Blood in the Valencian Soil (Secrets of Spain) (10 page)

“Is that because you landed against me and somehow both of your hands managed to stop on my butt?”

“Maybe.” They both sniggered; their matching smiles were only inches apart. “It must be a good sign that you didn’t just let me fall.”

“Must be,” she said quietly. In reality, she felt set on fire, fully clothed in broad daylight.
Luna had, of course, experienced sexual attraction but after years of nothing, every sense that made her a woman begged to get out all at once. “Are you all right?”

“No,” he sighed, and reluctantly let go to straighten himself up. “I hate that I’m like this.”

“You have been injured before, and all sportsmen have injuries from time to time.” She watched him smooth the simple white shirt he wore. His hands were very careful and deliberate, as if he wanted to stretch the moment out as long as possible. The trip had hurt his pride, not his leg.

“It’s not my leg. It’s not even the embarrassment of having to walk with a cane. It’s you. You make me like this. I look at you, and I stumble. Even the words stumble out of my mouth. For the first time in years, I have met a woman I like, and I have all the confidence of a 16 year-old boy. I have been moving
around on my sore leg for weeks, and I’m not paralysed by it; I’m paralysed by you. I’m besotted with you.” He stood silent for a moment, watching her frown. When he swallowed he could feel a heavy lump in his throat. He had no idea what her response would be, but silence only made it so much harder. “Say something. Should I go?”

Luna took the
cane from his hand and brought her eyes back to his. “Maybe it’s time we got you back on your feet. I’m no great mystery. You just need to get to know me better. But I didn’t think you wanted to, because I never heard from you.”

“I didn’t want to seem too keen,” he said with a mischievous smile. “I don’t know what the rules are here.”

“There are no rules with me. I’m not that kind of woman.”

“But I don’t want to push too hard… you know… since Fabrizio…”

A serious expression fell over Luna’s face. “I need to confess something.”

“Al
l right…”

Luna sighed. “Every morning I take my kids to school and then go for a run in the park, as you can see. They say exercise is good for the mind. I have been going through a long bout of depression that has only just lifted. But… when I am alone here, in the park… I go to the café outside the opera house and buy horchata and pastries. I pretend tha
t I like running but instead I only sneak out for sugar for breakfast. Since I haven’t visited during the school holidays, I have missed it terribly.”

A grin spread over Cayetano’s face. “That is a shameful secret,” he joked.

“I know. As an athlete yourself, I’m sure you would not approve of such a diet.”

“No I don’t, I have a strict diet.”

“Now that you know, I have to hope that I can trust you with that secret. I’m prepared to buy your silence.”

Cayetano cocked one eyebrow. “How?”

“Would you like to come and have pastry for breakfast with me? All the people I know are health-crazy cyclists… and they’re all assholes. So I always have to sit alone. I realise if you come with me that this would implicate you in my crimes against nutrition.”

“I would love to.”
It was good to know that she knew that Darren’s teammates were assholes. “I have never had horchata.”

“What? You call yourself Spanish, and you have never had it?”

“It’s a Valencian thing!” he defended himself. “Can I have my cane back?”

“No. I want to you walk with me. Come on. The café is by the rose gardens just there.” She pointed across the wide park, and about 200 metres away was the tiny café, where a staff member was just visible while she laid out tables for the day.

They walked towards the little café, with Cayetano stepping carefully without his cane. Luna had her arm weaved through his so he could lean on her, but he tried his best not to. He was left-handed, and it felt good not to have the cane restricting him. “How do you know that I have had previous injuries?”

“I googled you.”

“Stalker.”

“Hey!” she objected. “I saw you on television, so I decided to find
out more about you.”

“And what do you know now?”

“I know that you made your con picadora novice debut in the ring when you were 22, and did your alternativa in the ring, in Madrid, two years later, which made you a torero. I know that your bullfighting suit, your suit of lights, is designed in the Goyaesque style, the same kind that your father fought in when he was a torero. I know that you had a lot of ears and tails awarded to you in your last season, more than any fighter in Spain. I know that you are known for your noble thrusts.”

“Really? How do you like my noble thru
sts?”

“Yeah, they’re not bad. Skillful and precise I would call them. They get into all the right places.”

Cayetano turned to look at her grin a mile wide. “I like to think so, but I thought we were talking about my fighting technique.”

“Very funny. You forget I have worked with men my whole life. Penis references make their presence known every day. Nothing shocks me.”

“Who said anything about penises? You filthy woman,” he scoffed. “I was trying to be a gentleman.”

“That’s when I also read about your accident,” Luna continued.

“I thought all the scars would have given me away.”

Of course
she knew about the scars. Every time she closed her eyes she saw him naked, ravaged with the silver slivers of battle that ran all over him. “To be gored just below the shoulder and break all those bones, and puncture a lung…”

“Sí…
broken arm, shoulder, wrist, elbow, collarbone and eight ribs. I had complications after the blood transfusion as well, so recovery was a long time.”

“In time to make it up the aisle with celebrity girlfriend María Medina.”

“María and my mother planned our wedding while I was in the hospital. I never even proposed. Everyone is allowed one mistake, aren’t they?”

“More than one, because I also read that you support Real Madrid football.”

Cayetano threw her an incredulous look. “Excuse me? Of course I support them!  I am a Madrileño to the bone. I hope you don’t support Valencia football.”

“Damn right I do! The Valencian soil is in my blood!”

“Do you speak Valencian as well?”

“I do, and so do m
y children. If you move across the world and make somewhere your home, you need to immerse yourself in the new life you have.”

