Shadow of a Bull

by Maia Wojciechowska

  “That’s wonderful!”

  “I’ll come by your house at about two o’clock in the morning.”

  “Thank you, thank you, Juan.”

  “Don’t thank me. I should thank you for that promise.”

  “Do you know where I live?”

  “Who in this town doesn’t know the house of Juan Olivar?”

  9

  They were very careful not to be seen by anyone. Although it was past two o’clock in the morning, there were still many people on the streets. The two did not talk and walked a little apart from each other.

  Manolo held on to his muleta, which he had hidden under his coat, and he felt his fingers trembling. If he had thought he knew the meaning of fear before, he was learning it all over again in the walk to the bull ring.

  They had to wait in the shadows of a doorway until a couple of men passed the bull ring. Then they rushed toward the locked gate.

  “We have to chin ourselves, and then crawl through that space,” Juan whispered, pointing to about two feet of opening between the heavy wooden gate and the beginning of the stone wall above.

  “Follow me,” Juan said softly as he jumped up, grabbed the edge of the gate, and pulled himself up and then sideways until he disappeared. Manolo could not make it. He was a little shorter than Juan and not nearly so athletic. Juan reappeared at the top of the gate. Lying down, he extended a hand to Manolo, who managed to pull himself up. Together they jumped down and were safe inside the bull ring enclosure. Manolo looked back at the height from which they had jumped and smiled to himself. The wagon of hay, from which he had once been afraid to jump, had not been nearly so high.

  “They will have the cows penned up all together in the big pen. So the bull that is meant for ‘El Magnifico’ must be in one of the smaller pens. It will be, I guess, no more than a two year old. But I’ll bet ‘El Magnifico’ will have trouble with him. He was good once, before he got gored for the first time. Then after that goring, he seemed to lose his ability but not his nerve. Now when they book ‘El Magnifico’ to fight anywhere, it’s just to show people how well he gets tossed by the animals. Come on, Manolo, we’d better get started.”

  They could barely see inside the structure of the bull ring, passing by the infirmary, then the chapel, then the place where the horses waited, and the place where the dead bulls were butchered. Even though there had been no bullfight for two weeks, there was the smell of animals all around them.

  “The pens are on the opposite side,” Juan said. “We can cross over to them through the stands.”

  Suddenly they emerged into the moonlit bull ring, and there it was, the arena, empty. Manolo caught his breath. It looked so gigantic, like a sea, like a desert.

  “Give me your muleta,” Juan said. When Manolo handed it to him, Juan raced towards the sand, vaulted the barrier, and was inside the ring, taking off his coat. He had brought with him his “sword,” a stick that was sanded down and painted silver. Now Juan began to make passes with the muleta, slowly, beautifully, as good as any Manolo had seen in the ring. As he watched the boy alone in the arena, Manolo knew that what he himself had achieved would never do. Juan had a feel for the red rag; he seemed to be able to breathe life into it. It obeyed the art of his hands and was part of his lithe body; he turned and it followed, effortlessly, the fluid lines of his movements. And Manolo was aware of something else. This boy loved very much what he was doing. He was citing the non-existent bull with soft words of command, and after finishing a series of left-handed passes, aware of their perfection, he shouted to himself, “olé.” And then he looked up towards the empty stands, and Manolo saw how proud and how like a bullfighter he appeared. There was a smile of triumph on his face for a moment; then, as suddenly as it came, the smile disappeared and Juan looked sad.

  “Let’s go,” Juan said.

  “You’re terribly good,” Manolo managed to say.

  “Oh,” he shrugged his shoulders, “you should have seen me with the seed bull yesterday. I caped him with eighteen left-handed passes, and I, myself, knew I was as good as anyone.”

  “And he hurt you?”

  “Slammed me down a couple of times before he knew what he was doing. He probably thought I was one of those silly amateurs. Hey, Manolo, don’t you want to practice a few passes?”

  “No,” Manolo replied. He had not even stepped onto the sand; he felt unworthy of doing even that.

