Tank-Town Matador

The room where he changed had the stink of failure, the tired smell of poverty and defeat. He could hear the growling roar from the crowd in the bull ring. Paco Solis smiled without humor as he fingered the dusty blackness, the stained embroidery of his montero, the traditional hat of the torero. He stood, lean, hard, the healed horn wound, the cornada he had received in the Mexico City bull ring, a deep dimple in the smooth shoulder flesh.

So many years, so many heartbreaks — and so many dreams. He pulled on the stiffly embroidered jacket. Juaquim Montez, who would place banderillas for him, strolled in, said, “Ah, nearly ready. What is the matter, Paquito? Are you affronted to perform for these country clowns, this muy ranchero collection of aficionados?”

“You have much mouth, my friend.”

Juaquim picked up the discarded letter from Juanito. He read a few lines before Paco Solis snatched it away.

Juaquim laughed. “Ah, Juanito is the wise one. He won the silver ear in Mexico one year after you did. Each of you, in your own year, was the best of all the novices, the novilleros, and could elect to become a full matador.”

Paco said sullenly, “You are correct. Juanito is the wise one. When we were both offered the alternativa he elects to remain a novillero, while I become a torero. Now I fight in these stinking little provincial towns, and he fights in the novillero season in Mexico and gets bigger purses than I get as a professional torero. I cannot get a booking in the professional season in Mexico City. Yet there is no turning back. I have chosen, and I must remain a torero. Yes, Juanito was wise. It was not a good time to become a torero.”

Juaquim thumped Paco’s shoulder. “Don’t brood, little one. We have work. Two spavined, over-age bulls for you to kill.”

The traditional pomp and ceremony of the starting moment was as absurd in the weathered little bull ring as would be a symphony orchestra in a cantina. The Alguacil had requested the usual permission of the Juez de Plaza to begin the fight. He had backed his horse to the Puerta de Cuadrillas, and he advanced once again, leading the pitifully small parade.

Behind him walked the three toreros. Paco walked, as did the others, with the head-high strut of the torero. On one side of him was the eldest torero, Ricardo Espinosa, who would kill the first bull. On his other side was Pepe Redondo, a new one. Paco saw the glow of dedication on Pepe Redondo’s face, the dilated nostrils, the extreme pallor. And Paco was amused.

Behind them marched the four banderilleros, whose services they would have to share, and, on padded, aged horses, the three picadores, followed by the monosabios, the ring servants.

They advanced across the ring, saluted the judge, a beefy, florid man who lolled, half-drunk, in his box.

As Paco turned to trade his embroidered cape for the working cape, he glanced over the crowd. The small ring was packed with what he guessed to be about seven thousand persons. The sun side, the cheap-ticket side, was rowdy, as usual, with a sprinkling of touristas on the shade side.

Paco stood behind the barrera and watched Ricardo Espinosa work the first bull. The animal was spirited, but too small for the big-city rings. Probably nine hundred pounds.

After Ricardo had watched the bull, made a few cautious veronicas with the big cape, the picadores entered and, in pic-ing the bull three times, did a clumsy job, hurting the animal too much. The shrill whistlings of the crowd expressed their displeasure. The picadores left the ring and the banderilleros did an equally awkward job, setting the banderillas lightly enough, but with one pair so far forward that they would obviously interfere with the kill.

Ricardo came out with the muleta, the small cape, and the sword. The bull was uncertain and, because of the mishandling, unpredictable. Paco half-smiled as he watched Ricardo’s clumsy faking. His stance for the natural pass shifted clumsily into a safer molinete pass as the bull charged. As soon as the horn was by, Ricardo would assume once more the natural pass position. It did not fool the crowd. There were yells of “Maleta!” and more whistling.

At last the small bull stood in the correct position, head lowered, feet together. Ricardo went in with the sword, surprising the crowd with the neatness and bravery of the kill.

The next bull was Paco’s. He had long since decided that, in working the provinces, there was no need to perform spectacular work. Why die before these audiences of clowns?

It was necessary to dedicate the bull — and profitably. On the shade side, in a front row, he saw an elderly couple, obviously prosperous touristas, with a young, lovely, golden-haired daughter. They had a guide with them. Paco Solis marched to that portion of the barrera, dedicated the bull to the girl, saw her confused blush.

