Mexico: A Novel Part 42

1 missed Gomez's lackl.u.s.ter performance with his third bull, because before it started, Leon Ledesma tugged at my sleeve: "We may be able to see something not many witness," and he led me quietly to the sunny side of the arena, where we ducked furtively through a little red door into the darkened area in which the bulls were housed after the sorting. In their individual stalls only two of the six bulls remained, No. 38, the big sluggish oxlike fellow that Gomez was about to fight, and No. 47, the unshaven one who had killed Sangre Azul. As we stood in the shadows where we would not be observed, the gate enclosing No. 38 was jerked open with a loud bang while a man at the front end made a huge noise by rattling on the bars. The big bull, more than a thousand pounds of muscle and power, came rushing out of his cage and down the narrow pa.s.sageway that would take him into the arena. Just as he left the darkness a workman with a steady hand reached down from a safe position and jabbed into the bull's neck muscles a short, sharp dart bearing a small ribbon showing the colors of the breeder's ranch, and this sudden sting caused the animal to leap forward. This one apparendy made a great entrance, snorting and charging, for the crowd roared its approval, but I lost interest in him, for Ledesma was guiding me to another spot from which we could look into the cage holding the last bull, the killer.

Standing almost face-to-face with the bull, I desperately wanted to photograph that great head-black, powerful, quick little eyes, and those deadly horns, straight, unmarred and unshaven-but when I moved my camera into position Ledesma knocked it away and indicated with a nod of his head that others were in this darkened area too, high above, looking down from a perch that placed the bull's rear quarters direcdy under them.

Because of my long acquaintance with Veneno, I knew he was capable of doing anything to give his son even a slight advantage against a deadly enemy, but 1 could not have guessed at the outrageous move he was about to make. Perhaps he was going to shoot a mild tranquilizer into the bull. No, his tactic was far more primitive, one sometimes used when a matador knew he had to face a fearful adversary, a strategy I had heard of but never expected to see.

Immediately after the close of Victoriano's triumphant fight with the fourth bull, Veneno had hurried to the area where the picadors kept their horses and the reserves in case one got killed or incapacitated during the fight. There he had waiting for him Diego and Chucho dressed in their uniforms, and together they had dragged from its hiding place the extremely heavy sack of cement that had been soaked in water. Heaving and huffing, they had hoisted it aloft to the runway overlooking the bulls' cages, and there they had positioned it directly over the rear hip joints of No. 47. Now, with Gomez about to start the third portion of his last bullfight, they were ready.

Within ten minutes, this powerful bull would explode into the arena and start looking for Victoriano with his needle-like horns, but Veneno intended him to reach the ring with his power to kill sharply reduced. As Ledesma and I watched in silence, we heard the picador whisper "Now," and the three Leals shoved the bag of cement forward, inch by inch, then "Ugggh!" and it fell with a thud on the most vulnerable part of the bull's rear end where the hind legs were joined to the hip. Ledesma and I, only a few feet away, heard the heavy weight hit the bull and watched as the wet bag slumped for a moment on the bull's back, then slipped to the ground. We heard the bull grunt and watched as he tried to exercise his suddenly painful rear quarters, and after a few irritated shakes of his legs, he adjusted to the new pain and was again ready to defend himself. But Veneno and his sons could now be sure that when he reached the ring he would have lost that extra degree of explosive energy that made a big bull so dangerous. This one would be slowed down, not enough to lame him but more than enough to r.e.t.a.r.d him when trying to use his rear legs for that sudden burst of energy which could destroy horses and men.

As Veneno and his sons climbed down from their perch and hastened to their positions for the final fight, I wondered if Victoriano, who stood to profit from their furtive efforts, was aware that his bull had been so damaged that the fight would be unfair. I hoped that he was not, for I saw him as a man striving to be honorable, but in the treacherous world of bullfighting, who could be sure?

As Leon and I crept back from our spying mission, we heard the dismal trumpet wail the first aviso to Gomez warning him: "Speed it up, matador! lime's awasting!" and before Ledesma and I could regain our places in the pa.s.sageway, the second aviso sounded. We arrived in time to see the poor Indian sweating as he tried vainly to work this devilish No. 38 into position where it could be finished with the sword, but the bull refused to cooperate, even though badly wounded by the matador's previous thrusts. Slowly, planting its feet carefully and solidly, it staggered on, a foe of tremendous vitality who refused to lie down and die.

