At noon of Sunday, the 6th of July, the fiesta exploded. There is no other way to describe it. People had been coming in all day from the country, but they were assimilated in the town and you did not notice them. The square was as quiet in the hot sun as on any other day. The peasants were in the outlying wine-shops. There they were drinking, getting ready for the fiesta. They had come in so recently from the plains and the hills that it was necessary that they make their shifting in values gradually. They could not start in paying café prices. They got their money's worth in the wine-shops. Money still had a definite value in hours worked and bushels of grain sold. Late in the fiesta it would not matter what they paid, nor where they bought.
Now on the day of the starting of the fiesta of San Fermin they had been in the wine-shops of the narrow streets of the town since early morning. Going down the streets in the morning on the way to mass in the cathedral, I heard them singing through the open doors of the shops. They were warming up. There were many people at the eleven o'clock mass. San Fermin is also a religious festival.
I walked down the hill from the cathedral and up the street to the café on the square. It was a little before noon. Robert Cohn and Bill were sitting at one of the tables. The marble-topped tables and the white wicker chairs were gone. They were replaced by cast-iron tables and severe folding chairs. The café was like a battleship stripped for action. Today the waiters did not leave you alone all morning to read without asking if you wanted to order something. A waiter came up as soon as I sat down.
"What are you drinking?" I asked Bill and Robert.
"Sherry," Cohn said.
"Jerez," I said to the waiter.
Before the waiter brought the sherry the rocket that announced the fiesta went up in the square. It burst and there was a gray ball of smoke high up above the Theatre Gayarre, across on the other side of the plaza. The ball of smoke hung in the sky like a shrapnel burst, and as I watched, another rocket came up to it, trickling smoke in the bright sunlight. I saw the bright flash as it burst and another little cloud of smoke appeared. By the time the second rocket had burst there were so many people in the arcade, that had been empty a minute before, that the waiter, holding the bottle high up over his head, could hardly get through the crowd to our table. People were coming into the square from all sides, and down the street we heard the pipes and the fifes and the drums coming. They were playing the _riau-riau_ music, the pipes shrill and the drums pounding, and behind them came the men and boys dancing. When the fifers stopped they all crouched down in the street, and when the reedpipes and the fifes shrilled, and the flat, dry, hollow drums tapped it out again, they all went up in the air dancing. In the crowd you saw only the heads and shoulders of the dancers going up and down.
In the square a man, bent over, was playing on a reed-pipe, and a crowd of children were following him shouting, and pulling at his clothes. He came out of the square, the children following him, and piped them past the café and down a side street. We saw his blank pockmarked face as he went by, piping, the children close behind him shouting and pulling at him.
"He must be the village idiot," Bill said. "My God! look at that!"
Down the street came dancers. The street was solid with dancers, all men. They were all dancing in time behind their own fifers and drummers. They were a club of some sort, and all wore workmen's blue smocks, and red handkerchiefs around their necks, and carried a great banner on two poles. The banner danced up and down with them as they came down surrounded by the crowd.
"Hurray for Wine! Hurray for the Foreigners!" was painted on the banner.
"Where are the foreigners?" Robert Cohn asked.
"We're the foreigners," Bill said.
All the time rockets were going up. The café tables were all full now. The square was emptying of people and the crowd was filling the cafés.
"Where's Brett and Mike?" Bill asked.
"I'll go and get them," Cohn said.
"Bring them here."
The fiesta was really started. It kept up day and night for seven days. The dancing kept up, the drinking kept up, the noise went on. The things that happened could only have happened during a fiesta. Everything became quite unreal finally and it seemed as though nothing could have any consequences. It seemed out of place to think of consequences during the fiesta. All during the fiesta you had the feeling, even when it was quiet, that you had to shout any remark to make it heard. It was the same feeling about any action. It was a fiesta and it went on for seven days.
That afternoon was the big religious procession. San Fermin was translated from one church to another. In the procession were all the dignitaries, civil and religious. We could not see them because the crowd was too great. Ahead of the formal procession and behind it danced the _riau-riau_ dancers. There was one mass of yellow shirts dancing up and down in the crowd. All we could see of the procession through the closely pressed people that crowded all the side streets and curbs were the great giants, cigar-store Indians, thirty feet high, Moors, a King and Queen, whirling and waltzing solemnly to the _riau-riau_.
They were all standing outside the chapel where San Fermin and the dignitaries had passed in, leaving a guard of soldiers, the giants, with the men who danced in them standing beside their resting frames, and the dwarfs moving with their whacking bladders through the crowd. We started inside and there was a smell of incense and people filing back into the church, but Brett was stopped just inside the door because she had no hat, so we went out again and along the street that ran back from the chapel into town. The street was lined on both sides with people keeping their place at the curb for the return of the procession. Some dancers formed a circle around Brett and started to dance. They wore big wreaths of white garlics around their necks. They took Bill and me by the arms and put us in the circle. Bill started to dance, too. They were all chanting. Brett wanted to dance but they did not want her to. They wanted her as an image to dance around. When the song ended with the sharp _riau-riau!_ they rushed us into a wine-shop.
We stood at the counter. They had Brett seated on a wine-cask. It was dark in the wine-shop and full of men singing, hard-voiced singing. Back of the counter they drew the wine from casks. I put down money for the wine, but one of the men picked it up and put it back in my pocket.
"I want a leather wine-bottle," Bill said.
"There's a place down the street," I said. "I'll go get a couple."
