Or the Bull Kills You

by Jason Webster

  Cámara was greeted at the front door of the Ramírez farm by a slim woman in her late sixties with pale blue eyes and white-blonde hair. Aurora Palacios bore herself with the same hauteur as she had at Blanco’s funeral, her back stiff and straight, and with a mild yet seemingly permanent frown.

  Cámara introduced himself, standing in the shade of a well-established bougainvillea that had been trained over the doorway, its budding purple-red flowers set against the yellow walls of the finca. The rain that had found him in Albacete had blown away, and an afternoon sky of brilliant clear blue now arched over the hilly landscape.

  ‘My husband isn’t here,’ Aurora said simply once she’d established he was who he said he was, examining his badge and ID with a schoolmistress’s scepticism.

  ‘Can you tell me where he is?’ Cámara asked.

  She gave a snort.

  ‘What are you asking me for?’

  A noise came from nearby, the call of what sounded like a bull or a cow. Cámara turned.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ Aurora snapped. ‘You’re quite safe here.’

  ‘I take it someone is with the animal, however,’ Cámara said. ‘It sounded quite close by.’

  ‘Paco’s here,’ she said, already backing into the house. ‘You’ll find him.’

  And the door was firmly closed behind her.

  Cámara turned and started walking in the direction of the animal call. Box hedges formed a pathway along the side of the house, and his feet crunched on white gravel underneath. Pines stretched high overhead, giving more shade to the garden with a sunken pool and a small stone fountain. Black-painted, ornate iron railings were bolted over all of the downstairs windows while a burgundy stripe had been painted along the bottom of the outside wall, perhaps a metre high, the same colour as the painted frames around the doors and windows. The house itself was large and square, with two storeys, although Cámara could make out a tower with a mirador in one corner, looking out towards the peaks of the Sierra Alacaraz. It all spoke of relatively old money, of a long-established family business. Perhaps Ramírez’s grandfather, the founder of the breeding farm, had had this place built. It looked to be well over a hundred years old.

  Beyond the garden the pine trees came to a stop and Cámara could see some outbuildings sitting in the strong sunlight. He guessed that they were close to a thousand metres above sea level here – enough to notice a thinning in the air, and a blanching, all-powerful glare of the sun. Passing out from the shade he made out a low, ring-shaped wall, again with a burgundy stripe around its base. It was almost certainly a practice bullring, and over the top of the wall he could see the figure of a man.

  Paco didn’t seem to notice him at first, watching carefully as one of his farmhands flashed a cape in front of what looked like a small bullock skipping aggressively on the dirt floor of the ring. Both men were giving guttural calls, egging the animal on as it charged at the cape, stopped, lost its concentration momentarily, then focused on the cape once more and charged again.

  ‘¡Eh-he!’

  ‘¡Toro!’

  Paco was wearing a flat woollen cap, with a dark green jerkin slung over a checked shirt. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms and smoke rose from a cigarette clutched between his fingers as he leaned on the edge of the wall, his concentration never wavering from the centre of the ring. When Cámara walked up to him he nodded to acknowledge him momentarily before turning back. After a few moments he gave a low whistle and the farmhand promptly stopped, leaving the animal breathless and perplexed, vapour streaming from its mouth and nostrils.

  ‘I’ve seen you before,’ Paco said, finally giving Cámara his attention. ‘The policeman, aren’t you?’

  Cámara nodded.

  ‘You’ve come all the way here?’

  There was a roughness about him, in contrast to the studied disdain of his mother. Was Ramírez the father responsible for giving him that? Or did living and working on this land have something to do with it? Breeding deadly animals in this empty, underpopulated landscape, the pasture barely clinging to the thin grey soil, demanded a harsh simplicity of being, Cámara thought. It had a certain beauty, perhaps, but he found himself longing for the complexities of the city in environments such as these.

  ‘I was told your father isn’t here,’ Cámara said.