In desperation, Gomez called for the sword that ends in not a point but a dagger and with it he tried to cut the spinal cord with one thrust into the spot behind the horns where the cord joined the head. This was a most difficult operation requiring skill and luck. He had neither, and as he tried repeatedly, with sweat rolling down his face, the crowd began a monotonous chant with each thrust: "Tres, cuatro, cinco; seis ..." It was humiliating and disheartening, but Gomez did not allow the jeers to hurry or distract him. On the ninth try he placed his feet properly, as always, gripped the cloth in his left hand so the bull could see, and steadied the nerves in his right arm. Just as the trumpeter started his final aviso, the dagger hit home and the bull dropped dead spectacularly. Juan Gomez turned to salute the president high in his box and that official nodded back. Both knew what a h.e.l.lish job it was to kill a powerful bull who refused to die.

Ledesma and I were back in the pa.s.sageway when the clarion sounded for the final bull. After what we had just seen we were eager to watch how he reacted. He came thundering in looking for enemies but, noticeably to us at least, he avoided pushing off with his right rear leg; it was clear that a new and sudden pain was affecting his charge. I was surprised to see how quickly he mastered that pain, or ignored it, for by the time he reached where we waited, he was galloping at what looked like full strength. The three young Leal men-Veneno of course was in the corrals astride his horse awaiting his call to action-must have observed with relief that their bull seemed just a bit slower than expected; in a crisis this fraction of a second might make the difference between life and death.

Keeping my eyes riveted on the bull, with whom I now identified, my right forefinger waiting on my camera to photograph his fight against pain and devious adversaries, I watched as he stabbed at the giddy capes twisting on the ground before him. Until the matador stepped into the ring to take charge, it was a rule of the bullring that the peons could run the bull only with the cape held in one hand so that it dragged. This provided the matador an opportunity to study how the bull reacted, and now Victoriano ran into the arena to launch whatever good pa.s.ses he could while the bull was still in a voluntary chasing mood. He acted wisely, for when the animal saw the cape that had been on the ground now fluttering in the air, he interpreted it as a new kind of enemy and lunged at it exactly as the matador had planned. The thousand pounds of fire and muscle pa.s.sed properly into the folds of the cape and out the other side, then quickly turned to catch the foe it had somehow missed. As it spun around I spotted the defect in the beast. Its right leg hesitated for the flick of a second, and the return charge was delayed just long enough for Victoriano to reset his feet and execute another fine pa.s.s.

Satisfied by these explorations that the bull was compliant, he now made one of those instant decisions that are the wonder of bullfighting: he would attempt one of the most dangerous and beautiful of all the pa.s.ses, the mariposa (b.u.t.terfly). Boldly he threw the cape over his head so that it came down behind his body, leaving nothing protecting his face, heart and stomach area. One thrust of the horns there and he was dead. Only two rather small triangular areas of cape were exposed to the bull, one guided by the left hand, one by the right, and these he began to show the bull in a tantalizing pattern. Now the left was visible and the bull looked in that direction. Then the left disappeared and the right came into view, tempting the bull to turn first here then there. The matador backed across the arena with the bull following as if the two were performing a ballet, a pas de deux of death. Then, without warning, the bull made a wild dive at the left square of cape and pa.s.sed under the arm of the matador, who spun as the bull went past, so as to present the right corner of the cape still held behind his back. Twice more the bull charged the bit of cape, not the man, who at the end of the last pa.s.s twirled the cape with one hand and turned the bull into a knot, leaving him motionless and perplexed. It had been a masterly performance and the crowd cheered both partners of the dance.

At this point the clarion sounded and into the ring came old Veneno astride his enormous white horse, accompanied by a second picador who had apparently been given instructions to stay clear so that the bull always struck at Veneno's horse and not his. The bull, who in the campo would have ignored the horse and had often done so when in the companionship of other bulls, now saw the mounted man as the only adversary in the ring and began a powerful drive that would have carried him straight into Veneno with overwhelming velocity. Victoriano, seeing the peril his father would face if the bull struck him with that acc.u.mulated force, deftly stepped forward with his cape, and slowed the bull's forward motion before delivering him close to his father. Now Veneno demonstrated why he was, even at his age, one of the finest picadors in Mexico. Leaning far forward to keep the bull away from his horse, he jabbed his oaken staff with its triangular steep point deep into the neck muscle. When it was well seated, he leaned even farther forward till he was right over the horns, still pushing downward, still trying to revolve the pic so that its barb could do the most damage, destroying most of the bull's power before the final act when Victoriano would have to face him alone.

