“A name to watch,” declared the review Olé y Olé (No. 14), including him in a list of twenty-one talented unknowns.

The day had begun brilliantly. There was a clear brow on La Mujer Muerte while across the Straits Genia Ortiz could see the limestone ridge of Gibraltar. The surrounding sea was calm. It was one of those flat seas over which Silkleigh, waiting on the quay to greet Rosita, boasted he could see yesterday leaving and tomorrow arrive. But Berahu the dustman smelt wind as he transported the last truckload of sand from the Playa Benitez to the temporary bullring on Canoñero Dato. By mid-afternoon, a breeze ruffled the posters announcing TOROS EN ABYLA! It cooled the crowds taking their places, dressed in clothes they had ordered, pleated, taken in, for a different occasion. It carried the sounds of the small band playing beneath the Royal Box on what had been intended as the regiment’s final appearance before disbandment.

“They’re playing Ernesto’s tune!” thought Genia Ortiz, entering the bullring in her bunting. She moved towards her seat, tapping the backs of chairs to the tempo of “On the Promontory”.

“Look! There she is. Do look.”

“What does she think she looks like? The Virgin?”

“Whatever it is, she doesn’t.”

Squarely rigged in the yellow and blue colours of Free Ukraine, Genia Ortiz glided forwards.

Inside the Royal Box, Teodoro Zamora was delivering a severe lecture to his grandson. He had only very recently forgiven Pablo for the trick he confessed to playing with a rogue disc, which for several days persuaded Zamora he had destroyed his entire life’s work at the press of a computer button. And now the boy was misbehaving again, to judge from the words he admitted to writing in the telephone kiosk outside the Café Ulises. The message itself was bad enough, but after it the boy had added his grandmother’s telephone number. So far one call only had resulted. Never in her life, not in any of her conversations with the General and not once in more than fifty years of marriage to Ernesto, did Genia Ortiz believe she had heard a suggestion so repellent.

“Wherever did you learn such words –”

“Look, there is Age!”

Senator Zamora, empurpled in Tyrian colours, observed Genia Ortiz’ progress. He was pleased after all he had offered her one of the seats reserved for the absentee monarchs. Even though her suitcase was packed, her Motherland was calling and tomorrow she was to join the Hummingbird at Gibraltar, she had looked forward to this day. “Thank you, Teodoro,” she said, accepting his invitation to replace the British Queen who had said no. “I would like that very much.”

Senator Zamora, President of the Corrida and possessing supreme power over the ring, had arrived earlier with his grandson in order to explain to him something of the background to the afternoon’s spectacle. He had taken the boy behind the barricada and onto the ramp overlooking Don Ponciano’s seven bulls. But his explanation was mechanical, distracted.