Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
The boat trip to Palma was uneventful; the only thing I remember about it clearly was that I hung over the rail watching the screws stir up the mud from the bottom of the harbour as it manoeuvred into place at the dock. We hired a taxi and told him to take us to a reasonably-priced hotel. En route he pointed out a house where he claimed Robert Graves lived. We had no idea who Robert Graves was.
Surprisingly, the little pension he took us to was moderately priced and very clean. The toilet was down the hall but there was a hand wash basin in the room and best of all the room opened onto a ground floor patio that faced an enclosed courtyard filled with trees and flowers and with a flowing fountain in the centre. It was idyllic.
We had planned to leave Palma the following Friday and to take the boat on to Ibiza but when we learned of the bullfight due to be staged at Felanitx we quickly changed our plans. A bit of poor luck and miscalculation had caused us to miss the corrida at Barcelona the previous Sunday and we didn't know when we would have another opportunity to attend one. Felanitx lies on the easterly side of the island known as Majorca and as a result is rarely visited by 'turistas' especially during the 'off' season. A two hour train trip was required to deliver us to the scene. We arrived at the station in Palma around noon and boarded one of the small narrow-gauge cars and soon moved off to the sound of a high-pitched scream from the engine whistle.
The train moved quickly through the industrial outskirts of the city and was soon out in the open countryside speeding past orange and olive groves and small white-painted farmhouses with pigs rooting in enormous patches of cactus. Quixote-like windmills revolved their great flat arms on the hilltops batting at the fleecy white clouds which peeped cautiously above the mountain range strung off in the distance to the west. Ancient fortresses still in good repair sat along the higher hilltops. As I gazed from the window, musing over these relics of long-past invasions, my reverie was suddenly shattered by the interposition of a brown face between my eyes and the rolling countryside. My amazement was heightened by fact that this face was on the outside of the window. The next moment the door of the compartment flew open and a little man dressed in brown corduroy stepped in, grinning broadly at our obvious bewilderment. He was carrying a device of some kind in one hand.
'How do you say 'This is a stickup!' in Spanish?' I said 'sotto voce' to Dick. Just then the man shouted 'Billetes!' and Dick immediately reached for his wallet. I raised my hands above my head. We then saw him begin to punch the tickets of other occupants and sheepishly offered ours. The door of the carriage slammed shut and he was gone as quickly as he had come.
I was still mystified and couldn't resist leaning out of the carriage window to watch his progress. There was a plank no wider than six inches running along the outside of the cars and the conductor was making his way confidently along, grabbing whatever handholds were available to him.
'Funny way to run a railroad!' I observed to Dick when I pulled my head back inside.
'They shoulda warned us!' Dick complained, 'I goddam near handed over all my pesetas!'
The train had just begun to slow down as we approached the station. A fast ten minute walk from the station and we were at the Plaza de Toros. It was a perfect tiny replica of the huge plaza we had seen in Barcelona and would later see in Madrid.
Seated at last on the hard stone seats to which the usher had guided us we viewed with keen interest the colour and noisy gay confusion of the spectators in the rapidly-filling stands. Dick was busy loading his camera as the romantic strains of 'Manolo' filtered into the ring from somewhere below us and finally crashed out into the arena below as the first members of the band strode smartly through the entranceway. The overall effect was spoiled somewhat by the inclusion of one or two individuals in street clothes. I was amused by the serious preoccupation of the small drummer boy, an urchin of about ten years of age, barefooted and attired in the most ragged shirt and pants imaginable.
The motley musical crew circled the arena once, then came to a halt in the sand on the far side of the ring, directly opposite our vantage point. We were considerably surprised, therefore, when a second group of players about thirty strong, twice the size of the first group, marched rapidly from the passageway playing the stirring strains of 'Los Toros'. Groups in the crowd picked up the melody and the sound of their voices added another ingredient to the hodgepodge of noises that buffeted our ears. The second troupe of musicians made their slow tour of the ring with proud deliberation, then fell in behind the ranks of the previous group.
The posters we had seen in Palma advertising the corrida had given important billing to the performance of Miss Paquita Rocamorra, noted young Andalusian horsewoman. At a signal from the Presidente, the bands in concert swung into a mincing waltz, and a pretty young girl rode through the entrance doors seated on a beautiful, spirited palomino stallion. A brief smile flashed across her small, serious olive-complected face, then she concentrated with a frown and proceeded to put her steed through a series of intricate dance steps and gaits. She seemed very tiny in her large, shiny black hat with its stiff wide brim and her tight-fitting riding habit of embroidered tan gabardine. I guessed she was no more than fifteen or sixteen years old. Her short performance was favourably received by the packed stands and there was riotous cheering as her horse made a deep bow then galloped from the ring with its white mane and tail flying.
'What is this, a musical ride or a bullfight?' Dick grumbled good-naturedly, fumbling with the intricate chrome adjustments on his camera.
'Patience, son,' I replied, watching the musicians who had disbanded and were climbing to their reserved section in the stands, 'a little light relief is not amiss, surely, preparatory to the more 'meaty' portion of the afternoon's entertainment.' I laughed diabolically but failed to conceal the note of rising excitement in my voice.
