“Mrs. Evans, be realistic. If he tries, you’ll see total chaos. He’ll be lucky if he even gets near the bull. The peóns won’t allow it.”
“But if he should?”
“You’ve been a tonic in this festival. And I’ve grown quite fond of you. So I will give you my opinion free, such as it is. So ask away.”
“What I want to know, if he does well, will you say so in print?”
“I’ve already promised you I’ll say something favorable about the testing at the ranch. I’ve drafted the opening lines. ‘Yesterday at the Palafox Ranch I saw Calesero in his traje corto perform his arabesques with the sturdy cows of Don Eduardo, but the highlight of the abbreviated tienta was the well-regarded norteamericano aspirant Ricardo Martín, who proved once again that he knows how to handle the muleta. He is definitely a young man to watch.’ ”
“Have you seen him before?”
“No, but it sounds better that way, a more considered judgment.”
At this point I again lost sight, literally, of whatever transaction occurred, but when it was concluded, Ledesma said: “But only if he actually gets near the bull.” And on those terms I drove the Cadillac into the parking lot and headed for the bullring, unable even to guess what might be about to happen.
19
SOL Y SOMBRA
Relieved to learn that my account of the tragedy at Ixmiq-61 was in New York and that my photos had been delivered by air, I was free to attend the final fight as a spectator. I took along my notebook and cameras, on the odd chance that something memorable might happen, but my major concern was to see that my Oklahomans had a meaningful conclusion to their stay in Toledo. I had grown attached to Mrs. Evans, who seemed to have all the best attributes of a mother, and I was aware that had I been a couple of decades younger I’d have been paying more than casual attention to Penny. So it was a privilege for me to stand outside the bullring with them as crowds gathered for the culminating mano a mano between Victoriano and Gómez.
“The two gates, this Sol and that Sombra, symbolize the fight,” I told them as we marked the sharp difference between the two groups of aficionados using those gates. “You’ll notice that those with tickets reading Sol, a motley crowd, use the one leading to the cheaper seats. They’ll sit facing the sun, which can be damned bright in Toledo this time of year. Look at how they bring hats with brims or eyeshades to keep out the glare. Even so, they’ll be uncomfortable during the first three bulls, but they watch with pleasure as the sun starts to disappear behind the upper tiers of the ring.”
“Do they pay a lot less over there?” Penny asked, and I said: “You bet, but now look at these coming in with Sombra tickets. Well dressed and scrubbed. Entering by a gate adorned with that statue of a Palafox bull. They’ll enjoy protection from the sun through the entire fight, for their ticket means shade. You don’t have to be a snob when you’re sitting in comfort here in Sombra to think: Look at those poor slobs over there in that blazing sunlight. Such thoughts even occur in Christian minds! ‘I’m in heaven, they’re in hell.’ The extra pesos you pay to get seats in the shade are well spent. You ladies will be in shade.”
There was a third entrance reserved for a few privileged people like Ledesma the critic and Clay the journalist. We could enter by the gate used by the matadors, but whereas they remained in a holding area until time for their processional entrance, Ledesma and I could slip through an even smaller red door that gave entrance to the narrow space between the tiers of seats and the sandy arena in which the bulls would be fought. This narrow passageway was called in Spanish the callejón, and many incidents during the fight would occur here. The manager would whisper suggestions to his matador. Functionaries would carry out orders from the president high in his box overlooking everything. Occasionally a bull would leap over the barrier separating the passageway from the arena and create havoc in the narrow space, which was supposed to be a refuge. In what looked to be a safe passageway men could be killed.
On this day I would not be using the privileged entrance, for I had no reason to be down in the passageway. I could sit in a seat behind the two Oklahomans, and it was fortunate that I was there because Penny gave me a commission. Leaning back from her front-row seat she whispered: “Mr. Clay, that substitute matador at the ranch told me the big matadors might let him place one pair of sticks, maybe. If he does, he promised me: ‘Mexico will not see a better pair this season,’ so if it happens, do catch a photograph,” and she added softly: “I would like that.”
Mrs. Evans also gave me her commission in a voice even more subdued: “If Ricardo tries it, photograph everything,” and I replied: “If I have enough film.” She warned: “You’d better have.”
As the minute hand on the arena clock crept toward five, the band of ten instruments high in the rafters began a traditional bullfight march, then suddenly stopped to allow their two trumpeters to sound the call that officially started the afternoon. A big gateway on the far sunny side of the arena opened partially and out rode a man in an ancient costume astride his white horse, which high-stepped in a slow dance to our side. There the man picked up a ceremonial key with which he galloped back full speed to open the red door through which the bulls would enter the arena. Then the big doors opened fully and into the sunlight stepped the three matadors followed by their troupes, including two mounted picadors for each matador. Trailing behind came a dozen men wearing white shirts who were called monos sabios (trained apes) whose job it was to clean up the arena after each of the six separate fights.
