The American writer, Harry Cohen took his girlfriend, Lee Miller to the bullfight in Valencia. Lee hated it.
“It’s hideous,” she said, “and so cruel.”
She described how the torero finally put the bull out of its misery; Cohen only smiled.
“Well,” he said. “Let’s go and get a cup of coffee.”
“Or something stronger,” she said.
They found a bar near the arena. It turned out one of the camarero knew the torero, Jaime Belmonte. He promised to take them to meet him, so they took the tram down to the port.
The torero was in a restaurant on the seafront known as the Pepica where Hemingway once cooked a paella and Alberto Sordi used to take his CineCittà friends.
The wine kept coming. Cohen got progressively drunk; he passed out and woke up two days later in their hotel.
Lee was on the balcony in her swimsuit. “Darling,” she said, “I never thought you were going to wake up.”
“I hope it hasn’t been a bore for you,” Cohen said.
“Darling,” she said, “I spent all my time at the beach.”
Which was a little white lie; the rest of the time she had spent with the torero in the arena.
“Átame!” he had said. “Tie me up, tie me down!”
Lee had never had so much fun at the expense of men.
*
“Oh, I do like this one,” said Maude, handing the card over to Mabel.
“Who is it from?”
“Pushkin. He knows I love Hemingway.”
“I say that’s quite racy. Do you think they really were?”
“I am sure there is nothing new under the sun.”
“It is pretty naughty to tie someone up, especially if your boyfriend is asleep at the hotel.”
“It was his fault. He shouldn’t have been such a lush.”
“I thought she hated bullfights.”
“The matador sounds rather good-looking.”
“What did she do to him once he was tied up?” “I wonder if she picked up some rope burns?”