Mexico

  A crowd had gathered, captivated by the excitement of the scene. A husky young workman shouted, “By God, it’s Victoriano!” And instantly this fellow had the young man on his shoulders. Immediately others rushed forward to support the figure thus held aloft, and I returned to my camera, but before I could snap the shutter, the crowd had moved across the road and onto the terrace of the hotel.

  “Victoriano!” I shouted.

  He turned and smiled professionally, knowing that this would be a favorite shot. His two young companions, always mindful that effective photography can make a matador, moved in quickly and took their places by the husky young workman who carried him, and the white-haired old man assumed a pose that showed his craggy profile.

  They formed a magnificent pyramid there in the dusk, the godlike young matador, his two rugged assistants and their white-haired father resembling a centaur with a wreath of flowers about his head. I knew I had an extraordinary shot, and so did Victoriano, who twisted his head so that I could catch a more favorable profile.

  “Two more!” I pleaded, and the onlookers elbowed in, hoping that I would take their picture as they mingled with the four Leals.

  When I finished, the man carrying Victoriano set him carefully down on the steps of the hotel, and the crowd swirled into the hotel. I rewound my film and reloaded my camera. The first of the duelists had arrived, the delicate fencer, but the rowdy swordsman who thrashed about with his saber was still to come. And from his plinth, the little Indian who had started it all, Ixmiq of thirteen hundred years ago, gazed down approvingly.

  2

  THE SPANIARD

  Victoriano Leal, slim-hipped and twenty-seven, was considered by many the best matador in Mexico and possibly the world. He was handsome, graceful and a joy to the eye as he led the bull past his chest, and I had come to Mexico to see him duel a stubborn, awkward little Indian, perhaps to the death.

  In this contest, which would be taking place in my hometown, I could not be neutral. Victoriano I had known for some years, Gómez I had only spoken to, and that briefly. But each had made himself into a serious matador, worthy of respect and the attention my magazine was willing to focus on them.

  I had abandoned Toledo in my voluntary exile long before Victoriano burst onto the taurine scene, but I’d heard rumors of his successes in Mexico so that when I was sent to Spain to write an in-depth article about who might succeed General Franco when the aging dictator died and saw in the papers that Victoriano Leal would be fighting in Madrid on Sunday, I sought permission to interview him. He was told that I was an American writer knowledgeable about bullfighting and that the publicity my magazine might provide could be profitable to him internationally.

  When we met, he surprised me by saying: “I am eager to speak with you. Your Ernest Hemingway made many matadors famous by writing about them in English. For me, maybe the same.” But our interview would have been quite ordinary except that at one point he asked, “Where did you learn such good Spanish?”

  “I was born in a Mexican city you’ve probably heard of. Toledo of the silver mines.”

  “Toledo! I’ve had some of my best afternoons in that plaza!” He paused, then said enthusiastically: “And I’ve taken part in some great tientas at the Palafox ranch. Don Eduardo, he’s like the old-time breeders.”

  “Don Eduardo is my uncle.”

  He drew back, studied me and asked carefully: “Don Eduardo? You, a norteamericano? How?”

  “My mother was a Palafox and I married Don Eduardo’s niece. He’s not really my uncle, but it’s nearly the same.”

  “A Palafox!” He shook his head in amazement, and from then on we were friends.

  I found myself quite intrigued by this young comer and had a feeling he might one day be a big success. During some of my free hours when I wasn’t working on my Franco story, I hung around the bullring and picked up stories about Victoriano and his brilliant bullfighting family. They were so entertaining that I made notes on them in one of the little books I always carry with me. Years later, when Drummond cabled me in Cuba with my Toledo assignment, I was able to dig the old notebook out of my trunk, reconstruct the key moments from Victoriano’s past, and cable it all to Drummond before even leaving Havana.

  To summarize the history of this brilliant young matador I can do no better than cite the essential passages I had so far sent Drummond.

