“But why not?” Jaime wanted to know. “Why don’t you want to jump?”
At this moment the owner of the wagon appeared. The boys saw him at the same instant he saw them.
“Get off,” the man shouted. He ran forward, a whip in his hand.
But the boys were already off. They were running down the street laughing and shouting back. They all ran but Manolo.
“Assassins! Vagabonds!” the man yelled waving his whip at the disappearing figures.
Manolo paid little attention.
Had the man not come, he thought, his friends would surely have discovered what he himself now knew: he had been afraid; he was a coward.
“You spilled my hay,” the man went on. Manolo almost jumped. His attention turned to the man at last. “You boys spilled my hay all over the street! You scared my mule!”
“I’ll put the hay back,” Manolo offered, feeling more miserable than he had ever felt in his life.
“Be off, before I take the whip to you!” the man shouted bending down to pick up the scattered hay.
Manolo wished that the man would whip him. He deserved to be whipped for having been afraid.
“Please, let me help,” Manolo insisted.
“All right, help me, then,” the man said grudgingly.
As he picked up the hay and loaded it back on the wagon, Manolo thought that the top of it was not all that high. Even if it had been as high as he had imagined, he, the son of the bravest man who ever lived, had no right to have been afraid.
Afterward, walking very slowly towards his house, he tried to remember other times when he, not knowing it, had been afraid and had shown his fear. There was last summer. Everyone he knew had been swimming or at least learning. And he had not been. He had not learned because he was afraid. He had pretended he didn’t want to go swimming. Actually he had been watching the others splash and laugh and duck under the water, and he had been jealous. Still he had not made any attempts to learn. Now he knew, now he was quite certain, that it was because he was a coward.
And then there was the business of the bicycle. He was probably the only boy in his school who didn’t know how to ride a bicycle. He did not own one. But several of the boys who had bicycles were willing to lend them to those who did not. He had never even wanted to try. That too showed that he was a coward.
How could he have lived all his years without knowing that he was the biggest coward in the world? he wondered; he, the son of the bravest of men. His new knowledge made him feel quite sick. It seemed that he had always been afraid. All his life, always afraid, afraid of everything. But what could he do, knowing it? He would have to learn to hide it until, until he learned to be brave. And he must learn, he knew. He must begin immediately.
The moment he made this decision, the second incident happened. He was crossing the plaza and suddenly a great black mass was bearing straight at him, almost touching him with all its roaring speed. He jumped back from the car and fell down backwards into the gutter.
It was four in the afternoon in the plaza with his father’s statue at its center. The men who were always sitting at the tables of the café were all there as usual. As he fell, he heard them laugh.
“Manolo! Steady there, boy!”
“Never jump back! Never!”
“Stand your ground!”
“Like your father! He never jumped back.”
“Shame on you! You must promise never to do that again.”
He got up, wanting to run away and hide forever. But they made him sit with them. They gave him ice cream, and they kept talking to him.
There were six men, all of them aficionados, all of them followers of his father’s career. Six men in black suits and white shirts, looking very much alike, thinking very much alike, talking very much alike. Six men who knew everything about bullfighting and everything about Juan Olivar. Six men, among a townful of people, who were waiting for Juan Olivar’s son to bring back the glory that Arcangel had once known.
Although he had known them for as long as he could remember, Manolo could not distinguish one from another. He knew that they had different names, and that their faces were not quite the same, and that they did not live together. But he always saw them together: talking, sitting, drinking, smoking, walking, and waiting. Six of them. Six, who had seen him scared; six who were uneasy now, because they had seen him run.
“We’ve left you alone too long, Manolo,” one of them said.
“It’s high time that you see for yourself how to act when something’s running towards you.”
“It’s high time you saw your first bullfight.”
“You’ll sit with us at a barrera, and you will have your first lesson.”
“Today!”
3
There was one hour before the start of the bullfight. During that hour the six men tried desperately to tell Manolo all they knew about bullfighting. But what they knew would have taken days to tell.
“It took four men to write the Gospels,” one of them said, “but it only took one man to write down everything there is to know about bullfighting.”
“You must read Alfonso Castillo’s five-volume work, Of Bulls and the Men Who Fought Them.”
“The boy’s too young to read Castillo.”
“I read a lot,” Manolo said timidly, not wanting them to think that he was too young.
“For now, you’ll just listen to us. Listen and learn.”
“In ancient times, especially in Crete, the bull was bred for strength and bravery. Lions were known to fight those brave bulls. Later a man would match his agility against the strength of the bulls. But the bulls of ancient times were neither as fierce nor as big as those of Spain.”
“At first, centuries ago, when bullfighting began to develop in Spain, it was a pastime for the noblemen only. Through careful breeding, the bulls developed their extraordinary bravery which is completely lacking in all species of bulls except those raised on our peninsula. As the bravery was bred into them, cowardice and tameness were bred out. And today there is as much resemblance between a brave bull and an ordinary bull as there is between a wolf and a lap dog.”