The president, seeing what Veneno was attempting, ordered the trumpeter to sound a warning that this first pic should now end, whereupon Veneno treated the crowd to the comedy act of dancing the carioca. Maneuvering his horse by knee pressure, he kept it always positioned so that the bull could not break loose and run away, while with hiis stout right arm he kept punishing the bull, indeed almost destroying him, and at the same time indicating to the president that he was doing his best to obey orders. It was, I thought, much like the raucous masquerade performed by professional wrestlers in which the villain drags the hero into a corner where the referee cannot see what's happening and then gouges the man in the eye, bites his ear, strangles him, and knees him in the groin. When the referee admonishes him, he throws both hands in the air and cries: "Who? Me?" Wrestling and bullfight crowds enjoy such nonsense.

When Veneno finally allowed the bull to run free, his son ran in with his cape and performed a new series of handsome pa.s.ses in such a way that the bull was left a free choice as to which picador to attack this time. The second picador, still under orders, maneuvered his horse so that the bull had to go back to Veneno, who repeated his crushing performance. I thought that by this time the bull was markedly favoring his right hind leg, but I was mistaken; he was merely gathering strength for one mighty thrust. When it came, without warning, the bull bowled over both Veneno and his horse as if they had been made of straw. Sensing that it was the fallen man, not the horse, who was his abuser, he lunged at the defenseless old man. Veneno was in the most perilous position possible: if a horn caught him while lying flat on the solid earth, there would be no bouncing off or sliding away-that horn would pierce him and pin him to the ground. It was a fearful moment as Pepe Huerta and the Peons of both Victoriano and Gomez sped out to confuse the bull with their flashing capes.

He was not deceived. Almost as if he were brushing aside the capes, he continued to lunge at the fallen picador, but now a new defender rushed in. It was Gomez, cape flapping in front of him like an old woman drying a sheet on a sunny day, whose bold gesture saved the fallen man. Slowly the bull followed Gomez, able at any moment to pierce the cape and kill the little Indian, but somehow Gomez continued to lure him away. Spectators who knew anything about bullfighting knew what a heroic act the Indian had performed; even those who had counted his disgrace a few minutes before-"Cinco, seis"-now sat mute in wonder at his bravery.

Victoriano, still confident of his eventual triumph over the difficult little fellow, sought to hammer home his victory by first placing an admirable pair of banderillas and then arrogantly marching over to where Gomez waited. Holding the second pair of colorful sticks in his right hand, he raised his left forearm parallel to the ground, rested the sticks upon it like a votive offering, and invited the Indian to try his luck on this fine Leal bull. Gomez, taken by surprise and aware that he was no match for Victoriano in this part of the fight but always gallant, accepted the challenge. Taking the sticks from Victoriano's arm, he came to where I waited with my camera and said, "Panuelo?" When I handed him my handkerchief he asked Ledesma the same question and received his handkerchief with an honest blessing from the big man in the black cape: "Buena suerte, matador." Gomez nodded gravely, for he was about to risk his life.

Striding out in his bowlegged way to where everyone could see, he stuck the two handkerchiefs in his mouth, took the two banderillas in his hands, and broke them off a few inches from the barbs, reducing them from twenty-six inches to six. Then, wrapping the jagged ends in cloth, and holding both banderillas in the right hand, he began the slow, fatal march toward the bull. "Eh, toro" I heard him call. "Tom!" and when at last the bull reacted, Gomez ran in a wide circle, carefully calculating where he would intercept the bull's charge. When that spot was reached he leaped high in the air, leaned in over the horns and with one hand jabbed the two barbs directly on target. It was a superb performance, one that could have been done only by a very brave man, but he paid a fearful price, for as he completed his miracle his left foot struck the bull's lagging right rear foot and he stumbled slightly, enough to give the bull a chance to turn back and rip deeply into his right groin.