  Seville, 1886. It was a hot, song-filled afternoon in the Sierpes, that cramped alleyway that has always served as the heart of Seville. In the small plaza that fronted a restaurant known for the past three hundred years as the Arena, a wedding party was under way celebrating the marriage of a matador, who had gained local fame, and a popular flamenco dancer. All who loved bullfighting were in attendance, but the guest of chief interest was Don Luis Mazzantini, down from Madrid in honor of the occasion, and those who were particularly addicted to the art of running the bulls kept close to the majestic Italian, hoping that he might speak to them.

  Don Luis was a phenomenon, one of the most popular fighters in Spain and the most unusual ever to have followed the art. His father was an Italian lyric tenor who had fled the chaos of his homeland to seek refuge in Spain, and his mother was a well-born Spaniard. Don Luis inherited both a love of opera and a passion for bullfighting. He had reached his twenties still torn between the desire to become a principal tenor at La Scala opera house in Milan or to be a master bullfighter in Madrid. After much vacillation he settled upon the latter. He was very tall, finely built and quite bald. He was good in all aspects of the fight, but in the difficult final act of killing he was one of the best who ever lived. Out of the ring he manifested an interest in liberal politics, the arts, high society and the company of well-bred men and women. It was therefore extremely gratifying that Don Luis had deigned to grace the wedding.

  Toward seven in the evening, when the celebration had calmed down somewhat, Don Luis announced with a flourish of his ivory-headed cane: “The main reason I came to Seville was to find an especially skilled peón to accompany me on my grand tour of Mexico. I’m seeking a helper who’s superb with the banderillas to show the Mexicans how this art ought to be performed.”

  He had hardly stopped speaking when a wiry, blue-eyed young man leaped before him and said softly: “I am the man.”

  Don Luis leaned back, clasped his manicured hands over his cane and studied the intruder. He saw an insolence that he liked, a quick movement that was essential, and an inherent grace that sometimes came with a Sevillian bullfighter. “Your name?” he asked.

  “Bernardo Leal,” the young man replied.

  “Your age?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “If you’re twenty-six and any good, why haven’t I heard of you?”

  “Because you are from Madrid, Don Luis,” the young man replied with quiet assurance. “In Seville everyone has heard of me. There is no better banderillero.”

  “You!” the Italian called imperiously to a youth pressing forward to hear the conversation. “You are the bull.” And he gave the lad two forks to serve as horns. Then he grabbed two knives and threw them to Leal. “These are your banderillas. Let me see you place a pair power-to-power.”

  The wedding guests fell back to form a small ring that included Mazzantini, who leaned forward in his chair. The “bull” stood off to one side, pawing with his feet and lowering his head with thumbs pressed against his temples, his forefingers thrust forward like horns.

  Bernardo Leal, knowing that his future depended upon this moment, tucked in his shirt and tightened his belt in order to display his trim torso. Mazzantini marked this and approved: “The young man is aware of his lithe figure. That’s good.” But what the great Italian saw next was much better. Leal raised his arms until they were extended full length above his head and, arching his back, thrust his head and neck forward. Then, with swaying body and mincing steps he started his approach to the bull, and when it charged, snorting like a real animal, Leal broke into a deft run, allow
ed the bull almost to gore him, leaped into the air like a dancer, and came down with the two knives exactly in the hump of the bull’s neck.

  “¡Olé!” shouted the wedding guests, rewarding Leal with the traditional cry of praise for a bullfighter who has done well. Mazzantini made no sign of approval, but merely gave a new command: “Now a pair shifting the body.”

  Leal complied, gaining fresh olés. His examiner, somewhat irritated by the intrusive enthusiasm of the crowd, commanded, “From the barrier.”

  This was one of the more difficult ways of placing the banderillas, for the fighter had to stand close to the wooden barrier while inciting the bull to charge directly at him. At the last moment the man was supposed to swing clear, place the sticks as the bull thundered past parallel to the barrier, and make his escape from the horns by pressing himself back against the boards.

