that my father was a bullfighter? I adored him.
On the evenings when there was a corrida, he, my mother, and I would go to my paternal grandmotherâs house, because there was hot water there, and he could get ready more comfortably. My grandmother lived with two of her sisters, and these three old ladies would busy themselves with my mother, preparing his costume and laying out freshly laundered towels on the side of the bathtub, together with a perfumed soap that was kept for his exclusive use. My father would go into the bathroom and emerge after a while no longer himself but transformed into some magical creature, an enchanted being resplendent in pink silk embroidered with gold thread and sequins, and as handsome as the blessed Saint Stephen. We said good-bye to him (ânever wish him luck,â my mother warned me, when I was barely old enough to say anything), and I went to sit on the balcony between the geranium pots, with my legs hanging down either side of a post, to watch him as he left the house, and went, gleaming, down the cobbled street. Immediately my mother and her sisters put on their mantillas and took down from her niche Our Lady of Perpetual Help; my mother lit the candles, and the four of them set to reciting Hail Marys until his safe return.
They never went to see him
torear,
and they never dared turn on the radio during his absences. The hours passed, and I would either watch them pray or entertain myself looking at picture books until the moment came to return to my place on the balcony to witness his arrival at the end of our street, where the car left him, looking more real, more earthly now, but still as handsome as a count, perhaps with a trace of blood on his cheek, perhaps with a tear in his clothes, but never, thank Godâas we had secretly fearedâborne home on a stretcher, mortally wounded. He died when I was ten, from a pulmonary embolism, would you believe, of a tiny clot that had formed in some secret place in his veins, and not, as I always imagined, losing streams of blood before his public. Thatâs life. Look at him and tell me if youâve ever seen anyone more handsome.
Donât imagine that Alejandro was like him. He wasnât, either in looks or temperament. The mere suspicion of blood made Alejandro queasy. He couldnât bring himself to step on an ant or shoo away a horsefly. I could never talk to him about bullfighting; he went to pieces just at the idea of it. The mere thought of any action that might induce pain made him ill. He could never understand why anyone would want to fight. My father, on the other hand, understood it very well. My father was slender and graceful as a reed. Alejandro, too, was skinny, but he had flesh where it mattered. The first time I saw him at the MartÃn Fierro, I thought,
Jesus, Iâd gobble him up under the sheets,
and I noticed that Quita wasnât exactly indifferent to him either. Because