‘The bull does on occasion gore the matador. There are many injuries and occasionally—rarely, but it happens—the bull kills the killer.’
The Korean sat back with a satisfied sigh and smiled. He spread his short fingers and turned to Krok. ‘This I would very much like to see,’ he said quietly.
Krok smiled. ‘Perhaps you will be lucky enough this afternoon.’
‘I would consider it a very good omen for our future business if this were to transpire.’
Stevie’s mouth went dry; she was quick to read between the lines of conversation and knew exactly what the man was really saying. He was asking Krok to arrange for the matador to die in the ring. That wasn’t in Krok’s power, Stevie knew, but the cruel desire of the Korean shocked her. It shouldn’t have, but even now, after all she had lived through in her line of work, she was not yet immune to certain human responses.
The main course was served, whole quails with detached, feathered heads resting on the plate where once the live head had been. The effect was very odd and quite unappetising. She saw that Stéphane didn’t touch his meat; Henning leant in and whispered, ‘The heads don’t match.’
‘Pardon?’
‘The heads of the birds don’t belong to the bodies. The meat is quail—the heads belong to woodcocks. The heads and bodies don’t match!’
Stevie had forgotten Henning’s keen interest in ornithology. For some reason the mismatch bothered her as much as it seemed to bother him. She supposed that all was not as it seemed in the Palacio de las Maravillas, and that was true of the lunch as well. She swallowed and picked up her fork.
19
They were all issued grand commemorative tickets for the corrida, stiff gold-embossed card with a painting of a matador passing a huge black bull. Stevie wasn’t sure how she would feel about the bullfight; she had never attended one, never wanted to see a mad bull pitted against a matador, but there was no escaping this one. Krok had taken all the ‘sombra’ tickets for the guests, the shaded seats being far more comfortable in the heat than the cheaper ‘sol’ ones. The round, whitewashed arena was filled with smooth sand and a tier of wooden seating rose up steeply, affording everyone a good view.
Their seats were ringside, elevated above the action—above the picadors and trainers—but right at the front. The heavy wooden doors of the arena were right beside them and Henning took his place at the railing. Next to him, the theatre was cut away and he had a perfect view of the sand and the action below.
‘Amazing seats.’ Stevie raised an eyebrow, feeling more nervous than she cared to admit. She glanced around at the crowd. The regular spectators had brought their own hampers and cushions, the women had fans. Everyone was dressed for a party, Krok’s guests and the locals alike. The matador was very famous and the fight would be epic, historic, something they could tell their children and grandchildren about.
As they sat waiting for the picadors, Stevie looked about. All the women spectators opposite her in the sol seats were fanning themselves with their lace and paper fans. It looked like a thousand butterflies were resting there, fluttering delicately. Circe slid into her seat—Marlena could only be Circe—in a black lace dress that clung to her like skin to a snake. Aristo was at her side, a figure of devotion and ferocity, the maleness of his defiance and desire matching that of the bullring and the macho matadors. Everyone facing death in the ring; men of blood, every one, just as Krok had said; she was surrounded by them. Well, perhaps not Henning. He was not a man of blood. It was not as straightforward as that.
There was a ripple of fans and voices as the huge wooden gates opened and the picadors on their horses rode slowly into the ring. The picadors wore black hats and carried lances decorated with paper garlands. Their horses were covered in heavy mattress-like quilted material. Stevie whispered to Henning, ‘Why are the horses wearing blankets?’
Henning leant in—possibly closer than strictly necessary. ‘It’s to save their bellies from the horns of the bulls.’
‘I thought it was the matador who dealt with the bull?’
‘Ultimately. But the horses are there to warm up the bull, give him a taste for goring and ramming. The picadors stab the bull a few times, to rouse him even more.’
This was a true blood sport. Stevie’s sensibility recoiled but she would reserve her judgement until she had witnessed the whole spectacle.
