Though their lives had been happy and contented even during the nineteen twenties, the Ramírez family celebrated when the Second Republic arrived. It was like a sweet springtime breeze for Spain. Someone had found the key, unlatched the door and thrown open the windows. Fresh air coursed through, lifting the dust and blowing the cobwebs away.Though most in the city had been well enough fed, many people in the countryside around it had been living hand to mouth. Landowners had kept their labourers on the breadline, feeding them just about enough to ensure that they were capable of working the land for them. Some of the customers at El Barril came in from outside and told stories of the hardship that people were enduring in rural areas. Concha’s own sister had relatives who had been subjected to this harsh regime.
Concha was thrilled by the new liberty that the Second Republic was bringing, especially to women. Though Pablo would never have used it to suppress her, the repeal of the código civil, the civil code that gave men precedence over their wives, was of huge significance.There were many women, less fortunate than Concha, who were treated like chattels.
‘Listen to this, Merche!’ Concha said with excitement. Though her daughter was only twelve she could see how much impact some of the changes being made could have on her future. She was reading out of the newspaper. ‘This is what it used to say:
“The husband owes protection to the woman and the wife obedience to her husband . . . The husband is the representative of the wife. She cannot, without his permission, appear in court.”’
Mercedes looked rather blankly at her mother.With such devoted parents as hers, it was unsurprising that the child failed to see the implications. The old law effectively precluded women from divorcing their husband.
‘And this is what it says now,’ Concha continued, excitedly.
‘ “The family is in the safekeeping of the state. Marriage is based on equal rights for both sexes and can be dissolved by mutual agreement or by demand of either party.”’
This was not legislation that directly affected the Ramírez family, but a new equality in marriage was emblematic of the kind of changes taking place under the Republic. Now there was education for all and culture of all kinds flourished, with élitism looking as though it might be a thing of the past.
As well as the excitement of these political developments, the other huge event for the Ramírez family in 1931 was Ignacio’s first venture into the bullring. He was one of the banderilleros, the team of men who, with the use of their capes and sharp blades, goad and wound the bull before the matador arrives to make the final kill.
After all his years of childish play and fantasy, it was time for Ignacio to feel the heat of the bull’s breath.
Bullfighting was popular in Granada and for a while there were even two bullrings in the city, the old and new, both of them in use. The Ramírez family had all been to the Plaza de Toros many times, but to see one of their own emerging into the ring would be a historic event for them. They were all there to witness the moment, except Emilio, who was disgusted by the whole idea of an innocent animal being murdered in front of a cheering crowd. For Mercedes it was the first time she had been permitted to go. She could hardly contain her excitement.
It was a hot June day, the kind that gives everyone a glimpse of what the summer will hold, teasing everyone with an early blast of the intense heat that will be the average in July and August. The atmosphere was one of excitement, of fiesta.
‘Why do you keep fanning yourself?’ asked Mercedes. ‘We’re in the shade.’
For the first time since they could remember, the family were in the better seats, out of the glare of the sun.
‘I didn’t realise I was,’ said her mother, flicking her fan back and forth.‘I just wish they would start.’ Clearly she was agitated.
There was a trumpet fanfare and the crowd fell silent for a moment. Then began the parade. From the gateway marched the three matadors and their teams of mounted lancers - the picadors - banderilleros and a mozo de espada, the sword bearer.
‘Is that really our son?’ whispered Concha into her husband’s ear. Tears pricked her eyes.
A group of uniformly movie-star handsome young men paraded around the ring, dazzling the audience in the late afternoon sunshine with the sparkle of metallic embroidery that embellished their costumes. The shameless femininity of their rhinestone-encrusted, candy-coloured outfits in mauve, pink, pistachio green and ochre yellow made them appeal more than ever to the adoring crowds of women. For this day of days, Ignacio had picked a vibrant turquoise that made him stand out from the crowd and, with the skin-tight knickerbockers, the unashamedly vivid outfit only accentuated his glorious masculinity.
Their hats deferentially held in the right hand and their heavy pink capes supported in their left, they bowed low in front of the dignitaries in the presiding box. Already they enjoyed the adulation of the crowd. The matador who was at the top of the bill that day acknowledged the cheers of his fans with a grand sweep of his arm and then the entire troop processed out again. Ignacio’s matador was the second on the bill.
The first kill was a dull affair. The bull was slow and presented little challenge to anyone in the cuadrilla.As his corpse was dragged around the ring by the team of horses, there was little reaction, just a desultory ripple of applause.
Moments later there was another trumpet blast.The gates swung open and a bull thundered in. He was a massive animal. Deep, chocolate brown with a thick neck and wide shoulders, his curved horns appeared needle sharp.
‘What a beauty,’ breathed Pablo Ramírez.
