CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"Which suit shall I wear?" Memo asked Chucho. Chucho had already unlocked his high, carved wardrobe closet, releasing fumes of mothballs and camphor. Memo studied the long row of uniforms and capes hanging from the metal pole. "Shall it be the white one? The yellow?"
But he selected the black one with silver embroidery.
"The black?" Chucho asked. "All those col- ors to choose from, and you select the black?" "Yes. Black is for mourning - and respect." "For the bull?"
"Perhaps - "
The telephone began ringing. Old friends requested tickets, and magazines asked for interviews.
"What shall I say to them?" Chucho asked. "Anything," Memo answered. "I don't care." Memo went to the courtyard to practice. The corrida would take place in one more day. He worked in the courty