The bands were seated now and, after some moments of confusion, the leader stood up and raised his baton. The music blared out and I saw a man dash quickly across the ring carrying a sword basket heaped with capes, staggering slightly under the weight of his brightly coloured load. Then there was another flash of colour from below and we watched as the three matadors (we learned later that they were really 'novilleros' i.e. apprentice bullfighters) marched stiffly into the ring, stepping carefully but confidently, with identical looks of studied unconcern on their swarthy, clean-shaven faces. The bright colours of their splendid, shimmering uniforms, molded to their erect, stiff-backed figures combined with the sudden roar of the aficionados to send a quick, electric thrill of anticipation rushing through my body. There was a tight, almost painful tenseness in the pit of my stomach and I longed for some action that would serve to release my acute feeling of suspense. I turned to Dick and watched him lift his camera casually and sight through the eyepiece at the toreros, who, with their cuadrilla, had arrived in front of the Presidente's box and were gazing unsmilingly at the balding official.
The Presidente inclined his head with a brief nod and the matadors dispersed and ran quickly to the edge of the ring, where they threw their intricately embroidered capes of bright-coloured silk up to the grasping hands of the audience. Two were seized and thrown up to the señoritas in the balcony, who draped them carefully and with much excited laughing, along the railing, where their gaudy colours set off the handsome beauty of the solicitous maidens in charge of their safekeeping.
A hush fell over the crowd as the toreros retired to the barreras with their plain fighting capes of red and yellow and fixed their eyes on the door of the toril, from whence the bull would soon charge, angry and aggressive, to test the skill of the men poised so alertly around the enclosure. An attendant swung one of the double doors open, then stepped quickly aside. The tension became almost unbearable. I found to my embarrassment that my legs were trembling visibly from the agony of suspense I was experiencing and a feeling of nausea swept over me. 'Relax, idiot!' I remonstrated with myself , 'a stupid little country bullfight and you tremble like a June bride!' But the ague-like shaking continued.
Several moments had passed and the bull had not made his keenly awaited appearance. The attendant strode over to the door and after peering tentatively within walked suddenly into the dark opening and disappeared. He emerged a moment later, closed the door and unlocked the adjoining one. Had he first opened the wrong door? Incredible! He opened the door and disappeared a second time.
'My God, will the stupid beast never appear?' I thought, as a few jeers and catcalls arose from impatient members of the audience.
'That guy's going to get himself killed, going in there like that!' Dick muttered. Then, before I could comment, there was a sudden clatter and the bull came charging out into the arena. An indescribable feeling of disappointment swept over me as I watched the animal trot across the arena with quick sidelong glances of its red eyes.
'That animal's not been getting enough rest,' I said fatuously. About the size of a yearling steer, perhaps slightly larger, with a light, tan-coloured hide completely lacking in lustre, the confused animal in no way resembled the huge, well-muscled beasts I had seen pictured and described in the illustrations.
'My God, it's nothing but a goddam oversized calf!' I burst out with a nervous laugh. Red and green silk ribbons fluttered from its shoulders. I laughed again, louder this time, almost hysterically, as the reaction from the previous highly keyed-up condition possessed me. 'I might just run down and bulldog that 'sumbitch rat cheer an' now!' Somehow it all seemed grotesquely ludicrous to me after my high expectations--the dash from the station--the almost comical (or so it seemed now) ceremonies--the bands---the cheers, and now this-this--heifer! It seemed almost too laughable, too preposterous, to be true. But perhaps I was being too hasty. Maybe I was underestimating the capability of the lean-flanked creature that stood now, blinking and bewildered in the bright sunlight at the centre of the ring.
One of the men had stepped from the protection of the burladero now and was waving his cape tentatively to capture the attention of the bull. The animal reacted almost immediately and lunged with amazing rapidity toward the solitary figure facing him. At the instant of the bull's first forward movement, the torero skipped sideways and ran, dragging his cape in the sand behind him while looking all the time over his shoulder as he headed for the closest shelter. He dashed behind it with a closing burst of speed as the bull pounded by and swung once again toward the centre of the ring. Some overeager fans, anxious to express themselves at the slightest excuse, hooted derisively as the torero's slight figure dodged from view behind the wooden slats of the burladero.
Now, before the bull's speed had slackened appreciably, a second torero, farther along the barrera, danced into view and stood shaking his cape and stamping his feet to get the animal's attention. 'Yaaah, toro!' he cried derisively. His efforts were soon rewarded, as the charge flattened out and gained speed in the direction of this latest distraction.
This time the torero stood firm and made a wide sweep of his capote as the bull galloped past, several feet from the man's belly. The cape was pulled short, however, causing the bull to stumble and fall to its knees, struggling awkwardly to regain its footing in a cloud of yellow dust. Finally it scrambled to its feet and stood almost directly below their observation point, panting and slobbering, its tongue lolling pathetically from the side of its mud-stained mouth. Wheeling then, it faced its adversary again and I noticed for the first time that the wretched animal's hindquarters and the base of its tail were smeared with a slimy green layer of its own excrement and, even as I watched, a quantity more was discharged and dribbled down the thin rump. Only extreme fright, I knew, would cause this failure of control in any animal---acute, mortal fear and applied to man and beast alike.