“Later we will tell you how bulls differ. Each bull has his own peculiar characteristics. One day, seeing a bull enter the arena, at a glance you’ll be able to tell, or sometimes maybe only guess, how he will conduct himself in the ring throughout the fight.”
“It will take time, but you’ll learn.”
“You will learn how bulls differ and how you must play each, not only according to the rules of the toreo, but also according to the bull’s deficiencies or advantages.”
Did my father know? Manolo wondered. Had his father known everything that he himself must yet learn? And as if reading his thoughts, one of the men said:
“When your father was your age, Count de la Casa had already taught him much. And what he did not learn from the Count, he learned from Alfonso Castillo, himself.”
“I wish Castillo would come to Arcangel and talk with the boy.”
“He won’t do that. He won’t see a bullfight, and he will not talk bulls to anyone. Not since Juan Olivar’s death.”
“We could write him.”
“He would not answer.”
“We’re wasting time. The boy knows nothing yet, and he’ll go into the bull ring like a tourist.”
“Pitying the animal and shuddering at the sight of the picador.”
They laughed, and then once more became serious.
“Once, la fiesta brava was a duel between a man and a beast. Today it is not an even contest. For one thing the bulls are much smaller.”
“For another the bulls’ horns are often shaved.”
“We needn’t tell the boy that. His bulls will not be shaved.”
“What does shaving the horns mean?” Manolo asked.
“It’s a crime some cowardly bullfighters are guilty of. They make the ganaderos file down the bull’s horns so that when the animal charges the target he misses
. A brave bull, before he is brought to the ring, has been fighting other bulls in the pasture. He knows how to use his horns, as a boxer knows how to use his fists. He aims and judges his aim by the length of his weapons. And when these weapons are shortened, he misses by exactly the distance he’s been deprived of.”
“He can still gore a bullfighter, but the goring will not be so bad as if the horns were untouched.”
“Can you tell when the horns have been shaved?” Manolo asked shuddering.
“The tourists can’t tell; they’re the only ones who can’t.”
“But then,” Manolo interrupted, “what do they do to the bullfighter who has them shaved?”
“They punish him with a fine. But the cowards who fight shaved bulls usually can well afford the money.”
“Enough about that. As I was saying, today it’s less a duel and more of an art. The bull still possesses strength and courage and his horns for weapons. The man needs no strength but a great deal of bravery and skill and grace. He offers his body to the charge of an animal weighing a thousand pounds. He must know how to divert that charge past his body. And at the moment of truth, when he must kill, he stands alone, exposing his breast to the horns. And should those horns move upward at the moment of truth, they will drive death into him. For a chest wound is almost always mortal.”
“If he kills honestly, if there is no cheating, he exposes himself to the chest wound.”
“But some do cheat. When they do, everyone knows; even the tourists can see that they cheat.”
“Don’t expect it to be an even contest. The bull must die. Only sometimes, very rarely, does the bull not die. If he lives after he enters the arena, it is for one of two reasons: either he has been too cowardly and, disgraced, will meet his death outside of the ring, or he has been so brave that both the bullfighter and the public wish to spare him to perpetuate that extraordinary bravery in his descendants.”
“A man may live, but also he may die, for the same reasons. If he is brave, he may die; or if he is too cowardly, he may live, but live in shame. Or he may be just wounded, either because of his bravery or his lack of it.”
“You must remember that courage is not enough. A bullfighter must know and understand the animal he faces. Each animal.”
“Although there is so much to learn, Manolo, you will be learning about the most noble of all animals. There is no sight more beautiful in the animal kingdom than that of a full-grown bull in action. Its bravery, pride, majesty, and strength cannot be matched by any other animal.”
The six men cared much more for the animals than for the men who fought them, that much Manolo could see. As for the rest, his head whirled from the confusion that all the facts left. The voices of the men seemed to merge into one ever more insistent voice.
“Aficionados are divided into three groups. There are the tourists who know nothing, or next to nothing. They don’t have to be foreigners, they can be Spaniards who go to corridas once or twice in a lifetime. Don’t listen to them, everything they say is wrong. Then there are the toreristas. All they care about are the bullfighters. Some like the ones who look pretty in their traje de luces; some like the ones with fancy, flashy passes, worthless because they show neither skill nor courage. And finally, there are toristas, like us, bull fans. We appreciate only the pure artistry; the capacity of the bull and the way his actions affect the bullfighter’s skill. Since the death of your father, there has been precious little for us to see. Bullfighting is dying. And it needs someone to make it come alive again.”
Six pairs of eyes looked at Manolo. He felt that in each pair there was the same hope: that he, Manolo Olivar, would one day bring back to bullfighting the art of his father. And he lowered his eyes, afraid and ashamed, for he felt that their hope would never be realized.
4
They walked into the bull ring in the bright daylight of five o’clock. It was not the crowd that Manolo first saw, but the great ring of sand, half light, half dark. Empty. Quiet. And then he saw the people. The crowd was colorful, loud, waiting. From them there was no escape for anyone, Manolo thought, unless it was into the tranquil smoothness of the sand. And before he even sat down he decided that if his father had ever been afraid, it had not been of fighting a bull but of that ring of waiting people.