  “You,” Mazzantini shouted at some of the guests, “you be the barrier.” Quickly the men formed a segment of circle against which Leal took his position. The bull was pawing the pavement and snorting, waiting for the incitement to charge, when young Leal had an inspiration. Grasping the two knives in his right hand, he raised them over his head, caught the free end with his left, and made believe that he was bringing them down forcefully over the imaginary barrier, thus breaking them in two. Throwing away the invisible long ends, he displayed the supposedly shortened sticks to the crowd. A great cheer went up at this gesture, for placing short sticks against the barrier was extremely perilous.

  “Ho, bull, ho!” Leal cried, moving his hips to attract the animal. The bull pawed again, snorted furiously, and charged at his tormentor. With exquisite grace Leal threw his left hip toward the face of the bull, then withdrew the lure and placed the shortened sticks as the bull swept past.

  The crowd exploded with joy and even Mazzantini applauded politely: “Can you do these things with a real bull?” Bernardo Leal replied, in the hearing of all the wedding guests, “Like you, matador, I do my finest work only with real bulls.”

  The tall Italian looked down at the would-be peón and said, “You shall come with me to Mexico, and I suppose you will never see Seville again, for if you play with real bulls in that manner, sooner or later they must kill you.”

  Toledo, 1891. Before I explain the significance of this unusual day in the life of Victoriano Leal, who wasn’t even born till forty-two years later, I must explain why, in my reports to Drummond in New York, I shied away from using Spanish words in describing the specific acts of the bullfight. Since Spanish was my first tongue, it would have been natural for me to utilize Spanish words when attempting to describe anything relating to the Spanish world. For example, when I was trailing President Eisenhower through South America I found myself repeatedly falling into using a Spanish vocabulary. Fortunately, at the other end in New York I had a Spanish specialist who knew when to keep my words and when to translate them, but in this bullfight story I could not rely upon such a specialist. Drummond was in charge of features, like this duel of the matadors, and he insisted that stories be kept as simple as possible. I could therefore sympathize with his reactions when he received the following copy from me:

  Drummond, you might want to describe briefly old Bernardo Leal’s initial appearance in Mexico City in 1886. As banderillero in the cuadrilla of the espada Mazzantini, Leal placed a great pair uno al sesgo, but the toro embisted quickly from the medios, the banderillas dangling perfectly from his morilla, and viciously lunged at Leal, who was already acknowledging the olés. The crowd gasped and this warned him of the toro’s approach, so with four swift strides he struck the estribo, vaulted over the barrera, and intended landing nimbly in the callejón. But the toro was too quick, and with his left cornupeta caught the banderillero in the seat of his pants, lending him an additional impulse that carried him clear over the tablas, landing him uninjured in the tendidas, where he looked up in surprise to find himself seated among the spectators, who applauded loudly. With perfect composure he bowed, then descended calmly to the ruedo.

  About two hours after filing this I received spirited reaction from New York, and from the unusual time of its arrival I knew that something had gone wrong. Before I opened the message I thought, “Damn, they’re dragging me off this bullfight thing.” And I did not want to give up the story because I was hooked on it. My earlier friendship with Victoriano and my immersion in the taurine world now reminded me of the exciting days of my youth when my father would say, “Let’s see what’s happening at the bullring today,” and we would see Luis Freg or Juan Silveti, or even the great Gaona, who was Mexican and the best in the world. Bullfighting had been bred into me. I was therefore relieved to read the telegram:

  Your account of the grandfather’s being hoisted into the stands by a mad bull makes fascinating reading. But why so many Spanish words? Are you trying to impress a bunch of beatniks in some San Diego pad? Cut the enchiladas. They are pretentious and useless.

  I restudied my dispatch about the grandfather’s debut in Mexico City and had to confess that I had used rather more Spanish words than were required, but it was also true that I had used some that could not be avoided if one wanted to narrate accurately what I was trying to describe: the moves of life and death in a bullring. Accordingly I wired back:

  Thanks for your criticism regarding elimination of excessive Spanish, which I confess can be a weakness, but Spanish also produces accuracy, flavor, color, style and the essence of Mexico. Therefore I shall continue to use it discreetly.