The dancers did not want me to go out. Three of them were sitting on the high wine-cask beside Brett, teaching her to drink out of the wine-skins. They had hung a wreath of garlics around her neck. Some one insisted on giving her a glass. Somebody was teaching Bill a song. Singing it into his ear. Beating time on Bill's back.
I explained to them that I would be back. Outside in the street I went down the street looking for the shop that made leather winebottles. The crowd was packed on the sidewalks and many of the shops were shuttered, and I could not find it. I walked as far as the church, looking on both sides of the street. Then I asked a man and he took me by the arm and led me to it. The shutters were up but the door was open.
Inside it smelled of fresh tanned leather and hot tar. A man was stencilling completed wine-skins. They hung from the roof in bunches. He took one down, blew it up, screwed the nozzle tight, and then jumped on it.
"See! It doesn't leak."
"I want another one, too. A big one."
He took down a big one that would hold a gallon or more, from the roof. He blew it up, his cheeks puffing ahead of the wine-skin, and stood on the bota holding on to a chair.
"What are you going to do? Sell them in Bayonne?"
"No. Drink out of them."
He slapped me on the back.
"Good man. Eight pesetas for the two. The lowest price."
The man who was stencilling the new ones and tossing them into a pile stopped.
"It's true," he said. "Eight pesetas is cheap."
I paid and went out and along the street back to the wine-shop. It was darker than ever inside and very crowded. I did not see Brett and Bill, and some one said they were in the back room. At the counter the girl filled the two wine-skins for me. One held two litres. The other held five litres. Filling them both cost three pesetas sixty centimos. Some one at the counter, that I had never seen before, tried to pay for the wine, but I finally paid for it myself. The man who had wanted to pay then bought me a drink. He would not let me buy one in return, but said he would take a rinse of the mouth from the new wine-bag. He tipped the big five-litre bag up and squeezed it so the wine hissed against the back of his throat.
"All right," he said, and handed back the bag.
In the back room Brett and Bill were sitting on barrels surrounded by the dancers. Everybody had his arms on everybody else's shoulders, and they were all singing. Mike was sitting at a table with several men in their shirt-sleeves, eating from a bowl of tuna fish, chopped onions and vinegar. They were all drinking wine and mopping up the oil and vinegar with pieces of bread.
"Hello, Jake. Hello!" Mike called. "Come here. I want you to meet my friends. We're all having an hors d'oeuvre."
I was introduced to the people at the table. They supplied their names to Mike and sent for a fork for me.
"Stop eating their dinner, Michael," Brett shouted from the wine-barrels.
"I don't want to eat up your meal," I said when some one handed me a fork.
"Eat," he said. "What do you think it's here for?"
I unscrewed the nozzle of the big wine-bottle and handed it around. Every one took a drink, tipping the wine-skin at arm's length.
Outside, above the singing, we could hear the music of the procession going by.
"Isn't that the procession?" Mike asked.
"Nada," some one said. "It's nothing. Drink up. Lift the bottle."
"Where did they find you?" I asked Mike.
"Some one brought me here," Mike said. "They said you were here."
"Where's Cohn?"
"He's passed out," Brett called. "They've put him away somewhere."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
"How should we know," Bill said. "I think he's dead."
"He's not dead," Mike said. "I know he's not dead. He's just passed out on Anis del Mono."
As he said Anis del Mono one of the men at the table looked up, brought out a bottle from inside his smock, and handed it to me.
"No," I said. "No, thanks!"
"Yes. Yes. Arriba! Up with the bottle!"
I took a drink. It tasted of licorice and warmed all the way. I could feel it warming in my stomach.
"Where the hell is Cohn?"
"I don't know," Mike said. "I'll ask. Where is the drunken comrade?" he asked in Spanish.
"You want to see him?"
"Yes," I said.
"Not me," said Mike. "This gent."
The Anis del Mono man wiped his mouth and stood up.
"Come on."
In a back room Robert Cohn was sleeping quietly on some wine-casks. It was almost too dark to see his face. They had covered him with a coat and another coat was folded under his head. Around his neck and on his chest was a big wreath of twisted garlics.
"Let him sleep," the man whispered. "He's all right."
Two hours later Cohn appeared. He came into the front room still with the wreath of garlics around his neck. The Spaniards shouted when he came in. Cohn wiped his eyes and grinned.
"I must have been sleeping," he said.
"Oh, not at all," Brett said.
"You were only dead," Bill said.
"Aren't we going to go and have some supper?" Cohn asked.
"Do you want to eat?"
"Yes. Why not? I'm hungry."
"Eat those garlics, Robert," Mike said. "I say. Do eat those garlics."
Cohn stood there. His sleep had made him quite all right.
"Do let's go and eat," Brett said. "I must get a bath."
"Come on," Bill said. "Let's translate Brett to the hotel."
We said good-bye to many people and shook hands with many people and went out. Outside it was dark.
"What time is it do you suppose?" Cohn asked.
"It's to-morrow," Mike said. "You've been asleep two days."
"No," said Cohn, "what time is it?"
"It's ten o'clock."
"What a lot we've drunk."
"You mean what a lot _we've_ drunk. You went to sleep."
Going down the dark streets to the hotel we saw the skyrockets going up in the square. Down the side streets that led to the square we saw the square solid with people, those in the centre all dancing.
