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This sample is from Jane's third book and only novel, Veronica. In December 1956, after meeting and befriending a group of young matadors in Quito, Ecuador, Jane and Ken conceived of a nonfiction book about the corrida del toros in South America. But at some point in 1957, the project became tranformed into a novel, and it was published as Veronica in the spring of 1958.
The story is about a girl named Veronica, the daughter of a retired legendary matador, who grows up in the rural outlands of Ecuador where many farms raise competition bulls. At the age of seventeen, she disguises herself as a man so that she can enter the bullring and carry on her father's tradition. As the mysterious El Pando, she demonstrates her great natural talents and becomes the rave of the corrida.
The novel is narrated in the first person by a 35-year-old journalist named Pete Travis, a worldy-wise, somewhat jaded expatriate American who becomes involved with Veronica when he is hired to write a retrospective article on her father's career. He is one of the few who know Veronica's secret, and because they spend so much time near one another, he can't quell his developing feelings for her.
The story shows very well Jane's acquired passion for the bullfights, but more than that, it is a powerful portrayal of a young woman struggling for independence in a hostile male-dominated world, and of a much older man rediscovering the beauty of life through his association with Veronica. Their unsual relationship borders on the taboo, yet it is genuine and thought-provoking.
The following passage takes place just as Veronica has established her new career as El Pando. While she loves the fame, she hates having to disguise herself as a man, and she longs to be more feminine, especially for Pete, for whom she has developed a fondness. Pete arranges to take Veronica, dressed as a woman, out for a big night on the town, and afterward their pent-up feelings for each other erupt to the surface .
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El Pando became famous practically overnight and was soon the rage of Quito. Her newly won fame, however, was of little interest to Veronica, and she turned down all of the hundreds of invitations to parties, dinners, and social events which flooded her mailbox at the hotel. The reason behind this was that Veronica had a deathly fear of her real sex being discovered. I knew she loved dancing and parties but loathed the thought of mingling with the public in her male attire.
Offers poured in from other bullrings naming fabulous prices for El Pando’s immediate appearance. One in particular from the Plaza de Toros in Mexico City was unusually attractive, and Carrion decided to fly there in order to close the deal.
Veronica and I drove him down to the airport.
“I hope,” he said as we waited for the plane, “that you weel not let any of thees pooblicitee go to your head. Eet’s a queek way to eend your career eef you do. Always remember,” he cautioned, “that to be a really great matador you must stay ‘married’ to the bools.”
I wanted to add my two cents and tell them that that was Manolete’s philosophy, too, and where did it get him? A grave while he was still in his thirties, and he was but one of many who ended up the same way. But as usual, I kept my mouth shut. Veronica promised Carrion that she would exercise faithfully and practice her capework with Pimentel everyday.
“I may not be back for next Sunday’s fight,” he said, “but don’t worry about eet. Eet ees going to be een Latacunga and they’ll probablee breeing the bools right out of someone’s pasture. But whether they are good or bad, remember--keep your eye on the bool!” he said laughing.
With Carrion out of the city, Veronica became a different girl, laughing, smiling, and eager for fun. Now I realized the tremendous influence that Carrion had upon her. He was a modern Svengali whose entire life was centered around the bullring, and heaven help anyone caught within the orbit of his influence.
During the days that followed, Veronica and I were together constantly, going to the movies, taking long rides in the country, and enjoying ourselves the way two normal people should. I avoided taking her to places where she might be recognized, because in spite of the fact that she always wore men’s clothing her golden blond hair attracted attention, and I was afraid her secret would one day be discovered. Being with Veronica was a strange experience. Many times when we were out walking, I wanted to slip my arm around her trim waist or hold her hand, and on two or three occasions I found myself about to open the car door for her. Had I done any of these things and been observed, no doubt we would have been branded as a couple of limp-wristed boys!
“I like going out with you,” Veronica said to me one night. “In fact, this is the first time I’ve ever had any fun. But isn’t there someplace we can go someday,” she asked wistfully, “where I can be myself, even if it’s just for a few hours?”
“Maybe,” I answered. “After Latacunga perhaps we can drive to Ambato or another town where nobody will know you.”
“Let’s do that!” she said happily. “Oh, Pete, you don’t know how I hate wearing these stupid men’s clothes!”
“I don’t know how much you hate wearing them,” I remarked. “But I still prefer French heels, a dress, and perfume, remember?”
She nodded and grinned up at me with her infectious smile.