  “All right, let’s get to it,” Juan said joining Manolo in the stands. They walked around until they came to the toril. “Let’s go this way.”

  They could not see where they were going after they entered the dark passageway through which the bull had to walk to reach the ring.

  I won’t do it, I can’t do it. Manolo groped his way behind Juan, wishing he were not there.

  Juan stopped.

  “If we find it, let me go in first. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “I don’t mind,” Manolo said, swallowing hard.

  “Look,” Juan seemed to have sensed the fear in Manolo, “you don’t have to do it. No one is making you. If you don’t want to play with the bull, don’t. I will understand. Besides, I really think it would break all these people’s hearts if you were to get hurt or anything.”

  They resumed their walk through the darkness, Juan feeling for a door, a latch, anything that might lead them to the pen. Manolo, very thankful for what had been said, breathed more easily. Again Juan stopped.

  “I don’t want you to think,” he said softly, “that I am like some of the others. I know that I should not be poaching on someone else’s bull. It is very dangerous for a bullfighter to face an animal that has been played with. And that’s why I won’t give this animal any more than a couple of passes. And when I go to cape them on the pastures, I never touch any bull but the seed bull. They are never fought anyway. So you see, I have my code of honor.” He laughed. “And if,” he continued, “you feel like giving him a few passes, be sure it’s just a few because I’d hate to think that we might be responsible for ‘El Magnifico’s’ getting hurt.”

  “How long,” Manolo asked, happy for this new delay, “how long does it take a bull to learn?”

  “To learn to go for the man instead of the lure? About twenty minutes, or so they say. That’s why the fights are never longer, or at least that part with the man and the bull alone. So you see, it’s important not to play with this one long. And by the way,” he said softly, “if I should get carried away, you shout to me to stop.”

  “And,” Manolo’s throat was again very dry, “what should I do if, if …”

  “If the bull catches me and tosses me? Well, try your best to take it away from me until I can get up again.”

  “Of course,” Manolo mumbled, ashamed of having asked, ashamed of not having known, and mostly ashamed because he felt that if anything were to happen to Juan he, Manolo, could not help him.

  They heard the bull. It snorted, and they followed the sound.

  “It must be here,” Juan said stopping at a door made of planks of wood. He put his ear to them. “Yes. He’s here! Now, listen. This opens from the top. It’s on pulleys, so I’ll try to lift the door up, but it might come down if I don’t manage it all the way. Can you hold it while I am there?”

  “But, if I hold it, I can’t come to help you if … if anything happens.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Let’s not do it,” he said, before he knew that he had wanted to say it.

  “Not do it? But that’s what we came for!”

  “I only meant,” Manolo trembled over the words, “I meant let’s leave that door open in such a way that I could get to you.”

  They could hear the bull now quite plainly; it was scraping the sand with its hoofs.

  “Ready?” Juan asked.

  “Wait,” Manolo whispered. “What … what if the bull comes at us when we open this … this door?”

  “He’s young. And they’re curious but not dumb at that age. He
’ll wait until he sees what’s happening. He won’t rush out. Or at least, that’s what I am counting on. All right, ready now?”

  “Ready.”

  Juan found the pulleys that opened the door. Slowly it lifted, and they could now hear the breathing of the animal. When there was two feet of space at the bottom, Juan tried to see if the door would come down. It did slide back.

  “I’ll have to use my jacket on one side and yours on the other,” he said. He jammed the pulley ropes with the jackets, and now they were able to crawl through. “I’ll go ahead; you just put your head through and watch. Then, when I’m through, you can cape him yourself,” said Juan getting on his knee. “Aren’t you going to wish me luck?” he asked, his face in the moonlight smiling at Manolo.

  “Good luck,” Manolo managed to say.

  He bent down to see the boy scramble up, the muleta in the same hand as his “sword.”

  “Ehe toro!” Juan called softly, and moved to one side. Manolo saw the bull then: a black, glistening mass, white horns shining. It was big, much bigger than he had thought any bull could be.

