ee the imposing plaza and the for- midable stone wall through which they passed into a quiet courtyard filled with orange trees. Occasionally a bull would leap over the barrier separating the passageway from the arena and create havoc in the narrow space, which was supposed to be a refuge. If we love bullfights it is because we subconsciously know that this is the world's only art form that depicts our preoccupation. I seem to recall that when boys in my class at Lawrenceville forced rats to eat it, either the rats died or their hair fell out.
From the hotel doorway, their father, white-haired Veneno, watched his sons coping with a situation that occurred frequently: surrounded by adoring young women, mostly from the States. the agents of four other well-known matadors, each with a more glittering reputation than Juan G6mez. 'Leticia!' he bellowed like a lovesick boy of seventeen, and she heard him. But this time the tough little Indian was not left alone with only a few supporters in the cheap seats on the sunny side.
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