"Yesterday. I've saved you the rooms you had."
"That's fine. Did you give Mr. Campbell the room on the plaza?"
"Yes. All the rooms we looked at."
"Where are our friends now?"
"I think they went to the pelota."
"And how about the bulls?"
Montoya smiled. "To-night," he said. "To-night at seven o'clock they bring in the Villar bulls, and to-morrow come the Miuras. Do you all go down?"
"Oh, yes. They've never seen a desencajonada."
Montoya put his hand on my shoulder.
"I'll see you there."
He smiled again. He always smiled as though bull-fighting were a very special secret between the two of us; a rather shocking but really very deep secret that we knew about. He always smiled as though there were something lewd about the secret to outsiders, but that it was something that we understood. It would not do to expose it to people who would not understand.
"Your friend, is he aficionado, too?" Montoya smiled at Bill.
"Yes. He came all the way from New York to see the San Fermines."
"Yes?" Montoya politely disbelieved. "But he's not aficionado like you."
He put his hand on my shoulder again embarrassedly.
"Yes," I said. "He's a real aficionado."
"But he's not aficionado like you are."
Aficion means passion. An aficionado is one who is passionate about the bull-fights. All the good bull-fighters stayed at Montoya's hotel; that is, those with aficion stayed there. The commercial bull-fighters stayed once, perhaps, and then did not come back. The good ones came each year. In Montoya's room were their photographs. The photographs were dedicated to Juanito Montoya
