Twelve men entered the arena, marching in columns of four. In time to the paso doble, trailed by six horses of straw. At the far side of the ring, the corrida came to a halt. The three leading men in sparkling suits (one black, one white, one gold) swept off their black caps and bowed to a distant dignitary in the barreras. Ten thousand Madrilenos, stacked in concrete circles, applauded with expectation. I was at the back, in the cheap seats, so that I could see it all without seeing too much.
"It's packed, man," Armen said. "Look at that cutie down there. You see that Art?"
His brother grunted and looked across.
"They bring their girlfriends. Dressed up nice, look at that."
I looked down too, past the ornate pillars to the teenager in the jacket and short white skirt, clutching the arm of her partner, whispering to him. Beside them four middle-aged women were arriving together, settling down, fussing over cushion positions, flicking through programs as if they were at the Bingo. This was no vestige, witnessed only by the old and bloody-minded. Apart from the children, every part of society seemed to be represented. The Camp Nou was a monoculture by comparison.
I had known the Americans for only a day. They had been in the television lounge of the hostal where I had a room. They were smoking Marlboro, feet on the table, saying nothing, watching the images of the first US raid on Iran. I sat down in the farthest chair, feeling afraid again. Night-vision blur of tracer fire over Tehran.
"You understand this shit?" the one nearest me asked. The television voice over was in fast Spanish.
"Some," I replied. "Sounds like the bombers are going in."
"I guessed that, man," he said. "I mean, look. Shit." He shook his head, walked over and changed the channel a few times. The same images repeated, only the voices changed. The manager looked in. "No change TV. No change."
They both turned at looked at him, cold, steady stares. "There's CNN in the Irish pub up the street," I said. "Want to get a beer and see what's happening?"
"Waiting for a call, man," one said.
"You're always waiting for that call."
"So?"
"So get a beer?"
"I'm waiting for a call, man."
"You wait, Art. You wait for that call. I'm gonna see what's goin' on. You just sit there and wait, man."
"You goona wait here first? There is a war on."
"A war on, yeah"
"Right in front of your eyes, man. Right there, right now."
The picadores guided their silent horses from the arena. The remaining banderilleros produced gold and pink capes and waited for the entry of the first bull.
"You ever seen that film Colors? Had that napalm guy in it." Armen asked me.
"I've heard of it," I said. "Not seen it."
"That's where we come from, my friend. Downtown LA, me and Art here. Downtown LA."
"That film about gang wars?"
"Yeah, right. That's right. Me and Art, though. We're Armenians, see. Armenians first and Americans second. I mean, we look like Arabs, but we wear these crucifixes." He pulled his chain out from his neckline. The silver cross swung from his finger. "See. That was our colour. Nobody that looks like an Arab has these, except us, right Art?"
Art nodded. "Nobody."
"See when we were coming over here. See when we were getting on the plane back home. They pulled us out and searched us, body search, everything. Cos we look like Arabs and so we must be terrorists. I mean, we're Christian Americans."
