Ernest Miller Hemingway

“ Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill."
Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the café. Rockets were going up in the square.
"I'm going to sit here," Brett said.
"I'll stay with you," Cohn said.
"Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?"
"I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight."
"What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. ”

“ I translated to Brett.
"You kill your friends?" she asked.
"Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table.
"You know English well."
"Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English."
"Why?" asked Brett.
"It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet."
"Why not?"
"They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that."
"What are bull-fighters like?" ”

“ The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. ”

“ Mike was on his feet proposing a toast. "Let's all drink to—" he began. "Pedro Romero," I said. Everybody stood up. Romero took it very seriously, and we touched glasses and drank it down, I rushing it a little because Mike was trying to make it clear that that was not at all what he was going to drink to. But it went off all right, and Pedro Romero shook hands with every one and he and the critic went out together.
"My God! he's a lovely boy," Brett said. "And how I would love to see him get into those clothes. He must use a shoe-horn." ”

“ Bull-fight he was suspicious of. I explained that bull-fight in Spanish was the lidia of a toro. The Spanish word corrida means in English the running of bulls—the French translation is Course de taureaux. The critic put that in. There is no Spanish word for bull-fight.
Pedro Romero said he had learned a little English in Gibraltar. He was born in Ronda. That is not far above Gibraltar. He started bull-fighting in Malaga in the bull-fighting school there. He had only been at it three years. The bull-fight critic joked him about the number of Malagueño expressions he used. ”

“ I had read the accounts of his two appearances in Madrid in the bull-fight papers, so I was all right.
"The first or the second time?"
"The first."
"I was very bad," he said. "The second time I was better. You remember?" He turned to the critic.
He was not at all embarrassed. He talked of his work as something altogether apart from himself. There was nothing conceited or braggartly about him.
"I like it very much that you like my work," he said. "But you haven't seen it yet. ”

“ Brett said. She had not stopped looking at Pedro Romero. I asked them if they would like to have coffee with us. They both stood up. Romero's face was very brown. He had very nice manners.
I introduced them all around and they started to sit down, but there was not enough room, so we all moved over to the big table by the wall to have coffee. Mike ordered a bottle of Fundador and glasses for everybody. There was a lot of drunken talking.
"Tell him I think writing is lousy," Bill said. "Go on, tell him. Tell him I'm ashamed of being a writer." ”

“ Pedro Romero was sitting beside Brett and listening to her.
"Go on. Tell him!" Bill said.
Romero looked up smiling.
"This gentleman," I said, "is a writer."
Romero was impressed. "This other one, too," I said, pointing at Cohn.
"He looks like Villalta," Romero said, looking at Bill. "Rafael, doesn't he look like Villalta?"
"I can't see it," the critic said.
"Really," Romero said in Spanish. "He looks a lot like Villalta. What does the drunken one do?" ”

“ I said. "There's one American woman down here now that collects bull-fighters."
"I know. They only want the young ones."
"Yes," I said. "The old ones get fat."
"Or crazy like Gallo."
"Well," I said, "it's easy. All you have to do is not give him the message."
"He's such a fine boy," said Montoya. "He ought to stay with his own people. He shouldn't mix in that stuff."
"Won't you have a drink?" I asked.
"No," said Montoya, "I have to go." He went out.
I went down-stairs and out the door and took a walk around through the arcades around the square. It was still raining. ”