The Boy And The Bull ... Channelling Ernest Hemingway
Conzuella sits by the door. She is naked except for a towel wrapped around her head. She is reading a Spanish newspaper. By her feet an espresso cup has tipped over. The dark oily coffee drips through a crack in the floor. At the window across from her, the boy looks out. He turns his head to look at her.
"Mama, the bull is outside," he says.
"Yes," she replies.
"Can I go out and play with him?"
"No. You must never play with the bull."
"Why, Mama?"
"It is too dangerous."
"Because the bull is mean?"
"Yes."
"What has made the bull so mean?"
"It is just his nature."
"Will Ignacio have to kill the bull?"
"No. Ignacio lacks courage."
"Then, who will kill the bull?"
"I do not know."
"Perhaps the American touriste?"
"He is not American. He is Canadian."
"Will the Canadian kill the bull?"
"No. He only shoots monkeys."
The boy sits at a wooden table. He holds his head in the palms of his hands. After a minute, he looks up.
"Mama?"
"Yes?"
"I have not seen a monkey in the village. Not ever."
"No."
"Why?"
"The Canadian is a good shot."
Outside, Luis Miguel's dog growls and barks. In a moment, its fury ceases. There is only the timpani of rain beating on the tin roof.
Conzuella sits by the door. She is naked except for a towel wrapped around her head. She is reading a Spanish newspaper. By her feet an espresso cup has tipped over. The dark oily coffee drips through a crack in the floor. At the window across from her, the boy looks out. He turns his head to look at her.
"Mama, the bull is outside," he says.
"Yes," she replies.
"Can I go out and play with him?"
"No. You must never play with the bull."
"Why, Mama?"
"It is too dangerous."
"Because the bull is mean?"
"Yes."
"What has made the bull so mean?"
"It is just his nature."
"Will Ignacio have to kill the bull?"
"No. Ignacio lacks courage."
"Then, who will kill the bull?"
"I do not know."
"Perhaps the American touriste?"
"He is not American. He is Canadian."
"Will the Canadian kill the bull?"
"No. He only shoots monkeys."
The boy sits at a wooden table. He holds his head in the palms of his hands. After a minute, he looks up.
"Mama?"
"Yes?"
"I have not seen a monkey in the village. Not ever."
"No."
"Why?"
"The Canadian is a good shot."
Outside, Luis Miguel's dog growls and barks. In a moment, its fury ceases. There is only the timpani of rain beating on the tin roof.