It was a big meal at the hotel. It was the first meal of the prices being doubled for the fiesta, and there were several new courses. After the dinner we were out in the town. I remember resolving that I would stay up all night to watch the bulls go through the streets at six o'clock in the morning, and being so sleepy that I went to bed around four o'clock. The others stayed up.
My own room was locked and I could not find the key, so I went up-stairs and slept on one of the beds in Cohn's room. The fiesta was going on outside in the night, but I was too sleepy for it to keep me awake. When I woke it was the sound of the rocket exploding that announced the release of the bulls from the corrals at the edge of town. They would race through the streets and out to the bull-ring. I had been sleeping heavily and I woke feeling I was too late. I put on a coat of Cohn's and went out on the balcony. Down below the narrow street was empty. All the balconies were crowded with people. Suddenly a crowd came down the street. They were all running, packed close together. They passed along and up the street toward the bull-ring and behind them came more men running faster, and then some stragglers who were really running. Behind them was a little bare space, and then the bulls galloping, tossing their heads up and down. It all went out of sight around the corner. One man fell, rolled to the gutter, and lay quiet. But the bulls went right on and did not notice him. They were all running together.
After they went out of sight a great roar came from the bull-ring. It kept on. Then finally the pop of the rocket that meant the bulls had gotten through the people in the ring and into the corrals. I went back in the room and got into bed. I had been standing on the stone balcony in bare feet. I knew our crowd must have all been out at the bull-ring. Back in bed, I went to sleep.
Cohn woke me when he came in. He started to undress and went over and closed the window because the people on the balcony of the house just across the street were looking in.
"Did you see the show?" I asked.
"Yes. We were all there."
"Anybody get hurt?"
"One of the bulls got into the crowd in the ring and tossed six or eight people."
"How did Brett like it?"
"It was all so sudden there wasn't any time for it to bother anybody."
"I wish I'd been up."
"We didn't know where you were. We went to your room but it was locked."
"Where did you stay up?"
"We danced at some club."
"I got sleepy," I said.
"My gosh! I'm sleepy now," Cohn said. "Doesn't this thing ever stop?"
"Not for a week."
Bill opened the door and put his head in.
"Where were you, Jake?"
"I saw them go through from the balcony. How was it?"
"Grand."
"Where you going?"
"To sleep."
No one was up before noon. We ate at tables set out under the arcade. The town was full of people. We had to wait for a table. After lunch we went over to the Irufla. It had filled up, and as the time for the bull-fight came it got fuller, and the tables were crowded closer. There was a close, crowded hum that came every day before the bull-fight. The café did not make this same noise at any other time, no matter how crowded it was. This hum went on, and we were in it and a part of it.
I had taken six seats for all the fights. Three of them were barreras, the first row at the ring-side, and three were sobrepuertos, seats with wooden backs, half-way up the amphitheatre. Mike thought Brett had best sit high up for her first time, and Cohn wanted to sit with them. Bill and I were going to sit in the barreras, and I gave the extra ticket to a waiter to sell. Bill said something to Cohn about what to do and how to look so he would not mind the horses. Bill had seen one season of bull-fights.
"I'm not worried about how I'll stand it. I'm only afraid I may be bored," Cohn said.
"You think so?"
"Don't look at the horses, after the bull hits them," I said to Brett. "Watch the charge and see the picador try and keep the bull off, but then don't look again until the horse is dead if it's been hit."
"I'm a little nervy about it," Brett said. "I'm worried whether I'll be able to go through with it all right."
"You'll be all right. There's nothing but that horse part that will bother you, and they're only in for a few minutes with each bull. Just don't watch when it's bad."
"She'll be all right," Mike said. "I'll look after her."
"I don't think you'll be bored," Bill said.
"I'm going over to the hotel to get the glasses and the wineskin," I said. "See you back here. Don't get cock-eyed."
"I'll come along," Bill said. Brett smiled at us.
We walked around through the arcade to avoid the heat of the square.
"That Cohn gets me," Bill said. "He's got this Jewish superiority so strong that he thinks the only emotion he'll get out of the fight will be being bored."
"We'll watch him with the glasses," I said.
"Oh, to hell with him!"
"He spends a lot of time there."
"I want him to stay there."
In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.
"Come on," said Montoya. "Do you want to meet Pedro Romero?"
"Fine," said Bill. "Let's go see him."
We followed Montoya up a flight and down the corridor.
"He's in room number eight," Montoya explained. "He's getting dressed for the bull-fight."
Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It was a gloomy room with a little light coming in from the window on the narrow street. There were two beds separated by a monastic partition. The electric light was on. The boy stood very straight and unsmiling in his bull-fighting clothes. His jacket hung over the back of a chair. They were just finishing winding his sash. His black hair shone under the electric light. He wore a white linen shirt and the swordhandler finished his sash and stood up and stepped back. Pedro Romero nodded, seeming very far away and dignified when we shook hands. Montoya said something about what great aficionados we were, and that we wanted to wish him luck. Romero listened very seriously. Then he turned to me. He was the best-looking boy I have ever seen.
"You go to the bull-fight," he said in English.
"You know English," I said, feeling like an idiot.
"No," he answered, and smiled.
One of three men who had been sitting on the beds came up and asked us if we spoke French. "Would you like me to interpret for you? Is there anything you would like to ask Pedro Romero?"
We thanked him. What was there that you would like to ask? The boy was nineteen years old, alone except for his sword-handlet and the three hangers-on, and the bull-fight was to commence in twenty minutes. We wished him "Mucha suerte," shook hands, and went out. He was standing, straight and handsome and altogether by himself, alone in the room with the hangers-on as we shut the door.
