Pedro Romero leaned forward.
"What did you think of them?"
"Very nice," I said. "About twenty-six arrobas. Very short horns. Haven't you seen them?"
"Oh, yes," said Romero.
"They won't weigh twenty-six arrobas," said the critic.
"No," said Romero.
"They've got bananas for horns," the critic said.
"You call them bananas?" asked Romero. He turned to me and smiled. "You wouldn't call them bananas?"
"No," I said. "They're horns all right."
"They're very short," said Pedro Romero. "Very, very short. Still, they aren't bananas."
"I say, Jake," Brett called from the next table, "you have deserted us."
"Just temporarily," I said. "We're talking bulls."
"You are superior."
"Tell him that bulls have no balls," Mike shouted. He was drunk.
Romero looked at me inquiringly.
"Drunk," I said. "Borracho! Muy borracho!"
"You might introduce your friends," Brett said. She had not stopped looking at Pedro Romero. I asked them if they would like to have coffee with us. They both stood up. Romero's face was very brown. He had very nice manners.
I introduced them all around and they started to sit down, but there was not enough room, so we all moved over to the big table by the wall to have coffee. Mike ordered a bottle of Fundador and glasses for everybody. There was a lot of drunken talking.
"Tell him I think writing is lousy," Bill said. "Go on, tell him. Tell him I'm ashamed of being a writer."
Pedro Romero was sitting beside Brett and listening to her.
"Go on. Tell him!" Bill said.
