The smell punched the old man, a stiff jab at his nose. It was a manly smell, a masculine smell, a smell that spoke to the old man. It was the smell of victory.
For two days he had struggled, stooped and strained. For two days he wracked his body in supreme effort, sometimes doubled over, sometimes stretched straight as the lance he’d used as a picador in his younger days. His body had shaken with effort, as now it shook with relief.
It was over. He was both sad and relieved, like a boy who’s made his first kill of a noble beast, his father at his side saying, “Well done, young man.” For just a moment, he was back with his father, eagerly discussing what to kill next. In another moment, he was in a trench again, outside Madrid, where the question was who to kill next. He preferred the killing of men in war: he’d always been a little squeamish about gutting his kills anyway, and his father had ridiculed him for it. The brown-clad men had simply toppled over, unrecovered, the disposal someone else’s problem. Some men collected ears as trophies – not him, in the ring or in the war.
And just as suddenly he was back in the now, considering his prize. This one he would keep – he had so little to bring back the memories of his more glorious youth. And so little time left in his hardscrabble life, he preferred to live in the past rather than the present. His prize would remind him that there was once a time when he could do the same three, four, even half a dozen times a day, almost without effort, actually more a matter of relaxation than exertion.
Then his eyes narrowed, scanning the horizon. He knew the smell of his victory would travel to others as well, who would want to take what he had. The white sharks would be gathering, and they weren’t patient or generous. They were savages, to be repected of course, but to be held at bay with whatever was at hand. Soon one of the bolder ones would move in and make a claim. And the old man nearly wept, as he didn’t have his lance, or his rifle, anymore, to protect the last victory he might ever win.
And suddenly, the enemy appeared. No preliminaries, no time to savor his victory, just a sudden clamping down on his waist and a quick tearing sound. He was afraid to look down, not sure what might be left. Then he remembered he was a man, who had killed and loved and drank deeply of life. He must face this, and he did. He looked down
Nurse Carmen stood at the foot of the bed. “Mr. Hemingway, this is GREAT! We were afraid your kidneys had shut down and we would need to start dialysis. But with this volume of urine production, I don’t think we need to worry about that.”
She waved the diaper in the air.
His prize taken from him, the old man wept.