In a flash, peons from both sides rushed out, protecting him with their swirling capes, then stood guard while medical attendants swarmed in to carry him to the infirmary beside the chapel. There practiced medics cut the leg of his trousers, cleaned the ugly gash without administering an anesthetic, and dusted the gaping hole with "the bullfighter's friend," Dr. Fleming's penicillin. In the old days a matador with a wound like this died four days later of septicemia. Now a wounded man lived, so when the doctors hastily sewed up the hole, they could predict with confidence: "You'll live, but you're finished for today." A junior doctor attending Gomez whispered to a nurse: "And for this year." So Juan Gomez's Ixmiq-61 had truly ended in disaster. There would be no triumphant season in Madrid this summer and in the stands Lucha Gonzalez, antic.i.p.ating the gravity of the wound, groaned: "Oh h.e.l.l," for she saw her chance of becoming a flamenco singer in Spain once again delayed, if not destroyed.

In the ring other changes had occurred. Now the inexperienced Pepe Huerta became more important; if anything should happen to Victoriano Leal, Huerta would be obligated to fight the last bull to a conclusion. Victoriano, realizing he and Huerta were now partners, invited the young aspirant to place the third pair of banderillas, which he did with less flair than the first time but well enough to gain applause.

That was the last light moment of the afternoon, for now a frightened Victoriano, with no Veneno to protect him, had to march out and tackle this powerful bull whose right rear leg might be weakened but whose heart seemed more resolute than before. This bull knew how to defend himself. Despite his apprehension, Victoriano remained the gallant. Striding matador fashion to where the actress sat behind his handsome parade cape, he raised his bullfighter's black cap with its two end points, held it straight toward her, and dedicated the bull to her. Then, in the time-honored tradition of the bullring, he turned his back on her, threw his cap insolently over his left shoulder and stalked out to do battle. The actress, although unprepared for this abrupt conclusion to the dedication, caught the cap and pressed it to her lips, where she would keep it as the last moments of the festival unwound.

Victoriano's task was to kill this bull expeditiously with the least possible exposure to those lethal horns. The bull's task was to defend himself to the last breath of his pounding lungs, the last swipe of his practiced horns. And each had a store of tricks to neutralize the other's devices.

When Victoriano tried, in deference to his exalted position and his performance so far, to give his bull at least a couple of decent pa.s.ses, the animal, now tired and aching from strange afflictions, refused to comply and would not budge from the defensive position he had taken. Veneno, now coaching from the pa.s.sageway, cried: "Finish it, however you can," but this prudent counsel of surrender only encouraged the matador to attempt one last pa.s.s to show his dominance over even this difficult beast. When the bull saw him approaching he waited till the critical moment, then swung his forequarters about and lashed out with his saberlike right horn, catching Victoriano in the right leg. From my vantage point I could see that it was a serious wound, one that would require st.i.tches, but I judged it would not be disabling like the one taken by Gomez.

As Veneno gathered his bleeding son in his arms for the trip to the infirmary I could hear him whispering, "You'll live. You'll not lose your leg." He had learned that it was vital in these first moments to prevent the wounded torero from thinking that he might die. "You'll live, Victoriano. You'll be back next year, bigger than ever."

While the matador was being carried out the far gates, Mrs. Evans was whispering: "I think I see Ricardo getting ready to make his move." The young American had edged himself into a position from which he might leap over the barricade and dash into the ring while others were preoccupied with the confusion, and at Mrs. Evans's prompting I readied my camera, but nothing happened.

The ring was now clear except for one side where the bull, who remained motionless, protected himself by keeping his back to the wooden barrier that hemmed the arena. Toward him, marching slowly across the sands, came the subst.i.tute, Huerta, whose task it was to kill this immensely dangerous bull. The young man did not know what Ledesma and I knew, that No. 47 had killed the great bull Sangre Azul, but he was aware that 47 had already sent two of Mexico's major matadors to the hospital. He moved cautiously, trying to determine what he could do that Victoriano, a much more experienced man, had failed to do. He was in no hurry for this test of his skill.

This hesitancy gave young Ricardo Martin, the same age as Huerta, the opportunity he needed. After secredy reconst.i.tuting his folded stick and jamming its spiked end into the far corner of his red muleta, he nodded slightiy to both Mrs. Evans and Penny, who flashed him the thumbs-up sign. He then vaulted the barrier, and before any peons or officials could intercept him, was upon the bull and dropping to his knees. From this position he accepted the charge of the bull, pa.s.sed him handsomely, as the crowd roared approval. Then he whirled about, still on his knees to take a return charge, which again he handled with a flourish. Martin, realizing that he faced two fights, one against the bull, the other against the horde of men who were trying to drag him off to jail, fought a skillful and courageous two-front battle, first running so fast that no one could catch him, then doubling back at enormous risk to himself and throwing a few hasty pa.s.ses at the bull, who was so confused by the racket about him and the flashing bodies that he continued to attack the one thing he did understand, that red cloth.

