The Naked Bull

By the seventh day of the seventh month, the ancient Kingdom of Navarre in the far northeast of Spain had been descended upon by vast multitudes of humanity for reasons both sensual and abstract for centuries. From every corner of the Earth, the hordes came only to eat and drink, drink and partake in the spectacle, and drink again.

It was the third day of the Encierro, the running of the bulls. (Also nearing Bastille day in France to the north; the French would hurdle the Pyrenees en masse to add their high nosed presence to the deluge.) There would be not a single room or bed left unspoken for, not a chair or bench or single inch of park grass to be pilfered.

Elliott sat painfully in an old wooden chair, his sticky stained glass of red wine still held a useful amount, wet as he drank, the bitter taste conjuring remnants of his last memories. Vashon was nowhere in sight. They had run twice already, preferring to stay together in the perilous endeavor. He remembered his last words before his friend vanished into the night.

“Find me before the rocket, cabron,” Elliott had called after him. A raised hand was his answer and the last he saw of him.

He pulled his backpack from the safety beneath him while he had slept and placed it in the empty seat facing him, to keep away from the prime real estate the many who sought to drag it away or occupy it, just to sit, having been on their feet for days, no longer caring where or with who they were drinking. Elliott allowed a female or two to share the table for a time, and none lingered long. He dispensed others, of dubious intent, the wary eye of the barrio.

He thought then of the talk of the previous afternoon which had returned time and again to the barman Whidbey who Vashon had introduced to Elliott the previous year. His presence was sorely missed by both, though mostly by Vashon, who had sought his warm conversation and expatriate camaraderie. He had asked the waiter if he knew what had become of the man. The waiter had little in the way of explanation, only that circumstances had precipitated his immediate departure. The waiter then apologized as he was extremely busy and started away.

The two watched as the server wound his way through the many tables of people and chairs appeared to hesitate for a moment, turned and glanced back toward them. Reaching in his apron pocket, he produced a small piece of paper, read it, and glanced back at the two men. This behavior was of some interest to both as the waiter hurried back to their table.

“Forgive me,” he paused, “but you had mentioned Whidbey and…” again he paused, obviously at a loss for words. His head full of bar orders and tab destinations. Vashon picked up the slack in hopes of prying from him the matter.

“Yes, he is a friend of ours,” he said impatiently, perhaps news of the lost barmen philosopher. The waiter found himself again.

“Yes, yes! Well, you see, a woman, a lady, I should say, had been asking, by way of his name, if I knew of..” and he glanced again at the paper “you must excuse me, these are her words, ‘The great mermaid hunter Vashon’” he grinned again, perhaps embarrassed by the outlandish nom de guerre. The two glanced at each other with raised brows.

“I am Vashon,” and added, his tongue and humor colored by drink and circumstance, “and I do hunt mermaids.” Elliott snorted his humor and then added, “Exito! You have found your man!” and wiped the spit from his mouth. The waiter handed Vashon the paper and continued with haste his brief instructions in the of chance he encountered this man. A lady, a magnificent lady he stressed, had been asking around about him and left the paper for Vashon, and Vashon alone, he stressed as well. Vashon took the note stating again that was indeed he and thanked the Spaniard, dismissing him to continue his busy work.

Vashon eyed the address and then looked across at Elliott, who was waiting for some reaction.

“Well, my friend, what do you think I should do?” he said

“You know exactly what you are going to do, cabron, don’t even fuck with me, ese. Didn’t you hear? She’s magnificent.”

Vashon shook his head.

“You never know, amigo. Magnificent can be rather vague. Might just be his definition of a monkey’s ass for all I know.”

Now Elliott shook his head, ever the optimist

“I will say her hair is raven in the shade, waist length and full, with perhaps some natural wave and a slight glow of amber when the sun finds her in the afternoon.”

Vashon sipped his wine; took the bait

“The finest bred horses in Arabia would cry just to see such a mane.”

Elliott rubbed his stubbled chin.

“…and her face, is she not an olive-skinned beauty, her lips full and slightly parted, exposing polished ivory, her nose obvious and proud, yet not a distraction, her eyes a mix of Maya and the Orient, of the darkest combination of amber and jade and when she blinks to wet them is the closing and opening not as slow as a dream and does she not hold you in a gaze that no man could turn from without sobbing in spasms?”

