by Larry Loftis
“Who knows about this?” he asked.
“No one.”
“What about your maids?”
“I have only spoken to the cook. The other Basque woman is still asleep, and Angustias also.”
Aline led him to the room and shuddered again, seeing now the blood that had splattered across the bed.
Thomas inspected the body, his face tightening. He reached for the phone and called Robert Dunev. “Come by Butch’s apartment immediately,” he whispered, “with a large car. Be quick. Try not to attract attention and don’t bring the chauffeur.”
Thomas asked Aline for two blankets. Getting a dead body out of the apartment—and out of Madrid—was no simple task. If any neighbor or portero caught sight of what was going on, a call to the police would be inevitable—and disastrous. The Spanish would launch an immediate investigation and the entire OSS mission in Madrid would collapse. They had to get Marta out before sunrise, and Dunev would have to find a remote place to dump the corpse.
Aline handed Thomas the blankets and he rolled Marta into one and stuffed the bloody pillow and sheets into the other. While they waited for Robert, he mentioned that he could arrange for other agents to drive Madeleine to the border and sneak her across the mountains. He told her to tell Madeleine and the servants that Marta had become ill and was taken to the hospital.
“But Angustias will miss the pillow, the blanket, and the sheets.”
“Let her, but be certain she keeps it to herself.”
Aline nodded. Disposing of a body wasn’t something taught at The Farm.
* * *
Madeleine continued on her journey the following day and the question now was whether Aline should move apartments. The killer, they theorized, was probably a Spaniard seeking revenge for the two Civil Guards Marta had killed. The fact that Madeleine had not also been killed supported that notion. Since Germans had not been involved, and Aline’s cover had not been blown, she would remain in her apartment, they decided.
* * *
A week or so later Juanito called to invite Aline to see him in action at Las Ventas. Watching the slow death of a bull wasn’t exactly what Aline had in mind for her day off, but she knew it would mean the world to Juanito. While she didn’t know if she could stomach what appeared to be indefensible barbarism, she understood that she was looking at it from an American perspective. From the Spanish perspective, bullfighting wasn’t just a popular pastime, it was a cultural institution that had been around for more than four centuries.
To the Spaniard, bullfighting is not a sport but an art. The results of contests in the bullring never appear in the sports section of newspapers, but in a separate section altogether. And for some, it’s more than an art. As one matador explained, “The real corrida—la corrida formal—transcends the simple struggle of bull and man. It is in fact a religious ceremony, a reverent blood sacrifice from which still curls the smoke of ancient altars.”
As Hemingway observed, “In Spain, honor is a very real thing. Called pundonor, it means honor, probity, courage, self-respect, and pride in one word.” Spaniards are a proud people, and mere courage is not enough. Courage, if not accompanied with grace and calm, is an ersatz accolade. And bullfighting, Hemingway felt, “is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter’s honor.”
One matador with such honor was Juanito Belmonte.
“I hope the fight will be good,” he said to Aline, “especially since it’s your first. One can never tell how a fight is going to turn out. Success sometimes depends upon the bulls more than on the matador. If the bulls are not brave, if they do not attack, there is no way the bullfighter can do a good faena.”I
Aline did her best to convey enthusiasm. “I’ll be thrilled just to see you in that ring and to learn what goes on.”
“You’ll see Manolete, too. He’s a friend of mine, and it’s always a challenge to be in the same ring with him. I hope my bulls are as good as his.”
Aline had heard of Manolete, the only matador who could be mentioned in the same breath as Juan Belmonte and Joselito.
“You must go to the bullring at least fifteen minutes ahead,” Juanito added. “This is the only occurrence which takes place on time in Spain.”
* * *
On the appointed Sunday, Aline made her way into Las Ventas with Pimpinela and her sister Elizabeth. On every column, it seemed, there were posters—not unlike for a Broadway play—advertising the show and the stars, Juanito and Manolete.
When they found the seats Juanito had provided, Pimpinela grinned. “Barreras de sombra,” she said. “Ring seats in the shade—difficult to get and very expensive.”