This entry scene was like nothing else in sport or spectacle. Even the most jaded aficionado had to be thrilled by the sight of the three matadors so handsome in their special capes, resplendent in color and decoration and used only for this entry march, followed by the peóns, each also wearing the best cape he could afford. When they reached our side, Victoriano, at the height of his public acceptance, came to where the actress we had seen at the ranch sat and with a bow offered her his cape, and at the same time Pepe Huerta, the substitute, came to Penny Grim and offered her his somewhat tattered cape, which she also spread out. The difference between the two capes was immediately and almost cruelly obvious: $2,800 to $69. But the audience applauded the two gestures, and both the matador and substitute posed momentarily before the two women as we snapped our shutters. The afternoon was off to a memorable start.
But then Juan Gómez, almost fighting to establish and maintain his role as a major matador, eclipsed the other pair, for he waited till they had made their presentations, then marched slowly to where Lucha González sat and with the gestures of a grandee at the court of Versailles presented her with his rather shopworn cape as spectators whispered: “She’s the flamenco singer, Lucha. She danced in that movie, remember? Some years back,” and the arena applauded.
Now at a signal from the president the bugler sounded his plaintive call, an echo from centuries that spoke of battle and death. The sound created an ominous mood, and as it wailed away into silence, the little red door across from us opened, and out roared the first Palafox bull of the afternoon, head high, legs pumping, horns jabbing this way and that in search of targets. The fight had begun.
Gómez ran to his first beast, the one we had described as having “small horns but quick movements,” and tried to set the pattern for the afternoon by attempting a series of stately passes, but the bull did not comply. The animal was not cowardly, for when the well-padded horses came out it attacked them furiously, but again, when Gómez tried to lead the bull away for a set of really fine passes with the cape wrapping around his body as the bull roared past, there was no bull roaring anywhere, and the matador’s attempts to make something happen proved not only fruitless but also just a bit ridiculous. The bad afternoon started for Gómez at that moment, but worse was about to happen, for now the intricate strategy of a hand-to-hand fight intruded.
When Gómez, having demonstrated that he could do nothing with his first bull, stepped away, Victoriano was on hand to sw
eep in, unfurl his cape and give the bull a series of brilliant passes that evoked cheers throughout the plaza. “Damn that bull,” I would hear Gómez muttering to his peóns. “Why charge at him and not me?”
With the picadors it was the same. After the first pic, not a good one, Gómez tried to lead his bull away for some fancy passes, but the animal would not respond. Now the bandy-legged little Indian faced the cruel decision: ask the president to move the fight on to the next stage, knowing the bull had not been adequately tested, or deliver him to the second picador in hopes that this one would do the necessary job. But, if the bull did attack the second picador, then Victoriano was entitled to try his luck with passes. Gómez evaluated the situation only briefly, then allowed Victoriano his chance, and the graceful younger man again received a bull ready to cooperate. Victoriano gave him two sets of exquisite passes in which the cape became part of a flowing sculpture, the bull a friend to the matador, not an enemy.
With the sticks Gómez was adequate, but not exceptional, nor could he afford to hire men who were, so on this first bull he placed a desultory pair, but then felt obligated to offer Victoriano a chance to display what he could do, and the fans applauded this gesture. But it turned out poorly for the Indian, because poetic Victoriano drifted across the sand like an angel, rose on his toes and placed a pair so elegantly that the crowd cheered.
There was always a brief interval between the placing of the last sticks and the final stage of the fight, and in this pause Ledesma came to where we were sitting, pushed his big head between Mrs. Evans and Penny and whispered to me: “Norman, you’d better come down here with me,” but I demurred: “I’m happy with these two.” Severely he said: “There may be something you should see,” and with those cryptic words he lured me away from the Oklahomans and down into the passageway, from where we watched Gómez try to do something with his bull.
The animal, somewhat confused by previous happenings, did not arrive at the end of his day suitable for the kind of passes and close-in work at which Gómez excelled. Juan accomplished little with the red cloth and failed three times to drive the sword home. As the bull was dragged out he heard what the reporters called divisos, or a division of opinion: a few cheers for his bravery and effort to do well, many jeers for having failed.
It was as if the drab first fight had been a forgivable prologue to the real afternoon, for the second bull, belonging to Victoriano, seemed to have been sent by Don Eduardo to prove that any Palafox bull carried with him the possibility of a superb performance. At the sorting that day I had noted No. 33 as “Placid, allows others to shove. Explosive???”
I was privileged to see this fight through the eyes of Ledesma, who allowed me to look over his shoulder as he jotted down a running series of notes to aid him when he wrote his critique: “Vic. two beautiful verónicas. Gómez finally does something. Leads toro off 2 fine walking passes. Vic. magnificent banderillas. Band plays. Gómez only regular. Vic. opens faena farolazo de rodillas. [Starts final stage on knees with swirling pass over his head]. Gets better, better. Muleta held behind back, bull under his arm, inches. A decent kill, but bull stands. One jab with the dagger sword. Bull falls. Dianas [traditional music of applause]. Wild cheering. An ear. Another ear. More dianas. Cheers. Tail. Tour of the arena. Another. Another. He invites Don Eduardo to join him. Triumphant. Note his clever placement of toro.”