The toreros ran the bull for a few more minutes, making a few cautious passes with their capes, then a trumpet sounded and they retired once again to the burladeros. The bull trotted slowly along the ringside for a short distance, alert for any new motion upon which to focus its attention, then, finding none, stopped and stood motionless, flanks heaving, tail switching restlessly, in the centre of the arena.
Then the doors below the Presidente's box swung open and Paquita rode in once more on her palomino. A banderillero ran over to her and handed up two long, thin sticks wrapped with brightly-coloured frilled paper and tipped at one end with vicious steel barbs about four inches long and appearing to be razor sharp. Dropping the reins, she spurred the horse gently and it set off around the ring in a slow gallop, circling the attentive bull, which pivoted slowly on its hindquarters, keeping the horse and its diminutive rider constantly in view. Suddenly, as if sensing an advantage, the beleaguered animal gathered itself and shot forward, angling toward the horse and rider at full gallop. Paquita spurred her mount again at the last moment and, standing up in the stirrups, leaned out over the bull's withers with the banderillas pointing down from her outstretched hands. Due to the awkwardness of the bull, however, or as a result of a miscalculation on her part, the horse was unable to keep ahead of and out of reach of the bull and it drove in against the horse's shoulders, slamming it against the barrera with a ground-shuddering shock, almost dislodging its mistress from the saddle. A woman directly behind Dick screamed piercingly and averted her eyes but the bull apparently lacked the strength to damage the horse or topple him over. After a moment of crowding and jostling, one of the toreros dashed quickly out and drew the bull off with his cape, finishing with a series of nicely executed passes that brought a few scattered cries of 'Ole!' from the stands.
Settled once again in her saddle, Paquita spurred the horse forward a second time and, as the bull charged, she touched the horse's flanks with her spurs at just the proper moment and the horse raced ahead just out of reach of the extended horns and rising again and leaning far over the rushing mass below she buried the banderillas with a quick expert downward jab and with a shout to her steed, shot swiftly out of range of the pursuing bull. The banderillas had been well-placed and as the bull moved the bright sticks waved and bobbed rhythmically. Meanwile, Paquita had removed her hat, acknowledging the thunderous applause from the stands as she rode from the arena.
'Right purty performance, right purty!' Dick exclaimed, winding his camera with quick twists of his wrist. 'Such a little bitty gal, too! Nearly got herself in trouble there, though! Kinda close, wasn't it?'
'She looked pretty frightened, all right,' I acknowledged.
With a wave of his handkerchief the Presidente signalled for the next phase of the contest to begin, and the trumpet sounded across the plaza. The bull was still shaking its head from side to side in an angry effort to dislodge the bothersome banderillas and did not pay particular attention to the torero who walked over to the sand below the Presidente's box and bowed slightly from the waist; then, muleta and sword in hand, turned to face the bull.
'Yaah, toro!' he cried as he stamped his feet against the hard-packed sand and gave a quick twitch of the cape, as though shaking dust from it. The bull stopped its efforts to shake the banderillas loose and fixed its red-rimmed eyes on the small form facing him. Its feet shifted nervously, hesitantly, in the dust, then, with a loud snort it lurched forward, hooves pounding dully against the arena floor. A 'natural' pass by the torero brought a staccato, concerted roar of 'Ole!' from the close-packed aficionados around us, then, as the bull wheeled quickly and repeated its charge, the matador shifted his feet slightly and met the second charge with a slow 'veronica' that brought the bull's shoulder scant inches from the gold brocade of the torero's vest. As the cape led the horns around in a slow, graceful arc, he pivoted again and, in attempting to repeat the pass, miscalculated and there was a sudden explosive gasp from the crowd as the horn drove into the silk-clad groin and, wrenching upward, sent the hapless bullfighter in a slow somersault through the air, to land, finally, with a muffled thud, on the base of his neck. The bull was upon him instantly, butting and hooking with its horns, which fortunately were not very sharp and failed to puncture his uniform. The other toreros appeared as if by magic to distract the bull and engage its attention until the matador, dusty but otherwise none the worse for his accident, was able to wave his companions aside and continue with the faena.
He quickly vindicated himself with a series of smooth, well-sculptured passes that drew the bull in close to his lean body and seemed to nullify, if only for a moment, the savage, destructive import of the lunging beast's fierce rushes. I felt my excitement gradually heightening, accentuated by the sharp, deafening roar of 'Ole!' that sprang forth from the throats of the enthused patrons, the thousands of voices blending miraculously together in one explosive roar, distinct and unblurred, as if cued by some invisible coach.
As if anxious to conclude his performance while still definitely in command of the bull, the matador withdrew his sword suddenly from the cape and sighted along the curved, glittering blade at the shoulders of the bull. The animal was relatively passive at the moment, as if pausing to ponder the mystery of his elusive antagonist and at the same time to muster his strength for the next attack.
Shouts of angry disapproval immediately rose from the spectators, however, and as they gained strength, the matador, with a theatrical shrug of his shoulders and a wry smile, draped the scarlet folds of the muleta over the sword and challenged the animal again. Two or three 'naturales' followed in quick succession, to the immense delight of the crowd, then suddenly, without warning, the poor fellow was air-borne again and thumped the ground as solidly as before, to be butted, slobbered on and trampled by the enraged bull.