Manolo was seated between the six men, surrounded by them, with two of them at each side of him and two behind. He felt a gripping in the pit of his stomach and a tightness in his throat; he hoped that this time it was not fear but excitement. He concentrated, listening to the men, learning from them what it was that he was about to witness. And hoping they would not know, not today at least, how impossible it was for him, Manolo Olivar, to ever be anything like his father.
“Don’t waste your pity on the bull.”
“He will fight for his life, and he will die in battle. And that’s how he’d choose his death if he had a chance to choose: in hot blood and not in the miserable slaughterhouse where he can’t fight back.”
“And don’t pity the horses. It’s a necessary and ugly evil.”
“The bull must hit something solid or he will not go for the lure of the muleta. And he must be weakened to lower his head. That’s what the horse and the picador are for.”
“But remember that it’s the bull that is most important. Watch its every move. He is the orchestra; the bullfighter is only the conductor.”
“The man must stand his ground. He must not run away as you did from the car.”
“The man must do three things: mandar, templar, and parar. He must dominate the bull, hold his attention; he must have timing and rhythm, move the lure just in front of the horns without permitting the bull to reach it; he must stand his ground, keep his feet from moving in front of the bull.”
“Unless the man is doing all this, he cannot command.”
“The bull attacks by instinct. He attacks the cape and the muleta not because of their color but because of their movement. It is the man who must direct the cloth in such a way as to make the bull want to attack the lure over and over again.”
Manolo heard the sound of the trumpet and then of the paso-doble being played. When they told him to look straight ahead, it was beginning. The crowd had become still and only the music played on as they came out, the men and the horses. First a man on horseback.
“The alguacil, he is the go-between, the president’s man on the ground. He catches the ring that opens the toril, the gate from which the bull will come.”
Then came the three toreros, each with his dress cape over his left shoulder and tightly wrapped around his waist, his left hand across his breast, the right swinging free.
“The oldest one, not in age but in years as matador, always walks on the right. The youngest in the middle.”
“They have all had their alternativas, they are full-fledged matadors; for this is a corrida with full-grown bulls.”
“Each man will fight two bulls.”
“Unless the bulls decide otherwise.”
The bullfighters looked very grave. For a moment Manolo thought hopefully that they were afraid. But there was no fear on their faces, just a sort of grave sadness.
“Behind each torero are his banderilleros and behind them the picadors.”
“The men who work for a bullfighter are part of his cuadrilla. Each man’s sword boy is waiting for him right below us. See.”
Yes, he saw three men unfurling capes, throwing them across the wooden barrier that ran around the ring. But it was coming closer, the solemn procession, and at the end of it were withered old men, looking as if they were walking behind the bullfighters’ hearse.
“Those are mono sabios, the men who clean the ring.”
“And also, very often save the bullfighters’ lives.”
And there were others; Manolo was told they were the carpenters and those who would drive the mules that would drag behind them the dead bulls.
“The banderilleros can only wear black or silver embroidered suits. That�
��s how you can tell them apart from the bullfighters.”
“Later you can tell them apart by their clumsiness and their fear.”
“Not always. Some bullfighters have more of that than their helpers.” One of the men laughed, and then they all laughed. Meanwhile the procession reached the barrera, right below, and like a wave, broke.
“Each man must salute the president.”
The three toreros looked up, towards the box where the president of the bull ring was seated; and each, not taking his montera off but pressing it down, acknowledged the man’s presence.
Then before Manolo knew what had happened, the oldest bullfighter had thrown his dress cape up at him. The men beside him looked delighted. They almost shouted that the bullfighter, Emilio Juarez, had fought with his father many times, had recognized Manolo and was honoring him by presenting him with the cape. Manolo touched it gently. It felt silky and was richly embroidered. His examination of it stopped short as the man on his right jabbed an elbow into him:
“Now! Now it begins!”
“The toril!”
“Watch the gate of fear.”
The bugle blew, and Manolo looked as the gate slowly swung open. There was nothing but a pitch-black hole. Suddenly something moved and sprang out into the arena; it was his very first bull that he saw! Black and angry and running, moving swiftly over the earth with his great body and shining with silver-black muscles. Manolo’s heart came to a standstill at the sight of it.
“A calf!” The man at his side spat and then whistled with the others in anger, disappointment making his face ugly. If that’s a calf, Manolo thought, I’d like to see his mother. He smiled to himself at this private joke.
Halfway round the ring, the bull caught sight of the magenta-and-yellow cape held out to him.
“That’s one of Emilio’s banderilleros. And there is the other.”
The bull charged straight at the cape, which lay in waiting on the sand and was taken away before his horns drove into it.
“He charged well. Straight and true, but it’s too early to know if he has any defects. Few bulls run as if they are on rails. Some do charge straight each time, but most hook and swerve, or break, or lean in, or prefer one horn to the other.”
Shadow of a Bull Page 2