She remembered her English texts, all those Elizabethan tragedies she had read and never taught. They came from Señor Wavery’s country. “Your Hamlet didn’t want to kill – and why not? Because maybe that was his major desire. Maybe he wanted to kill too much. But there comes a moment when to do something good, you must do something bad, and not to do this is the most destructive of all. If Hamlet had killed Polonius earlier . . . Ah, if he had killed Polonius earlier, señor, not just literature would be different.”

The shadow seeped over the sand. The buzzards balanced overhead. Two more bulls pounded into the ring and died in the shade. The trumpet called, and it was time for Periclito’s second bull, the last bull of the day.

An enormous cheer greeted Periclito’s re-entry into the ring. This time he paraded with a covered head. He circled the ring until he stood on the sand below Marie Amaral. He removed his frizzy woollen hat. He dedicated this bull to his mother, he said, touching his chest with his fingers and bowing. With an extravagant flourish he lobbed the hat towards her. The hat spun through the air where a gust of wind diverted it onto Wavery’s lap. Marie Amaral accepted the tribute from the Consul General and directed to her son a little embarrassed bow of the head. He rotated on his heels and swaggered across the sand, to lure away his animality from the bandilleros.

A front foot scraped the ground, heeling the furrowed sand over his black flanks. Urine dribbled from his tasselled penis, darkening the sand. Three white spears quivered in his back. Suddenly he charged the barricade. He leaped, his head and front feet lurching over the rudimentary wall.

“Menendez!” someone shouted. The crowd laughed, necks craning to look for a white suit in the shade, where Menendez sat between his wife and the Bishop of Cadiz. Yesterday he had announced his resignation as Governor. He was returning to the Peninsula.

“Musical Musica!” they called and the band struck up “On the Promontory”.

Marie Amaral shook her head. “This is a bad bull.” He didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to meet his destiny. He wanted to go back. A bull that wanted to go back was dangerous. You never knew his perversion. He might wish to attack Periclito instead of his red and yellow cape. If he looked for his body to destroy it, that was a perverted intention.

A strong wind made this perversion more likely. It tugged at Periclito’s cape, blowing sand in his eye.

“Agua! Agua!” He walked to the side of the ring, passing his cape to Mohamed who plunged the hem into a bucket of water. Periclito passed over his sword and Mohamed wiped it with a dishcloth. Across the ring, the bull slithered down the barricade and onto its feet. Periclito turned. He limped forward, dragging his wet cape in the sand. The wind fanned the remains of his hair. The bull eyed him. Periclito stamped his foot. One of the spears fell from the animal’s flank. The bull looked at the spear on the ground, scarlet-tipped with his blood. The crowd muttered, breathing with the breath of the bull. Periclito insinuated his crotch into the animal’s line of vision. He took another step, drawing a poppy-red sword from his cape. He stood on the tips of his toes and prepared to jab the sword between the horns, into the neck. He lunged. The sword bounced out. The crowd booed.