The bull charged straight again.
“He looks good. If he is, then it’s because he has inherited his mother’s courage and gallantry. But his beauty comes from his father. The father was not a big bull.”
And now the oldest bullfighter, Emilio Juarez, came out from behind the barrier. Manolo watched him walk slowly toward the bull, which had already seen him and was thundering toward him. The blackness approached, running straight at him, and the man seemed unaware of the coming of horned death. He stood very straight and proud and unconcerned, holding the cape easily in his two hands.
“He will take him very close.”
As the bull reached the cape, the man swung it alongside, slowly. The horns seemed to graze the man’s thighs and the bull’s rump pressed against the man’s chest; for a moment the two were one, and the olés were loud, as loud as the beating of Manolo’s heart. Again and again, the three—the bull, the cape, and the man—flowed past. Saliva ran in the wind from the bull’s closed mouth, and the veins on the man’s neck were gray and big like fingers. Seeing those veins, Manolo knew without being told that what looked so very easy was terribly hard. And after the fifth pass the man gathered the cape around him and brought the animal to a sharp stop behind his back.
“The easier it looks, the harder it is to do.”
“That’s a series of veronicas you’ve just seen and a fine media-veronica ending it.”
Manolo’s eyes were on the beautiful animal in front of him. The blackness that was his strong body was glistening and heaving. His flanks were wet and his weapons, the horns, were curved and ended in a needle of danger.
“You should have seen your father do a veronica.”
As they were talking, Emilio Juarez again cited the bull, this time with a triumphant: “Ehe, toro!” The animal lunged from his brief rest, and again man and bull became one in another series of veronicas. They danced through the emotions of fear and courage, fear evident in the crowd’s olés, and courage in the movements of both man and animal. Manolo was fascinated by this dance. He watched, breathless, the magic that was performed in front of him; and when it was over, when the bull and the man stopped, he suddenly knew that he wanted to be able to do just that, to be a knight in the shiny suit of glory, to have people scream their praise and their fear for him. And for the first time that day, he was happy to be what he was, happy that the future he had feared so much was to hold so much beauty.
“Wasn’t he very, very good?” Manolo asked.
“Yes, Manolo, luck was with you. You have seen your first bull and your first veronicas, and they were both very good.”
“But the bull is a calf, you said.”
“It is small and therefore less dangerous than a large animal, but still it is a beautiful bull to play.”
When he looked again, he felt sick at what he saw. The bull had charged one of the horses, and the picador had driven a lance into the bull. Blood was running down the bull’s side. Yet he did not make a sound; he kept pushing against the horse and against the weapon that was cutting down his strength. And Manolo lowered his eyes, for the pain seemed to be his own.
“It does the bull more good than harm. It is hitting something solid for a change.”
But it must hurt him terribly, Manolo wanted to shout. How could the bull endure it.
“The wound will never hurt him. By the time it begins to hurt, he will no longer be able to feel anything.”
He saw the bull being taken away from the horse. The bullfighter played him skillfully with slow passes of the cape; the man wound up in the cloth, the animal following, bravely; the two not inches apart.
“Are you watching the chicuelinas?” Manolo was poked in the ribs. He was watching, and it looked quiet and beautiful, this dance of death. But then the sun caught the blood spurting from the deep wound, and again he wanted to cry out for the bull and his pain.
Now, once again, the bull headed for the punishment of the lance, headed straight and fearless for the pain. And Manolo knew that it was from the bulls that he must learn courage. More from them than from the bullfighters, for the bulls’ bravery knows no limit.
Three times the bull went in for the pic, and now there were olés from the people that were meant for the animal.
“A toro de bandera. A truly brave little bull,” they said.
When the bull moved into the shade, the blood was no longer red, just wet. The ballooning cape seemed now to hold him suspended. He knows he’s dying, Manolo thought: he is preparing to die as gracefully and bravely as the people want him to die. And Manolo wanted to run to the bull and put his arms around his bleeding neck and protect him from further hurt.
“Emilio is going to place the banderillas himself,” one of the men said. And when the man cited, the bull ran towards another hurt, barbed sticks. But now Manolo also felt frightened for the man who stood alone in the center of the ring, his legs in the dark shade, his head in the sunlight, awaiting the charge with just two sticks for protection. There is death for this man, Manolo thought. The bull ran forward and seemed to have finally hit the man. Yet he missed, and the man walked away, slowly, from the animal that for a brief moment only was aware of the hooks that were implanted in him.
“With the banderillas you watch for four things: how straight the man’s body is, how he places the sticks, how close to the horns he gets while doing it, and how high his arms are raised.”
Did the men expect him to remember all that, Manolo wondered. He hoped that they would not ask him questions to see how much he had learned.
Now Emilio Juarez came back into the callejon, the passageway between the seats and the ring. He was withdrawing the sword from its case, held by his sword boy, and taking up the red muleta.
“He will now dedicate the bull.”
Emilio Juarez came into the arena, the montera in his hands. He bowed to the president and then he looked straight at Manolo, his hat raised towards the boy.
