Gaze of the Matador

He wasn't a handsome man, nor was he smart. Not to say he was slow or foolish, merely that he lacked aptitude in the disciplines deemed necessary by academia. Mathematics, history, literature all held very little meaning to him. The only books he read were eminently practical, handbooks on carpentry, hunting digests, treatises on the art of survival. My dear Raul was interested only in what he could do with his own two hands, all other information was a mere distraction.

And yet, behind his eyes was the glint of a wit that cut through me like a knife. They were kind eyes, yet flinty and fierce, with an intensity that spoke stronger than words ever possibly could. I can see him now, standing sidelong to the bar in Emilio's Barrio, his gaze meeting mine as if we were already lovers.

I blushed, it having been a long-time since a man stared at me that way, my beauty had lost some of its luster since my dancing days. What age hadn't eroded was tarnished by my husband Luis, our ten years of unhappy marriage leaving me a shriveled old wretch.

Oh, how they used to fawn over me!

"Senora! Senora!" They would say, "How beautiful you look tonight! Please may I walk with you awhile?"

Even the crudest cat-call would be comforting for me, but it was a vain hope. Senora, I was no longer, now I was simply Mujer. Fit maybe to change the linens, but not as an object of affection.

That was until I met my dear Raul, standing there in the barrio, one thumb hanging from a loop in his jeans while the other clasped a tumbler of whisky and brought it to his lips. His eyes fixed on me from the moment I walked in the door. He was noticeably shorter than the other men in the bar but held himself with such composure that he seemed to float above them. His two feet firmly planted beneath him and broad barrel chest protruding without affectation.

He nodded and smiled at me, and I realized to my embarrassment that we'd been staring at each other across the room for two full minutes. I averted my eyes sheepishly and turned towards the bar. It was inappropriate for a widow like myself to be making eyes at a man while my husband, miserable bastard he may have been, was only two weeks in the ground. I ordered a bottle of tequila from the barkeep, and before it arrived, Raul was beside me, sidling up to the bar without a word. He laid a fifty peso note on the counter as the barkeep brought my liquor, telling him to keep the change. Then without a word, he grabbed two glasses and poured us each a drink from the bottle, clinking his glass against mine before knocking back the shot. I followed suit, nervously wiping a dribble from my lip as I gazed once more into those fiery eyes.

He spoke, his voice soft and low.

"I have been waiting for you, senora."

I stammered, "Waiting for me? But why? Who are you?"

"I am Raul Obrigado Lopez, builder of houses and breaker of bulls."

"A matador?"

"Si," He said huskily and poured more tequila into both our glasses. I sipped nervously, unable to tear my eyes away from him.

"I've never seen a bullfight," I mumbled, "It seems cruel to me."

He smiled, "Si, it is cruel. Just as nature is cruel." He knocked back his tequila, "But to give the toro a noble death, a chance to gore his tormentor, is more honorable, I think, than the callous slaughter inflicted on the mere cattle we eat every day."

"I see...so you're a kind matador then?"

"Not kind, merely precise senora. When I enter the ring, I stare deep into the eyes of the toro. That is where the true battle is fought, between our souls. Before I even make the first move with my muleta, I know the soul of the animal completely and how I will strike."

I shuddered imperceptibly, feeling as if I'd experienced the same look he gave his toro's when I'd entered. I downed the rest of my tequila and tapped gently on the lip of the glass. He filled our cups once more.

"So then, senor Lopez. You were waiting for me?"

"Si, senora."

"But how did you know who I was? Or that I'd be here?"

He shrugged, "I've been waiting my entire life to find you. And now that I have, I'll never let you go."

After that, I was his, and he was mine. Our love as inevitable as the change of the seasons, as immovable as the mountains. It was as if it had always been there within us; a hardy kernel swept about the dusty arroyos that had been our lives until, at last, it had been able to blossom in that one perfect moment.

I moved into his villa, scandalizing the town with stories of the widow jumping into bed with a matador while she should be mourning her poor husband. I didn't care; the hen's of the village square had never given me any compassion or friendship. Besides, for the first time in my life, I felt truly happy.

The years passed quickly, Raul and I never tiring of our love. The salary of a matador was inconsistent, and there were not so many houses to be built in those days, so we had to be frugal, our breakfasts watery porridge, suppers lean chicken. We didn't care; food was merely sustenance for the body; Raul and I were fat and happy in our souls.

I never watched any of his fights; I simply couldn't bear to watch the man I live alone in the ring, staring down a raging bull. But I could not keep him from it either. It was the toro's that had made him the man I loved. The toro's had given him those kind, piercing eyes, that calm self-assurance, that unpretentious swagger that allowed him to walk up to me and say, 'Be mine senora' without of hint of hesitation.

Despite my fretting, it was not the toro's who took my dear Raul away. It was something much more mundane, much more tragic. One evening as he walked home, arms laden with groceries, he was struck by an unwary motorist, an American tourist no less, drunk far too early in the day.

I went to the town clinic, so stunned by the sight of Raul's broken body that I could not even muster tears. Though his head was held firm by a neck brace, he seemed to sense my entrance, the fingers on his shattered left arm beckoning me closer.

"Senora?" He croaked, "Is that you?"

"Yes, Raul," I knelt beside his cot, caressing my face against his fingers, "I'm here; I will take care of you, my dear."

He shook his head. His eyes were wide open and fixed on the ceiling.

"You cannot save me now, my love… I see him."

"You see who?"

"Muerte...I see the angel of death. He gazes at me like one of my toro's… but this battle I cannot win."

Tears began to roll down my cheeks, "Don't say that, Raul! You can win! You can get better! How many times have you faced death already and laughed in his face? Surely you can do it once more!"

"No, senora... he has me now. As sure as the sun will rise in the east… he has me."

I shook my head and began to sob, my tears covering his calloused hands.

"You can still fight Raul… please… you must fight… for me."

"He wears your face senora… the angel… he stares at me as you did all those years ago at Emilio's Barrio. At that moment, I knew… that I was defeated at last… that I must submit to a higher power... submit to you."

He caressed my face in his hands, "You have given me more happiness than any man could dream of, my dear senora… and now I must pay the price… I must go and meet my god."

He died the following day, his body interred on a small family cemetery behind our house, adorned by a simple wooden cross I kept garlanded with roses. I lived in isolation, letting the house we'd been so happy in fall into disrepair. I did not try to bring death upon myself, but when I felt its icy grip tighten around my heart, I did not resist.

The angel's black eyes met mine, his gaze as soft as it was penetrating. Finally, I understood what Raul had meant. In a single gaze, I knew that my fate was changed forever, whether I wanted it to or not. My bed began to feel cold, and I longed to feel the dirt of the empty grave next to my beloved.

Love and death, after all, walk hand in hand.