A smaller door giving onto the ring opened and there was a hush. Suddenly, like a locomotive from a tunnel, rushed the black bull. ‘Toro! Toro! Toro!’ shouted the crowd as the beast stormed into the ring, clouds of sand flying up from its hooves. The bull caught sight of the horse and stopped. It lowered its head and charged, catching the horse under the belly with its horns and lifting the animal high into the air, knocking it and its rider into the side of the arena. The picador whirled and gave a stab at the bull with his spear, drawing first blood.
The bull drew back, changed direction, and charged around the ring angrily, looking for something else to charge. He found the second horse and it too was rammed. The picador stabbed the other side and the bull charged off, heading straight for the first horse and rider, barely recovered from the previous assault. The rider struggled to turn the horse side on, the bull gored, the horse and rider were knocked to the ground in a cloud of dust.
Like swallows, the other picadors darted from behind the wooden barriers armed with their stiff pink and yellow capes. They dashed about, trying to distract the bull, to draw him away from the fallen pair. The bull snorted and bucked, charging first one then the other. The spectators groaned as one picador fell and was almost trampled under the bull’s thundering hooves. He rolled away, another picador jumping in to distract the bull. There was a murmuring in the crowd.
Henning muttered, ‘The crowd is anxious. There’s word the bull is mad—loco—the way he went for the horses and the picadors. The crowd want the fight stopped.’
‘Can they do that?’
‘The crowd carry the bullfighting tradition within them. If a bull is unacceptable to them—or a matador for that matter—they can stop the fight.’
The horses had left the ring and the picadors and trainers were in deep conversation by the side of the ring.
‘They’re saying this beast comes from a long line of dangerous bulls. His father gored seven toreros, one of whom died. It will ultimately be up to Jesulin, the matador, to decide. He is young, and passionate about his art.’
‘I think you would have to be.’
Stevie watched as the bull raced around the arena, sand flying up around him, bucking and snorting. He was a terrifying sight, related more to the Minotaur than to any bovine creature she was familiar with. Finally, the bull was locked back into its pen. Indecision, and the crowd was growing restless. Stevie’s eyes found Krok, sitting between Skorpios and the new owner of the Molotov Rostok. He beckoned to one of the trainers, who approached. Krok said something to him and the man shook his head. Krok spoke again, good eye bulging now. This time the man removed his hat and, after a pause, gave a single tiny nod, turned and descended to the ring.
The crowd, impatient now for a decision—this bull or another—began to stamp its feet. The whole wooden arena shuddered with every pulse, the angry heart of tradition beating in the stifling heat. And then Jesulin walked into the ring.
A cheer that became a scream broke loose from the crowd; even Stevie gasped. It was as if all the rock gods and macho fighters of history had combined in one lean, dark-haired man. His presence made the air around him quiver. He would have been five foot ten at the very most, and yet he was a giant. He was dressed all in white, the gold embroidery on his short jacket and toreador pants glinting in the afternoon sun. He wore a black hat and a cape, and carried the long thin sword of the torero. He bowed briefly to the mayor, then searched the audience for Krok, who had set himself up like a prince in his box. Jesulin nodded his head to him in acknowledgement.
The young matador’s posture was erect, almost that of a dan
cer, and indeed on his feet he wore what looked like embroidered black ballet slippers.
Stevie’s pulse raced and she felt a surge of adrenaline. She did not want to be excited by the bullfight—everything about it repulsed her—and yet there, that Spanish afternoon, with a thundering beast, the smell of smoke and sage, Jesulin in the ring, she couldn’t help but be caught up in it.
His eyes roamed the ring, cap in hand now. Stevie watched his face transfixed, and, light as dust, his eyes came to rest on hers. They burnt as black as coal and Stevie caught her breath. Then the gaze was gone. Stevie felt curiously shaken. Had she imagined that strange exchange of energy?
Jesulin slowly removed his cape and hat, and prepared his red cape. He walked solemnly, confidently towards the bull’s gate. About twenty metres from the gate he stopped and got down on one knee. The crowd rippled with awe. It was an extraordinarily dangerous move, especially with such a strong and unpredictable bull. Jesulin held his cape out, supported by his sword, and took a moment. Stevie could almost feel the fire of concentration from where she sat.