  This time I received my answer even more quickly than before. The cable read:

  I appreciate the thoughtfulness of your response regarding Spanish and after restudying the problem must acknowledge that philosophically you are entirely right. However if you use one more Spanish word you are fired fired fired repeat fired.

  So we worked out a rule that for this story, which had to be read by people who knew neither Spanish nor bullfighting, I would use only those words that had been adopted into English, as proved by any of the unabridged dictionaries of our language. This rule, known as the Drummond Dictate, allowed me a surprising amount of freedom, as I illustrated in my report to New York:

  I am much relieved to find that I am allowed to use almost every essential word required to explain the various stages of the fight, for this will enable me to write intelligibly. The whole afternoon of three matadors facing six bulls, two each in rotation, is not a fight but a corrida. The entire class of men who do the fighting are toreros. (And although the word toreador has been Englished, any Spaniard or Mexican who used it would be laughed out of the room. It occurs only in Carmen and must be left there.) The glamorous entrance of the toreros is the paseo. The bottom-rung men who run the bull when he first enters are the peóns. In the first major segment of each of the six fights the two men on horseback who try to tire the bull by attacking him with long, steel-tipped oaken lances are picadors. In the second part the colorful sticks are banderillas to be placed in the bull’s hump by banderilleros. (Yes, it’s in the English dictionary, too.) In the third and most important segment the star of the performance, the matador, performs alone in the faena, a word that means “the job that has to be done.” Working with a dangerously small piece of red cloth, the muleta, and the deadly sword, he displays both skill and bravery. If he does well, including killing the bull in an honorable way, he hears cries of “¡Ole!” Those who love bullfighting are aficionados. Thus the language of an alien sport, legally banned in the United States and England, has insinuated itself into English.

  To return to the story of what happened in the city of Toledo that critical Sunday afternoon in 1891 at the final performance in Mexico of the great Don Luis Mazzantini. He had chosen our plaza for this emotional affair because he wanted to honor his peón de confianza Bernardo Leal, who, some years earlier, had quit working in Mazzantini’s troupe to become an apprentice matador on his own. Having done well, he was now eligible to advance to full matador, but this required one of the hallowed
rites of bullfighting, the alternativa, or promotion, often translated as “taking the doctorate,” as if the aspirant were now a full professor of the taurine art.

  Bringing Leal into the ring with him, Mazzantini waited till the first bull of the afternoon came storming out, one that he would normally fight as the lead matador. Gravely he handed Bernardo his sword, his muleta and his bull, embracing him and whispering: “I’ve taught you what to do. Now do it,” and with that act Leal became a full-fledged matador.

  From contemporary accounts of that day I learned that Leal had performed so brilliantly that adoring Toledanos carried him on their shoulders to his quarters, where, as always, he expected to find waiting for him in his hotel room the pair of beautiful young women who had accompanied him from Mexico City. Instead he was greeted by a stocky man of sixty who had white muttonchop whiskers and steely blue eyes that marked him as a Spaniard.

  “Close the door,” he said icily to the matador, who obeyed, thus shutting out a noisy entourage that included two valets.

  “Who are you?” Leal asked uneasily, for the man might turn out to be the father of some girl with whom the matador had had an unfortunate relationship.

  “Change into some proper clothes, then we’ll talk.”

  When the handsome young matador reappeared in an expensive gray countryman’s costume, with shoes of fine leather, a broad-brimmed Spanish rancher’s hat and a thin cord tie, his visitor rose, bowed and said, “You look like a true Spaniard. Now, what I have to say I will say briefly. Matador, you waste a noble Spanish life when you fill your rooms with cheap girls like the ones I found here when I arrived.”

  “Where are they?” Leal asked.

  “They are gone, matador,” the visitor replied.

  “Who are you?” Leal insisted, standing close to the gentleman.