'Myy Gawd..!' Dick expostulated, as if unable to believe things could be going so badly for the beleaguered performer. 'Why doesn't he just give up?' As if in answer to Dick's rhetorical query, the dusty combatant struggled to his feet for the second time and, brushing himself off in a cursory manner, looked eloquently at the Presidente. The 'aviso' was given and as the sound of the trumpet died, he grasped the sword firmly by the hilt and cited the bull. Holding the cape low in his left hand, he approached his motionless quarry slowly, shuffling with tentative sideways steps and calling softly to the now almost exhausted beast. Its head waved slowly from side to side, its black eyes malevolently considering the cautious approach of its tormentor. One hoof flicked back quickly, marking a groove in the sandy floor of the ring and sending a small shower of sand and dust over the animal's withers.
'I'll be damned,' Dick whispered incredulously, 'I never thought they really did that.' He fell silent again as an expectant hush settled over the audience. Then the muscles in the bull's flanks tensed quickly and it flew forward, horns lowered at the tantalizing silk of the proferred muleta. In the same instant the matador hurled himself bodily over the rushing horns and with a quick thrust buried the shining length of metal to the hilt between the muscular shoulders. For one exquisite moment they were molded together, the two figures became one, as in some mad minuet, then they were apart; the silk-clad form of the matador rolled aside as the right horn cut past his thigh, then the bull was past him, careening around the arena with a slow trickle of blood from his mouth starting to drop onto the ground below.
It had all hapened so quickly and dramatically that I was numbed for a moment by the impact of what had transpired. Then, as I recovered from my temporary transport I became aware, from the mixed sounds around me, that something was not right. There was some displeasure evident in the sounds of the voices of the afficionados. I noticed then that the sword had been poorly placed and instead of piercing the heart or aorta as in the perfect 'estocada', it had emerged from the animal's side and was projecting from the punctured hide about twelve inches behind its left foreleg. The first slow trickle of blood had now grown to a steady stream, pouring fom the wound as from a broached puncheon of claret and painting a Goyaesque pattern of gore against the yellow sand below the distraught creature's hooves. I heard a shout of 'Pinchazo' (misplaced sword thrust) amongst the crescendo of disapproving whistles from the crowd. It soon grew to a cacophony of hoots and catcalls as the fickle audience manifested its displeasure with the unsuccessful result of the matador's attempt to finish the bull. Anxious to terminate the spectacle as rapidly as possible, the toreros were now busily engaged in trying to force the wounded bull over to the side of the barrera where they might hold him motionless long enough to remove the misplaced sword. Eventually they were able to stop his frantic charging about long enough for one of them to reach over and deftly flick out the first sword with another of almost identical construction except for the addition of a small crossbar which was finally hooked around the hilt of the original weapon.
'Well, here we go again' Dick muttered tersely, taking a moment off from his hectic attempts to make a photographic record of every phase of the corrida. And indeed, as I turned my attention once more to the activity in the enclosure below, I saw that the cuadrilla had returned once more to the burladeros, leaving the matador alone for another attempt on the life of the now fast-weakening bull. After a considerable amount of manoeuvring he was able to taunt the bull into essaying a few perfunctory charges, which he handled with a reasonably pretty display of capework, but failed, nevertheless, to elicit a response from the critical spectators.
Then, once again he was profiling the bull, raising high on his toes to meet the charge and plunging the shaft of steel deep into the living flesh as it thundered past. There was a quick roar of dismay from the crowd as the sword emerged, bathed in bright red lung blood, from the side of the bull opposite the site of the first wound. I felt an overwhelming feeling of mixed repugnance and pity sweep over me as I saw the blood pour from this new opening, adding to the sanguinary cascade streaming from the mortally wounded animal's ruptured innards.
'This is slower than the methods of the abattoir, I grant you,' Dick stated sardonically, 'but, one must admit, infinitely more colourful and exciting--if you tend to that type of colour and excitement, that is!' He laughed humourlessly. The harried matador, cognizant now of the low level to which the spectacle had deteriorated, had willingly allowed his companions to enter the conflict. Accordingly, they were making a series of disorganized attempts to despatch the tormented bull, weak now and staggering from loss of blood, with a 'descabello'---a 'coup de grace' given by inserting a special sword or short dagger into the spinal cord. Each time they attempted to jab the sword into the base of the brain, however, the unhappy animal would somehow contrive to lurch to one side or lift its head and thus extend its fated existence for a few more sordid moments.
A continuous scream of derision and disapproval was sustained by the excited crowd and I had a vague feeling, almost of fear, which I invariably experienced in a mob of any sort. The cruelty, unreasoning savagery and base brutality of the contorted faces nearby filled me with a positive sense of horror. I saw a cigar butt float down and land in the sand at the matador's feet.