"He's a fine boy, don't you think so?" Montoya asked.
"He's a good-looking kid," I said.
"He looks like a torero," Montoya said. "He has the type."
"He's a fine boy."
"We'll see how he is in the ring," Montoya said.
We found the big leather wine-bottle leaning against the wall in my room, took it and the field-glasses, locked the door, and went down-stairs.
It was a good bull-fight. Bill and I were very excited about Pedro Romero. Montoya was sitting about ten places away. After Romero had killed his first bull Montoya caught my eye and nodded his head. This was a real one. There had not been a real one for a long time. Of the other two matadors, one was very fair and the other was passable. But there was no comparison with Romero, although neither of his bulls was much.
Several times during the bull-fight I looked up at Mike and Brett and Cohn, with the glasses. They seemed to be all right. Brett did not look upset. All three were leaning forward on the concrete railing in front of them.
"Let me take the glasses," Bill said.
"Does Cohn look bored?" I asked.
"That kike!"
Outside the ring, after the bull-fight was over, you could not move in the crowd. We could not make our way through but had to be moved with the whole thing, slowly, as a glacier, back to town. We had that disturbed emotional feeling that always comes after a bull-fight, and the feeling of elation that comes after a good bullfight. The fiesta was going on. The drums pounded and the pipe music was shrill, and everywhere the flow of the crowd was broken by patches of dancers. The dancers were in a crowd, so you did not see the intricate play of the feet. All you saw was the heads and shoulders going up and down, up and down. Finally, we got out of the crowd and made for the café. The waiter saved chairs for the others, and we each ordered an absinthe and watched the crowd in the square and the dancers.
"What do you suppose that dance is?" Bill asked.
"It's a sort of jota."
"They're not all the same," Bill said. "They dance differently to all the different tunes."
"It's swell dancing."
In front of us on a clear part of the street a company of boys were dancing. The steps were very intricate and their faces were intent and concentrated. They all looked down while they danced. Their rope-soled shoes tapped and spatted on the pavement. The toes touched. The heels touched. The balls of the feet touched. Then the music broke wildly and the step was finished and they were all dancing on up the street.
"Here come the gentry," Bill said.
They were crossing the street.
"Hello, men," I said.
"Hello, gents!" said Brett. "You saved us seats? How nice."
"I say," Mike said, "that Romero what'shisname is somebody. Am I wrong?"
"Oh, isn't he lovely," Brett said. "And those green trousers."
"Brett never took her eyes off them."
"I say, I must borrow your glasses to-morrow."
"How did it go?"
"Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spectacle!"
"How about the horses?"
"I couldn't help looking at them."
"She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary wench."
"They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though."
"Did you feel all right?"
"I didn't feel badly at all."
"Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert."
"The first horse did bother me," Cohn said.
"You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill.
Cohn laughed.
"No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that."
"It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored."
"He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick."
"I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute."
"_I_ thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?"
"Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it."
"He was, you know. He was positively green."
"Oh, shove it along, Michael."
"You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess."
"Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said.
"He said Brett was a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench."
"Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked.
"Hope not."
"He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach."
"Won't be healthy long."
Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses.
"Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn.
"No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show."
"Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said.
"I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said.
"They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting."
"It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse."
"The bulls were fine," Cohn said.
"They were very good," Mike said.
"I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe.
"She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said.
"They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child."
"He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid."
"How old do you suppose he is?"
"Nineteen or twenty."
"Just imagine it."
The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others.
Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technique that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.
"I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said.
"You won't until he gets frightened," I said.
"He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much."
"He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with."
"And God, what looks," Brett said.
"I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bullfighter chap," Mike said.
"I wouldn't be surprised."
"Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers."
"Tell me what drunks they are."
"Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers."
"He looks that way," Brett said.
"Doesn't he?" I said.
They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate.
"This next is the last one."
"Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull would come out.
After it was over we went out and were pressed tight in the crowd.
"These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. "I'm limp as a rag."
"Oh, you'll get a drink," Mike said.
The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Miura bulls, and a very bad bull-fight. The next day there was no bull-fight scheduled. But all day and all night the fiesta kept on.