He gave a small, sharp nod and the gate swung open. Then the thunder of hooves and the rush of one tonne of beast, half obscured by an inferno of dust. Jesulin, on the ground in front of the bull, spun like a diamond on his knee and the bull passed within centimetres of his body. He arched his back, accentuating the peril for the crowd, real as it was. The crowd, in turn, went wild. The bull reared to a stop, turned like lightning and froze. Eyes on his tormentor, he lowered his head and pawed the earth. Time slowed to match the tempo of the heavy black hoof; the crowd was silent.
The matador rose and stood squarely in front of the bull, chest raised in defiance, his motionless body a challenge to the beast. Suddenly the bull charged. Still the matador did not move, held his ground as the locomotive steamed towards him, long sharp horns aimed for the man’s guts. The bull was three feet away; the matador twisted like a dervish, whirling his cape out to the side. The bull thundered through, snorting in fury at his horns having found no flesh, only the rippling cape and air. Stevie suddenly didn’t want to watch the rest of the fight; she did not want to be in that ring of blood on that hot afternoon watching a man and a bull dance with death. But there was no way out.
Henning glanced at her. ‘You look pale,’ he said quietly. ‘Is it the fight?’ Stevie nodded and Henning reached out and took her hand in his.
The man next to Stevie, a handsome older Spaniard in a flat cap, turned and offered her a beer and a jamon sandwich from his picnic hamper. Stevie gratefully accepted. Perhaps it would help. ‘It’s the tercio de muerte,’ he said, opening a beer for Henning too. ‘The third of death.’
Stevie noticed foam on one side of the bull’s mouth and she pointed it out to her new friend. ‘What is that?’
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘That is a bad sign. Es un toro loco . . . or they have drugged him.’ He nudged a fat man in a fedora whose face hardened as he too noticed the pinkish foam on the bull’s mouth.
‘That is not a tranquillised bull,’ the man in the fedora said. ‘He is no kitten. He is a mad one. If they drugged him, it wasn’t to weaken him.’
Stevie’s eyes widened. ‘What are you saying?’
The man in the fedora looked away, disgust on his face.
The bull charged again, and this time the tip of his horn caught the matador’s shoulder blade, ripping the brocade jacket and opening a weeping red gash on the man’s shoulder. Jesulin flipped and fell. The bull thundered up to him—out ran the banderilleros with their pink capes, trying desperately to distract the beast, to draw his fury towards them and forget the matador.
The bull would not be swayed. He charged through the men, scattering them like flies and made straight for Jesulin. The matador jumped to his feet and held out his cape, passing the wild bull close to his body, spinning to meet him on his way back. The crowd was in an uproar: they had never seen a bull so aggressive, so strong.
The bull charged again and Jesulin skipped a step or two backwards, passing him again. The matador was right below Stevie; she could see the sweat on his face, the sheen of pain, the determination. She could not swallow.
The bull came again, and this time it found Jesulin, the right horn piercing him like butter as the beast tossed him into the air. Stevie cried out, jumping to her feet; Henning and the rest of the crowd leapt up too. The banderilleros rushed in but no one could get close to the bull. Jesulin lay limp on the sand. The bull picked him up again with his horns and once more tossed him into the air. Stevie’s heart was in her mouth; it was a terrible spectacle. Her eyes roamed the crowd for help and found Krok and his horrid guests.
The look on the mad mercenary’s face, the anticipation, the satisfaction, told her everything she needed to know. She turned away. ‘Krok’s done this,’ she said to Henning. ‘He’s done something to the bull to make him crazy, to kill the matador, to please the Korean.’
She gave a cry as the bull rushed towards the wooden barrier with Jesulin on his horns, the broken man motionless now. ‘He wants to crush Jesulin against the wall,’ whispered Stevie, terror rising. There was nothing she could do—she could only watch this drawn-out murder.
The man in the fedora next to her turned. ‘Do you know who has done this to the bull?’ he asked.
Stevie nodded. ‘Si,’ she said, turning her head towards the box. ‘Es él’.
The man in the hat followed her gaze. Skorpios was staring back at them and Stevie turned quickly away, frightened.