In the shade of the mammoth opera house, the Palau de les Arts Reina Sofía, Cayetano sat down at one of the metal tables and watched Luna talk to the young woman at the café stand. She seemed to know the woman very well. He turned and looked up at the amazing white almond-shaped building that stood over them. The millions of
trencadís, the white mosaic tiles that adorned the gravity defying building, glistened in the sun and nearly blinded him.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” he heard her say behind him, and he turned back to see Luna in the chair next to him. “When I first moved to Valencia, I lived in Ruzafa, but moved over here when I was pregnant. They were still sticking the tiles on the building, one by one. Day and night people climbed all over it. When they had one of their famous fireworks displays at the opening, we wondered if the tiles would fall off
with all the explosions.”

“I think Valencia loves their fireworks even more than Madrid,” Cayetano replied. “Where do you live?”

“Right there,” Luna said and pointed across the park. On the other side of the nearby Puente de Monteolivete bridge that ferried the traffic through the Arts and Sciences complex, stood a tall white apartment block. “Best view in the city.”

The conversation paused when the young girl from the café stand came over with
two large glasses filled with horchata and farton pastries on a tray. Cayetano thanked the girl, who did a double take at him, something he was used to happening. “I can see why you love this so much for breakfast,” he commented.

“Any self-respecting Valenciano knows that the best horchata comes from Alboraia  - made with tiger nuts, water, su
gar and nothing else. The farton must be dipped in it. It’s essential.”

“Alboraia is not far from here, right?” Cayetano asked, and took and a sip from the tall glass. Cold and creamy.

“Yes, it borders the city here. I love Valencia, but I have always wanted to live out of the city in a small town. Beyond the flat lands of the Turia and up into the mountains around here… it’s a magical place.”

“I have to admit, I don’t know the area at all.”

“To the north of the city is the Síerra Calderona. I have driven up the mountains through Serra, Naquera, Olocau, Gátova… all great little towns. I would love a place high in the mountains, isolated from everything. But…the kids go to school here, and here is convenient for work for Darren… and me…”

“And horchata.”

“Can’t forget the horchata,” she sighed, and dipped her pastry into the cold drink.

“Can I make a confession?”

“Sure,” she said with a mouth of full of pastry. “The way I eat puts you off me, right? Sorry, but I don’t care of what people think anymore.”

Cayetano chuckled. She had icing sugar all over her face, and a drop of horchata on her chin. It showed a sense of self-confidence that she could act like that in front of someone, and not be embarrassed. Luna knew herself. “I googled you as well.”

“Me?” she frowned. “I’m no one.”

“That isn’t true. The only female bike mechanic on the cycling pro-racing circuit in Europe? Champion of having drunk drivers jailed here in Valencia? Didn’t you fight in court for 18 months to have the driver who killed your husband jailed? You are someone.”

Luna nodded and wiped her face with a napkin. “I did. I would like to say I did it so people wouldn’t make bad choices and hurt others, but I did it for revenge. It was satisfying. My life was destroyed. Someone had to pay.”

“Fabrizio was a popular guy… and a very good rider. I can only imagine how hard it is…”

“Cayetano,” she interrupted. “Don’t get me wrong, I like you, but I don’t want to talk about Fabrizio with you. I don’t talk about him with anyone. The day might come where I do, but that day isn’t now. It’s still all new and fresh and raw, and dwelling on it doesn’t help me recover from it all.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I am. The thing is… I’m more than some guy’s widow. That is how everyone treats me, as a victim. I met you, and liked you because you didn’t know me as that woman. You are the only one who treats me that way, as an individual.”

“I don’t see you as anything other than an individual. A very
strong woman, in fact. You are fascinating and intimidating.”

“Me?” she scoffed. “Says the famous bullfighting underwear mode
l.”

Cayetano cringed. “Oh, you saw that.”

“Saw it? Everyone in Spain has seen you in your boxer briefs. I just didn’t recognise you when we met. Probably because you had clothes on! They photo-shopped your scars off.”

“Yes, they said my scars would detract from the point of the billboards.”

“The point being your big…?”

“Underwear.”

“Oh yeah, those.”

“I never wanted to do those billboards, it wasn’t my idea,” he shook his head. “It was all about promotion, I swear.”

“Never mind. Only I know that you don’t pad your underwear for the photos,” she said with wide eyes, trying not to laugh.

“I hope I impressed.
” How embarrassing. God, his body had been seen by millions, yet the opinion of this woman meant the world to him.

“I’m very impressed,” she said, and rested her chin on her hand that was propped up by her elbow on the table. “I like you very much. You’re a very intriguing man.”

“Good to know. What if I asked you out on another date?”

“I would say yes… but… I need to take it slower this time.”

Cayetano reached out and brushed the back of his fingers against her arm. “I’m going through my divorce. Slow is good for me. I won’t push too hard this time.”

“You didn’t push too hard last time. No one pushes me around.”

Cayetano leaned forward, the two of them perilously close together. “I could have sworn I pushed you against the bridge just before.”

“True, true, but a girl has to have her firs
t public kissing session. I’m 33 years old already.”

“You have never been kissed in public?”

“I was in a very, very private relationship before. Fabrizio and I had to have a strictly professional relationship everywhere but at home.”

“I want to kiss you now, just to be the man who gets to do that in public with you.”

“I think that is a great idea,” she whispered. The moment Cayetano lips met hers, Luna’s heart leap in her chest. It felt like a wild bird trapped in a cage inside her. His kiss was so tender, but it promised so much. She was afraid to exhale because she wasn’t sure she had the power to breathe in again. Over and over he kissed her lips, a guiding and searching kiss that was nothing like the passionate moments they had shared before. This was affectionate, but also offered something, something warm and compassionate.