Secrets of Spain Trilogy

by Caroline Angus Baker

  “Speaking of angry bulls, tío Luis called,” Miguel said from where he sat dressed casually at the glass dining table. Next to him sat his cousin Hector, dressed in the finest pale grey suit he could afford. “Luis sold sixteen bulls to a promoter who is supplying fights in Pamplona.”

  “Sixteen?” Paco said and sat forward in his armchair. He tugged at his starched white shirt and undid the top button. “That’s a great order. It should pay you freeloaders for a while.”

  “How kind, Papá,” Sofía said with a grin. It was the first time in a while Sofía had come along to see Cayetano fight. Darren was just days away from coming home from cycling the Giro d’Italia, but Sofía wanted to be seen with her famous brother. For her new political aspirations, she needed to be seen in the public eye, not that Cayetano knew.

  “I wonder if Caya needs help with his coleta,” Paco said, ignoring his daughter’s jest.

  “Leave him be, Paco,” Pedro said and folded his arms. “You know Caya likes to get ready alone.”

  Cayetano had retired to his dressing room, which had become Eduardo’s daughters’ bedroom in the interim. But everything was laid out especially for Caya in the cavernous room; to maintain tradition. Caya had dressed in the room to fight at Las Ventas every year since 2000. No one could alter tradition. Normally a torero would be helped into his traje de luces by assistants, sometimes a large group, but Cayetano always refused. But Paco, still, always banged on the door and reminded Cayetano to make sure he cupped his genitals to the left when he dressed. Why? Tradition. Why did his coleta, his artificial pigtail, always have to be pinned in last? Tradition. Why did Cayetano need to fight the second and fifth bulls of the night? Tradition. The list went on and on, and Luna never dared interrupt. She had before, with disastrous results.

  “Are you all right, Luna?” Sofía asked as the pair stood together by the windows overlooking the other stern white apartment buildings of Barrio de Salamanca.

  “I sit on the moral borderline every night Cayetano performs,” Luna mumbled.

  “I know that feeling.”

  “A bad fight turns my stomach, and good fights still make me feel bad every time the horses pull the dead bulls away. Every time Caya stabs his sword in the bull’s morillo, the fleshy neck muscle, I still flinch.”

  “I don’t even look, never have,” Sofía replied, her arms folded.

  “Did you look at the escalafón?” Luna asked Paco. The escalafón was like a bestseller list for bullfighters. With no national ranking or league, two magazines, one from Madrid and another from Valencia, published the results and rankings regularly.

  “You know the rules, Luna.”

  “Of course.” It was a tradition not to check rankings on the day of a fight.

  Cayetano appeared in the doorway from the hallway, dressed in his traje de luces. He had chosen his traditional Goyaesque style suit in a deep royal blue, layered with fine golden embroidery. In his pink socks and tiny slip-on black shoes, he resembled a ballet dancer. He moved like one too, all the strength in his legs. His honey-brown eyes were striking; the flecks of green there to drive his female fans crazy. With his sharp cheekbones, he was as handsome as any man ever had the right to look. Full of pride and full of pleasure. He stood with his pigtail in his hand, ready to have Paco pin it into his slick black hair. Only Paco. Tradition.

  “Ready to marry nobility to the truth tonight, Caya?” Miguel asked.

  “Where do you come up with these lines?” Cayetano laughed as Paco fussed with his hairpiece, pinning it tight. “Just hand me nothing more than the sword when the time comes.”

  “Madrid is like a desert town,” Jaime said as all the men in the room stood to prepare Cayetano for the night. “Tonight is San Isidro, and Las Ventas is the home of the fiesta. Madrid lacks Seville’s or Valencia’s long history, but tonight you bring the city’s soul to life.”

  “That’s for the pep-talk, uncle,” Caya said and kissed Elena’s cheek. “Thanks for letting the whole circus in here today.”

  “Thank you for putting a roof over my daughters’ heads,” she replied.