Her neighbour in the fedora pointed at Skorpios. ‘Him?’
Stevie shook her head. She stood and went to the railing, pointing straight at Krok. ‘Es él,’ she repeated quietly.
The man in the fedora began to yell at the crowd. ‘He has drugged the bull, the one-eyed pirata has drugged the bull.’
The crowd stomped and roared in anger. Krok stood and made as if to exit but all eyes in the ring were on him now, and he sat back down and pretended to ignore the outrage. His white knight unbuttoned his jacket and rested a hand on his holster.
A slow, rhythmic stamping began in the crowd, growing heavier and faster until the whole place was shaking. The bull snorted and began his charge. Stevie turned to see the creature bear down on the wall. The spectators stood, eyes wide with horror, unable to interfere in the events unfolding before them. Stevie went to step away from the railing—she had noticed she was leaning on a simple bolted gate, and it made her nervous—when Skorpios appeared beside her. He offered his arm to help her move away, quickly, before the bull crashed into the barrier, then grabbed her elbow before she could refuse. To Stevie’s horror, the little gate swung open. The grip held her a moment then thrust her sharply backwards and let go. Stevie tumbled into the bullring.
She hit the sand with her shoulder, whirled around still on her back and was faced with the thundering hoofs of the bull. It snorted in fury, and kept on coming. Stevie curled into a tight ball, closed her eyes and tried not to anticipate what it would feel like to be gored by the beast, to be torn apart, trampled—to have everything end here in a dusty ring in Spain. Inside her head there was nothing, only the heat, the smell of manure and sweat and dust, and a wild prickling on her skin as it waited to be pierced. Then she opened her eyes. She decided she wanted to see death coming. There would be time enough for endless black oblivion.
Like a cat, Henning landed on the sand right in front of her and drew himself up to his full six foot three. The bull saw him drop into the kill zone and this time he stopped, one wild eyeball on the new arrival, so much bigger than the first. Henning reached slowly to the side, ever so slowly, and picked up a pink and yellow cape dropped by a banderillero. Stevie wanted to scream his name, tell him to get back, flee—Don’t be a fool, Henning—but she knew that any sound could provoke the bull, could put them both in even more danger. Her body produced sweat instead, rivulets that stung her eyes and blurred what was happening in front of her. Henning dashed to the left, away from her. She saw
the bull, the dust, Jesulin’s body now dropping to the ground, the bull snorting, charging at Henning now, his back to the wall . . .
The crowd screamed in one voice, a terrible roar. Like a gymnast on a vault, Henning flew upwards. For a moment, he was silhouetted against the cloudless blue of the afternoon sky and for Stevie, looking up from the dust, it was as if he was flying. Then his body fell, hitting the barrier with a crash before bumping down onto the sand next to her.
The bull smashed into the barrier and there was a gunshot, the sound ricocheting through the stadium, joining the rushing sound in Stevie’s ears. The bull collapsed between them, crushing Stevie’s arm. She saw a fountain of blood spout between its eyes, the blood staining the sand around them red. The bull’s body hid Henning from view. Her arm was trapped under the animal, electric flashes of pain told her it was broken but she didn’t care; she felt completely removed from her body. It was already a carcass. The blood was seeping around her too now, she felt it, sticky and warm. She couldn’t move, although she was sure there was nothing wrong with the rest of her body.
Someone—was it Jesulin?—rolled the bull off her arm and drew her to her feet; the sound of sirens. She looked down. The bull and the red cloud around him had swallowed Henning, who was motionless beside the beast. He lay as if sleeping, on his stomach, his head turned to one side for breath. She watched in horror as flowers of blood bloomed on his back. She collapsed onto her knees, reaching for him with her good arm, reaching for his neck to find a pulse as if for a hand-hold on a Corsican cliff, but someone was holding her back. The paramedics arrived in a cloud of dust and moved her aside, sat her down. She watched, numb to everything, as they lifted Henning onto a stretcher and put an oxygen mask over his face. Her vision swam. The last thing she felt was a pair of strong hands grasping her under the arms and dragging her away from Henning and all the blood.
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