The bleeding bull had tottered away from the barrera again and was surrounded by the toreros, all trying to attract the animal's attention with their swirling capes. It staggered suddenly, and crossing its front legs, lurched sideways drunkenly but managed to stay upright. Again its weakened legs wobbled and bent and as I was wondering how the unfortunate beast could hold out any longer, it staggered over to one of the burladeros and slipped slowly to its knees with its hindquarters still jutting up in the most ludicrous manner. The crowd was in a frenzy. One of the toreros grasped the bull's tail firmly and with a mighty tug attempted to drag it from its refuge. The horns had become wedged firmly behind two of the supporting posts of the burladero, however, and the bull, practically insensible by this time, tongue lolling and eyes glazed, did not budge, but began to pass water. Then as the last vestige of vitality oozed from the exhausted carcass, the hind legs slipped slowly back along the trampled sand until they pointed directly backward and with a final convulsive shudder death put an end to the courageous animal's prolonged abuse.
The matador who had attempted so vainly to finish his faena properly stood to one side, grim and pale as the banderillas were tugged from the bull's hide. One was buried too firmly and as the attendant tugged at the coloured stick the wood came away from the barb, leaving it buried in the smashed flesh. A pair of pliers was produced to wrench the sharp sliver of metal free.
'I'm beginning to feel like one of the spectators at the old Roman Colosseum,' I said grimly.
'I agree,' Dick said, 'we paid to see a spectacle but this is not exactly what I had in mind!'
The matador steadfastly refused to glance in the direction of the Presidente's box, but, looking up I saw the Presidente, stern and unsmiling, watching the dismal proceedings with obvious distaste. The attendants were by this time attempting to free the bull's head from the burladero in order to clear the arena for the next event but were meeting with little success. The weight of the bull prevented them from raising the head high enough to slip both of the horns over the top in the way in which they had originally entered. One attendant struggled uselessly with the massive head for a time then abandoned that means in disgust. A ripple of laughter passed through the crowd and I was forced to chuckle myself at the cruel humour of the situation. At this moment the entrance doors flew open and a team of heavy horses trotted ponderously across the ring, whipped continuously by a short, fat man dressed in a blue cotton shirt and blue pants and with a livid complexion that made him appear to be in a towering rage. The horses were swung quickly around into position, to the accompaniment of further shouts and whippings from the squat teamster. A pair of heavy ropes leading from the whippletree were secured to the extended legs of the deceased bull and with a mighty shout from their master the heavy team bent to their work. The burladero shuddered and the bull's neck stretched visibly, but the horns did not come free.
'Migawd..! they'll tear the damned thing's head off'!' Dick cried, writhing uncomfortably in his seat. A chorus of furious cries had caused the teamster to pull back on the reins, however, and the tension was released. Two of the attendants ran to grab the horses' bridles as the teamster dropped the reins and went into conference with the toreros at the burladero. As he did so one of the horses tossed its head and lurched forward nervously, lifting the diminutive attendant into the air and sending him sprawling on his back in the sand. Another wave of laughter swept over the delighted audience. A man on my right was laughing uncontrollably, holding his hands to his fat sides as the tears coursed down his shining cheeks.
'What a stupendous farce!', Dick said, shaking his head in disbelief.
'What do you want for fifteen pesetas---- Belmonte? I laughed in reply.
Some sort of plan had been arrived at by the men huddled by the dead bull and after some frantic signalling and arm waving a man dashed from the far side of the arena brandishing a large meat cleaver.
'Oh, no! Surely they're not going to cut off its head! Not right here in the arena,...that would be a little too much!'
The cleaver was handed to the teamster who bent over the bull with his head and shoulders obscured by the barrera, and swung lustily a couple of times. He stood up triumphantly, holding a severed horn in his hand, which he handed to a bystander. A great commotion arose amongst some young men in the audience wearing straw boaters whom I had noticed earlier and the horn was tossed up to them in answer to their entreaties. The teamster stooped to retrieve the reins and shouted again to the waiting horses. As they started across the ring, the mutilated bull, free at last, dragged ignominiously after them in the sand, leaving a smooth trail which was just as quickly obscured by a crew of men wielding long willow brooms.
The second bull was larger than the first, with a glistening black hide and a skew horn. He was run by each of the toreros in turn, but as they became more familiar with the bull's peculiarities they risked more and concluded their work with some clever passes that drew loud applause from the audience. This time the banderillas were placed by men on foot and I felt a stir of emotion at the artistic beauty and grace with which the fleet-footed banderilleros arched over the horns of the racing bull as their arcing paths met at the centre of the ring. Six darts were placed in quick order without mishap and formed a gay fringe of colour above the massive black shoulders they adorned.
The trumpet sounded and the second matador stepped from the barrera making a few last moment adjustments in the draping of his muleta over the wooden sword used in the early phases of the faena. This fellow was apparently something of a local favourite I judged as I heard the cries of encouragement from the stands. He received the nod from the Presidente after a careful bow, then, tossing his hat to a supporter in the front seats, he turned and faced the bull.
He made several smooth but extremely cautious passes that drew varied comment from the spectators.The bull seemed reluctant to charge, however, and after another series of passes it stood at the far side of the ring, steadfastly refusing to answer the torero's challenge. Shouting and stamping his feet the matador closed slowly on the bull but it merely snorted and pawed the sand and retreated slowly backwards toward the barrera. Some factions in the crowd started to show their impatience, and were shouting to the matador to achieve some action when I noticed a quick flash of colour off to my side and the sounds of sudden movement.