“Damn!” said Vashon “But the wine does improve your English.”

Then added

“It is said that her mirror smiles at her reflection and weeps at her turning.”

Elliott was not yet done.

“And her breasts…are they not round and firm, not too large but enjoyable, her nipples hard dark chocolate, quite good-natured and tending more towards the sky than the earth?”

Vashon grinned, “Helen of Troy herself would have sacrificed a hundred such as Paris for the same!”

Elliott grinned devilish.

“…and her ass, tight and full, well cupped and indeed heart-shaped.”

Vashon, elbows on the table now, (this was, after all, a competition).

“It is said that if she lay on her stomach quite naked, with all her muscles relaxed, you could bounce a well-weighted ruby off it twice the distance of the drop.”

“Is she giving you wood, ese?” asked Elliott.

“I’m getting there.”

Elliott drank again from his glass.

“If that is her, amigo, I would fight all the bulls in Spain to have such a woman,” Vashon looked up at the evening sky. A shiver came over him just then.

“That takes a lot of faith,” said Elliott.

“I don’t need faith, amigo. I have experience,” Vashon answered.

Elliott frowned.

“Ahh, but such a beauty as she must be a witch.”

Vashon smiled “Ahh, but they are all witches, no?” and with this, the smile ran away from his face.

“Elly”

“Si, amigo.”

“Where do you think she, woman or witch, ran into our friend Whidbey, and why would he send her to find us?”

They sat in silence for a moment, pondering the mystery as they drank.

“Well,” said Vashon, finally, “One way to find out,” he rose then, finished his wine standing, and looked again at the note, then around the square.

“That direction,” he said and without another word, turned and walked away.

That had been the night before.

Elliott experienced an emptiness for home just then as the rising sun cast long shadows about the steeples and turrets of the cobblestone streets. The minions of San Fermin were beginning to mill about, bleary-eyed phantoms attempting to get their bearings. Backpackers, street sweepers, some wearing the customary white clothes and red sash of the Fiesta, some in shorts and sandals only, all aware this was only the mid-point, and there were days yet to persevere.

Elliott felt his hair on the back of his shoulders, reminding of just how much his life had changed in the past few years. His norm had always been to wear it short, respectable. His family, younger brothers, and sisters looked up to him as the elder, provider of security, both physical and monetary. He had always worked, his aging parents depended on him.

Now he was an adventurer, a soldier of fortune he liked to say. He let his hair grow in thick black waves to his shoulders and beyond, at times. He relished the feel of it on his bare skin. This completed the look of the indigenous Mexican with his Mayan nose, rather large with a pronounced beak, appearing to be broken in the middle, though he had avoided this through his many brawls. His eyes were dark, near black, set against a backdrop of alabaster. He rarely raised his voice and was slow to violence when confronted but could easily hold his own, having survived the streets of Culiacan and then East Los Angeles.

Though now a citizen of the world, Elliott was ever the proud paisano. At times, when mistaken for an Egyptian or Arabian, he was quick to correct, brandishing a string of rapid-fire espanol, leaving few to doubt at his heritage.

He swatted at a fly that had been buzzing betwixt unwashed glass and unwashed body then, turning his head, noticed he was being observed by an odd-looking old man. He turned back to the table, guessing an aging queer, on the hunt for a little morning buggery. A few moments later, he chanced another look. The man had vanished. He turned back around and jumped in his seat as the old man was now standing before him, behind the seat recently occupied by his partner.

“Excuse me, good sir. I do not mean to disturb you. Might I sit, but for a moment?”

“Sorry, pal, I don’t swing that way.”

“Oh, but I have confused you. I mean only to rest my aged legs, and perhaps share a conversation. Nothing more.”

Elliott was uncomfortable and began to rise from his chair

“Actually, I was just on my way.”

The old man insisted.

“I have a proposition for you, good sir.”

“Sure you do, Viejo.”

“I think you will find it most profitable.”