七月六日，星期日中午，节日庆祝活动“爆发”了。那种场面难以用别的字眼来形容。整整一天，人们从四乡络绎不绝地来到，但是他们和城里人杂处在一起，并不受人注目。烈日下的广场和平常日子一样安静。乡民们待在远离市中心的小酒店里。他们在那里喝酒，准备参加节日活动。他们从平原和山区新来乍到，需要逐渐地改变关于钱的价值观念。他们不能一下子就到那种东西贵的咖啡馆去。他们在小酒店里享用实惠的酒肴。钱的具体价值仍然是以劳动的时间和卖粮的数量来衡量的。以后等到狂欢高潮时，他们就不在乎花多少钱，或者在什么地方花了。
圣福明节庆祝活动开始的第一天，乡民们一清早就来到小巷里的小酒店。上午，我穿过几条街道到大教堂去望弥撒，一路上我都听见从敞开着门的酒店里传出他们的歌声。他们越来越兴奋。有很多人参加十一点钟的弥撒。圣福明节也是个宗教节日。
我从大教堂走下山坡，顺着大街走到广场上的咖啡馆。这时是中午不到一点儿。罗伯特.科恩和比尔坐在一张桌子旁。大理石面餐桌和白色柳条椅已经撤走，换上铸铁桌子和简朴的折迭椅。咖啡馆象一艘清除了不必要的东西准备上阵的军舰。今天侍者不会让你清静地坐着看一上午报纸而不来问你要点什么酒菜。我刚一坐下，一名侍者就走了过来。
“你们喝点什么？”我问比尔和罗伯特。
“雪利酒，”科恩说。
“Jerez，”我对侍者说。
不等侍者把酒送来，一颗宣布节日庆祝活动开始的焰火弹在广场上腾空而起。焰火弹爆炸了，一团灰色的烟雾高悬在广场对面加雅瑞剧院上空。这团悬在空中的烟雾象枚开花的榴霰弹，正当我在观看，又升起一颗焰火弹，在灿烂的阳光里吐出缕缕青烟。它爆炸的时候，我看见耀眼的一闪，接着另一朵烟云出现了。就在这第二枚焰火弹爆炸的当儿，一分钟前还空荡荡的拱廊里，竟来了那么多人，以至侍者把酒瓶高举过头，好不容易才穿过人群，挤到我们桌旁。人们从四面八方涌向广场，街上自远而近地传来吹奏簧管、 横笛和击鼓的声音。他们在吹奏riau-riau舞曲，笛声尖细，鼓声咚咚，大人小孩跟在他们后面边走边舞。当笛声停息，他们全都在街上蹲下来，等到簧管和横笛再次尖锐地吹起来，呆板、单调、闷雷似的鼓声又敲起来，他们全都一跃而起，跳起舞来。你只看见他们的头和肩膀在人群里起伏。
广场上有个人弯着腰在吹奏簧管，一群孩子跟在他身后吵吵嚷嚷，扯他的衣服。他走出广场，给跟在后面的孩子们吹奏簧管，打咖啡馆门前走过去，拐进小巷。在他边吹边走，孩子们跟在后面吵吵嚷嚷，扯着他的时候，我们看见他那一无表情的、长着麻子的脸庞。
“他大概是本地的傻子，”比尔说。“我的上帝！看那边！”
一群跳舞的人从街头过来了。街上跳舞的人挤得水泄不通，全都是男人。他们跟在自己的笛手和鼓手后面，随着拍子都在跳舞。他们是属于某个俱乐部的，全都穿着蓝工装，脖子上围着红领巾，并用两条长杆撑着一块大横幅。当他们被人群簇拥着走过来的时候，横幅随同他们的舞步上下舞动。
横幅上涂写着：“美酒万岁！外宾万岁！”
“哪儿有外宾呀？”罗伯特.科恩问。
“我们就是呗，”比尔说。
焰火弹一直不停地发射着。咖啡馆里座无虚席。广场上的人逐渐稀少起来，人群都挤到各家咖啡馆里去了。
“勃莱特和迈克在哪儿？”比尔问。
“我这就去找他们，”科恩说。
“领他们上这儿来。”
庆祝活动正式开始了。它将昼夜不停地持续七天。狂舞，纵酒，喧嚣，片刻不停。这一切只有在节日才能发生。最后，一切都变得宛如梦幻，好象随你怎么干都不会引起任何恶果似的。狂欢期间，考虑后果似乎是不合时宜的。在节期的全过程中，哪怕在片刻安静的时候，你都有这种感觉：必须喊着说话，才能让别人听清。关于你的一举一动，也都有同样的感觉。这就是狂欢活动，它持续整整七天。
那天下午，举行了盛大的宗教游行。人们抬着圣福明像，从一个教堂到另一个教堂。世俗显要和宗教名流全都参加游行。人山人海，我们没法看到这些人物。整齐的游行队伍的前后都有一群跳riau-riau舞的人。 有一伙穿黄衬衫的人在人群里忽上忽下地跳着。通向广场的每条街道和两边人行道上熙熙攘攘，我们只能从水泄不通的人群头顶上瞧见游行队伍里那些高大的巨像：有几尊雪茄店门前的木雕印第安人的模拟像，足有三十英尺高，几个摩尔人，一个国王和一个王后。这些模拟像都庄重地随着riau-riau舞曲旋转着，象在跳华尔兹。