‘He’s huge!’ exclaimed Mercedes with excitement.
Usually the best of the six bulls to be killed that day was kept until last. It was hard to imagine that any would be finer than this.
For the initial stage, the second of the matadors and his banderilleros, which included Ignacio, toyed with the bull, testing his grit with their capes, confusing him, twisting him this way and that to start the process of trying to tire him out. At this stage, bull and man seemed on equal terms. The bull was not yet maddened, but as they continued to play with him the animal began to sense their contempt and his anger grew. He could lower his head and charge faster than a man can run. For one moment at least, he was king of the ring.
Unlike most, this bull could almost pivot, and seemed agile, given his weight. The matador had to work out how best to challenge him, noting if he charged by instinct to left or right. Once he had done this, they all withdrew from the ring. Concha breathed a sigh of relief. Ignacio was still alive. She gripped Mercedes’ hand and the girl felt the clammy chill of her mother’s anxiety.
Next, the picador entered the ring, his horse weighed down with padding, its eyes blinkered. Within seconds, the man’s job was done. His lance had been plunged deep down into the muscle that stood erect on the bull’s neck. Blood oozed until the crimson had spread across his back like a blanket.
The bull was to have his revenge, though. His head bowed low, he barged into the horse and lifted it up with his horns, goring the unprotected part of its stomach. He tossed it aloft as if it weighed less than air and the picador struggled to keep his balance as his mount tumbled beneath him. Its vocal cords severed, the wounded creature was unable to make a sound.
‘The poor horse!’ squealed Mercedes, horrified. ‘Will he die?’
‘I think he probably will, darling,’ replied her mother. This was no place for anything other than realism.
The Ramírez family watched as Ignacio re-entered the ring with the other banderilleros to lure the bull away from the dying horse and the stranded picador. It seemed to Concha the most dangerous and unprotected role on the stage, and the eyes of twenty thousand spectators would be on her son as the banderilleros stood with just a length of pink cloth and no other weapon to defend themselves against six hundred kilograms of confused and angry beast.
As the first of the banderilleros in this group, Ignacio left his cape and now had his longed-for opportunity
with his knives. He wanted to show the crowd that he could provide more excitement than the matador himself and was determined to bring them right to the edge of their seats. His aim was to be the one whose name was celebrated in the bars that night.
Legs straight, arms stretched up with the two blades held aloft, he stood his ground against the bull, which charged at him from one side of the ring to the other. At the moment when the horns seemed only a hand’s width from his chest, he sprang into the air to get the trajectory he desired for his daggers. In one seamless movement he plunged the sharp points of the banderillas deftly into the neck muscle and jumped from the bull’s path.The knives had dug deep into the shoulder muscles and their tasselled ends waved in the air. Ignacio had aimed close to the wound already inflicted by the picador, and blood now seeped out to form a shiny saddle of red.
Ignacio’s split-second timing could have been construed as simple folly, but the crowd were excited now. They gasped and cheered in one breath.This was exactly the sort of entertainment they wanted: a strong sense of risk and the chance to see human blood.
Ignacio had fulfilled his ambition. He had thrilled the crowd and won their adulation by making them marvel at his bravery and gasp at how close to the edge he had come.
No one who saw Ignacio would ever doubt the link between this sport and the bull-leaping of ancient Crete. For the briefest moment this lithe banderillero appeared to take off. Another few centimetres and he might have jumped right over the charging animal. It was pure acrobatics. At this point, he stood without cape, without sword, without dagger, and there was nothing between him and the bull, which now turned round to look at his assailant.
‘I can’t even look,’ said Concha, burying her head in her hands, convinced of her son’s imminent death.
Antonio gently took his mother’s arm and held it. ‘He’ll be fine, Mother.’
Antonio was right. Ignacio could walk across the ring in front of the bull now and come to no harm. The bull’s energy was flagging.The danger had passed.Within a moment he had retreated into the callejón, the passage that ran behind the ring’s wooden barricade.
This bull was finished off by the matador but the important work had been done by the three banderilleros. Perhaps they had been over-efficient since the bull was virtually on his knees by the time the matador appeared with his red cape.The animal scarcely had the energy to follow the sweep of the scarlet muleta as the gold-clad figure of the matador executed his turns. The final moment when the sword pierced his heart thrilled no one.
The animal’s finale was a farewell lap around the ring, dragged by the horse team. They used him like a brush to paint a perfect circle of crimson in the sand. It was his final humiliation.
Ignacio’s second outing that afternoon was as impressive as the first. El Arrogante’s career had been magnificently launched. The aficionados had noticed him.