  “Ehe toro!” Juan repeated a little louder, shaking the muleta, now close, not more than five feet from the animal that stood still, waiting. And suddenly it charged, whirling at the boy. He’ll get killed, Manolo thought; but Juan, without moving away, made the bull change its course. The animal followed the lure, which moved slowly a little ahead of his horns. He came back and again was taken smoothly, slowed down by the boy. Five times the animal and Juan seemed to touch, to be glued together, as Manolo watched. Then, standing straight, the boy turned his back to the animal and sent him away with a beautiful pase de pecho.

  “Do you want to try?” Juan whispered to Manolo. “He’s a good little bull.” Juan stood not far from the bull, not looking at him, not afraid of the charge that might come.

  “Watch out,” Manolo shouted as the animal moved towards the boy. It did not catch Juan, however, who slowly, arrogantly, lifted the lure in both hands and let the animal charge under it. Back came the bull, and again, with quiet assurance, the boy controlled the animal’s speed and direction. Without looking back, Juan walked towards Manolo. The animal seemed to have been nailed to the sand by the last pass, but suddenly it charged fast, too fast for Manolo to warn Juan. It happened in an instant. The boy was tossed up in the air and landed with a thud on the ground. The bull stomped the earth and moved his horns towards Juan, who had both arms thrown over his head. But Manolo was there. He acted automatically with no thought of what he was doing. He picked up the muleta and waved it in front of the horns, and the horns charged the red cloth. Manolo ran backwards, taking the bull away from Juan; he even screamed “Ehe toro!”

  “It’s all right,” Juan shouted getting up. “I’m fine.”

  It was then that Manolo looked at the bull, as if for the first time. The horns were inches away, and the black eyes were staring at him. He was standing between Manolo and Juan’s voice.

  “Thanks a lot,” Juan was saying, “but you better not play with him any longer. We should leave him alone for ‘El Magnifico.’”

  Manolo felt sick. He had to hold his head high not to vomit right there.

  “Ehe toro!” Juan came close to the bull, and the animal whirled and charged at the boy, who held no lure. Manolo watched horrified as Juan, dodging the horns, took the bull away. Without being aware of how he reached the opening, Manolo climbed through it and vomited his fear into the darkness.

  He turned to see Juan letting down the planks.

  “That was wonderful of you!” Juan said, his hand extended. “If it hadn’t been for you, I would be lying there dead.”

  Maybe he did not notice, Manolo thought; maybe he didn’t see that I was paralyzed, that I couldn’t have moved. Maybe he doesn’t know that I vomited. Maybe he didn’t see any of this.

  “It was good that you didn’t play with him any longer,” Juan said as they made their way through the lightless corridor. “If you had, and if something should happen to ‘El Magnifico,’ you’d never forgive yourself; and something is bound to happen to that boy because he knows nothing about bulls and shouldn’t even be allowed to fight this little one.”

  Little one? To Manolo it had been a gigantic bull! He realized that he had better say something or Juan would think that he was still paralyzed with fear.

  “Why aren’t you a bullfighter?” he managed to say, the words coming through his parched throat with difficulty.

  “Are you joking?” Juan laughed. “It takes money or friends to become a bullfighter, and I have neither.”

  “But you’re so good and so brave. You … you took that bull away without a cape or muleta.”

  “Oh that! That’s called al cuerpo limpio, with just your body. I do that often. It’s good practice, and it doesn’t harm the bull at all. I do that on the pastures, and it’s easy. All you have to do is turn more sharply than the bull. It doesn’t take much to be brave if you have afición. There are lots of boys around who are as good or better who never get anywhere at all.”

  “I just know I can get you to that tienta!” Manolo said earnestly. “You can cape the cows, and maybe even the bull they’ll have for me. There will be all sorts of people there, and of course, the Count. When they see you, they’re bound to know that you should be given a chance. They will help you.”

  “If only Castillo would be there!” Juan said dreamingly. “If only he would be there. He couldn’t help me because he’s no longer a critic, but I would so much like to meet him.”

