Shadow of a Bull

by Maia Wojciechowska

  Their strings with worms barely moved with the moving water. The fish were not biting. Manolo began to chew on another piece of grass, hoping that Jaime would not continue talking about his brother.

  “I am afraid for him,” Jaime said with a sigh. “I know it’s silly, because I can’t do anything about it. I couldn’t tell him not to poach on the pastures. But you know there are mean guards all over those places, and they have orders to shoot at anybody and everybody. They wouldn’t ask any questions, they’d just pull the trigger. I’d hate for my brother to die of a bullet before he had his first real chance with the bulls. I do wish he’d let me come with him. I could act as his lookout.”

  “Have you asked him if he’d let you?”

  “Of course. Many times.”

  “Can’t your father stop him from going?”

  “No. I don’t think he would anyway. I am sure he knows about it, but since he, himself, as a boy used to do it …”

  “I didn’t know your father was a bullfighter.”

  “He was.”

  Jaime didn’t seem to want to go on. All Manolo knew about Señor García was what people said around town. The boys’ father hated everybody and hardly ever left his house. Their mother worked in the factory where they bottled olives, and it was she who supported the family. People said that García should be ashamed of himself for not lifting a finger to bring money into the house. But that’s all Manolo had heard. He didn’t know why Jaime’s father hated people or why he wouldn’t work. And he would not ask Jaime about this. He had never been invited inside Jaime’s house, had never even talked with Juan who wanted to be a bullfighter. He had seen Juan a few times, but they had only nodded to each other.

  “Why do the guards shoot at the boys who want to play with the bulls on the pasture?” he asked Jaime, suddenly wanting to hear more about this forbidden game.

  “Once fought, a bull will attack a man rather than a lure. Besides the ganaderos are supposed to swear or something, when they are selling their bulls for the bull ring, that the bulls have never been fought on foot.”

  “It must be very difficult to fight bulls at night in an open field,” Manolo said, jiggling his line. What he really meant to ask was whether Juan was afraid of doing such a thing.

  “Sure it’s difficult. First you have to separate a bull from the herd so that he will attack your lure. In a herd the bulls just stand. They’re sort of tame when they’re together. But once you separate them, they’re mad and want to kill.”

  “Your brother really does want to become a bullfighter, doesn’t he?”

  “That’s all he wants! That’s all he talks about. That’s all he ever dreams about.”

  Jaime had never talked with Manolo about the future that the town had planned for him. He felt Jaime must be well aware of the coming tienta. By now, since his encounter with the Count, he was sure everyone in Arcangel must know that it was to be next year: that a bull had been chosen for him. Manolo liked his friend for never bringing up the subject. Although at times he did want to talk about it, he knew he could not. To do so would be to confess his fears to his friend.

  That night he lay awake, thinking about the future. He was also thinking of Juan out somewhere in the dark with a herd of bulls, the guards looking for him to shoot him down. If only he, Manolo, could be brave enough to try something like that. If only he could be out there with Juan testing his passes with an animal. But he was not like Belmonte, nor was he like Jaime’s brother, nor was he brave like all the other boys who had ever wanted to be bullfighters.

  He lay down on the bed and cried into the pillow, cried for the shame of his cowardice. He cried for a long time; and when he could cry no more, he made a decision. He was going to ask Jaime’s brother to let him go along the next time he went to the pastures. He was going to face his first bull before the tienta! He had to know now if he had courage enough to face a bull. He could not go on living any longer without knowing if he was capable of conquering his fears. This would be a test. No matter how it came out, he would be able to sleep afterwards. He would know.

  With that decision made, he got up and, taking the cape in his hands, began to do a series of veronicas, better than he had ever done them before, better than he had ever dared hope he could do them. And when the sun rose and the room became light, he was still at it, feeling a new art in his hands, a brand new strength in himself, and a confidence he had never known.

  8

  It was Sunday, and Manolo went to mass alone. After church he walked to Jaime’s house. He had to ask for directions, and as usual people recognized him. The Garcías lived in the poorest part of Arcangel, in a crooked house that leaned against another. Before he reached Jaime’s house, the news of his coming had spread, and Jaime was waiting for him outside.

  “Manolo! What brings you here?” the boy wanted to know.

  “Is your brother in?”

  “What do you want with Juan?”

  “I am sorry but I can’t tell you. I’d like to talk to him.”

  “Come in, then. He’s inside. But so is my father, and he doesn’t like you.”

  “Why doesn’t he like me? I’ve never even met your father.”

  “He doesn’t like you because you’re Juan Olivar’s son.”

  “But why?”

  Before Jaime could answer, his father appeared in the doorway. He was rather a short man, with hair that needed cutting and a chin that cried out for a shave. His eyes were small but extremely bright.

  “Well, well, well,” he sang out in a mocking voice. “The great son of a great father! And to what do we owe the honor of this visit?”

  “Señor García,” Manolo said bowing slightly.

  “What other happiness can we expect after this?” the man said, throwing his arms in the air as if in joy. “Come in, come in, great son of a great father.”