For days after, the menus in the city’s restaurants were dominated by stew made from rabo de toro - oxtail - and platters of braised cuts from these delicious beasts who had spent their innocent lives in rich pastures. The meat market in Granada was full of toro and everyone in the Ramírez family enjoyed it, with the exception of Emilio, who would not have it near his plate.
Concha realised then that watching her son in the ring was not going to get any easier, and that, however many times she did it, she would always have a premonition of her beautiful slim-hipped son being gored to death. She tortured herself with this. Occasionally Pablo attempted to reassure her with statistics on how few fighters were ever killed in the ring, but he could not allay her fears.
Chapter Thirteen
A FEW MONTHS after the arrival of the Republic, a certain amount of disillusion began to set in. Conversation in El Barril soon turned to the rumours that divisions on the left were beginning to develop and there were mutterings that the socialist-dominated Republican government were not bringing the swift end to poverty that they had promised. Even before the end of 1931 there were clashes between security forces and protesting workers who felt their interests were not being represented.
There were plenty who yearned for a return to rule by the wealthy and privileged, and many loathed the new liberalism, blaming it for a wave of permissive behaviour that they found hard to stomach. Over the next few years they opposed the Republic at every possible opportunity.The new government had swiftly made itself unpopular among conservatives by interfering with the Catholic Church, and restricting its religious processions and celebrations. This was seen as a severe threat to a traditional way of life. The power of the Church had also been weakened by the opening of new schools that were not religiously affiliated. The Church united with the landed and the wealthy in resenting the new regime, bemoaning the removal of their unchallenged power.
Even within the government itself divisions began to open up, a situation exploited by those who were keen to bring it down. At the beginning of 1933, as part of a wave of violence in the province of Cádiz, a group of anarchists besieged the Civil Guard post in the town of Casas Viejas and declared the arrival of libertarian communism. Inevitably, fighting broke out.
‘But aren’t these people meant to be on the same side?’ commented Concha. ‘I don’t understand it. If they start fighting each other, we might as well go back to a dictatorship!’ She was looking over Antonio’s shoulder at that day’s newspaper headlines.
‘That’s the theory,’ he responded. ‘But I’m sure these workers don’t feel as though the government is on their side. Most of them have been unemployed for a year.’
Antonio was right. These starving ‘revolutionaries’ had been living on the edge of desperation, eking out a living by begging, poaching and hoping for the occasional hand-out.The announcement of an increase in bread prices had finally spurred them to action.
Within days the news worsened. Civil Guard and Assault Guard reinforcements arrived from Cádiz to put down the insurrection. They surrounded the house of a six-fingered anarchist known as Seisdedos, and orders were eventually given for the building to be burned down. As well as those who died in the flames, other anarchists who had previously been arrested were shot in cold blood.
‘That’s brutal!’ commented Ignacio, when he saw the report that a dozen men had died in this repression. ‘What does the government think it’s doing?’
Ignacio was not someone who naturally sided with peasants and revolutionaries, but for those like him who did not support the Republican-Socialist government that was in power, it was an opportunity to criticise the Prime Minister, Manuel Azaña. The incident had shocked the country, and the right wing saw a situation that could be exploited to its own advantage, quickly accusing the government of barbarism.
‘I think the days of the coalition might be numbered,’ Ignacio said in the innocent but knowing tone that he knew would annoy his older brother.
‘We’ll see, shall we?’ responded Antonio, determined not to lose his temper.
The two brothers were often at loggerheads, and politics became a growing source of contention. In Antonio’s view Ignacio had no firm political beliefs. He just liked trouble. Sometimes he was just not worth arguing with.
In elections held late in 1933, Antonio desperately hoped that the liberals would stay in power. To his dismay, a conservative government was elected and any reforms that the left had brought in were now threatened. Rumblings of anger erupted into explosions of discontent. Strikes and protests were staged. Both the socialists and Fascists had burgeoning youth movements and the highly politicised young men of Antonio’s generation were in the vanguard, on both sides.
The situation worsened the following year and in October 1934, there was an abortive attempt by the left to stage a general strike. It failed but an armed rebellion in Asturias, the northern coal-mining area, continued for two weeks, with far-reaching consequences.Villages were bombed and coastal towns shelled.
The centre of the action was a long way from Granada, but the Ramírez family followed e
vents closely.
‘Listen to this,’ said Antonio, his tone one of outrage as he read that day’s newspaper. ‘They’ve executed some of the ringleaders!’
‘Why does that surprise you?’ Ignacio responded. ‘They can’t have that sort of thing happening.’
Antonio decided not to react.
‘Serves those leftists right for burning down churches!’ Ignacio continued, determined to provoke his brother.
The Spanish foreign legionaries brought in to deal with the situation had not only executed some of the leaders, they had also killed innocent women and children. Large areas of the region’s principal towns of Gijón and Oviedo were bombed and burned out.