The next moment I heard a solid thump as something heavy thudded against the sand and looked down to see a small boy of about thirteen or fourteen years of age sprawl on his face in the dirt. He was on his feet again in an instant and before the startled matador realized what was happening, the lad had dashed past him. As he ran across the ring the boy had produced a small makeshift muleta of the brightest scarlet cloth I had ever seen and as he dashed toward the bull now, he held it clutched tightly in his hand. The matador stood rooted to the ground in amazement as the young hopeful dropped to his knees almost at the bull's feet and cited it with a quick flourish of his cape. In a rage, the bull was galvanized into action and charged down on the tiny kneeling figure like an avenging fury.
'Ole!'--an ear-splitting roar burst from the crowd as the young intruder brought the bull's horns within inches of his shirt with a thrilling chest pass. By this time the matador had recovered his wits and had signalled to the other toreros to remove the boy. He waved them away again, though, as the bull wheeled and bore down on the youngster a second time.
'Ole!' Another perfect pass brought the excited afficionados surging to their feet with one accord. Whether due to his excitement or insufficient skill, however, the young 'espontaneo''s triumph was short-lived as the bull hooked back quickly and slammed its horns into the lad's groin, heaving him effortlessly skyward as though worrying a rag doll. Time seemed to stand still for a moment as the small body pinwheeled through the air high above the scurrying figures below. One of the boy's shoes had been jarred loose with the force of the impact and it parted company with the spreadeagled form now and fell in a smooth arc to land at the matador's feet. He bent quickly and seizing it in his free hand, tossed it over the barrera. Almost simutaneously, the boy returned to earth with a dull thud but, Punch-like, bounced to his feet immediately and scrambled about collecting his scattered equipment. The crooked twig with which he had supported his improvised muleta had fallen out of his reach, but, undaunted, unkempt and partly unshod, he cited the bull again and to my amazement, once more drew a savage charge from the bewildered bull. The flustered toreros, within an ace of seizing the lad to drag him aside, scattered in confusion in the face of the fast approaching bull. The inspired youth drew the bull past with an effortless 'pase naturale' that drew smarting tears of emotion to my eyes.
'Ole!', like a clap of thunder the tribute resounded from the sides of the Plaza.
A torero dashed in quickly from one side and, throwing his arms around the struggling form, lifted the boy bodily and rushed to the protection of the nearest section of the burladero. A brief struggle ensued, then two members of the Guardia Civile in their olive-green uniforms and stiff black hats (we called them 'the typewriters'), rifles slung over their shoulders, came onto the scene to take the lad into custody.
'I wonder what they'll do to him?' Dick enquired.
'It's apparently a punishable offense,' I said. 'They usually lock them up for a day then forget the whole thing. They have to do something to them or the ring would be full of would-be future greats, screwing up the act for the professionals.'
Meanwhile, the efforts of the disconcerted matador were being ignored as all eyes centred on the disordered proceedings behind the burladero. A steady roar of disapproval and shouted abuse rained down upn the ears of the unfortunate officers whose duty it was to escort the unfortunate boy to the jail. As they disappeared through the small opening in the stone wall behind the burladero, the shouting gained in volume and some men even stood and shook their hands menacingly at the Presidente.
'Nobody loves a copper, even in Spain!' Dick commented wryly.
The renewed efforts of the matador in the centre of the ring continued to go unobserved and unappreciated. The indignant disturbance continued unabated. Suddenly, the torero who had drawn the boy aside reappeared at the small door, leading the offender by the arm. Slowly and deliberately they marched along the edge of the barrera until they stood below the Presidente's box. The torero stared up at the Presidente with a look that almost demanded recognition. Looking down from his high post the Presidente frowned sternly as he studied the two figures far below, then, with a brief smile and a quick nod he gave official recognition, as it were, to the young local hero. Then, red-faced and beaming proudly, the vindicated youth, to the accompaniment of thunderous cheering, ran quickly back to the waiting police officers to be ushered happily from the scene of his triumph.
Once again the afficionados turned back to witness the work of the neglected matador, still engaged in the execution of his faena with the bull. Encouraged by the solid feel he'd had of the espontanero's youthful body, the bull was dashing at the cape with great vigour, but the torero, apparently recovered from the unnerving diversions of the past few minutes, was excelling himself with a brilliant display of capework. The good-humoured fans responded with enthusiasm to his efforts.
'Ole!!..Ole!!.. Ole!!'
The trumpet sounded suddenly and the matador quickly profiled the motionless bull, sighting carefully along the curving blade. Cape held low, he taunted the bull with a low call and as the massive bulk responded, he raised himself gracefully on his tiptoes and literally dove forward to meet the rushing animal in midcharge. The thin blade sank with amazing ease, slicing effortlessly into the hump of muscle like a hot knife through butter as the matador skipped aside with arms raised. The bull came to a shuddering halt, the scarlet handle of the sword projecting from his shoulders at the exact apex of the bloodstained banderillas. Then, like a milk cow settling in her stall for the night, the splendid animal knelt slowly with his forelegs, settled his body full-length on the bright sand, and without so much as a final shudder, to my amazement, lowered its dark head to the ground and rolled over, quite dead.