“But don’t ever mention it to Rafael,” she cautioned, “He’d be furious!”
“Don’t worry, Veronica,” I assured her, “what that guy doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
For the balance of the week she exercised with Pimentel and Hernandez, and on Saturday morning we both began the leisurely drive to Latacunga. Pimentel, Hernandez, and a few of the aficionados left later in the day in a station wagon which carried all of the bull-fighting equipment.
The arena at Latacunga was a small crude wooden affair which had been hastily constructed for the corrida. This was the first fight they had had in twenty years, and the local aficionados were greatly excited. Because the town was only a three-hour drive from Quito, three or four hundred rabid Quiteños made the trip to watch their new hero, El Pando.
Long before the opening bugle, the bleachers were packed. As Carrion had surmised, the bulls were simply awful, and once again the matadors spent most of the afternoon chasing the animals around the ring. It was not what I would have called a top-notch performance but everyone oléd each time a bull charged the cape, and ears and tails were awarded generously.
After the fight I drove Veronica back to the hotel.
“Are you ready to go?” she asked as we entered the lobby.
“Go where?” I said, forgetting momentarily the big plans we had made.
A frown crossed her face. “Have you already forgotten about my dress, high heels, and perfume?”
“Don’t be silly,” I remarked, “I’ve been thinking about it all week, but whatever you do,” I added cautiously, “don’t change here, wait till we get out into the country.”
I told Pimentel and Hernandez that El Pando and I were returning to Quito by a different route and that we would see them the next day.
A few minutes later, after Veronica had changed into her slacks, we left the hotel and picked up the road to Ambato. Eager as a child, she asked every few minutes whether or not she could change her clothes and finally, after we had left Latacunga far behind, I told her to climb into the back seat and put on her dress.
It was rapidly growing dark and I switched on the headlights in order to avoid colliding with the dozens of sheep, cows, and other animals that meandered aimlessly along the bumpy cobblestoned road.
Suddenly a nylon-clad leg appeared over the seat followed by the rustle of silk, and then Veronica. . .a new beautiful and glamorous Veronica. . .slid down beside me. Her low cut dress was a shimmering pale green and she reeked of Chanel perfume. Her lovely lips had become sensuous with the application of lipstick, and she wore long dangling earrings. Even her hair looked different and completely feminine. I had to tear my eyes away from her to avoid running off the road.
“My God!” I exclaimed. “It’s unbelievable.”
She laughed and snuggled up close to me. “You don’t know how much fun it is to be just a girl again,” she said.
“Yes, I do, Veronica,” I answered as I patted her hand softly. “I’ve been trying to tell you that for a long time, but it’s just now sinking in.”
I flipped on the radio and picked up a good dance band from Guayaquil. Her feet quickly tapped to the beat. “Do you know how to dance the flamenco?” she asked excitedly.
I laughed. “I’ve had some of the finest teachers in Lima,” I said kiddingly.
“Wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Then we’ll go dancing.”
“You name it and we’ll do it,” I told her. “This is our night for fun and relaxation.”
I think that if she had asked me to tear the stars out of the sky for her, I would have done so, or at least tried. This new Veronica made me happier than I had ever been before. In spite of Carrion, the bullring, and in spite of herself, I sincerely believed that I had a chance. . .a slim chance to be sure. . .of working this thing out, and I loved her enough to make the effort.
We arrived in Ambato about nine o’clock and checked into the Hotel Florida. With a flourish she signed her real name of Veronica Vasquez on the register. Later we met in the lobby and had a quiet dinner at the hotel. We then drove downtown and ended up at a crummy little nightclub called El Lobo, but it was the best Ambato had to offer. It was a small joint located above a movie theatre. We climbed up the rickety steps and found a table in the corner. The waiter, wearing a soiled white coat and carrying a tray and a wet towel in his hand, came over to us.
“A cocktail?” the mozo suggested.
I looked at Veronica. “It’s up to you, Angel Face,” I said.
“Well, since we’re celebrating, why not have champagne?”
I could have collapsed from surprise, but before she had a chance to change her mind, I ordered a magnum. While we were waiting for the wine to be chilled, we walked to the back room where a three-piece orchestra was giving out with a cha-cha-cha. She was just as graceful on the dance floor as she was in the bullring, and we danced through several numbers. When the slow American music started, I brought her in close to me, and she placed her cheek against mine. This was what I had been waiting for, but I had never expected it to happen.