Aline gazed around the stadium. There was an energy here. Some twenty thousand spectators, maybe more, drinking and laughing and cheering.
A bullfight poster advertising three of the top matadors of the day: Juanito Belmonte, Manolete, and Gallito. Larry Loftis collection
“Look,” shouted Elizabeth. She waved at someone and Aline followed her eyes. A few rows down from them sat Gloria von Fürstenberg, looking as beautiful as ever. “What a hat. I bet she got it in Paris.”
Aline couldn’t disagree. Where else could you find a red wide-brimmed hat to match an elegant navy suit with red pinstripes? “Who are the men with her?”
“One is the German ambassador. The other is Walter Schellenberg. He’s an important Nazi. What a pity, he’s so handsome.”
Schellenberg.
The German who tied everything together. Himmler’s intel man in Berlin. He had been head of the Nazi Party’s foreign intelligence, but with Hitler’s sacking of Canaris, Schellenberg now controlled all of the Abwehr as well. Who would he see in Madrid? Aline wondered. Lazar? Lenz? Himmler’s main contact, maybe Prince Max? The fact that he was sitting with Gloria left no doubt about her allegiance.
“Who’s that incredible-looking woman in the big hat with the feathers and frizzy orange hair?” Aline asked.
“Ana de Pombo,” Pimpinela replied. “She worked with one of the top dress houses in Paris.”II
Aline heard a murmur behind her and turned. General Franco and his wife were entering the royal box. Just then trumpets sounded and a gate swung open. Down below, Aline could see a procession coming through—not unlike an American parade, it seemed—led by two men wearing sixteenth-century costumes. These were the alguacils, or constables, who would ask the president of the corrida—Franco today—for the key to open the bull gate. Following them were Manolete, Juanito, and another matador.
“Look at Juanito!” Pimpinela blurted. “Maybe he will place his cape on our railing.” The draping of a matador’s cape, she explained, was a high honor that a bullfighter would bestow on a dignitary or lucky young lady at the beginning of a performance.
Aline noticed the green silk slung over Juanito’s shoulder. It was embroidered and sparkled in the sun, just like the one he had given her. His black hat, the matador’s montera, looked comical on him but Juanito’s face was all business. There was a sternness in his expression, a steely coldness that she’d not seen before.
She knew why and her stomach began to churn. This man, this friend marching proudly in a satin suit, pink stockings, and what looked like ballerina shoes, in minutes would be facing a 1,200-pound beast intent on killing him.
Following the trio were about nine men carrying capes. These were the banderilleros, Juanito had explained earlier, the men who would assist him and place the banderillas—the pronged colored sticks meant to weaken the bull’s neck. Following them came six festooned horses, all with equally decorated riders—picadors they were called—carrying lances. A mule team brought up the rear and the procession stopped in front of Franco’s box.
Everyone removed their hats and bowed, and then Juanito handed his cape to one of his banderilleros. Moments later it was spread out before Aline, Pimpinela, and Elizabeth. The Hohenlohe girls were delirious.
The entire procession exited and Aline heard the rumble of a kettledrum. Another trumpet sounded and an enormous black bull tore into the ring. The thing looked the size of a tractor, but with a foot and a half of horns. It stamped around for several moments, looking for something to ram, and found a target. One of the men carrying capes had draped his over the safety of a board fence and the bull charged. Suddenly other capes appeared and the bull went after them.
This was more than a sport, Aline realized. It was a spectacle—a mélange of parade, circus, theater, and ballet in one open-air venue.
Just then Manolete appeared and the crowd erupted. He was quite skinny, Aline noticed, and seemed haggard. How could this be the greatest matador in the world? she wondered.
He didn’t look the part. Manolete was so frail that one bullfighter described him as tubercular. But that he was the best was incontrovertible. He would fight more than ninety times during Spain’s season, then head to Mexico for their season, followed by Peru for theirs. By the time he finished his tour and returned home, it would be March again and the Spanish season would begin anew in Valencia.