  ‘Was it him you wanted to speak to?’ Paco pulled on the cigarette then exhaled. ‘He’s in Valencia still. Hasn’t come back since Jorge was killed.’

  Inside the ring the farmhand was folding his cape over his arm, keeping a distance.

  ‘If you’re here I suppose it means things aren’t going too well with the investigation.’

  He put the cigarette back in his mouth and stepped away, beckoning towards the farmhand.

  ‘Give me that, Morales,’ he called. ‘We haven’t finished with this one.’

  The farmhand passed him the cape and Paco leapt over the wall to join him inside. A strong scent of earth and manure was kicked up from where his feet landed and scuffed the surface. Wordlessly, the other man pressed his back against the wall and Paco started walking towards the centre.

  ‘The bravura – the fighting spirit – of a bull comes from the mother,’ he called behind him to Cámara. ‘Did you know that? This little cow here is showing some real character. Might use her for breeding a new generation of Ramírez bulls. But we need to test her first.’

  The white horns of the cow twitched as he stubbed the cigarette out on the floor and unfolded the cape, spreading it out in front of him and allowing it to drape over the ground. What had Margarita de la Fuente said? That the capote represented a skirt? What happened now, he wondered, when the bull was actually a female? But then this was just practice, he told himself. The symbolism of the corrida probably broke down if you applied it to the breeder’s farm as well.

  With a low cry, Paco flicked the capote in the cow’s direction. After a moment’s pause, the animal charged at him, lowering its head in an attempt to catch him on its horns. But with an effortless veronica, Paco turned to the side, allowing the capote to pass in front of the cow’s eyes before flicking round and slapping the animal on its haunches.

  ‘Venga, va,’ he called out, shouting to catch the beast’s attention. It was much smaller than the bulls that appeared in public bullfights, Cámara thought, and much lighter on its feet, but it had a wiry energy, like a wound-up spring. There was no doubt of the risk involved by standing there next to the thing.

  After a few more passes Paco stopped and walked casually over to where Cámara was standing by the edge of the wall. He held out the cape, a joyless smile beginning to curl at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Tempted?’

  Cámara took the cape and spread it out as best he could in front of him, feeling its weight, the fall of the cloth, the stiffness of the material. Best not to think of it as a skirt at that moment, he thought. Whatever was about to happen, this was going to be a very male moment.

  Paco was still standing on the inside of the wall, watching him as though trying to decide whether the policeman had it in him to face the horned and highly nervous cow. Taking off his jacket and hanging it on a nearby wooden stake, Cámara vaulted the wall and started walking to the centre. Both Paco and Morales were silent. In his mind’s eye Cámara tried to recall images of what he’d just seen Paco do. He had seemed to be simultaneously rooted to the ground and yet light on his feet. A combination that was probably impossible to master the first time round, but something to aim for, at least.

  To his relief, the cow seemed uninterested in him, and was gazing in the other direction, giving Cámara a few more seconds to compose himself. He’d fought humans often enough; to fight a small, horned and highly dangerous quadruped would be a novelty. He felt he was walking on uncertain ground: would his instincts serve him well for this?

  From the side, Paco’s henchman Morales beat the side of the wall with a wooden stick. The cow’s attention was distracted and as it turned its he
ad it seemed to become aware for the first time of the new presence in the ring. The breath stuck in Cámara’s throat as a cool rush of adrenalin was released into his bloodstream. The cow looked at him with black shiny eyes, its left hoof scraping the ground in anger. Cámara spread the capote in front of him, suddenly aware of the vulnerability of his legs. The cow’s horns were at thigh height; if he got caught on them they could easily pierce through his flesh. There was an artery down there, an import ant one that could drain you of all your blood in seconds if it was severed. For the life of him he couldn’t remember what it was called, yet it seemed to be calling its presence up to his brain in a high-pitched, sustained scream. When they attacked you, men used fists, knives, guns. He knew about those threats. This, however, was different.

  As the cow launched itself at him, two images flashed powerfully in his brain: Hilario holding his hand as they walked away from the bullring; and his sister’s smiling face on the old photograph at the end of the bookshelf.