  “Is he making fun of me?” Manolo whispered to Jaime, very uneasy about the man’s strange behavior.

  “He’s just a little jealous,” Jaime whispered back.

  “Great son of the great Juan Olivar, won’t you sit down?” The man pointed to an old upholstered chair that dominated the otherwise almost empty room.

  “No, thank you. I just came to see your son, Juan.”

  “What possible business could you have with my idiot son?”

  “It’s rather private, and I would very much like to see him right away.”

  “He’s still asleep. He has been to Seville. He caped some bulls in someone’s pasture; and I believe,” the man laughed bitterly, “he got hurt somewhat. But then, Juan does not get invited to tientas. But enough about him! You look exactly as your great father looked at your age. Are you too going to be the greatest torero Spain has ever seen?”

  Manolo did not like being mocked by the man, and he did not know how he should answer him.

  “Father, let him go to see Juan,” Jaime said.

  “Not yet! Not before we have our little talk,” the man said turning to Manolo and pointing to the chair again. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you a story.”

  Manolo did as he was told, more to humor the man than to hear what he had to say. He felt very uneasy; if it had not been for Jaime who remained in the room, he would have fled.

  “You didn’t know that I knew your father, did you?” The man laughed as Manolo shook his head. “I saw your father kill his first bull at the famous tienta of Count de la Casa. But I was not among those invited to see the young genius. I sneaked in and,” he laughed again, “sat hidden on the branch of a tree. There I was,” he pointed towards the ceiling, “hidden in a tree like a bird!”

  “Why are you telling him this?” Jaime asked softly.

  “Please go on,” Manolo said, wanting now to know more about this man’s relationship to his father.

  “You see, Jaime, your friend is interested,” the man said with a crooked smile. “Well, there I was like a bird, up in the tree, and there was your father, fighting his first bull. He never want
ed to be a bullfighter, or at least no one but that gypsy who prophesied great fame for him, would have guessed that he wanted to fight bulls. I, on the other hand, up there in the tree, had already caped a dozen bulls on the pastures and jumped into rings and been jailed for it. But I had not been invited, although I would willingly have given both arms and legs to be where your father was, in the ring with a bull of my own, making history.

  “After that, your father and I went our separate ways. I always tried and never got anywhere, and he never seemed to try and got to be the número uno of all Spain. Oh, I fought bulls! Usually the ones that had already been fought a few times, the ones that never charge at anything but a body, bulls that had been taught ‘latin’ at night on their own pastures by boys like me, by boys like my son Juan. They never paid me for those suicides; but I kept hoping, stupidly, that the more horn wounds I got in my body, the faster I would be discovered by someone, and the sooner I would get a chance inside a real bull ring.”

  The man laughed again, and Manolo lowered his eyes in embarrassment.

  “Well, that’s how it went. I have eighteen wounds in me, one that goes clear from my knee to my thigh and doesn’t end there because the same horn ripped open my back. I got that one two weeks after another horn caught my eye, the right one.” He leaned towards Manolo and pointed to his eye. “I can’t see out of it, but no one can tell that. Anyway, your father and I met again. He was by then a very famous torero. After those two wounds, I decided to ask him for a job as his banderillero. He had just lost one, killed by a bull, and he needed one. That’s the reason I went to him and asked him for the job. He took me on. I stayed with him for almost a month. Not quite a month! And then,” he laughed more bitterly, “I was fired! Fired because I failed to notice something out of that right eye of mine. Fired because Juan Olivar thought I had been drinking and was not doing my job.”

  “But he didn’t know,” Manolo said hurriedly. “He didn’t know about your eye!”

  “No. He didn’t know. He didn’t know about the eye. Nobody knew. If he had known, he would never have hired me. Still I was fired with nowhere to go, nothing to do, because all I knew was bulls and no one wanted a half-blind banderillero. And now, my boy Juan knows nothing but bulls. But will he become a bullfighter? No! He will never become a bullfighter. And even if I could, I would not lift a finger to help him. Do you know why? Because the cards are stacked against us. The Garcías are ill-fated. No gypsy needs to tell us that. And no gypsy needs to tell you that you were born lucky, that you’ll become a bullfighter.”

  He got up from the edge of his chair, a broken man, in spirit as well as in body. There was something quite useless about his limbs; he was not a cripple, yet he moved as if he were; and Manolo felt sorry for him.

  “Juan Olivar’s son and not Miguel García’s son will be a torero!” he cried, bitterness making his face ugly. “And what, oh great son of a great father, do you know about our great fiesta brava?”

  He stood over Manolo, waiting for him to answer; and for the first time in his life, Manolo felt the pain of guilt. In a way, he thought, I am responsible for this man’s broken dreams. Yet he did not know exactly how he could have been responsible.

  “I hear,” Señor García said, without bitterness now, as if the silence of the boy and his downcast eyes had mellowed him, “I hear that the Count has picked the bull for you, and that you are to fight it next spring.”

  “Yes.”

  “It will be exactly like your father’s start. I imagine that the great Castillo will be there?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I am sure he will.”