“I dedicate this noble animal to you, the son of Juan Olivar. May his bravery teach you things a man’s courage cannot teach you.”
“Catch it,” one of the men whispered.
The bullfighter turned around and threw his hat, from behind, toward Manolo, who caught it as all the people in the bull ring watched his flushed face.
“It’s a great honor,” one of the men said.
“What should I do?” Manolo whispered, excited by this completely unexpected attention.
“If you were older, you would be expected to present the bullfighter with a gift.”
“Just hold on to it until the end of the fight and hope that he will make the dedication come true.”
Manolo held on to the velvet-fur material of the hat, praying now for the man and for the bull, for their mutual bravery to teach him the length and breadth of pride and courage.
The men were telling him about the importance of the faena, the last part of the corrida. The man is alone in the arena; there is nothing but the man, the bull, the red muleta, and the sword it hides. The bull’s fate and man’s fate are at stake.
“With the muleta, there is only half the target, it’s half as large as the cape.”
“When the man holds it in his left hand, the target becomes even smaller.”
“It is only now that the man will look death straight in the eye.”
He watched, holding his breath, as Emilio Juarez left his body exposed giving the bull his choice; either the body or the small piece of cloth. And yet, the bull, thanks to the infinite skill of the man, did make the choice of the cloth.
Manolo wanted desperately to know how it was possible for a man to play with a bull that no longer seemed dying but was using his horns to search for death. With each pass the bullfighter seemed to be hypnotizing himself into more bravery; and the stillness was interrupted by shouts of olé; and Manolo, himself, unaware, shouted also, his face feverish with excitement.
And then it happened. The man invaded the bull’s terrain too deeply and he wa
s on the bull’s horns, being tossed up in the air, his legs and arms like a doll’s, limp and falling. Manolo screamed out his fear at the instant the bull’s horns caught. But the man landed miraculously on his feet.
“Luck was with him.”
“But he should have known about the bull’s quarencia”
“We shall teach you about the bull’s terrain and the man’s …”
But Manolo was not listening to them any more. It was incredible to him that the man could resume his passes after what seemed to be his death. His helpers ran out to his aid, but he pulled himself erect, proudly motioning them back and offering himself again to the bull’s attack.
“The moment of truth!”
“The kill!”
Manolo saw the bull standing, its tired head down, its legs swaying a little, very thin, like sticks, the blood still pumping out of his withers. Emilio Juarez profiled, raised the sword to his eyes, and moved forward, toward the lowered horns. It seemed as if he was inside those horns; and then there was no more sword, its red hilt rose from the powerful neck of the bull. The man’s left hand guided the animal slowly past him; and before the man’s body reached the bull’s back, the animal crumpled down, first to its knees, and then to its side. Death came over him very fast. It came before the other men who ran out reached him, before one of them struck a short knife into his nerve center.
What Manolo thought had been a lifetime had lasted only twenty minutes.
Then it was over; they dragged the bull out, his ears and tail cut off, as the crowd shouted and waved white handkerchiefs. Manolo scarcely listened to the six men telling him about the splendid kill. He was terrorized again by thoughts of the future. And his terror was for other bulls, other bullfighters, and for himself.
And at that time, at the time of his terror, a photographer’s bulb went off. In one of the cafés there was a picture of his father, taken in the stands when he was eight or nine. But his father’s eyes were grave and sad, not full of fear.
5
That began it. After that, at least twice a month, he was taken to a bullfight. On Sundays to Cordova or sometimes to Seville; and on Thursdays, if there was a fight in Arcangel, he would be back, seated on the same wooden seat, always the same seat, where he had sat that very first time. And always there were the men.
Sometimes, very rarely, there were only two of them; most often there were six, the men in black suits and white shirts stained with sweat.
“Today don’t watch anything but the bullfighter’s feet. Look how solidly planted they are. See! He has all his weight on both feet. If the bull should brush lightly against him, he would not lose his balance.”
Another time, “I don’t want you to look at anything but the bull’s charges. The minute the toril opens, watch to see if the bull will run straight out or whirl to one side. And when they throw the cape in front, watch which horn he favors.”
And again, “With this bull all you should see is how he attacks the cape. Watch the man, the bull, and the cape, all three at the same time. Look at the man’s hands. Do you see how he holds the cape, do you see the grip?”
“Today it’s the kill. Watch them profile. Watch how high the bullfighters get up on their toes and how they sight down the length of the sword. The target is very small. You must aim carefully in order to kill properly.”
He was learning; he was learning because he knew that his very life would depend one day on knowing. He was memorizing passes and remembering hundreds of facts and dozens of rules. He was taught how to distinguish stupidity from courage and flashiness from art. He was a good student; and the men knew it and were happy about it. But there were arguments.
“I’ll get him a cape tomorrow.”
“Not yet! He must not touch a cape. It must be like his father.”
“But a cape! Let the boy play, practice what he’s learning. I wouldn’t give him a muleta, but a cape! What harm in letting him start with the cape?”