  He only just managed to suppress the urge to turn and run. Instead, his arm holding the capote shot out as far away from his body as it could as he tried to draw the fierce little cow away from him, his hips arching in the opposite direction as thighs and genitals sought to distance themselves from the incoming danger. The effect made him almost lose his balance but the cow sailed past him in a black-and-white blur, a deep groan echoing from its throat as it emerged from its lunge frustrated at not finding Cámara on the ends of its horns. A strong smell of straw and animal sweat filtered up into Cámara’s nostrils, but he was already preparing himself for another pass: the cow had him in its sights and was coming back for more. His cape-work might not have been the most elegant ever executed, but Cámara was aware that he had managed to emerge unscathed from their first encounter, and with pounding heart, the fear in him began to tip just slightly towards excitement.

  The second pass was much like the first – Cámara’s legs seemed to disappear from underneath him as he held the capote as far away from his body as he could manage. Again the cow ran past him without managing to make contact, and again Cámara felt something like a surge of success beginning to flow inside him. His mouth was dry, but there was a strong taste on his tongue, hot and earthy like blood.

  One more. One more pass and he would walk away. It was only a cow, after all. His earlier fear, he began to realise, had been based on ignorance as much as on anything else. Bulls weighing over half a tonne were another matter, but a little cow? He could manage this. Still, an iciness seemed to sit in his lower abdomen. Don’t get too close, it said. Keep a distance.

  The cow itself seemed to sense the change in Cámara, and before he could prepare himself properly for another pass it had turned and was bearing on him once again. He struggled to place the capote cleanly between himself and the animal, but it was too late. Perhaps he should jump, he thought, like those topless Cretan women in the frescoes, leaping to safety over the cow. And for a second it seemed as though his legs had made the decision for him as he rose sharply in the air; a moment came when he seemed to be looking down on the cow rather than at it face to face. Could he make it to the other side, and safety?

  The pain in his thigh registered as he hit the ground: a simultaneously sharp yet dull sensation above his right knee. Then all was a flash of pinks and yellows. He thought he heard voices. Feet – human feet – appeared near his face as he lay on the ground. Then hands seemed to grab him from under his arms and he was being hauled away, the soil seeping into his shoes as his feet dragged over the ground. Had he been cut? He tried to shove a hand down there to feel if there was any blood, but his arm movements were restricted by the person pulling him clear.

  ‘You’re fine,’ a voice was saying. He couldn’t tell, but it sounded like Paco. Fingers started probing around his leg to feel the extent of the damage.

  ‘Nothing. Just a knock. You’ve been lucky.’

  There was a brief hiatus in which Cámara seemed to rediscover the ability to breathe, sitting with his back to the wall. Then Paco was standing next to him again, holding out a small metallic cup.

  ‘Drink this,’ he said.

  The brandy burnt and soothed Cámara’s insides.

  ‘Right,’ Paco said. ‘Let’s get you on your feet. You’ll be fine.’

  The hands were under his armpits again and he was being hauled up.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Cámara said, suddenly resenting the fact that they were treating him like an invalid. ‘I’ve had worse.’

  He stood on his own for a moment or two, pressing down on to his right leg to get a sense of how damaged it was. It wasn’t too bad, like a nasty kick to the shins playing football, perhaps. But it was going to hurt later, he thought. Tomorrow he’d need some full-strength painkillers and anti-inflammatories to get the swelling down.

  ‘Shame,’ Paco said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Traditionally, if you complete three passes with a bull or a cow you can call yourself a torero.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘You fell one short. No ears or tail for you.’

  ‘I suppose this never happens to you,’ Cámara said.

  ‘You get better with the years,’ Paco said, turning away. ‘But it takes time.’

  He called over to Morales to take the cow away.

  ‘We’re finished here now for the day,’ he said. ‘You can walk, right? Come on then,’ he said, not waiting for an answer. ‘We’ll put some things away.’