In this chaotic warfare, now further confused by six frantic policemen running about, Ricardo had one important factor in his favor: The others were terrified by those long, unshaved horns. Courageous though they might normally be, they would chase this deadly bull just so far; when they saw those horns turning in their direction they backed off. In this harum-scarum situation Ricardo managed three sets of two pa.s.ses each, enough to throw the stands into a frenzy.

After the third pair, which left the bull standing rigid amid the confusion, Ricardo reached forward, patted the bull between the horns and strode away in the affected posturing of a matador. In this moment of carelessness two policemen grabbed him, and off be was dragged to a holding pen from which he would be taken to jail after the festival ended. He left to cheers. Both valiant and knowing, he had not been a reckless, f.e.c.kless espontPSneo but an aspiring torero, and the crowd knew the difference.

When quiet was restored, once again Pepe Huerta started toward the agitated bull. But once more he was interrupted, for through the red gate on the far side used by matadors hobbled Victoriano, his leg tightly bandaged so blood did not flow, his torn trouser leg awkwardly pinned together, his walk steady though limping, his hands empty and his bullfighter's cap long gone, moving purposefully to intercept Chucho and Diego, who rushed to meet him. Reaching for his sword and with the red muleta draped over his left arm, he started for the waiting bull. On the way I heard him tell Pepe Huerta: "It's my responsibility." When the younger man could not hide his disappointment, Leal a.s.sured him: "I'll help you get a fight, but this one is mine," and the young man had to retreat, surrender his sword, and resume his cape.

When Veneno saw what his son was about to attempt, to kill this dangerous bull, he became frantic: "No! Your leg won't be steady. No, Victoriano!" for he knew that any bull that had knocked down two horses and two men would remember those victories and try to kill any man who approached. Victoriano must be protected from self-destruction.

But his son had found new courage, and I heard him dismiss his father: "It's my bull, and I'll finish him." Turning his back on Veneno, he limped out to certify his independence.

Alone in the middle of the ring he was no longer a pirouetting marionette manipulated by others but a lone man facing a deadly task. The fight was between a gallant beast who had been mistreated by forces he could not comprehend and a new man who had found himself. Four times the bull had gained victories over horses and men, and twice the matador had garnered laurels for his stylish fights against his first two bulls, only to be wounded by his third. It would be an even fight.

Then came the moment in Ixmiq-61 that I will always remember, even though my camera was unable to catch it, for its significance was not aesthetic but moral. When Victoriano came to face his enemy, he found him exactly where he wanted, before the Sombra seats, a spot from which he had launched most of his memorable faenas. But when he approached No. 47, the great bull slowly turned and started hunting for that fortunate spot which he dimly remembered as the one from which he had sent both Gomez and Victoriano to the infirmary. It seemed incredible that a dumb animal could identify in this strange arena those spots where he'd had minor triumphs and those others where he'd suffered, but in fight after fight, Spanish bulls exhibited that uncanny sense. If No. 47 could take refuge in his chosen spot, he had a chance for victory.

Slowly, as the sun disappeared, he started a plodding march across the full diameter of the arena, attacked by a dreadful pain he could not understand and trailed by a determined matador who suffered from his own wounds. As the shadows lengthened in the arena the two adversaries, beast and man, limped to their destiny.

This time the bull's chosen refuge was in the Sol, where he took a position with his aching rear jammed against the wooden barrier. From here he would not be easily dislodged, and all of us who had been allowed to watch from the pa.s.sageway in Sombra now scurried to be near the bull as he prepared to defend himself in Sol. Of this tense crowd, only Ledesma and I knew how the bull had been damaged, and I, at least, was praying: "Protect yourself, old fellow. You've won your fight." Ledesma, seeing moisture glistening in my eyes, said: "It can get rather emotional, no?" and he directed me to watch closely the way in which Victoriano proposed to solve his deadly riddle: how to lure that bull out of his defensive stance.

When I saw Victoriano, a man who had befriended me, approach the bull, I thought: Let him do well, but I realized that I was cheering both the bull and the man, and understood that what I meant was: Let this fight end honorably.

