Jose Maria, but when I see you step out into the ring to face him-you look so small and helpless and . . . and I'm sick with fear."

"So am I, mi amigo."

"Then why do you do it?"

"I must."

"I couldn't bear it if you got hurt."

"I haven't been yet."

"I imagine Manolete said that too," Carlos replied.

Jose sat on the bed and gazed steadfastly into Carlos' black eyes--the same gaze he used on the bull. "But this is a different corrida."

"Different?"

"Mano a mano."

९९

'Hand to hand'?"

"It's a bout, a tournament between Pablo and me," explained Jose. "It was his first appearance here last week, and you know how the crowd loved himeven with me there. So Don Luis dreamed up this old idea-just the two of us-the two most popular heroes-and the plaza de toros will be packed with aficionados eager to see which of us will be the better."

Carlos sat up. "But that will mean three bulls each, won't it? No, Joselito, you can't-it's too much, even for you!"

"I'll remind you of that when we're home in Sevilla," laughed the handsome young torero, and lay back on the bed. "Vienes, querido, we don't want to miss our siesta." And he drew his friend to his side.

Jose awoke early that Sunday morning, and lay quietly, staring at the pattern of light on the ceiling. Carlos lay curled up at his side, and though his eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply, Jose knew that he, too, was awake.

"Next week, on the ship, Carlos," he whispered, "it will be our anniversary. Had you forgotten?"

A murmur: "No."

"Three years ago. I was sitting in the shade of the trees on the Ramblas, sipping my jerez, with an urchin on the cobbles shining my shoes; and a shy slim youth, with straight black hair, white skin, and full, smiling, red lips, his eager black eyes wide and adoring, came by, and asked if he might have the autograph of the up-and-coming matador. I was enormously flattered, Carlos; that's why I asked you to take some wine with me."

"Yes, I know." Carlos stretched out on to his front, so that his right hand. lay on Jose's powerful chest, where his fingers played with the curly hairs. "It was only my second corrida-which is a shameful thing for a Spaniard to admit, even though I was only nineteen at the time-but when one is on vacation in Barcelona, one can't leave out the Plaza Monumental."

"And so in three week's time the young Madrileno was in Sevillaat his new job as secretary to the great, unknown matador Jose Maria Martinez." Jose chuckled, and Carlos felt his chest heave with the quiet laugh. He propped himself on his left elbow, threw back the single, silken sheet, and roamed his eyes over the Sevillano's olive skin, from the broad shoulders to the taut muscles of his thighs. "Do you know, Carlos," Jose's brown eyes moved from the ceiling, and smiled into his friend's, "from that time on, when you joined me, things have become better and better."

"Now, when you go home," Carlos said, "you'll be acclaimed more than

one

26