  Cámara tried his best to disguise the limp in his walk as he followed him from the bullring to a one-storey outbuilding nearby. Again it was decorated with the burgundy stripe around its base.

  ‘It was my grandmother’s favourite colour,’ Paco explained when Cámara asked him. ‘My grandfather turned it into a kind of emblem. Every time you see something to do with the Ramírez farm it has to have some burgundy in there somewhere.’

  He opened a steel door and flicked on the lights. In the storeroom, everywhere were the materials for training bulls, from capotes folded neatly in bags on some shelves on the far wall, to horse saddles, spare pairs of campera boots, muletas, and coat rack with waterproofs. Along one wall a row of lances were placed in a circular hoop.

  ‘We use those when we’re riding on horseback, to keep the bulls moving where we want them to go,’ Paco said.

  Next to the lances was a wooden rack with red-handled estoques used for the final killing of a bull. Cámara counted space for half a dozen, but could see only five.

  ‘Is there anyone else out working on the farm today?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Paco said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Cámara nodded at the place where the missing estoque should have been.

  ‘Things disappear,’ Paco said. ‘It’s probably lying around somewhere.’

  He folded up the capote they had been using and placed it on the shelf with the others.

  ‘How’s your leg feeling?’ he asked. ‘Seriously, I can have someone come over to have a look at it for you.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ Cámara said. ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘You’ll be all right to drive?’

  He shrugged.

  They walked out of the storeroom and back up to the main house, where Cámara had parked his Seat.

  ‘Just a couple of questions,’ Cámara said. ‘I take it you came back here from Valencia after the funeral.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Their feet crunched on the gravel as they emerged from under the pine trees and passed the sunken pool. Cámara could sense a pair of eyes watching them from inside the house. Aurora Palacios might put on certain airs, but she wasn’t above peeking out the window at their unexpected visitor.

  ‘When did you get back?’

  ‘The day after the funeral.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘She stayed with my father for a couple of days more, then came up on her own.’

  ‘Your father decided to stay.’

  ‘I don’t know where he would suffer more – there
or here. Both places have such strong associations with Jorge for him. I suppose it was inertia in the end.’

  ‘And he’s on his own there?’

  ‘He prefers to be alone. Especially if something’s going wrong.’

  Something told Cámara that Jorge’s death hadn’t been the only thing to ‘go wrong’ recently for the Ramírez family.

  ‘How would you describe the relationship between the family and Ruiz Pastor?’

  There was a pause, during which a noise, like fluttering feathers, seemed to come from nearby.

  ‘I didn’t have many dealings with him personally,’ Paco said. ‘My father mainly took care of that business side of things. I’m more a man of the soil. I like to be up here, on my farm, working with the livestock. Ruiz Pastor, que en paz descanse, was a businessman, through and through. I can’t really say any more.’

  The fluttering noise had got louder, and Paco’s attention was diverted. Stepping away from Cámara he walked in the direction of a nearby tree.

  ‘That bloody cat,’ he said.

  Lifting one arm up to a branch, he reached up for something. It was only then that Cámara made out where the noise was coming from: a small brown bird was beating its wings helplessly, as though unable to fly. Paco grabbed it as a cat jumped down and ran off. With his hands in the air, Paco’s shirt lifted momentarily out from his trousers and Cámara caught a glimpse of what looked like scratches and bruising on his lower back.

  ‘My mother’s cat,’ Paco explained. ‘It never actually kills the damned things. Just tortures and maims them.’

  He brought his two hands together over the wretched bird and with a sharp motion broke its neck. Then he tossed it to one side before wiping his hands on the back of his trousers.

  ‘Been in the wars?’ Cámara asked, patting his own lower back to show where he’d seen the marks underneath Paco’s shirt.

  Paco’s nostrils flared and he looked Cámara hard in the face.

  ‘A similar accident to yours just now,’ he said firmly. ‘You can still find one that catches you out now and again, even after all these years.’