Memory of the bull

The summer breeze blows on my balcony. The edge of the curtain moves in a dancing rhythm just above the wooden floor. My glance drifts to the trees in the park just below the balcony of my house and then back inside.

My gaze fixes on the painting on the living room wall; it's a watercolor given to me by a painter who is no longer alive.

It is a work gently painted, with fluid, malleable material. That is why the black bull in the middle of the painting, stretching out its slender legs in a violent movement as if to ward off an invisible threat, creates a diffuse tension in the picture.

The painter's gesture on the canvas captures a turning movement of the bull, which seems to stand in the air with all its black heaviness, floating in the white emptiness of the painting.

The animal energy of the beast and its dancing drive relentlessly convey a sense of unbridled power, an almost sexual invitation.

I'm trying to understand why writers like Ernest Hemingway loved bullfighting so passionately. Why was Picasso once obsessed with the bull figure? I wonder why the British painter Francis Bacon, with his penchant for depictions of violence, was also fascinated by the power of this animal?

The wind continues to blow gently, twilight embraces the city, and the first lights of the streets and houses slowly come on one by one.

I look out into the park, that time of semi-darkness when day slowly fades into night. I decide to go down to the park. The sounds of the city can be heard in the distance, some birds are chirping, a dog has escaped from its owner and is running around frantically under the trees.

At the farther end of the park, I recognize a male figure of some age under an oak tree. It is a tall man with a white beard and a penetrating gaze.

He stands upright under the tree and examines the park without speaking. The wind moves the loose white shirt he wears and the dark trousers. I walk up to him and wave. He does not answer. He just turns his head to me and waves with a thin smile.

He looks like Ernest Hemingway. "The heat of summer has made me dizzy, and I'm standing in front of a famous dead man who's still alive?" I think to myself.

- "Nice timing, this gloomy hour," I say in a low voice.

- "Very," he replies in a husky tone.

I discreetly walk past him and head down a random path through the park.

Quietly, I walk between the trees. I've gotten far enough away from the enigmatic gentleman. I am alone, darkness is approaching.

As I walk, I spot an object on the ground in the park grasses. It is an old photograph, yellowed, crumpled, and stained by time and moisture.

I bend down, pick it up and look at it with the flashlight on my phone: It shows a bullfighting scene, with three men trying to subdue a wild bull. The crowd in the background is, as far as I can tell, terrified. Some are running for their lives. One man is on the ground, wounded in the leg, under the belly of the bull. He wears a white shirt covered in mud and blood. His dark pants are nearly torn from the animal's attack. A shiver runs through my entire body...

Spellbound, with the worn photograph in my hand, I make my way back. Darkness has settled over the park. I follow the few dim lights and head for the exit.