As he turned away, he flung his hat back to them, knowing that the guide would explain that he would return for the hat after the kill and would expect to find a substantial bill in it.

He went behind the little gate in the barrero, while the banderilieros took up their positions in the ring to await the entrance of the bull.

As the bull came into the ring, the flick of a cape in the hand of a banderillero attracted the animal’s attention. He charged the cape, and as the man ducked, the huge bull leaped the barrera, jumping the five-foot fence with all the agility of a thoroughbred horse. The gate was quickly opened and the bull, running inside the barrera, found his way back into the ring. Head high, he moved quickly from side to side, alert and dangerous.

Paco knew what had happened. This bull had been inspected on the big Piedras Negras ranch, had been judged too big, and thus not sufficiently agile for the big-time ring. He would weigh upward of twelve hundred pounds. But the inspectors had been wrong. This bull was as quick as a great cat.

It was a bull such as a torero dreams of, and fears.

The banderilleros ran the bull back and forth across the hard-packed yellow sand. Paco watched, fearing that something would be wrong with this bull. No, the bull followed the trailing cape, charging clean and true and straight. Nor did he pause before his charge. He charged so fleetly that it was difficult to guess the precise moment of his charge. The crowd was yelling wildly, knowing and appreciating a good bull. The brave and proud animal stood, snorting, incredibly strong, incalculably dangerous.

This animal had been bred to die with dignity and raw, brute courage. In addition, his mind was keen. This was the first moment that he had encountered man, a puny, two-legged animal which dared the deadly power of his horns.

At last Paco knew enough of the bull to go forward with his own cape. As matador he was the first to be permitted to use two hands on the cape.

At closer range the bull appeared to be even more enormous. Paco flicked the cape, enticed the charge, passed the bull by him with a cautious veronica that passed the horn a good foot and a half from his thigh.

Ah, this was a bull! If only he could have a bull such as this in the ring in Mexico City! But here, where even his best work would be remembered only by these country Indios...

He thought of passing the bull closely with the big cape, then remembered the tiny purse he was getting, remembered the fading embroidery of his uniform. The bull snorted, pawed the sand, came at him again. He led the bull wide with the big cape, and the animal startled him by wheeling swiftly, charging again. But he made the wide pass. Feeble shouts of “Ole!” were masked by whistles.

Why risk death for these country people? But this was, in truth, a magnificent animal.

He gave the signal for the picadores and, one at a time, they came through the proper gate on the blindfolded horses. Ricardo Espinosa and Pepe Redondo came into the ring with their capes to perform the necessary quito should the bull knock down a horse.

Paco enticed the bull with the cape, moving aside so that the bull saw the first picador, charged the horse. The picador placed the pic just as the horns hit the heavy padding. The bull, conscious of the sting of pain, surged up with his massive neck muscles, tumbling both horse and rider. Paco made the quito, passing the bull by him while the monosabios quickly got the frightened but unhurt horse to his feet, helped the picador to remount.

As the bull was lured toward the second picador, Paco, to his own intense surprise, heard himself shout, “Lightly! Not deep, hombre!”

The picador gave him one startled look just as the bull charged. Paco cursed to himself. It was to his advantage to have the bull pic-ed deeply, weakened in the mighty shoulder muscles so that the head would be carried lower. He wanted to reverse his orders, but pride would not let him. The other toreros had heard his orders and he had seen Pepe Redondo’s look of deepest respect.

The bull was pic-ed three times, not deeply. And each time he displayed the utmost courage, boring in against the padded horse, ignoring the pain of the pic.

The signal was given, the trumpets sounded and the picadores left the ring. Paco looked at the bull. He felt himself in touch with the mentality of the beast. He could almost hear the bull thinking, “Something has hurt me. I wanted to chase away these silly creatures, but now they have hurt me and I shall kill them.”

The bull was but slightly weakened by the pics. Too slightly. Paco suddenly realized- how he could make himself safe once more without earning the whistles and hisses of the crowd. He would demand to place his own banderillas; the crowd would like that. Then he would make certain of placing one deeply in the wound of the pic, thus giving the bull a hard and steady pain that would make him difficult to handle, but much weaker.