Aline had heard much about this man, some from Juanito, some from others. All bulls were easy for Manolete, everyone said, but like all matadors, Manolete feared his opponents. According to one story, as his costume was being fitted before a fight, he told a visitor, “Excuse me, señorita, if I don’t talk too much, but I am very scared.” To another bullfighter, he said, “My knees start to quake when I first see my name on the posters and they don’t stop until the end of the season.”
In the ring, though, he was methodical, serene, and so at ease that he typically appeared bored. In one trademark move—almost suicidal, other fighters felt—Manolete would take his eye off the bull as it charged and look away into the crowd, as if to say, “Just another day at the office; I wonder if it will rain.”
Just then the bull charged and Aline’s eyes widened as she watched Manolete go to work. Something was apparently wrong with the bull, though, as Manolete killed him quickly, without many passes. She recalled what Juanito had said about the bulls, and how the matadors needed brave ones who would charge in a reliable fashion.
The mule team pulled the carcass out and Aline turned her attention to Gloria and Schellenberg. They seemed to be talking like old friends, laughing and smiling. Aline wondered again why Schellenberg was in town. Was he merely collecting information or was he planning another kidnapping, as he had done in 1940 with the scheme to snatch the Duke of Windsor?III
Trumpets sounded again and a massive black Miura charged in. These breeds were the largest, fiercest, and most cunning type of Spanish fighting bull. Since 1842 they had been carefully bred for muscle, aggression, and intelligence. Spanish fighting bulls, in general, are fearless. They have been known to kill lions and Bengal tigers, and have even charged elephants. Let loose in a city, they will ram cars, trucks, even trains.
Miura bulls, though, were a class beyond. Through centuries of careful breeding at the Miura ranch in Sevilla, they had developed the ability to learn rapidly in the ring, adding significant risk to the matador. Almost all bullfighters wanted to kill them as rapidly as possible, and some matadors refused to even fight them.IV
In short, Miura bulls were the most dangerous, and this was the strain of beast that Juanito now faced.
Aline’s eyes were glued to the bull as it rushed by, snorting and stamping as it sought a target. She watched it circle the ring and when she turned back, he was there.
Juanito. Alone with the beast.
He lifted his violet cape and swayed it. “Eh, toro, toro.”
Aline held her breath, horrified, as the bull charged.
Effortlessly, Juanito worked the cape and the animal lunged after it, narrowly missing him.
Swish.
In an instant, though, the bull turned and attacked again.
Swish.
The crowd roared. “¡Olé!”
Aline gripped the rail. She wanted to smile but the tension in her spine stifled any celebration.
Juanito, with perfect form—feet together—performing a difficult and dangerous farol pase on November 20, 1939, in San Sebastian. Associated Press
Time and again Juanito tempted the bull to charge, leading him in consecutive veronicas, or passes. With each successful pass the crowd cheered, and Aline began to understand the popularity of the spectacle. It wasn’t just that Juanito tricked the bull, it was how it was done. Like his father before him, Belmonte worked calmly, gracefully, feet together, conducting his orchestra of one. But the danger, Aline knew, was ever-present. The bull was quick and surprisingly agile, his horns often missing Juanito by mere inches.
Aline couldn’t believe what she was watching. This little unimposing man who had brought her flowers and chocolates now commanded a newfound respect and admiration. How courageous he was!
As the fight progressed it was difficult for Aline to watch; Juanito kept bringing the bull closer and closer, the horns now grazing his vest with each pass. Effortlessly, he twisted the bull around him, forcing the animal to turn in half its length. It was a terribly dangerous technique invented by Juanito’s father, and the crowd roared.
Then it happened.
At the end of a pass the bull hooked his head to the left and Juanito was flung into the air like a smashed piñata. Aline gasped as the banderilleros raced to the scene, waving their capes and yelling to draw the bull away from him.
Aline’s chest tightened.
Juanito was lying on the ground, motionless.
I. The series of passes in the final third of a bullfight, just before the kill.
II. Pombo had also been the costume designer for two recent movies in Spain, El Hombre Que Las Enamora in 1944, and El Camino de Babel earlier that year.
III. Operation Willi, as the Germans called it, was the scheme to kidnap the duke in July 1940 by luring him to Madrid from his temporary residence in Lisbon. The plan was eventually aborted.
