I glanced up again at the vivid, colorful bull-ring pictured upon the wall. His eyes followed mine.
“Francisco Goya,” he said. “Greatest in España to follow the great Velasquez.”
“You mean that is an original Goya?” I exclaimed.
His voice fell again to whining. “Ah, señor, no more can I tell you than they told to me. You, perhaps, who are of the art a judge—you can say if indeed it is of Goya.”
He waited, but I did not answer.
“A person very droll, señor—the great Goya. A fighter in the bull-ring once, before he took the brush. And with the women—Madre mia, how they loved him—those women in the court of the fourth Charles! He painted well, señor. And his pictures of the bull-ring—like that, señor”—his hands went up as though in benediction—“there are none better.”
I stood for a moment looking up at the painting.
“If the señor wishes,” he added softly, “it troubles me not to take it down.”
I shook my head, “A realist, this Goya,” I said.
“He had no heart, señor. What he saw he painted without pity. He was, as you would say, a satirist.”