Slowly, as in the old days, Victoriano walked toward the bull, not running from the side as in his recent cowardly days, and he moved with such authority that the bull tried to decipher what kind of threat this adversary posed, and in doing so moved his hindquarters slighdy away from the defensive barrier. His inquisitiveness doomed him, because once he deserted his haven he was vulnerable, and now had to twist and turn to keep facing his enemy. This allowed Victoriano to tease him into an acceptable stance, and in that moment the matador went in boldly, bravely for a masterly kill, but the wily animal was waiting, and with a toss of his powerful head he used the smooth side of his left horn to hammer Victoriano in the chest, knocking him flat.

From old Veneno's vantage it looked as if the bull had gored his son, so with a frenzied leap, and followed immediately by his other sons, he ran to save his fallen matador with flashing capes. When the Leals had Victoriano upright but unsteady, they insisted that he quit the fight and allow them to carry him back to the infirmary, but he brushed them aside, asked for his fallen sword, and said simply: "Now I know his tricks. This light is over," and he went back to face the bull.

Antic.i.p.ating the animal's weakening attempts at self-defense, the elegant matador exuded an aura of invincibility, for he did everything right to lure the bull out of his refuge, then to profile in the face of the deadly right horn and go over it to lodge the sword deep and true. TTie bull staggered, looked around frantically and searched on trembling feet for his attacker.

Technically the bull was dead, for the steel went through one lung and close to the heart, but his terrifying determination to fight on was so great that he refused to obey the message of death coursing through his sorely damaged body: "Lie down, brave bull. You defended yourself. Don't breathe so deep. Lie down."

He refused. Staggering about in a grotesque dance of death, he tried with his damaged rump to relocate that comforting fence but failed. So, as if his three good legs were oak trees in some meadow, he dug in where he was and refused to surrender.

It was a sight that those of us who saw it from the pa.s.sageway will never forget. We could reach out across the fence and touch him. Victoriano, in an act of compa.s.sion and respect for his great bull, went up to him, placed his hand on the bull's forehead between the horns, and gendy pushed him down. The legs crumpled, the knees buckled and, with a final attempt at lunging forward, the bull died.

Slowly, painfully, his face ashen from loss of blood, all energy drained, Victoriano hobbled back across the arena to present himself to the president high in his box. Sword in his left hand, muleta draped across his left forearm, he raised his right like some ancient gladiator reporting to his emperor: "I have complied," whereupon Veneno and his sons gathered him in their arms and started for the infirmary. As they carried him past the mob in Sol cheers began.

Soon the entire plaza was demanding that he be awarded a turn of the ring, so with dianas playing, he freed himself from the men who were carrying him and started the triumphal parade, but he turned not to his cheering supporters in Sombra but back to where No. 47 was about to be hauled away. Halting the mules, he indicated that this tremendous bull who had defended himself so n.o.bly must share the honors, and these two wounded warriors toured the ring in glory.

As they pa.s.sed the breeder's box, Victoriano saw Don Eduardo Palafox, afraid that he might not be called out to join the triumph, jumping up and down like a nervous schoolboy who had to go to the bathroom. When the matador looked in his direction with a nod so slight that no one could see it, if indeed it was a nod, Don Eduardo catapulted from the box and joined the glorious procession as flowers and gifts poured down.

As they approached the exit gate on their turn, Victoriano remembered when he was a lad starting his career. Hobbling to where the police watched approvingly, he called: "Bring out the boy!" When his demand was augmented by shouts from the crowd, Ricardo Martin was produced in handcuffs and, with Victoriano sponsoring him, he made a turn of the ring in which he had performed so intelligently and so well. Manacled hands raised above his head, he acknowledged the cheers, but when he came to Mrs. Evans he stopped and blew her a kiss, for in his mind he had dedicated the bull to her.

Long after others had left the ring, I remained inside the pa.s.sageway, leaning with my arms on the barrier that had protected me from the horns, and as I stared at the gate through which Victoriano and No. 47 had made their exit, I wondered what force in their lives had driven them to perform so heroically. Man and beast were incomparable, a pair of adversaries whom destiny had ordained for this festival, and I mumbled: 'They performed for you, Clay, to remind you of the principles by which a life should be led."

Chapter 20.

THE HOUSE OF TILE.

IF SAt.u.r.dAY NIGHT was, as I said earlier, the happiest night of a festival because looming obligations could be ignored, Sunday night after the close of the last fight was clearly the most depressing, for now a return to normal life and its tensions became inescapable. This was particularly true of Ixmiq-61, because the last fight had been such an emotional affair that a letdown was inevitable, and as partic.i.p.ants in the festival gathered in desultory manner at the various tables on the Terrace, one could detect a certain vacancy in their eyes, as if the fires of the last three nights had left only smoldering embers.