Pandemonium broke out in the stands as the fans, hungering for an excuse to unleash their pent-up emotions, danced and waved and screamed their adulation in an orgy of emotion. The members of the matador's cuadrilla quickly joined him in the centre of the ring and a slow procession around the barreras began. As the victorious cavalcade reached each section of the stands the delirious afficionados rose in turn to applaud the smiling matador. Cigars, flowers and coins drifted down to land around his feet and were quickly gathered up by the members of the cuadrilla. Stopping finally in front of the Presidential box, the hero received the award of both ears and the tail (sliced off by a ring attendant) for his magnificent passes and faultless kill. A new burst of applause broke from the enthusiastic spectators at this point and in answer to the insistent demands the grateful matador started around the ring a second time. A fan threw down a wallet bulging with banknotes; smiling, the matador picked it up, kissed it wistfully and amidst approving laughter tossed it back to the over-zealous donor. I felt strangely stirred by the spontaneity of this superb, albeit foolhardy, gesture by the excited afficionado.
The third and final bull was about the same size as the second animal, but with a tan colouration reminiscent of the first unfortunate entrant. Looking back on it I was able, this time, to feel a genuine sympathy for the young novillero whose task it was to kill the third bull. A slim, serious, darkly handsome boy of no more than nineteen or twenty years of age, he was blissfully unaware of the gruesome debacle he was about to participate in as he made his first tentative passes with the capote. The banderillas were badly set to begin with and this sloppy opening phase was indicative of the sickening faena that was to follow. The bull charged poorly and erratically in its infrequent moments of aggressiveness, the rest of the time contenting itself with snortings and pawings and slow retreats, to the intense exasperation of the nervous young matador. When at last he decided to end the miserable event with the 'estocada' he missed the point of the shoulder completely with his first sword thrust and skewered the bull in the loose flesh covering his ribs. The ensuing thrust was completely misdirected and although entering at approximately the correct spot, the sword penetrated shallowly along the bull's back, following the course of the spine. These two swords were subsequently drawn out and further attempts to strike a vital area ensued.
As the indignation of the crowd grew and became more obvious it merely increased the nervousness and gaucherie of the hapless novillero and his technique proceeded from bad to worse. The next sword was wrenched free as the bull's head knocked the boy aside on his thrust and after a partial penetration the keen edge tore a gaping wound in the shoulders that oozed the bright red froth of a lung wound and made wet, sucking noises at each breath the bull drew. Some of the fans began to file from the Plaza.
'You might classify this as a complete 'snafu'!' Dick remarked disgustedly.
'I feel sorry for the poor bastard, you know,' I observed.
'Pity the poor bull, he's the one that's suffering!'
'Oh, I don't know! I wonder if he really is. I bet, on the other hand, that he still thinks he's going to win this little contest! Just think of it, he is so worked up he probably doesn't feel those wounds as more than slight irritations right now. Puncture wounds aren't very painful at first, you must know that from having been inoculated.'
'That's true enough, but the bull must know he's got a one-way ticket.'
'Why should he? He doesn't know anything about death, or bull fights or the odds against him; all he's aware of is that he's getting a good, although slightly frustrating, opportunity to try killing something alien to his accustomed surroundings. He's following a blind, inbred instinct to kill and obviously has neither the time nor the understanding to indulge in any speculations about how much longer he is for this world. Death is a stranger to that savage brain and when it finally does make its inevitable appearance it'll find that the savage just left by the back door.'
'You may have a point at that, you know,' Dick concurred.
'What do you mean, "...may have a point!"? Of course I have a point! Do you think I was just talking to hear the sound of my own voice?'
'It's been known to happen,' Dick chuckled triumphantly.
'Hmmm,' I said.
Another sword thrust had penetrated about half the length of the blade and was now slowly working itself free as a result of the action of the bull's shoulder blades as it loped around the ring, bellowing in anger and confusion. The blood-smeared blade had the appearance of a freshly-painted fingernail as it slipped at last from the wound and dropped into the sand. Again and again the abortive attempts were repeated until the butchery became insufferable even to the Presidente. He mercifully rose and left his seat as the pale, profoundly mortified youth finally signalled to his companions to finish the sordid display. A quick dagger thrust to the base of the animal's skull put a merciful end to the blood letting. The stands were emptying quickly now and they saw the young espontanero suddenly appear at the centre of the crowd near the middle of the enclosure, borne on the shoulders of his jubilant companions.
Soon we were alone in the great stone stadium and when Dick had finished packing his equipment we walked down and strolled around the burladero. A manure-stained tail lay scuffed in the sand near one of the barreras. A dark pool of congealing blood made an irregular pattern in the sand further along and stained the stone wall with a macabre frieze just above. At a sound from above I looked up and saw a frowning porter with a bucket and a mop, cleaning up up a mess on the floor of the balcony.
Walking out into the crowded street we had to step gingerly over a small river of blood that came from the meat wagon standing a few yards further up the street. We found a bar in town and sat sipping anisette and reflecting on the colourful events we had just witnessed. The clear, aromatic liquid had a pleasantly relaxing effect which we heightened with another round.
'Well, how did you like it?' I asked Dick.
'I don't know, really, I just can't get enthused. There's something just a bit too cruel about it all to suit me.'