人群在一座礼拜堂门前停下，圣福明像和要人们鱼贯而入，把卫队和巨像留在门外，本来钻在模拟像肚子里跳舞的人就站在搁在地上的担架旁边，侏儒们手持特大气球，在人群里钻来钻去。我们走进礼拜堂，闻到一股香火味，人们鱼贯地走进去，但是勃莱特因为没有戴帽子，在门口就被拦住了，于是我们只得回出来，从礼拜堂顺着返城的大街走回去。街道两侧人行道边站满了人，他们站在老地方，等候游行队伍归来。一些跳舞的人站成一个圆圈，围着勃莱特跳起舞来。他们脖子上套着大串大串的白蒜头。他们搀着我和比尔的手臂，把我们拉进圆圈。比尔也开始跳起舞来。他们都在吟唱着。勃莱特也想跳舞，但是他们不让。他们要把她当作一尊偶像来围着她跳。歌曲以刺耳的riau-riau声结束。他们拥着我们，走进一家酒店。
我们在柜台边站住了。他们让勃莱特坐在一个酒桶上。酒店里很暗，挤满了人，他们在唱歌，直着嗓门唱。在柜台后面，有人从酒桶的龙头放出一杯杯酒来。我放下酒钱，但是有个人捡起钱塞口我的口袋。
“我想要一个皮酒袋，”比尔说。
“街上有个地方卖，”我说。“我去买两个，”
跳舞的人不肯让我出去。有三个人靠着勃莱特坐在高高的酒桶上，教她用酒袋喝酒。他们在她脖子上挂了一串蒜头。有个人硬是要塞给她一杯酒。有个人在教比尔唱一支歌。冲着他的耳朵唱。在比尔的背上打着拍子。
我向他们说明我还要回来的。到了街上，我沿街寻找制作皮酒袋的作坊。人行道上挤满了人，许多商店已经上了铺板，我没法找到那家作坊。我注视着街道的两侧，一直走到教堂。这时，我向一个人打听，他拉住我的胳膊，领我到那个作坊去。铺板已经上好，但是门还开着。
作坊里面散发出一股新上硝的皮革和热煤焦油的气味。有个人正往制好的酒袋上印花、酒袋成捆地挂在天花板上。他拿下一个，吹足了气，旋紧喷嘴的口子，然后纵身跳上酒袋。
“瞧！一点不漏气。”
“我还要一个。拿个大的。”
他从屋梁上拿下一个能装一加仑，或许还不止一加仑的大酒袋。他对着袋口，鼓起两颊，把酒袋吹足气，然后手扶椅背，站在酒袋上。
“你干什么用？拿到巴荣纳去卖掉？”
“不。自己喝酒用。”
他拍拍我的背脊。
“是条男于汉！两个一共八比塞塔。最低价格。”
在新皮袋上印花的那个人把印好的酒袋扔进大堆里，停下手来。“这是真的，，他说。“八比塞塔是便宜。”
我付了钱，出来顺原道折园酒店。里面更暗了，而且非常拥挤。勃莱特和比尔不见了，有人说他们在里屋。柜上的女堂倌给我灌满了这两个皮酒袋。一个装了两公升。另一个装了五公升。装满两袋酒化了三比塞塔六十生丁。柜台前有个素不相识的人要替我付酒钱，不过最后还是我自己付的。要给我付酒钱的这个人就请我喝一杯酒。他不让我买酒请还他，却说想从我的新酒袋里喝一口嗽嗽嘴。他把容量为六公升的大酒袋倒过来，双手一挤，酒就丝丝地喷进他的嗓子眼。
“好，”他说罢就把酒袋还给我。
在里屋，勃莱特和比尔坐在琵琶酒桶上，被跳舞的人团团围住。他们人人都把手臂搭在别人肩膀上，人人都在唱歌。迈克和几个没有穿外衣的人坐在桌子边吃一碗洋葱醋烟金枪鱼。他们都在喝酒，用面包片蹭着碗里的食油和醋汁。
“嗨，杰克。嗨！”迈克叫我。“过来。认识一下我这些朋友。我们正在来点小吃开胃哩。”
迈克把我给在座的人作了介绍。他们向迈克自报姓名并叫人给我拿一把叉来。
“别吃人家的东西，迈克，”勃莱特在酒桶那边喊道。
“我不想把你们的饭菜都吃光，”当有人给我递叉子的时候，我说。
“吃吧，”他说。“东西摆在这里干啥？”
我旋开大酒袋上喷嘴的盖子，依次递给在座的人。每人伸直胳膊，把酒袋倒过来喝一口。
在唱歌声中，我们听见门外经过的游行队伍吹奏的乐曲声。
“是不是游行队伍过来啦？”迈克问。
“没有的事，”有人说。“没啥。干了吧。把酒瓶举起来。”
“他们在哪儿找到你的？”我问迈克。
“有人带我来的，”迈克说。“他们说你们在这里。”
“科恩在哪儿？”
“他醉倒了，”勃莱特大声说。“有人把他安顿在什么地方了。”
“在哪儿？”
“我不知道。”
“我们怎么能知道，”比尔说。“他大概死了。”
“他没有死，”迈克说。“我知道他没有死。他只不过喝了茴香酒醉倒了。”
在他说茴香酒这工夫，在座的有个人抬头望望，从外衣里面掏出一个酒瓶递给我。
“不，”我说。“不喝了，谢谢！”
“喝。喝。举起来！举起酒瓶来！”
我喝了一口。这酒有甘草味，从嗓子眼一直热到肚子里。我感到胃里热呼呼的。
“科恩到底在哪儿？”“我不知道，”迈克说。“我来问问。那位喝醉的伙伴在哪里？”他用西班牙语问。“你想看他？”“是的，”我说。“不是我，”迈克说。“这位先生想看。”给我喝茴香酒的人抹抹嘴唇，站起来。“走吧。”
在一间里屋内，罗伯特.科恩安详地睡在几只酒桶上。屋里很暗，简直看不清他的脸。人家给他盖上一件外衣，迭起了另外一件外衣枕在他的头下面。他脖子上套着一个用蒜头拧成的大花环，直垂在胸前。
