She recognized intuitively that he was made for this. On the other hand, she knew that he was also made for love, for her love, and she adored him in her adaptable way, for his gypsy oaths, for his strong arms that crushed the breath out of her in savage caresses. She could not bear the thought of losing him so soon, the thought that a bull might kill him on an afternoon like that one, that seemed made more for intimacy than carnage …

“Now watch, my dark one, watch how a matador is prepared for the arena,” said el Jarameño as he lowered himself into a chair and put himself in Bruno's expert hands.

First, short linen under-breeches, then the tight binding of the ankles against sprains and dislocations, then cotton stockings, then, over these, silk ones stretched so tight as to eliminate even the hint of a wrinkle, and finally, the slight, shiny black shoes. Now, up, on your feet! The breeches are next, and the showy, ruffled linen shirt, with four buttonholes in its starched collar.

“My button chain, Bruno,” ordered el Jarameño as he slipped the silk necktie under the collar, fastened his suspenders, tucked his shirt into the breeches and buckled them, ready for the sash that Bruno bound and cinched tightly around his waste before stepping away to prepare the hair extensions.

El Jarameño was about to button his collar when he saw in the wash-stand mirror, his saint's medal—glistening with sweat and tangled in the thick, black hair of his chest—and devoutly raised it to his lips, kissing it softly.

“The hair extensions, Bruno. Quickly!” he commanded, sitting down again and unbraiding his pigtail.

At that very moment, a coach could be heard stopping at the curb in front of the Guipuzcoana, and doña Nicasia and all her boarders (except Ripoll) were instantly outside the bedroom door:

“The coach is here, maestro, and it's almost two-thirty! Shouldn't we be going?”

“I'll be right out,” el Jarameño reassured them. “You go on ahead, and remember to let me hear you in the bullring!”

Bruno braided in the hair extensions and tied everything with the regulation oval bow. Good! It looks good … okay, the vest. Now tighten it there. That's it. And the jacket …

“Careful with the shoulder pads, man! Straighten them out. No, pull hard … not so much … there,” directed el Jarameño as he fit his arms into the narrow sleeves.

Then he placed the distinctive matador's cap on his head, firmly, so that the front bit into his eyebrows and the chinstrap clearly bisected both cheeks from temple to chin. With hands and elbows, he checked to see that the two handkerchiefs protruded just the right amount from his jacket pockets, and bending slightly forward, he permitted Bruno, with the reverence of a sacristan handling the priest's holy vestments, to drape his shoulders gloriously with the large green and gold street cloak.

“Open the door, my jewel! And tell the coachman to put the top down,” el Jarameño ordered Santa, still admiring himself in the mirror, his left hand on his hip so that the cloak hung off the elbow, egotistically in thrall to his own image and studiously cultivating it for the benefit of spectators, the way that star performers do.