  “Are you certain you can look after all the children?” Luna asked Elena. Luna had never left all four of the children with anyone. “Just say the word…”

  “I am positive, Luna, and enjoy yourself, God knows you need it! We are a family; you can trust me.”

  ~~~

  Lights. Cameras. Shouting. People shoving one another. Autographs. Bright sunshine. Leaving Cayetano’s building before a fight was always the same. The journalists and cameramen all wanted a picture; fans wanted an autograph; girls wanted a selfie. The noise had gone by the time Cayetano was in the car with Luna, Sofía and Paco, the others in the van behind them. Cayetano sat in silence as Paco navigated the traffic to Las Ventas, east of the central city. Sofía sat at the front with her father, a rare event for both of them. Luna sat in the back, and Cayetano held her hand but no one uttered a word. The maestro of the 21st century needed silence; Cayetano as a study of tranquillity before an event, filled with contempt for death.

  Lights, shouting, sunshine. Selfies. More cameras, more shoving. Cayetano remained stoic as he moved through the crowds to go inside into the shaded and cool air of the innards of Las Ventas, where just the bravest could tread. Cayetano looked the classic, strong, silent type. The loyal son, the good friend, the devoted husband. Independent, private, stern yet approachable. Four years ago Cayetano had failed at Las Ventas, taking four stabs at the bull before it was dead. The 23,000 strong crowd jeered and laughed at him. Cayetano left the ring, dragged by Eduardo and Alonso, tears streaked down his cheeks. It set the scene for the most difficult time in his life, right before Luna got hurt at Escondrijo. He had already buried those demons with victories in successive years, but the memory lingered. That was to say nothing of his 2009 goring, when infatuation got the better of his concentration.

  Luna and Sofía stood together at the barrera, in Las Ventas’ case, a five foot barrier made of red wooden planks. Behind them, the ring filled with a mixture of aficionados and tourists. There had been a rumour some seats had gone for €4000 for the night, to see ‘El Valiente’ Beltrán at his final season performance in Madrid. Bullfighting was art, not a sport. It was Spain; if bullfighting were a sport, then gambling would take place, but that never happened. Although, a few of the men in the front rows, their cigars in one hand, their fur coat-dressed wives in the other, looked as if they had a little flutter on the side.

  “You know?” Sofía said, her elbows on the wooden barrier, her black hair blowing in the breeze, “I always thought bullfighting showed off Spain’s backwardness.”

  “Don’t say that too loud,” Luna smirked. “It used to be a royal event, just the elite taking part.”

  “Then it turned low class.”

  “And coarse, energetic, irrational and intoxicating.”

  “You’ve become a fully-fledged fan.”

  “I love the traditions, the pride. The death, I’ll never be a huge fan of, though,” Luna sighed.

  “How would everyone feel if I joined a political party which planned to ban bullfighting?”

  “You’re known for ruffling the Beltrán feathers,” Luna chuckled. “Why stop now? So you want to get into politics?”

  “After working at the homeless shelters, I’ve got ideas. I’ll tell you later.”

  Paco appeared, also treading along the callejón, the path between the ring, flanked by the barrier, and the fans in the stands. “It’s almost time to begin; Caya is praying. Then they will be able to start on time.”

  Luna nodded as she saw Pedro and Jaime strolling towards them. Miguel stood next to them, the mozo de espadas, the sword handler, for the night.

  “Let’s hope we don’t have over-zealous picadors, tonight,” Luna commented and shivered in the shade of the ring, striped with red and yellow ribbons. “We need Caya to shine, not kill an overly-bled animal.”

  “We need an accurate, high-risk death,” Pa
co replied. “Las Ventas has a discerning audience tonight. Imagine what it will be like when Caya fights here in October, killing all six bulls to end his career. The pressure will be on, so tonight can be for fun.”

  The pasodoble played via a single trumpet, and the crowd fell into a hush. On the other side of the sandy ring, the toreros and banderilleros appeared, to the cheers of the crowd. They walked a solemn pace, followed by the picadors on horseback. The fighters fell into a V shape, Cayetano right at the front. They placed their hands on their left shoulder, and the ring fell silent once more, for one of Spain’s greatest fighters, the mighty Josélito, to appreciate the anniversary of his passing. Josélito, dead for almost 100 years, had been a child prodigy just like Cayetano, but was killed in the ring at only 25. Luna noticed the sparkle of Caya’s suit during the silence, an opposite to his face. Serious, focused, intense, sombre. The silence ended with a cheer from the crowd, and Cayetano almost smiled for a moment. The air in the ring seemed prosperous and pleasant.