  “Once, Castillo,” Jaime interrupted very fast as if afraid of being stopped by his father, “saw my father in a small bull ring. He wrote that he was a great killer. What exactly did Castillo say about you, father?”

  “I’ve forgotten,” the man said and his gloom returned. “And do you want to be a torero like your father?” He looked intently at Manolo.

  “I don’t know,” Manolo said feeling miserable.

  “Oh, you don’t know? You don’t even have afición, that Spanish poison which seeps into one’s blood and makes an invalid out of the strongest of men? You don’t even know anything about that afición that makes one wake up in the morning with one thought: to fight a bull, to go out and face an animal with death on his horns? You don’t know what it is to forget one’s family, one’s health, even God? I knew a boy once who killed a woman. Do you know what he killed her for? For a chance at fighting a brave bull. The husband who arranged the killing was quite cheap: he gave the boy a bull that had been fought. And the boy was killed, too. But I don’t think the boy minded. You see, no one else was willing to give him an animal to fight. If you do not know what afición can do, can make you do, then indeed you are a lucky boy.”

  “But I do have afición!” Manolo cried out.

  “But you just said that you didn’t know if you wanted to be a torero. Jaime, didn’t he say that?”

  “Leave him alone, father.”

  Manolo wanted to run away, but suddenly an idea came to him. He could do something for this man to make up in a small way for the things he himself had and the man had been deprived of.

  “Señor García! It is because of my afición that I came to see your son, Juan.”

  “Oh!”

  “I …” Manolo smiled at the man, “I wanted to know if he could come to the tienta with me.” It was not a lie. He hadn’t come here to ask that, but now that he had, he would see to it that Juan was invited. He was sure that the Count would not mind.

  The man looked at him unbelieving.

  “I’ll ask the Count if Juan can come along,” Manolo added. “And I will also ask him if Juan can make some passes.”

  The man extended his trembling hand to Manolo.

  “Would you really do that?” he asked trying to hide the tears in his eyes. “Would you do that for my son?”

  “Manolo, that would be wonderful!” Jaime shouted.

  “All he needs,” his father said softly now, “all he needs is one chance. For someone to see him. I know he would be very good. I just know it.”

  “Could I see Juan, now?” Manolo wanted to know. He promised himself that he would not only ask, but insist, that Juan García come with him to the tienta.

  Jaime took him into his brother’s room. Juan was still asleep as they walked in. There was a black bruise extending from his hairline down his right cheek and around his right eye.

  “He got tossed rather badly last night,” Jaime said pulling the covers off his brother. “Wake up, Juan!”

  Juan opened his eyes.

  “Does it hurt?” Manolo asked. “Is your eye all right?”

  Juan blinked, pushed back his hair, and then smiled at Manolo.

  “Sure it’s all right. I won’t go blind like my old man. What are you doing here?”

  “He’s going to ask the Count if you can go to his tienta next year.”

  Juan sat up in bed.

  “You’re not joking, are you?”

  “I’ll try to get you an invitation,” Manolo said, now feeling quite certain that he could. “I promise! You’ll be there.”

  “You know,” Juan was laughing, “I was going to sneak in and watch you from the same tree as my father watched your father.”

  “I want to talk to you about something else,” Manolo said. “Jaime, could we talk alone?”

  “Sure, if you don’t trust me.”

  “It’s not that; it’s something private,” Manolo said smiling.

  “All right. Have your secrets,” Jaime said pretending to be hurt.

  When he had left the room, Juan wanted to know what the secret was.

  “I thought—” Manolo didn’t know how he should ask. “I thought …”

  “Do you want me to teach you the capework?”

  “No, it’s not that. I thought that if you were going to … to cape some bulls in the pasture that maybe you coul
d take me with you.”

  “You wouldn’t want to do that.” Juan said, rubbing his side. “It’s too dangerous. If the bulls don’t get you, there is always the guard. You don’t need to take chances.” He threw the covers off and jumped out of bed. Manolo saw a long scar on one of Juan’s legs. “You are the son of Juan Olivar; and anytime you’re ready to fight bulls, they’ll have bulls ready for you.”

  “But … but I don’t know if …”

  “You don’t know if you can do as well as your father did with his first bull? Without first practicing with an animal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t worry, probably nobody could do as well as your father. Besides, you know that you’re not supposed to know how to use the lures. Have you been practicing?”

  “Yes.”

  Juan clucked his tongue and waved his finger in front of Manolo’s nose.

  “Shame on you.” He laughed.

  “You won’t tell anyone?”

  “Of course not, what do you take me for?”

  “You see,” Manolo said, feeling more at ease now with this boy who seemed to understand, “I don’t want to make a great mess of things. I know I can’t be as good as my father, but I don’t want to disappoint them so much that they are ashamed of me.”

  “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.” Juan had put an old jacket on top of the shirt he slept in. “There is a small bull in the courtyard of the bull ring. It’s there for tomorrow night’s fight, the circus fight. We’ll go tonight and cape him. All right?”