Elliott was distrustful of strangers unless young and female. A strange old man had nothing he wanted. Unless ‘profitable’ meant money. The prospect of spending six months swinging a hammer wasn’t sitting well with him by a damn sight. So he decided at that moment to hear the man out and run him off if things got weird. No wisdom in giving up his seat before breakfast. He moved his pack off the other chair, and the old man sat. Now Elliott observed him in full detail.

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sumner, if you please.”

“Sumner, huh?”

“Just so. I have traveled a great distance to find you. Might you suggest a beverage that might soften the morning’s edge?”

Elliott waved to the Spaniard and motioned two more. When they arrived, Sumner looked at his quizzically and gingerly tasted the wine. He winced.

“Not a red wine man?” said Elliott.

“It has been many years, though I do so covet the taste,” Sumner smiled most benevolent, then, seeing the man sitting across from him would not wait long for him to state his case, spoke

“Indeed. So, as I was saying, your fame is known far and wide.”

“Fame?”

Now Sumner was confused “I was sent by my man Whidbey. You are indeed the great mermaid hunter Vashon, yes?”

Elliott looked intently at the man for the first time, wondering what was going on

“Sinor, where did you see Whidbey?”

“Mukilteo,” said Sumner. He took another drink, winced, and set down his glass.

“Where in the hell is Mukilteo?” asked Elliott

Sumner sidestepped the question and continued with his petition.

“Allow me to explain. I, we, seek your service to procure a certain sea creature that has eluded our own huntsman for many years. I was informed that you employ some sort of apparatus which allows you to breach the surface and swim underwater during the hunt. Could this be true?”

Elliott was at a loss. Then it came to him, and he shook his head as to why it hadn’t dawned on him sooner. He looked around the place.

“OK, cabron, I’m onto you. Where is he?”

“He? To whom are you referring?”

“Vashon. This smells like him all over. Mother fuck! You pinche cabrones almost had me.”

Sumner frowned.

“Then you are not Vashon?”

Elliott shook his head with a grin.

“Drop it, Viejo. I’ve got to go take a shit. Enjoy your wine, then go tell Vashon we need to eat something before the run. Via con Dios, Viejo.”

Sumner appeared perplexed as Elliott got up, shaking his head as he walked inside the bar.

After a time, he returned (the stretch and relief having done much to lighten his spirits), he saw that the old man remained. He sat back down, ready to pursue the charade.

“You still here, Viejo? More wine, yes?” he said

Sumner had traveled far, had convinced Shiatoru and, by way of he, the Lady, that this would be a fruitful endeavor. He did not intend to be denied. He was beginning to lose any patience he still possessed. Swallowing back an urge to tongue-lash the obstinate punk, he took another deep draught and proceeded to set the negotiations aright.

“Please, good sir, the error may well indeed be mine. Is your name not Vashon?”

“I’m Elliott, good sir, and you can drop the Shakespeare. I just spent the night in a chair that is probably a relic from the inquisition. I’m hungry and hungover and waiting for that asshole to walk up with a big fat shit-eating grin on his face.”

Sumner felt some hope, “So you know this man?”

“Yeah, I know him. We travel together.”

“Then you must be his carrier. I assure you, good friend, my quest is quite authentic. I am in great need of your master’s services.”

This last statement set Elliott’s mood back to the stone age. It is one thing playing second fiddle with the women. He could bite his lip when Vashon was in a petulant mood or condescending or his constant God complex. But his master?

“He’s not my master, cabron, and this prank has gone far enough,” then stood and grabbed at the strap of his pack.

“Forgive me, good sir. I have chosen the wrong words. I am a stranger here and am not savvy with your customs. Please, do sit. I believe another glass is in order. Please call for another round, and I will loosen my purse.”

Elliott surveyed the terrace, and the street beyond. People were everywhere, and there were no seats, nowhere to sit and wait for his master. The word still ate at his empty gut. He sat back down and decided to order some food and more drinks as long as the strange old man was buying. Sumner breathed a sigh of relief, seeing that his only glimmer of hope had not vanished. They sat in silence for a short time until Sumner decided it would be appropriate to continue with a simple question.

“Good sir Elliott,” he said, “If I may be so bold as to inquire if you are indeed not Vashon, might I ask as to his whereabouts?”

Elliott ignored the man, his mind now on the menu.