The crowd roared its approval as Paco took two of the slender, thirty-inch banderillas, decorated with bright paper, small barbed hooks on the ends. The purpose of the banderillas, as of the pics, is not idle cruelty. The bull may become disconcerted by charging constantly, meeting nothing with his horns but the wraithlike cape. The banderillas, hooked lightly through the hide, dangling against the flanks, are a constant reminder to the bull of the hurt that has been done him. A constant incentive to charge.

Meat cattle are bred for the sordid death of the slaughterhouse. This proud animal had been bred for the hot, bright, sunlit death of the bull ring, pitting his strength and cunning against the artistry and cold courage of a man one-sixth his size. He would die at last, with dignity, and quickly. In a bull fight is all the soaring pathos of a master tragedy, and the triumph of the courage of a man.

Paco went out to the center of the bull ring and stood fifty feet from the bull. He stamped his foot against the sand and called the bull. The bull began to come slowly toward him. As it gathered itself for a charge, Paco began to move quickly toward it. He was alone in the ring with the bull, with no cape, with no protection but the two slender banderillas. Man and beast moved toward each other. Paco angled his approach to cross the line of charge of the bull. As they met, he leaned in over the horns, placing the two banderillas, their points together, making a quarter-circle away from the horns.

The crowd screamed its approval. The bull turned, but was lured away by a cape in the hands of a banderillero while Paco, shaking his head in bewilderment, went to the barrera to get the second pair. He had meant to place the right-hand banderilla improperly and deeply, but in the perfect moment as he met the charge, he had placed them properly, lightly.

No matter, there were two more. One of them deeply. Once again he performed the “al cuarteo” maneuver, and in the very instant of placing them, of twisting just outside the horn, he could not somehow drive the right-hand one down with all his strength as he had intended to do.

There was a note of hysteria in the roar of the crowd. They had not expected this polished perfection, this calculated grace and courage in the small local ring.

It was only after Paco Solis had placed the third pair that he realized he had lost his last chance of weakening the animal to the point of relative safety. His throat knotted and his mouth dried as he suddenly knew he would have to face the bull with nothing but the small felt cape doubled over the wooden stick, the sword in his right hand. With nothing but the little red cape he would have to subdue the bull to the point where he could safely go in over the horns, sink the sword to the hilt in the tiny place between the two shoulders, no larger than a silver peso.

As the muleta and sword were given him, he felt in an odd trance of both exaltation and fear. Was this the cool touch of the fingers of death? What had possessed him to take the gaudy chance of an unweakened bull of such enormous size and agility. He saluted the girl to whom he had dedicated the bull and signaled that the bull be enticed to the exact center of the arena.

As he walked out he decided that he would perform the safest passes he could devise. He would perform these passes until he could take the chance of a kill, and then he would make the easier kill, sinking the estoque to only half of its full length.

The bull saw him and stood tense, head held too high. Paco Solis took a deep, shuddering breath, stamped his foot, flapped the cape and called “Hut! Toro! Aqui!”

The bull charged, strong and true and straight, and he smelled the heat of it, felt the tremor of the ground as he passed it by with a high pass, a por alto, designed to weaken the animal’s neck muscles as it thrust up at the cape.

The bull made a long charge, stopped. He called it again. Another high pass. The crowd was silent, sensing the strength of this beast, sensing the dilemma of Paco Solis, not approving of the passes he made with the muleta, yet too respectful of the strength and quickness of the bull to condemn Paco Solis for his caution.

The bull thundered toward him the third time. Paco’s sweaty hand slipped a trifle on the cape, swaying the end nearest his body. The bull, swerving in the charge, moved in closer to Paco than he had intended. The shoulder of the beast struck Paco’s side, knocking him two steps off balance. The thunderous “Ole!” of the crowd came from seven thousand throats at exactly the same moment.

The impact of that trumpet note of approval was like a blow against the soul of Paco Solis.

The next charge of the beast was shorter. Paco used the por alto, but brought the beast in closer to his body. Again seven thousand throats roared “Ole!” at the moment of the pass.