When I asked what the last note meant, I was treated to another example of why it was rewarding to be near Ledesma at a taurine affair. He not only loved the gallantry of the bullfight world but also served as the recorder of its more sardonic elements: “Always watch how Victoriano places his bull during a fight. Whenever he feels capable of giving a fine series of passes, he directs his peóns to bring the bull over here to Sombra, so that the high-paying customers can marvel at his artistry. When he has a bull with which he can do nothing, his men lead it over to Sol and leave it there. Victoriano goes over, gives a few bad passes and dispatches the bull as quickly and ineptly as possible. Sol gives meaningless cheers, Sombra pays the rent. He likes rich people, but, of course, so do I.”
“Do other matadors behave any differently?”
“Gómez. Watch the way he orchestrates his fight. When he has a great series of passes in prospect, he takes his bull to the Sol, because those are the people who support him, the people who know what real bullfighting is. With them, no sham or fancy-dancy.”
“Where did you hear such a word?”
He laughed: “I once escorted a Hollywood starlet who was mad about Mexico. She taught me.”
When I watched how the two matadors used the broad expanse of sand to do their work I saw that my earlier instinct had been accurate: Ledesma was right. Victoriano was indeed the artist of Sombra, Gómez the man of Sol.
The little Indian, having been forced to listen to the triumphant cheers for his opponent, was challenged to outperform him, and he certainly tried, but his valiant work on his second bull, the one we had spotted as being overage, was still unrewarding. For him the afternoon was degenerating into a debacle. One splendid moment, unfortunately, did not involve Gómez. True to his promise to Pepe Huerta, the substitute whom management had picked up on the cheap from Guadalajara, he allowed the young aspirant to place the second pair of sticks, having himself messed up the first pair. The eager substitute must have been rehearsing what he would do this day, if he got a chance to show the skills he knew he had but which others did not recognize. He took the sticks, decorated with garish purple tissue paper wrapped about their length, strode manfully to where Penny sat above him in the front row, and with the sticks in his left hand he pointed the barbed ends at her and announced he was dedicating his performance to her. The crowd cheered, and Penny, sitting with his frayed entrance cape still gracing the railing, started shouting in a most unladylike voice: “Mr. Clay! Mr. Clay! Get the photo!”
Heart pounding, nerves alert, wearing the one decent suit of lights he owned, Pepe went out toward the middle of the arena and started that long, dreamlike stalk toward the bull, feet together, jumping up and down now and then to hold the bull’s attention. Fortunately, considering what Pepe had planned, the bull initially remained cautiously immobile, watching the thin figure approach with his arms extended over his head, until finally, with a mad rush, he came out of his defensive position driving right at the man. At that moment Huerta ran toward the bull, made a complete 360-degree turn to the right, and wound up facing the now bewildered bull only a few feet away. Up in the air leaped the man, sticks still high above his head, and with a deft turn and twist of his body he escaped the horns but left himself high enough in the air to enable him to place the barbed sticks exactly in the neck muscle behind the horns.
My automatic camera had caught some dozen shots of those last electric moments. One that showed the full drama and grace of that last turn and downward dip of the sticks would be widely circulated in Mexico as The Pair of Toledo. In a poster-size reproduction paid for by Penny Grim it would come to rest on the wall of her dormitory room at S.M.U. in Dallas; beside it would be a small shot of Huerta dedicating the famous pair to her. It had happened. She had come to Mexico hoping to meet a bull-fighter and she had found a champion.
Huerta’s performance did nothing to help Gómez, because when Juan tried the third pair he looked almost pathetic in comparison with what the substitute had just done. And with the sword at the end he was brave but luckless. This time at the unsatisfactory kill there were not even divisos; they were all boos.
The pause after the third bull was like the midpoint of a baseball game in the United States when the groundkeepers run out to smooth the diamond, for now the big gate on the sunny side opened to admit two teams of mules dragging behind them heavy bags that leveled out the sand. Since the horses wore cockades in their manes and their drivers wore blue shirts, they made a colorful show and concluded their work at the far side of Sombra, from where they galloped in a mad chariot race to see which team would reach the exit gate
first. After cheering the winner and booing the loser, the crowd was ready for the festival to resume.
Victoriano’s second bull was almost a replica of his first, except that this time he was awarded only the two ears. The crowd made a noisy demand for the tail also, and when it was not granted, they made the triumphant matador circle the arena twice to wild cheering. I watched him as he passed and suspected that fear was hiding just below the joy he was entitled to show: “There’s still that big one to face. The killer.” I knew from past experiences with matadors that he was already beginning to sweat, and I put new film into my camera to be ready for what was likely to be the climax of the afternoon.
I missed Gómez’s lackluster performance with his third bull, because before it started, León 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 Gómez 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 passageway 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 apparently 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.