I translated to Brett.
“You kill your friends?” she asked.
“Always,” he said in English, and laughed. “So they don’t kill me.” He looked at her across the table.
“You know English well.”
“Yes,” he said. “Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English.”
“Why?” asked Brett.
“It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that.”
“What are bull-fighters like?”