Men Without Women Read Online Free PDF

chest under the raised muleta. Manuel leaned his head back to avoid the clattering banderillo shafts. The hot black bull body touched his chest as it passed.
    Too damn close, Manuel thought. Zurito, leaning on the barrera, spoke rapidly to the gypsy who trotted out towards Manuel with a cape, Zurito pulled his hat down low and looked out across the arena at Manuel.
    Manuel was facing the bull again, the muleta held low and to the left. The bull’s head was down as he watched the muleta.
    “If it was Belmonte doing that stuff, they’d go crazy,” Retana’s man said.
    Zurito said nothing. He was watching Manuel out in the centre of the arena.
    “Where did the boss dig this fellow up?” Retana’s man asked.
    “Out of the hospital,” Zurito said.
    “That’s where he’s going damn quick ,” Retana’s man said.
    Zurito turned on him.
    “Knock on that,” he said, pointing to the barrera.
    “I was just kidding, man,” Retana’s man said.
    “Knock on that wood.”
    Retana’s man leaned forward and knocked three times on the barrera.
    “Watch the faena,” Zurito said.
    Out in the centre of the ring, under the lights, Manuel was kneeling, facing the bull, and as he raised the muleta in both hands the bull charged, tail up.
    Manuel swung his body clear and, as the bull recharged, brought around the muleta in a half-circle that pulled the bull to his knees.
    “Why, that one’s a great bullfighter,” Retana’s man said.
    “No, he’s not,” said Zurito.
    Manuel stood up and, the muleta in his left hand, the sword in his right, acknowledged the applause from the dark plaza.
    The bull had humped himself up from his knees and stood waiting, his head hung low.
    Zurito spoke to two of the other lads of the cuadrilla and they ran out to stand back of Manuel with their capes. There were four men back of him now. Hernandez had followed him since he first came out with the muleta. Fuentes stood watching, his cape held against his body, tall in repose, watching lazy-eyed. Now the two came up. Hernandez motioned them to stand one at each side. Manuel stood alone, facing the bull.
    Manuel waved back the men with the capes. Stepping back cautiously, they saw his face was white and sweating.
    Didn’t they know enough to keep back? Did they want to catch the bull’s eye with the capes after he was fixed and ready? He had enough to worry about without that kind of thing.
    The bull was standing, his four feet square, looking at the muleta. Manuel furled the muleta in his left hand. The bull’s eyes watched it. His body was heavy on his feet. He carried his head low, but not too low.
    Manuel lifted the muleta at him. The bull did not move. Only his eyes watched.
    He’s all lead, Manuel thought. He’s all square. He’s framed right. He’ll take it.
    He thought in bullfight terms. Sometimes he had a thought and the particular piece of slang would not come into his mind and he could not realize the thought. His instincts and knowledge worked automatically, and his brain worked slowly and in words. He knew all about bulls. He did not have to think about them. He just did the right thing. His eyes noted things and his body performed the necessary measures without thought. If he thought about it, he would be gone.
    Now, facing the bull, he was conscious of many things at the same time. There were the horns, the one splintered, the other smoothly sharp, the need to profile himself toward the left horn, lance himself short and straight, lower the muleta so the bull would follow it, and, going in over the horns, put the sword all the way into a little spot about as big as a five-peseta piece straight in back of the neck, between the sharp pitch of the bull’s shoulders. He must do all this, and must then come out from between the horns. He was conscious he must do all this, but his only thought was in words: “Corto y derecho.”
    “Corto y derecho,” he thought, furling the muleta. Short and straight. Corto y derecho, he drew