  As the toreros and their assistants prepared, Cayetano pulled his cape from his shoulder and laid it over the barrera where Luna stood. “You are like a flower opening in the sun, and I will fight just as gracefully, in dedication to you,” Cayetano said and gestured for Luna to hold the cape. He put his palms together, kissed his fingers, and left Luna to prepare for the fight. It was his only chance to get a look at the first bull while another torero performed on the sand.

  The gates of fear opened across the ring, and the first bull entered, its hair dark and oily. The first torero already looked sweaty. Cayetano stood back, waiting, relaxed; away from Luna and Sofía, keen to hang back and watch in silence. As Cayetano often said, ‘the cape will fly true, or he will die on his knees’. Tonight, the air in Las Ventas spoke of passion and success in the face of death, to prepare for Luna’s moral hangover the following day.

  10

  Hoy de Manzanares, España ~ Septiembre de 1975

  Around the rectangular Plaza Mayor, vines curved and twisted their way up each stone pillar, branching out across the dark tiled roof of the first floor of the enclosed area. Flowers blossomed in deep red and vibrant pinks. The second level of the plaza had white-washed apartments, with bright green shades over their doors, to save the residents of Hoy de Manzanares from the summer heat. Above, the brilliant clear blue sky faded into a luminous pink as the sun set on the day. The site of the Town Hall in the Plaza Mayor was a stunning one, with the flags of Spain, Madrid and the town itself all fluttering on the second floor balcony. But the volume of people below told a different story.

  Fiesta de La Caldereta, the annual town fiesta, celebrated the patron saint of the area, Virgen de la Encino. Huge pots of beef stew cooked in the streets, made by men adorned with green or red scarves, simmered for hours. Now, the pots had arrived in the Plaza Mayor, so around 5000 people, the whole town, could enjoy and celebrate on a summer night.

  Jaime got pushed and shoved all day long in the small town, north-west of Madrid, as had Luis. Pedro had stayed home; his incident in Valencia still haunted him. Their father José was there, acting as manager for Paco, who was the star of the fiesta; held since the late 1700’s. But with a celebrity like Paco Beltrán there to be part of the bullfighting for the fiesta, at a huge cost to the council, the night was busier than ever.

  “There will be handshakes and autographs for all the men, and kisses for all the lovely ladies,” José called out over the crowds, and received laughter in return. The Morales men stood around Paco, who was in danger of being crushed in the stampede of fans eager to meet him. José, tall enough to intimidate anyone, stood next to his son-in-law with one hand on his shoulder. José had a stare that could make anyone stand back with patience. A decade out of Franco’s Brigada Especial, and José still expected to be treated with absolute authority.

  Jaime glanced at Luis. Both were dressed in fine dark suits, like Paco and José. Around them were far simpler people. The small town didn’t have the glamour of Madrid, and the family stood out of the crowd, as expected. Luis just smiled to his brother, unable to say much over the throng of people around them, all yelling to meet Paco. The smell of the beef stew in the pots, which looked big enough to hold an entire bull each, made the pair starving, but reaching a pot would be a challenge; the town all wanted to meet Paco.

  Flashes from cameras continued to light up Paco’s jubilant smile; he enjoyed the publicity. Paco was a man in his prime, deserving of the attention. Next to Paco stood the mayor of the town, a man in his sixties; short, round and happy to have the town on his side for the evening. He shook Paco’s hand, shaken like a bowl of jelly by the slim yet strong bullfighter. “Maestro, tell us,” the mayor said to Paco, Jaime already forgetting the old man’s name, “what is the greatest ability of a torero?”

  “Being able to sleep in the car between fights,” Paco replied in a loud, jovial voice, to the laughter of the crowd.

  “And what is the most demanding part of your schedule?”

  “All the hands to shake and all the women to kiss!”