IV. After a visit to the Miura ranch and observing these bulls in 1962, Ferruccio Lamborghini began naming his automobiles after them (the Lamborghini Miura in 1966, the Islero in 1968), and changed his logo to a fighting bull.
CHAPTER 12 RESURRECTION
Aline clutched the rail while women around her wailed. She was sure Juanito was dead. As the bull was drawn away and banderilleros encircled their fallen matador, she noticed one of Juanito’s black slippers lying several yards away from his body. The bull had thrown him with such force that he literally had been launched out of his shoes.
The slipper rested there, black on the yellow clay, a tombstone testament to the Belmonte legacy.
She looked back to the banderilleros and gasped again. Juanito was on his feet! She could see that his jacket had been ripped, and a streak of crimson blood was trickling down his pants. But this was madness—Juanito was dismissing the banderilleros! Retrieving his cape, he began running after the bull. He wasn’t fearful in the slightest, Aline saw; he was angry and indignant.
Again they went at it. Knowing that the bull hooked to the left, Juanito pulled him close on his right. Masterfully, he worked the cape and the bull lunged through. Another trumpet sounded, indicating that it was time for the picadors, the two men on horseback who would weaken the massive Miura’s neck muscle by “picking” it three times with their lances.
Aline’s eyes remained on Juanito as he exited. The man of swords that she had met that day in the hotel appeared at his side to inspect the wound.
Juanito brushed him away and, with the rest of the crowd, watched as the picadors went to work. When they were finished several of the men who had been in the original procession returned. These were the banderilleros who would place six darts, fastened to the end of sticks, in the same area of the neck and shoulder of the bull. Without these two elements of weakening and lowering the bull’s head, Aline was told, the animal would no doubt kill the matador.
The banderilleros completed their task and Juan
ito entered once again, this time with a sword and a muleta—a new, smaller red cape. He bowed to Franco’s box and then strutted confidently to the adversary who had struck first blood.
At once Juanito engaged the Miura, drawing it closer and closer, wrapping the animal around him. After several passes Juanito turned his back on the bull and began walking away, exposing himself in fearless defiance. The bull charged and Juanito continued the dance, finishing him off with a thrust of the sword.
The crowd roared but Aline dropped to her seat. She was exhausted. To think that Juanito did this more than eighty times a year was mind-numbing. Bullfighters were indeed a different breed.
Juanito moved about to accept the cheers, and fans began throwing flowers, hats, and cigars into the ring. Aline marveled at the spectacle, amazed at how patrons showed their appreciation, but it was not unusual. If a corrida crowd was especially pleased by a matador’s performance, they’d also throw umbrellas, coats, gloves, and wineskins filled with manzanilla.I
But if a fight was beyond accolades, there was no limit to what raving fans would throw. One bullfighter recalled seeing a wooden leg, women’s panties, and even a baby tossed into the ring. The wooden leg, he remembered, went back to the owner, the panties were tucked into the matador’s shirt next to his heart, and the baby was lofted atop the torero’s shoulders and carried for a lap around the ring.
Juanito and his assistants continued to toss back the gifts, and a moment later he was standing beneath Aline and her companions. He threw something up to Aline and she held out her hands.
Pimpinela beamed. “What luck, Aline—to have a famous bullfighter throw you an ear at your first bullfight.”
Aline looked at the ghastly prize and remembered her first morning in Madrid. Juanito’s man of swords had boasted about Juanito getting two ears in Toledo. This bloody thing in her hand was an honor, she knew, but Pimpinela had to explain. In every ring in Spain, if a matador performed exceedingly well, the crowd showed its admiration by waving handkerchiefs and shouting “¡Oreja!” If the president of the arena saw enough handkerchiefs, he would wave his own, indicating that the torero would be honored with an ear of the bull. If the shouting and handkerchiefs continued, the president would award a second ear. And if the crowd persisted still, he’d award the tail. One of the banderilleros would then cut the appendages from the dead animal and hand them to the matador, who would circle the ring, holding them aloft, and then toss them to someone special in the crowd.