As the evening wore on and the champagne disappeared, Veronica became more carefree and gay. On the dance floor she clung to me tenaciously and permitted me to kiss her on the cheek. When we danced a flamenco, she insisted that we take off our shoes.
During the course of the evening, I was more than careful not to bring up the question of bulls, matadors, or anything else which might distract her from having fun. As long as she was willing to forget it, it suited me.
About three o’clock in the morning El Lobo closed, and we had to leave. By this time we were both a little high, and back in the car she joined me in singing--neither of us was too good at carrying a tune; we were convulsed with laughter. The front door of the Florida was locked, and I had to pound on the glass for several minutes before the sleepy-eyed caretaker finally opened it.
We walked up the steps to her room. She leaned against the wall to keep her balance and fumbled around in her purse for the key which she handed me. I opened the door, hesitating on the threshold. She staggered into the room and after walking a few feet, tripped over a small rug. I rushed in and lifted her off the floor.
“Oh, my head. . .”she said as I held her in my arms. “It’s going around in circles.”
I placed her gently on the bed and went back to shut the door.
“You’ve got to help me undress, Pete, I can’t do it,” she said as she fumbled with the zipper at the back of her dress.
I went back and took off her shoes, putting them neatly under the bed. Then lifting her up to a sitting position, I finally managed to get her dress over her head. She took off her earrings and threw them carelessly to the floor. She was now down to a frilly bra, silk panties, garter belt, and stockings.
“I don’t know how much more of this I can take off,“ I said.
“Can’t sleep with my clothes on…”she mumbled.
I removed her garter belt and stockings and then covered her with a sheet.
“Good night, Veronica,” I said as I stood up. “See you in the morning.”
She held her long slender bare arms up towards me.
“No goodnight kiss?” she asked.
I sat down at the edge of the bed and bent over her. She held me savagely. Her fingers found their way to my shirt and began undoing the buttons, and all the while her short stabs of breath pounded into my ear like the beat of a jungle drum. My senses were reeling, and yet through the gray fog I knew that this should never be. Hot strong fingers worked their way over my chest. Her lips nibbled at my neck, my ears, and finally like the crescendo of a momentous aria closed over my mouth and held on. I pushed her away gently. My forehead was beaded with perspiration, and my shirt clung damply to my body. I looked down at her. Her eyes were dark lights of passion and her lips trembled with desire. I wanted to pick her up and crush her in my arms, to fondle her delicately-chiseled body. Why did I hesitate? All of my adult life I had been making love to women. . .blondes, brunettes, red-heads. . .even Indians! But now I studied the face of this innocent girl and suddenly felt ashamed.
“Pete,” she whispered. “Oh, Pete. . .stay with me. . .make love to me. . . ,” she pleaded.
Her arms encircled my neck and drew my head down on the pillow. She found my lips in the darkness, and her darting tongue sent me into spasms of delight.
Take her, Pete, the Devil in me said. . .take her just as you’ve taken all the others. . .it’ll be good for her. Maybe this will make her forget the bullring. . .But for the first time in my life I hesitated. I remembered Carrion’s classic words, “To be a great matador you must stay married to the bools.”
And I remembered, too, that the very next Sunday she would be fighting again in Quito. Then suddenly it dawned on me. . .a little bell rang in the back of my mind. How had her own father described this very situation? Slowly through the mental fog his words came back to me. . .”and it is fear that drives us to frantically gorge ourselves on the illicit fruits of life before final disaster overtakes us.” Fear, that’s exactly what it was. . .fear of next Sunday and all the Sundays to come.
I forced myself to sit up.
“Pete. . .what’s the matter? Pete. . . .” Veronica cried. “Don’t you love me?”
“You know very well I do,” I said evenly.
“Then stay with me tonight. . . ,” she whispered.
“No, not tonight, or any other night,” I answered. “Not until you give up this ridiculous masquerade. You can’t love the bulls and me, too. . .it’s got to be one or the other.”
I got to my feet and with trembling hands buttoned my shirt. She suddenly sat up and started beating her pillow with her fist. “I hate you!” she cried like a child in a tantrum, “I hate you!” Get out!” she screamed. “Get out!”
I walked out the door. The little brat, I thought to myself, as I walked down the corridor towards my room. As far as I was concerned she could stay married to the “bools”!
The story reaches its climax in the bullring, but what of this illicit love affair between Veronica and Pete? We won't give away the ending here !
From Veronica, New York: Fleet Publishing, 1958, pp.143-154. |
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