“让他睡吧，”那人低声说。“他不要紧。”
过了两个钟头，科恩露面了。他走进前屋，脖子上依然挂着那串蒜头。西班牙人看他进来都欢呼起来。科恩揉揉眼睛，咧嘴一笑。
“我睡了一觉吧，”他说。
“哦，哪儿的话，”勃莱特说。
“你简直就是死过去了，”比尔说。
“我们去不去用点晚餐？”科恩问。
“你想吃？”
“对。怎么啦？我饿了。”
“吃那些蒜头吧，罗伯特，”迈克说。“嗨，把蒜头吃了。”
科恩站着不动。他这一觉睡得酒意全消了。
“我们吃饭去，”勃莱特说。“我得洗个澡。”
“走吧，”比尔说。“我们把勃莱特转移到旅馆去。”
我们同众人告别，同众人一一握手，然后出来。外面天黑了。“你们看现在几点钟？”科恩问。“已经是第二天了，”迈克说。“你睡了两天。”“不会，”科恩说。“几点钟？”“十点。”“我们喝得可不少。”
“你的意思是我们喝得可不少。你睡着了。”
在黑暗的街上走回旅馆的时候，我们看见广场上在放焰火。从通往广场的小巷望过去，广场上人头攒动，广场中央的人都在翩翩起舞。
旅馆的这顿晚餐异常丰盛。这是第一顿节日饭菜，价钱贵一倍，多加了几道莱。饭后，我们出去玩儿。记得我曾决定打个通宵，第二天早晨六点好看牛群过街的情景，但是到四点钟左右我实在太困了，就睡下了。其他那些人一夜没睡。
我自己的房间上着锁，我找不到钥匙，所以上楼去睡在科恩房间里的一张床上。街上的狂欢活动在夜间也没有停，但是我困得呼呼地睡着了。焰火呼的一声爆炸把我惊醒，这是城郊牛栏释放牛群的信号。牛群要奔驰着穿过街道到斗牛场去。我睡得很沉，醒来的时候以为晚了。我穿上科恩的外衣，走到阳台上。下面的小街空荡荡的。所有的阳台上都挤满了人。突然，从街头涌过来一群人。他们挤挤擦擦地跑着。他们经过旅馆门前，顺着小街向斗牛场跑去，后面跟着一伙人，跑得更急，随后有几个掉队的在拼命地跑。人群过后有一小段间隙，接着就是四蹄腾空、上下晃动脑袋的牛群了。它们的身影消失在拐角的地方。有个人摔倒在地，滚进沟里，一动不动地躺着。但是牛群没有理会，只顾往前跑去。它们成群地跑。
牛群看不见了，斗牛场那边传来一阵狂叫声。叫声经久不息。最后有颗焰火弹啪的爆炸，说明牛群在斗牛场已经闯过人群，进入牛栏。我回到屋里，上床躺下。我刚才一直光着脚在石头阳台上站着。我知道我的伙伴一定都到了斗牛场。上了床，我又睡着了。
科恩进屋把我吵醒。他动手脱衣服，走过去关上窗户，因为街对面房子的阳台上，有人正往我们屋里看。
“那个场面你看见啦？”我问。
“看见了。我们都在那边。”
“有人受伤吗？”
“有头牛在斗牛场冲进人群，挑倒了七八个人。”
“勃莱特觉得怎么样？”
“一切来得那么突然，不等人们骚动起来，事情就过去了。”
“但愿我早点起来就好了。”
“我们不知道你在哪里。我们到你房间去找过，但房门锁着。”
“你们这一夜待在哪儿？”
“我们在一个俱乐部里跳舞。”
“我太困了，”我说。
“我的上帝！我现在真困了，”科恩说。“这回事儿有个完没有？”
“一星期内完不了。”
比尔推开门，探进头来。
“你在哪儿，杰克？”
“我在阳台上看到牛群跑过。怎么样？”
“真出色。”
“你上哪儿去？”
“睡觉去。”
午前谁也没有起床。我们坐在摆在拱廊下的餐桌边用餐。城里到处是人。我们得等着才能弄到一张空桌。吃完饭我们赶到伊鲁涅咖啡馆。里面已经客满，离斗牛赛开始的时间越近，人就越多，桌边的人也坐得愈来愈挤。每天斗牛赛开始前，挤满人的室内总满是一片低沉的嗡嗡声。咖啡馆在平时不管怎么挤，也不会这样嘈杂。嗡嗡声持续不停，我们参加进去，成为其中的一部分。
每场斗牛，我都订购六张票。其中三张是斗牛场看台的第一排座位，紧靠斗牛场围栏的头排座席，三张是斗牛场看台上位于出入口上方的座位，坐椅带木制靠背，位于圆形看台的半坡上。迈克认为勃莱特第一次看斗牛，最好坐在高处，科恩愿意陪他俩坐在一起。比尔和我准备坐在第一排，多余的一张票我给侍者去卖掉。比尔告诉科恩要注意什么，怎么看才不至于把注意力集中在马身上。比尔曾看过有一年的一系列斗牛赛。
“我倒不担心会受不了。我只怕要感到乏味，”科恩说。
“你是这么想的？”
“牛抵了马之后，不要去看马，”我对勃莱特说。“注意牛的冲刺，看长矛手怎样设法避开牛的攻击，但是如果马受到了攻击，只要没有死，你就不要再看它。”
“我有点儿紧张，”勃莱特说。“我担心能不能好好地从头看到尾。”“没事儿，马登场的那一段你看了会不舒服，别的就没啥了，而且马上场和每条牛的交锋只不过几分钟。如果看了不舒服，你不看好了。”
