ever. 'Martinez returns from conquering Spanish America!' the headlines will say." "I hope so, querido. But there isn't the same all-out, insane adulation of the torero in Espana as there is here. I think it must be this machismo business."

"You've never understood that, Jose, have you?"

"No more you! Why is it that a man must go to such efforts to prove, over and again, his macho, his maleness?"

"And why did you, Jose Maria, want to become a matador?" "I always did-for as long as I can remember I knew I had to " Carlos rolled back, and looked at the picture of green Isla Margarita on the far wall. Will Jose never understand?" he wondered. "Or do I mean, 'Will I never understand Jose'?"

Carlos' confused thoughts ended when the telephone jangled sharply. Jose reached out and answered.

"Buenas dias del Hotel Tamanaco, Don Jose! Son las diez!" the harsh female voice announced. "Quieren a tomar desayuno ahora?"

Jose put his palm over the mouthpiece. "Just coffee for breakfast, amigo?"

As four o'clock approached, Carlos took his privileged place in his box in the sobrepuertas near the palco presidencia, and to the stirring paso-dobles of the band, surveyed the concrete stands of the sun-filled Nuevo Circo de Caracas, packed with loyal aficionados already in a state close to hysteria. With their banners on display, and their wine-filled botas passing readily from hand to hand, they excitedly awaited the start of the day's sport.

Carlos, alone of Jose Maria's helpers and team, was not allowed any closer, not allowed in the callejon, the passageway around the ring. Si, they all knew that Don Jose had a secretary, but they also knew that he kept very much in the background-Don Jose wanted it that way. After all, what use secretario at a corrida?

The band had stopped. Carlos looked at his watch. Ten after four. The trumpet called and the puertas de cuadrillas slowly swung open. The black-cloaked and hatted alguacil advanced proudly on his prancing black charger. Carlos, though, had no eyes for this dignitary. He was searching for his love.

And there he came! His fresh pale-green, gold-encrusted suit easily recognizable, Jose Maria Martinez advanced nobly on to the yellow, clean-raked sand, his head held high, his resplendent ceremonial cloak wrapped carefully about his left arm and powerful shoulders. With his friend and rival, Pablo Rojas, the new young colored matador from Colombia to his left, Jose Maria advanced deliberately to the cheers of the crowd, advanced to the presidencia to pay his respects; and advanced to Carlos, secretly to proclaim his love.

The introductory ceremonies soon over, the bullfighters retired behind the barrera, and the call on the trumpet heralded the first bull-a splendid black beast from Ecuador-which belonged to Pablo, who dealt with him surely and swiftly. But Carlos did not share the enthusiasm of the crowd. He waited only for his querido Joselito, his darling.

His turn was not long in coming; for the second bull now pounded into the sunlight-a tense, vicious creature, charged with hatred, spite and malice, its only desire to kill. Jose surveyed him coolly for no more than a minute, and having sized him up, swallowed, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the ring. A matador is no better than his bull, and this one enabled Jose to display his prowess to the full.