It was a night of bittersweet experiences, none more intense and complex than the one I became involved with when I took my seat at a table at which Penny Grim was talking agitatedly with Leon Ledesma, who was apparently telling her things she did not want to hear. 'Tell her, Norman, what these American girls who cl.u.s.ter about the matadors like bees seeking honey are called."

"You said it in the car this afternoon, they're camp followers.

"There's a harsher, more accurate word. In Spanish we say putas. Translate it for her."

"Wh.o.r.es." When I saw her blush I added: "But I'd not use that word myself."

"What would you use?" Ledesma asked with a touch of his familiar acid.

"I think 'giddy young girls away from the restraints of home' would cover it"

"I'll accept that, if you insist on being old-womanish. But this young girl is not giddy, and with Mrs. Evans and you and me on hand, she's certainly not free from the restraints of home."

"You talk as if you were my guardians," Penny broke in. "I sent my father home, and I do not care to take directions from you-none of you. I have a date with him tonight, and I intend keeping it."

Now I understood. In some clever way during the testing at Don Eduaido's, Pepe Huerta, while holding the cape with Penny or standing beside her at the barrier, had arranged to take her out after the fight, and she was waiting for him to come down from the room the Widow Palafox had allowed him to move into for a few pesos. Ledesma was determined that she not join, symbolically, the tawdry collection of young women waiting to grab hold of any torero they could land. Matadors were preferred, Peons acceptable if they were young, picadors too old and fat A young would-be matador like Pepe Huerta might be the top prize, for he would cany with him a sense of drama and romance, the young man aspiring to greatness.

"I sympathize with you, Penny," I said, to Ledesma's disgust. "He's a handsome young fellow, and that pair he placed, that whirling dervish bit-you might spend a lifetime at the plazas and never see the likes of that."

"Did you get it on film?" she asked, and the intensity in her voice betrayed how keenly interested in Huerta she was.

"I must have caught more than a dozen shots, rapid fire, in color. I promise to make you an enlargement of the two best."

"I would like that," and she touched my arm with such vibrancy that for an instant I wished she were interested in me and not in the young bullfighter. "Send them to me. Don't just promise."

"I will." As I said this I saw Pepe Huerta come onto the terrace freshly showered and with the neat dress and narrow black tie that toreros favor as one of the marks of their profession. When he bent to kiss Penny's hand, I saw that at the nape of his neck he had a long tuft of hair carefully dressed in the litde knot known as the coleta. One of the saddest days in a matador's life comes when, to the accompaniment of "Las Golondrinas," that incredibly lovely song of farewell, he marches to the middle of the arena during his last fight to allow the next senior matador to take a long pair of shears and cut his coleta, signifying that his life as a matador has ended. I've seen the ceremony twice and wept each time with no embarra.s.sment, for everyone else was weeping, too. So when I saw that young Pepe was already wearing the coleta, I knew he took his profession seriously and that Penny was in the presence of a real torero.

It was fascinating to watch how perfectly these two young people meshed, the excited girl, the hesitant but proud young man in the first stages of his profession. As they sat beside me they seemed once more to lean toward each other, as they had at the testing. It was as if some supernatural force was acting upon them, and I found myself wishing that Mrs. Evans were here to dampen the ardor, for it was clear to me that this mutual attraction was getting way out of hand, with me powerless to control it.

Ledesma was equal to the task. "I'm so glad you decided to stop by, Pepe. That was a tremendous pair you placed today."

"I hope the photographers caught it."

'They couldn't miss. It'll be in all the papers." The two men were speaking in Spanish, but since Penny had studied that language in school, and Ledesma had excellent English and Huerta a respectable smattering, the conversation flowed easily. Penny said: "Mr. Clay told me he had more than a dozen shots, in color." Shyly she added: "He promised to send me a pair-for my room."

"It's too bad the espontaneo spoiled that last bull," Ledesma said. "You might have done something with that one-before he became unruly because of the crowd in the ring."

Huerta instandy transferred his interest to a dissection of the fight: "I'm sure I could have handled that bull. Did you notice how he had slowed down in pushing off with his hind feet when he started his charge? Veneno had really punished him with the lancing. Slowed down like that, I could have managed him."