“她不要紧，”迈克说。“我会照顾她的。”
“我看你不会感到乏味的，”比尔说。
“我回旅馆去取望远镜和酒袋，”我说。“回头见。别喝醉了。”
“我陪你去，”比尔说。勃莱特向我们微笑。
我们绕道顺着拱廊下面走，免得穿过广场挨晒。
“那个科恩叫我烦透了，”比尔说。“他那种犹太人的傲气太过分了，居然认为看斗牛只会使他感到乏味。”
“我们等会拿望远镜来观察他，”我说。
“让他见鬼去吧！”
“他粘在那儿不肯走了。”
“我愿意他在那儿粘着。”
在旅馆的楼梯上，我们碰见蒙托亚。
“来，”蒙托亚说。“你们想见见佩德罗.罗梅罗吗？”“好啊，”比尔说。“我们去见他。”我们跟着蒙托亚走上一段楼梯，顺着走廊走去。“他在八号房间，”蒙托亚解释说。“他正在上装，准备出场。”
蒙托亚敲敲门，把门推开。这是一间幽暗的房间，只有朝小巷的窗户透进一丝亮光。有两张床，用一扇修道院用的隔板隔开。开着电灯。小伙子穿着斗牛服，板着脸，笔直地站着。他的上衣搭在椅背上。人家快把他的腰带缠好了。他的黑发在灯光下闪闪发亮。他身穿白色亚麻布衬衫，他的随从给他缠好腰带，站起来退到一旁。佩德罗.罗梅罗点点头，当我们握手的时候，他显得心不在焉，非常端庄。蒙托亚说了几句我们是斗牛迷，我们祝愿他成功等等的话。罗梅罗听得非常认真，然后朝我转过身来。他是我平生所见最漂亮的翩翩少年。
“你看斗牛去罗，”他用英语说。
“你会讲英语，”我说，觉得自己象个傻子。”
“不会，”他笑着回答。
床上坐着三个人，其中之一向我们走来，问我们是否会讲法语。“要不要我给你们翻译？你们有什么要问佩德罗.罗梅罗的？”
我们道了谢。有什么好问的呢？这小伙十九岁，除了一名随从和三名帮闲的以外，没有旁人在场，再过二十分钟斗牛赛就要开始。我们祝愿他“Mucha suerte”，握握手就出来了。我们带上门的时候，他仍然站着，挺直而潇洒，孑然一身，独自同几名帮闲的待在屋里。
“他是个好小伙，你们说呢？”蒙托亚问。
“确实漂亮，”我说。
“他长得就象个斗牛士，”蒙托亚说。“他有斗牛士的风度。”
“他是个好小伙。”
“我们马上会看见他在斗牛场上的风姿，”蒙托亚说。
我们看见大皮酒袋在我房间里靠墙放着，就拿了它和望远镜，锁上门下得楼来。
这场斗牛很精彩。我和比尔都为佩德罗.罗梅罗惊叹不已。蒙托亚坐在离开我们约莫有十个座位的地方。当罗梅罗杀死第一头牛之后，蒙托亚捉住我的目光，向我点头。这是一位真正的斗牛士。好长时间没有见过真正的斗牛士了。至于另外两位，一位很不错，另一位也还可以。别看罗梅罗对付的那两头牛不怎么厉害，但是谁都无法跟他相比。
斗牛赛的过程中，我有好几次抬头用望远镜观察迈克、勃莱特和科恩。他们似乎一切正常。勃莱特看来并不激动。他们三人都探着身子趴在前面的混凝土栏杆上。
“把望远镜给我使使，”比尔说。
“科恩看上去感到乏味了吗？”我问。
“这个犹太佬！”
斗牛赛结束后，在斗牛场外面挤在人群里简直没法动弹。我们挤不出去，只好随着整个人流象冰川一样缓慢地向城里移动。我们的心情忐忑不安，就象每次看完斗牛一样，同时又很振奋，象平时看完一场精彩的斗牛一样。狂欢活动在继续。鼓声咚咚，笛声尖利，一伙伙起舞的人群随处冲破人流，各占一方。跳舞的人被人群团团围住，因此看不见他们那叫人眼花镣乱的复杂舞步。你只见他们的脑袋和肩膀在上上下下不停地闪现。我们终于挤出人群，走到咖啡馆。侍者给我们另外那几位留了座，我们俩每人叫了一杯苦艾酒，看着广场上的人群和跳舞的人。
“你看这是什么舞蹈？”比尔问。
“是一种霍达舞。”
“这种舞蹈有各种跳法，”比尔说。“乐曲不一样，跳法也就不一样。”“舞姿非常优美。”我们面前有群男孩子在街上一块没人的地方跳舞，舞步错综复杂，脸色全神贯注。他们跳的时候，都望着地面。绳底鞋在路面上踢达作响。足尖相碰。脚跟相碰。拇趾球相碰。乐声戛然而止，这套舞步跟着结束，他们沿着大街翩翩远去。
“咱们的同伙来了，”比尔说。
他们正从马路对面走过来。
“嗨，朋友们，”我说。
“你们好，先生们！”勃莱特说。“给我们留座啦？太好了。”
“嗨，”迈克说，“那个姓罗梅罗叫什么名儿的小伙真棒。我说得对不对？”
“他多可爱啊，”勃莱特说。“穿着那条绿裤子。”
“那条绿裤子勃莱特都看不够。”
“嗨，明天我一定借你们的望远镜用一用。”
“你觉得怎么样？”
“精彩极了！没有说的。啊，真是大开眼界！”
“马怎么样？”
“没法不看它们。”
“勃莱特看得出神了，”迈克说。“她是个了不起的娘们。”