  They had emerged into the ring again, and there was no more moon, the sky had clouded.

  “Manolo, if you do get me to that tienta, I’ll never forget it. But, I don’t want you to kill yourself trying. You can ask if you wish, but I won’t die if they won’t let me come. I’m only fourteen. Sometime, somewhere, someone is going to see me and maybe get me a bull to fight. If not, I’ll do what my father did before me. I’ll get my chances at country fairs, at capeas … .”

  “With bulls that have been fought before?”

  “So what? I’ve already spilled my brave blood.” He laughed.

  “You mean, you have been gored?”

  “Two years ago. About ten inches of horn in my right thigh. But I walk, and I can’t even remember anymore if it was my fault or if the bull knew what he was doing.”

  They sat down in the stands. The moon came out again and the seats were silvery gray with its light.

  “You see this plaza?” Juan asked, his eyes traveling around the ring. “This is my home. I want to live here. It’s just that I’ll have to wait. One day it will happen. I’ll fight here—my own bulls. One day I’ll fight not only here but in other bull rings. There may be others better than I, and maybe no one will pay too much attention to me, but I’ll be good enough to give the crowd its money’s worth. Because that’s all I want to do, fight bulls honorably. The best way I can.”

  “But why do you? Why do you want so much to be a bullfighter?”

  Juan laughed and stood up.

  “It’s not like wanting any other thing. It’s in my blood, as it was in my father’s. You’re either born with it or, if you’re not, somewhere, someplace you get infected. And there it is. You have afición, which just means that you’ll never be happy doing anything else. But I am glad; don’t think I’m not glad about it,” he added proudly.

  Manolo wished he could say that he did not feel that way at all. But he knew that it would be useless; he would not even be believed. If only Juan were his brother; then they would not expect him to be like his father, they would have someone else.

  10

  The day after he and Juan had broken into the bull ring, Manolo decided that he wouldn’t try again to fight a bull. It would be just as they wanted: it would be at the ranch for the first time. But he could not forget how very good and how very brave Juan had been and how cowardly he himself had behaved. Nor did he forget his promise.

  The next day he went to
the café where the six men were always to be found, to talk to them about Juan.

  “Manolo,” one of them greeted him, “I am glad you did not go to the comic fight last night.”

  “ ‘El Magnifico’ was gored badly,” another added.

  It was not Juan’s fault. Manolo was sure of that. Juan had not fought the bull long enough for that.

  “When did it happen?” he asked.

  “With the first pass.”

  “He tried a stupid trick, passing the bull on his knees much too close to the toril. The bull just rammed into him. He was blinded by the lights, confused by the noise. And the boy was too close, much too close, to the gate.”

  “We were about to go and see him. Come along with us.”

  On the way to the gored boy’s house, Manolo listened to them tell about how bulls can hurt.

  “The horn enters cleanly. If only it would exit that way. But either the man or the bull or both are moving at the time of the goring, and that’s why the wounds are so bad.”

  “The horn tears into the body, ripping the muscles.’

  “And there is always the danger of infections. The horn is dirty, and before penicillin, it was almost always either amputation or death from infection.”

  “As far as the bullfighters are concerned, penicillin was the greatest invention of man.”

  “Poor devils! When they get gored in small towns there is never a doctor.”

  “And that’s where they usually get gored.”

  “Even here in Arcangel, there is only one doctor who will touch a horn wound. Only one who knows anything about them, and he is getting old; when he is gone, maybe there will be no one.”

  “If you must get gored, be sure it’s in Madrid.”

  “In Madrid they have a dozen doctors.”

  “I knew a doctor once who got rich on bullfighters. And then one day, he took his money and went to a printer and had millions of pamphlets printed. The pamphlet was called ‘Stop the National Suicide’.”

  The men had never said anything before about pain, the amount of it a bullfighter had to endure. And Manolo had never thought before about pain. Now, listening to them, he thought that it would not be of dying that he would be afraid, but of the pain.