“At twelve. With the bull. For the first time.”
“Like his father. Everything must be like his father.”
“But there was no prophecy about him! We should do everything we can to help the boy.”
“No!”
The argument was familiar. He had heard it before; almost since he could remember anything at all, it had been the same argument. They had tried to give him a handkerchief at four, then a tablecloth, later a man’s jacket, and always there had been the argument. It had to be just like his father. For the first time with the bull. Not until he was twelve. Neither he nor they were to know if there was any talent in him, if his hands, like his father’s, were born for the art of bullfighting.
Again and again they told him:
“A bullfighter must have courage, skill, and grace. And of these courage is the most important.”
“Cowardly bullfighters are rare. Cagancho and El Gallo were two. But they had nerve instead of courage. When they wanted to, when they felt like it, their nerve could be mistaken for courage. They both had skill and grace; they were brave, but brave without the pride that turns bravery into courage. They were both gypsies, and they fought like gypsies, sometimes splendidly and sometimes not at all.”
“Remember, Manolo, that it is not possible for a man to fight well without fighting bravely. Although it is quite possible for a man to fight badly and bravely.”
“You can always spot cowardice. There is no place a man can hide it.”
It was true. Many times he saw fear written very clearly on the faces of men who came to fight bulls and stayed to be hooted, their shame weighing them down, making their eyes desperate. And Manolo again and again swore to himself that he would rather die than show his own terror.
But the more bullfights he saw, the more impossible it seemed to him that he would ever be able to meet a bull alone, play it, and then kill it; especially kill it.
At first, after he started going to bullfights, he hoped that his mother would not let him be a bullfighter. But that hope soon vanished. He overheard his mother one day talking to his aunt.
“It is his fate. I had a broken heart when he was born a boy.”
“We had all prayed that you might have a girl.”
“God willed it otherwise. It cannot be helped. Manolo will have to go and face the animal when the time comes.”
Ever since they had taken him to his first bullfight, his mother’s face had acquired a new sadness. She would hold him to her breast longer as she was saying goodnight, and he would hear her sigh, and sometimes cry, at night.
“You must be grateful,” she would say to him, “to the men who do so very much for you. They are teaching you all they know, and they know more than any one else in Spain about la fiesta brava. They have always been very good to us. When your father died they were the ones who came and told me that I would never have to worry about money, not as long as we both were alive. Your father did make a lot of money, but like all bullfighters, before and since, he spent almost all of it. That’s what people expect of bullfighters, generosity and foolishness. But he left us friends, and they have been helping us each year. Each year those six men give us something. And now they are giving their time to you. You must be grateful.”
He was grateful. He had even begun to like them in spite of their impatience with him and their shouts of anger and their always-present cigars. They were good men, and all they wanted from him was to make their dreams come true. But that was the one thing he was certain he could not do for them.
That was the reason he began to practice. Manolo knew he could not possibly remember all that he had been told, but he felt he must not disappoint them completely. Even though he might die of fright, he would know how to move, what to do with the lure, how at least to pretend that he was, at twelve, a little like his father had been.
He found a cape and a muleta. Not his father’s, because they were in the museum, but his grandfather’s. They were folded in a box, kept in the closet. They lay in mothballs with a
few photographs taken at small bull rings. Manolo felt sorry because in those photographs there seemed to be very few people in the stands watching his grandfather. There were also a few handbills announcing his fights, and that was all that remained of his grandfather’s career as a bullfighter.
Manolo practiced at night, after his mother had fallen asleep and could not hear him. He had to open the windows wide to clear the room of the smell of mothballs. And he did not dare even light a candle, but would swing the cape, much too heavy for his hands, in the light of the moon. He tried to make it float, effortlessly, in front of an imaginary bull. He tried to remember about the slowness and the control and the way he was supposed to command. At first, he knew he was doing everything wrong; and when, after a few weeks, he thought he did a veronica right, he could hardly control his shouts of joy and triumph.
He would worry in the morning. Then his eyes were red and his head so full of sleep he could hardly keep it from falling down on his desk in school. He would worry about being discovered.
The night that he decided to do fancy passes with the cape, the quites, and found that they were much easier to perform than the veronicas, he smiled to himself for the first time. He decided to practice all the passes the bullfighters do while taking the bull away from the horse. These were the passes with which they tried to outshine each other: the chicuelinas, the gaoneras, the reboleras, the mariposas.
He loved to watch the cape balloon gaily. For weeks he felt truly pleased at his mastery of these passes. But then, one day, during a fight when he expressed admiration for a torero who did them well, one of the men said:
“You don’t need to learn the fancy passes. They’re not necessary; you won’t need them at all. You can take the bull away from the horse with a series of veronicas. Your father always did. He did veronicas and medias with the cape and naturales and pases de pecho with the muleta. Just four. Just four, and he was the greatest. And he killed! Oh, how he killed! Better than anyone before or since.”
Shadow of a Bull Page 3