  As the crowd laughed again, excited and filled to the brim with red wine, Jaime looked around him. Another town, with its plain buildings and spired churches. Last night’s fights in the ring had been with two irrational bulls, leaving an ugly exhibition by Paco’s standards. The crowd hadn’t cared, but the animals didn’t impress Paco. José wouldn’t buy any bulls to take back to Rebelión; the careful breeding over the last ten years needed no ugliness. While other ganaderías had centuries in their breeding for fast, aggressive animals, Rebelión was just a baby by comparison. Rebelión needed every ounce of spectacular breeding they could get.

  As the questions continued, the cameras continue to light up the fading daylight, and Jaime’s eyes wandered through the crowd. There were the older couples there, dressed in what they thought to be their Sunday best. The younger crowd dressed more casually, jeans the order of the evening. They were plenty of young women dressed in bright coloured dresses, though none grabbed Jaime’s interest. Paco’s strong voice, along with his princely exterior, an image he had to maintain at all times, sometimes grabbed Jaime’s attention, but the spectacle disinterested him.

  That was when Jaime saw her. Just a few metres away, dressed in dirty jeans and a black shirt, sleeves rolled up in the heat of the summer and the crush of the crowd. Her short bleached blonde hair made her stand out in an instant, like a glowing beacon. Alazne inched her way through the crowd, trying to get closer to where Paco stood, José’s guarding presence at his side. The audience were reluctant to give up their close spot to Paco, and Alazne couldn’t get to him. As she stopped, Jaime saw the outline of something stiff in the pocket of her tight jeans. A knife?

  Jaime left his spot behind Paco, pushing his way back, through the crowd. Luis turned to see his brother dart away, but stayed at his post, now the only man flanking Paco’s back, unable to follow. Jaime felt swallowed by the crowd with every step; no one could move.

  Alazne saw the well-dressed Madrileño come towards her, and she turned as fast as possible. She elbowed those eager to get the glimpse of the famous bullfighter in an attempt to get away. Jaime was young but strong; he caught the slender girl in a matter of seconds. Jaime grabbed Alazne’s tiny arm and pushed her forward, fighting the crowds. When the crowd relented its fight around the edge of the plaza, the heat from the stew pots made Jaime realise how flustered he had become. Jaime had to make sure no harm came to Paco, a brother by marriage, but the bond felt like blood.

  Jaime pulled Alazne behind one of the stone pillars around the plaza, away from prying eyes and ears. “You nasty bitch,” he seethed. “Why are you here? Why have you come to hurt my brother?”

  “What?” Alazne cried as she tried to get her arm from Jaime’s strong caramel-coloured hand. “I don’t give a damn about Paco Beltrán! He is the distraction, not the target!”

  “So you came to hurt someone! Who?”

  “I don’t talk to bullies and thu
gs.”

  Jaime released the grip on Alazne’s arm but pushed her against a pillar, her back to the crowd. No one paid any attention to the conversation in the corner of the plaza. Fear reigned over her face, but she wouldn’t relent. Alazne didn’t say a word, but the sweat at the base of her neck spoke for her.

  “What are you doing here?” Jaime asked. “Why have you followed us here?”

  “I didn’t,” Alazne scoffed. “I am here to accost the mayor.”

  “Why?”

  “FRAP members will get executed here, in Hoy de Manzanares, under Franco’s orders. The government have divided up those sentenced to death, between here, Burgos and Barcelona. I am here, to incite discourse on behalf of our fellow freedom fighters.”

  “Fellow criminals,” Jaime spat. “They are sentenced to death for being bombers and murderers.”

  “If you have no sympathy for people, like these poor young ones, people not much older than you or me, why did you get me out of jail?”

  “You were lucky,” Jaime shrugged. “And not very grateful!”

  “What was I supposed to do when released? Get down on my knees and open my mouth, like the guards in the prisons expect?”

  “No,” Jaime said, offended by the concept.

  “I figured the other girl you had released would have taken care of the sexual favours.”

  “That other girl, Inmaculada, was in a bad way, more beaten than you. Luis and I took her home; she was in a lot of pain.”

  “So,” Alazne asked again, “why petition my release? And how did you do it?”

  “I said I was getting our friend Inmaculada released on behalf of my father.”

  “The Guardia Civil man? A good name always eliminates disaster, doesn’t it?”

  “I saw your name and helped you on a whim, Alazne. Don’t make me regret it! Don’t go waving the weapon in your pocket at the mayor. Don’t drag my apolitical brother-in-law into anything you think is a solid idea. It’s too much of a coincidence I busted you from jail in Valencia and five days later you turn up here in Hoy de Manzanares. How did you even get here?”