Ledesma looked at me and nodded. Then, turning to Pepe, he asked: "And what brings you to our table?"

"At the tienta, Senorita Penny-" He p.r.o.nounced her name with a delightful, musical accent.

"Don't you know her last name?" Ledesma asked coldly.

"She told me, Penny," the young man said hesitantly.

"You don't know her last name, but you come here-"

"Senor Ledesma, she invited me."

"If her father were here, you'd ask his permission, wouldn't you?"

"Yes ... yes. I would look for him, but she said he'd gone home."

"And left her in my care. I am-what you might call-her sobresaliente father."

With his adroit use of this bullfight term, which specifically identified the young would-be matador, the critic warned the aspirant that he must not pursue this matter of escorting Penny Grim, but the Oklahoma girl did not feel herself bound by this threat from the critic.

"I asked him to take me to see the celebrations," she told us, pointing to the plaza and the carousel.

Suddenly everyone's attention was deflected by the appearance of the two Leal brothers, who were quickly surrounded by squealing young women who had hoped to date their young brother Victoriano.

"Is he still in the hospital?" a blonde asked.

"Is he badly wounded?" cried another girl.

"Will he be able to fight again?" Their questions tumbled out in a mix of Spanish and English, and after some minutes of confusion, the two Leals allowed the girls to drag them off into the heart of the plaza. From the hotel doorway, their father, white-haired Veneno, watched his sons coping with a situation that occurred frequently: surrounded by adoring young women, mostly from the States.

"That is what you must not be," Ledesma said coldly as the obstreperous girls disappeared beyond the statue of Ixmiq. And to the young torero he said witfi even more coldness: "You have no engagement tonight, Pepe. I am this girl's father, and she is too young to accompany you unattended." As I listened to this astonishing performance I realized that he was speaking like the dutiful son of a Spanish family of good breeding. He was protecting his younger sister, who could not be allowed to wander off without a duena, and if Mrs. Evans had been thoughtless enough to leave the girl without proper chaperoning, he, Ledesma would have to correct that social error.

Penny, of course, did not see it that way. She had taken a strong liking to this highly acceptable young man. She had been thrilled by his magical performance with the sticks, and since she had for some time in Tulsa been accustomed to going out at night with her various youthfiil suitors, she expected to do so here. So despite what Senor Ledesma said, she proposed to keep her date with the sobresaliente, but when she rose to do so, she came up against twin stone walls: Spanish custom and bullfight tradition.

Ledesma knew that he might be powerless to halt Penny, accustomed to her Oklahoma freedoms, but in disciplining young Pepe Huerta he was all-powerfiil. If the latter ignored the critic's direct orders, Ledesma had the capacity to forestall Huerta's rise in bullfight circles. He could pa.s.s the word to the impresarios not to bother with Pepe: "No talent. One pair doesn't make the man. You can skip him," and he would be skipped. Worse, he would be blackballed. Years would pa.s.s and he would receive no invitations to fight in the important arenas. Huerta knew I knew, and most of all, Leon Ledesma knew, that what this boy did in the next few moments could determine his career.

"I apologize, Senor Ledesma. I should have asked your permission." Rising and turning to Penny, he said: "You were very brave this afternoon. I shall always remember."

With a cry that brought an ache to my heart, for I had forgotten how powerful emotions can be when one is seventeen, Penny rose, threw her arms about Huerta, and kissed him on the cheek, holding on to his left hand when she finished. "I'll have the pictures Mr. Clay took. I'll follow your career, Pepe, and I'll cheer you when you become famous. This was so wonderful. It could have been so wonderful," and she fell into her chair and put her face in her hands.

I indicated to Pepe that he should leave and, bowing to Ledesma, he did. As soon as he was gone, Penny rose to go to her room, but Ledesma grabbed her arm and pulled her back down: "We'll have no climbing out of windows, Senorita Grim. You'll wait here with me till Mrs. Evans returns from wherever she is."

I left them sitting there in silence as I hurried from the Terrace to see if I could overtake Huerta. I caught up to him under a lamplight where we spoke for some minutes: "You were very good today, Pepe. That's enough. It might lead to something."

"We did have an understanding. She did ask me."

Because of my own spotty track record I felt qualified to tell him: "Sometimes a man has to take it in silence when he loses his girl."

"Maybe I shouldn't have been there at all. The Terrace is for matadors."

"After a pair like yours today, you can sit anywhere. But now what?"