"It's a good hand," Brett said. "I think he'll live a long time."
"Say it to me. Not to your friend."
"I said you'd live a long time."
"I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die."
I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head.
"No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends."
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?"
He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face.
"Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English."
"Don't forget it, yet," Brett said.
"No?"
"No."
"All right."
He laughed again.
"I would like a hat like that," Brett said.
"Good, I'll get you one."
"Right. See that you do."
"I will. I'll get you one to-night."