Paco felt the taut, hard confidence within him. This was one of ten thousand beasts. This was a true and noble bull of great courage and he deserved the best that any man could bring to the fight.

He heard the indrawn breath of the crowd as he went in toward the bull in the tremendously dangerous pass natural. The bull stood with head lowered, eyes glowing, breathing hard. Paco Solis stood erect, his right side toward the bull, the sword in his right hand pointed down toward the sand, the cape held low in his left hand. His body was a bigger target and was closer to the bull than the cape.

He flicked the cape and said, “Toro!”

The bull charged the cape, rounding quickly to charge again and again, excited by the new nearness of the man. Paco made each pass with iron courage, staying in so close to the horn that it ripped the embroidery across the belly of the uniform, and he was stained with the blood from the bull’s pic wounds.

He sensed when the animal had made its last charge in the series. When it wheeled to face him and stopped, he turned his back on it, walked slowly away, trailing the muleta. Seven thousand people were close to hysteria.

He turned, went slowly back, moving so close to the bull that the enticing cape nearly flapped its nose. He held the sword in his right hand along with the muleta and started the series of natural passes to the right. The bull and he were in such accord that Paco had the half-hypnotic feeling that they were partners in a strange dance. Each time as the bull passed him, he thrust against its flank with his left hand, turning it more rapidly to attack him again, slowly increasing the tempo of the passes, the cadence of the resounding “Ole!” that split the hot still air.

He talked softly and constantly to the bull and he knew that in these moments he was at last becoming a torero. He no longer thought of correct foot positions, of the opinion of the crowd. He was blinded to everything but this magnificent animal, and he felt pain in his heart as he wondered if ever again he would fight such a creature.

He brought the animal in close, closer, and more threads were frayed from his tarnished embroidery, more blood rubbed from the bull’s side.

And then at last the bull stood in the perfect position for the kill. Paco sighted along the blade, shook his head against the tears that stung his eyes.

He went in with three quick steps, leaning in over the deadly horns, the muleta held low in front of him in his left hand, swinging it slowly out to the left as the bull charged, so as to clear his legs with the low-held horn. The blade sank cleanly.

The bull charged, and as its legs crumpled, the momentum carried it onto its side, still trying, in the moment of death, in the moment of truth, to expend more of its store of miraculous courage.

Slowly Paco Solis became conscious of the crowd once again. He looked slowly around and saw the sea of white as the handkerchiefs were wildly waved for him to receive the highest honor that can be given a torero. The Juez de Plaza made the signal of approval and the puntillero cut from the dead animal one ear and the tail and awarded them to Paco Solis.

Then the crowd roared, “Toro! Toro!” A sign of recognition of a brave beast. The mules were brought in and the dead bull was dragged on a slow circuit of the bull ring before being taken out to be cut up and given to the poor.

Paco Solis was embraced by the other toreros, and then, to the huge standing roar of the crowd, he made two slow circuits of the bull ring, carrying the ear and tail held high, his eyes swimming and misted with tears, while the gifts rained down on him — the clothing and the poor jewels of these people and anything at hand of value which, in the excess of their love for this brave man, they could throw down to him. Those who walked behind him threw the garments back up into the crowd.

The third circuit he made by himself, running in the traditional manner.

When at last he returned, he went over to where the girl sat, and his hat was handed down to him. He saw that in it were the flowers she had worn in her hair and he felt no disappointment, because somehow it was perfectly fitting and right that the hat should contain only that. It was only when, smiling, he had lifted the flowers to his lips, he saw the folded bill underneath.

Back in his correct position behind the barrera, as Pepe Redondo was awaiting the arrival of his bull into the ring, Juaquim came up to Paco Solis.

Juaquim’s voice was husky. He said, “I saw Belmonte four times. He did not do better.”

Paco Solis said, smiling, “It is a small place for this to have happened, no?”

“But word of this will go all over Mexico, Paco. A thing like this is never hidden. You will soon be booked in Mexico City. In the crowd I have seen several of the ones who have followed their darling, Pepe, down here. And saw you. They are influential.”

Paco slowly straightened his shoulders. He looked out over the crude wooden bull ring. He said, almost too softly for Juaquim to hear, “I have another bull this afternoon. I will fight him as well as I can. That is all that is important.”