The Long Day of Revenge by D. P. Adamov Read Free Book Online

differences in ages and height, one could not tell any of the participants apart.
    There was Fernando De La Torre, a full-fledged matador who was still very active. He was serving as director de lidea or coordinator of the events on the arena floor. He had been a professional for over a decade and had even triumphed in Spain.
    There was another Manolo, Manolo Rubes, with a faded brown cloth cap on his own head that had presumably seen many tientas. This man was a matador like De La Torre, but nowhere near his category.
    There was Luis Gomez, whom Manolo knew as another aspirant. They had performed together in a portable bullring in Ciudad Obregon, and that was where Manzano had seen both of them. He had been impressed enough by both to invite them to this tienta, which was the exact reason why they were there.
    There was someone else he had never heard of before, a former banderillero who called himself Rafael something or another, who now wanted to get into the management of younger men. He was on the sand, holding a cape just for extra backup should anyone come into danger.
    The mounted man was in position, too, with his heavily padded horse. The quilted material covered most of the animal except its tail, head, and legs, so it could move about, but be afforded protection from the horns. Even small horns could be damaging.
    “Islero. Number 13.”
    Someone called the name from above him. He was pretty sure it was the bookkeeper.
    Rafael Something-or-other opened a metal doorway which led into a tunneled area. At first there was nothing to see, but then a miniaturized demon emerged.
    Islero. It was ironic to give a bull such a name, as this was what the bull that killed Manolete had been called. It was one of the most dreaded names in all of the bullfight. This calf, however, did not live up to its namesake, for one charge at the horse was enough. The slight prick from the pole sent the little beast scurrying to the other side of the ring, and there, he refused to move.
    The sight of this caused a disappointed grumble from the stands.
    “Ha, ha,” the man on the horse shouted in an effort to provoke a second charge. “Yogh. Baaaa!”
    The mounted man might has well have been speaking to a lamp post, for the bull refused to move.
    “Ha…”
    Again the call came, but there was no sign of interest, let alone aggression, from Islero.
    Manolo looked upward and could see Manzano saying something to his bookkeeper. Islero was evidently not going to see his way into the bullfight as a grown animal. It was the slaughter house outright.
    “Torito,” the rider called again, giving the young bull one last chance to redeem itself, but the creature snorted and did nothing.
    Once more, a dejected murmur came from the stands.
    “I think we’ve seen enough,” Rafael Something-or-other called out and stepped from the fence. “I’ve got him.”
    With heated coaxing, the older man led the budding bull back up the tunnel he came from, and as the gate shut behind him, his fate was sealed.
    “Piston. Number 31.”
    Manolo was not sure who spoke the words, but as the gate opened a new challenger emerged from the darkness. This one was not the traditional black, but a shade of rust brown. The fur reminded him of the sight of Lucinda’s muff the other day, too brownish to be blond and too blond to be brownish.
    “Ah ha,” came the familiar cry.
    Unlike Islero, Piston attacked the horse with bravery and thus destined himself for the official bullring instead.
    Manolo gave a glance upward to the spot where Lucinda was sitting and he grinned defiantly, curious as to how comfortable she was on the hard surface below her.
    “I’ll give everyone things to stand up about,” he uttered. “Wait until I face Ernestina.”
    Ernestina was the name of the cow he was designated to fight once the formal testing ended. He had seen her in the corral and was duly impressed, though not afraid. After all, he had faced a bigger animal in that portable