'Why cruel? The animals are going to die anyway; at least they go doing what they like to do best. Well, second best, anyway!' I qualified the remark with a slight cough of self-approval. 'Have you ever been in a slaughter house?'
'I don't think a show like that would go over at home, nevertheless.'
'Why?'
'Because I don't think the people have the cruel nature of the Spanish!'
'Bullshit! The human animal is cruel by nature. Savages are cruel. Even little children are cruel until their parents begin inhibiting them and teling them they mustn't pull the wings off flies, or burn caterpillars with their magnifying glasses and the hundred and one other ingenious pleasures their innocent little minds contrive for their own amusement, They'd torture each other quite happily for goodness knows how long but they're taught the Golden Rule and Humanitarianism and all the rest of it until they go around doing the complete opposite of what their instincts told them. Look at St. Francis; he even got to the point where he went around kissing lepers' sores. Talk about perversion! Gad!'
'But still, that's better than having everyone going around acting like a bunch of sadists, isn't it?' Dick offered.
'I'm not so sure! It depends on to where it leads. Your humanitarianism can be dangerous too, you know! Get a lot of people running around boosting their flagging egos and getting a vicarious thrill out of helping the poor underprivileged folks and the next thing you know they'll be telling you that the general welfare is by far the most important thing and the individual be damned!'
'Good Lord! You've gone off on a rant. I'm afraid I still don't quite get the the connection between inherent sadism and humanitarianism.'
'It should be obvious. The same people who rant against the cruelty of the bullfight are the ones who preach the value of the 'Golden Rule' and the essential nature of humility in the individual. 'Reduce the individual to nothing!'--that's their favourite theme. Well, I just don't buy it, that's all! A religion or a society that believes in having the human individual get down and grovel before their socialistic altar, then grinds their faces into the mud with a boot heel and cries 'Be humble, brother, you're saved!' just isn't my idea of a sound belief. But they're still packing them in with that worn-out line.'
'Then what's your remedy'
'No remedy; just a method of preventing the disease from starting in the first place. You know,' I leaned forward and fixed my eyes on Dick intently, 'I'm just old-fashioned enough to believe in the essential dignity of man. I believe he should stand up out of the mud and look down on the phony idols that the just-abouts and the has-beens have erected in the hope of reducing all men to their own second-rate level. Let's face it; men just aren't born equal, with all due deference to the stirring words of Abe Lincoln. Not economically, physically, mentally or any other way are they born with equal assets or advantages. To argue otherwise is to ignore the facts.'
'You keep straying from the point.'
"Well, perhaps I do and perhaps not; I've been trying to point out the importance of thought conditioning in the matter of mores, morals, taboos and inhibitions.'
'That's your favourite package, isn't it?' Dick grinned.
'Sure, it sums it all up. Returning to the Spanish and bullfighting then, you must realize that in the first place there is, to quote, 'no question of ayes or noes' in the minds of the afficionados. Bullfights have taken place every Sunday afternoon as long as they can remember and will probably continue to do so, as far as they are concerned. There is no equivocal moral issue involved in their going to witness an event that they take as much for granted as you would regard going to the zoo on a Sunday afternoon. For that matter, there are some who contend that confining wild animals for public exhibition is the essence of cruelty. Don't misunderstand me now,...I'm not saying two wrongs make a right any more than one hundred rabbits make a horse. What I am saying is that unless people are convinced that these things are cruel by a process of progressive inhibition, the term has no meaning. What passes then in one case for idle recreation is tantamount to the most fiendish cruelty in another. Don't you see? It's really mainly a question of semantics.'
'Then you don't believe there can be anything like pure or absolute cruelty?' Dick enquired.
'Absolute' is a very dangerous term to introduce into the conversation in the first place and I think I see where you're heading in the second place. In the third place I don't want to get on that topic again. Besides, what's the point of our moralizing about the Spanish bullfight? Right or wrong, it's there and probably will be for a long while yet, just like the British in Gibraltar and nobody can do a hell of a lot about it.'
At that moment there were sounds of shouting and confusion from the rear section of the bar and a group of young men entered, laughing and joking as they walked among the tables. At the head of the parade we recognized the young fellow who had jumped into the bull ring during the fight. He was walking a pace or two ahead of his cohorts in the fashion of a feudal lord and stopped occasionally to exchange a few words with an aquaintance at one of the tables.
'Let's buy him a drink!' Dick suggested as he approached our table.
'Good idea!' I said. Dick signalled to the waiter who arrived at the table at the same time as the triumphant youth.
'Tres anisette, por favor!'
We stood in turn and shook hands with the pleased boy as his admiring cabinet stood several steps off to one side with a proper air of deference. We motioned him to sit down but the young fellow chose to stand. I noticed that a soft fuzz of fair hair covered his ruddy cheeks and concluded that he had yet to feel the touch of a razor blade. The waiter appeared and poured the anisette. Raising his glass ceremoniously, the hero looked at us soberly.
'Salud!' he said.
'Salud!' We drained our glasses. Bowing slightly from the waist, our guest shook our hands once again then rejoined his companions and led them out the front door of the bar.
We found a room and retired early, then took the first train back to Palma the following morning.
— The End —