I had never once, in all my years in Spain, eaten a good paella, even though my wife and I love rice and seek it out in restaurants around the world. At Eliot Elisofon’s home in New York I’d had a fine paella, and at a Greenwich Village restaurant I’d had one, but never in Spain. As with flamenco, one must be at the right table at the right moment, for otherwise he is fed dreadful stuff which the cook has the gall to name paella.
Nor. had I seen Curro Romero, he of the burning legend, perform even halfway decently. I’d seen him patiently in more than twenty corridas, that is, with forty-odd different bulls, but never once acceptable. At Finisterre, Vavra and Fulton consoled me: ‘Come back next year, and go to the feria at Sevilla and then to San Isidro in Madrid and to San Fermín at Pamplona and on to Valencia and Malaga and Vitoria and Bilboa and Barcelona and wind up in Zaragoza, and maybe some afternoon you’ll see him good.’ The schedule they proposed would require me to attend some eighty corridas on the remote possibility that I might see one acceptable, four hundred and eighty bulls to see the great Curro Romero good in one.
‘The odds are against me,’ I pointed out.
‘Ah, but if you see him great … just once …’
Much of Spain is like that. If one is willing to come back four hundred and eighty times, he may see something which will forever haunt him, and to those who have seen these things the odds are not excessive, for when duende is upon this land it offers an illumination that cannot be found elsewhere. And of course, the proposal made by my two companions, that I trek back and forth across Spain for months in search of that golden moment, would yield compensations other than the discovery of the moment itself, and this I knew. The search, the renewal of acquaintances with this land and people, would be worthwhile. I am convinced that in Spain I shall never hear good flamenco, nor eat a decent paella, nor see Curro Romero good, but I would always be eager to return for the effort, because we seek duende not to find it but to be assured that it exists at certain times in certain men.
Strangely, it was not until I returned to New York that I appreciated the gracia of the Curro Romero story, for there I met once more Conrad Janis, who had told me of Romero in the first place, and he said, ‘I was present in Madrid when something happened regarding Curro which would interest you. His manager told him at the end of 1965 … Now understand, this was Curro’s greatest season. Fights everywhere. So his manager reports, “Curro, we’ve had to spend so much money buying off the critics … to prevent them from writing the truth about your bad days … Well, there’s to be no profit this year.” Curro asked, “You mean all those fights, all that travel back and forth and nothing left at the end of the year?” The manager said, “Well, we’ve lived well and you did have that one great afternoon that everyone’s still talking about.” Tears came into Romero’s eyes. I can vouch for this. I was there. And he said, “To think that with the terrible fear I have each time I face the bull … the agony … the disasters. To face that all year. And at the end to have nothing.” ’
In the spring of 1967 I returned to Madrid to work with Vanderford on the translations from Spanish used in this book and happened to be in the city when Curro Romero was scheduled to appear on two successive afternoons. On May 25 his first bull looked at him askance; he grew visibly gray with fear; the fight was a disaster. Vanderford, sitting next to me, growled, ‘Curro has just enough bravery to dress in the matador’s suit. Anything that happens thereafter is immaterial.’ His second bull was by any standards a vicious animal, but the president refused to have it returned to the corrals, whereupon Curro did something never before seen in Madrid. He simply refused to fight. The president would not budge. Curro would not budge. So the bull was allowed to chase wildly about the empty ring for the allotted number of minutes, after which the three warnings were sounded on the trumpet and the bull was led off to slaughter and Curro to jail. He was fined twenty-five thousand pesetas, and Madrid was caught up in a frenzy of rumor. Would he be allowed out of jail to fight the second day? Even if he did get out, would the management let him fight? As he left jail next morning Curro made an announcement which seems sure of a place in bullfight history: ‘This day I shall be carried from the ring, either on shoulders through the great gate or into the infirmary.’
He was released in time to participate in what has become known as one of the great days in recent Madrid history. Critics were uniformly ecstatic and termed it ‘de apoteosis y de antología’ (one for the books). It began with a fine performance by Diego Puerta, crisp and magisterial, and continued with a dazzling exhibition by Paco Campo, who fought as if inspired. The plaza was in delirium, and what was most unusual, for the second time in my life I saw a string of six well-matched bulls, each of which gave serious fight, and by curious chance they were from the ranch of Bénitez Cubero, who had provided the earlier string of which I have spoken.
And what of Curro Romero? Did he leave the arena through the great gate or through the infirmary? For a moment it looked as if it would be the latter, for the black bull Bastardo, aptly named and twelve hundred pounds of energy, hooked his right horn into Curro’s left leg, tore away his uniform and tossed him high in the air. Normally a serious accident like this would have finished Curro for the day, and he would have been forgiven, but on this afternoon something strange happened. He lay flat on the ground while the bull lunged at him several times, just missing his head and chest. Then he leaped up, tied his torn costume about his damaged leg, grabbed his sword and cloth and proceeded to work wonders. He was brave; he was artistic; he was gallant; and in a way which tore at the emotions of the crowd, he was heroic. When the afternoon ended, the three matadors left the arena as Curro had predicted he would, on shoulders through the great gate. Vanderford and my other friends in the stands gathered about me to gloat. ‘We told you that one day you’d see him great. Have you ever seen better?’ I surrendered. I had seen Curro good, and he was all that Orson Welles and the others had promised. In fact, the experience has given me courage to keep on trying with flamenco and paella.
Throughout this chapter I have spoken of being on a pilgrimage, and now, as I return from Finisterre to Compostela, I think it not inappropriate to speak of this pilgrimage, which was a most real thing. Walter Starkie in his fine book The Road to Santiago when speaking of the four pilgrimages he made between the years 1924 and 1954, offers this cryptic sentence: ‘My 1954 pilgrimage bore for me a deep significance, for it marked the time of my retirement from official life, and I wished to perform religiously all the rituals, in order to prepare myself for making my examination of conscience.’ This statement perplexed me and I asked various people what it signified; Don Luis Morenés told me, ‘After the Spanish Civil War, countries like America and England were studious to send us Catholics as their representatives, and in this spirit England in 1940 sent us as their first director of the new British Institute, the fiddle-playing Irish-Catholic Starkie. He stayed in Spain during World War II, helping to organize and operate an escape route for British airmen shot down over France. That was his contribution to the grand alliance against Hitler.’ An English informant told me, ‘After the war Starkie was looked upon with diminished favor by the British but with real love by the Spanish. In 1954 he was retired from his official position, somewhat prematurely, I felt, and Spain lost one of the truest friends it ever had.’ It was at this impasse, when he knew nothing of his future—ultimately he landed a good university position in America—that the gypsy-loving Irishman had set out upon his final walk to Compostela.
In one sense my reason for pilgrimage was less dramatic; in another, more so. In early September, 1965, I was stricken with a sizable heart attack, and as I lay in that fitful slumber which is not sleep I thought of the good days I had known in northern Spain with Don Luis, and of the approaches to Santiago de Compostela and of how we had strained to see who would be first to spot those splendid towers rising in the moonlight, and of the portico which I had studied with affection but not carefully. And I thoug
ht then that if I ever were to leave that restricted room, which I sometimes doubted, for it seemed unlikely that I would regain sufficient strength to travel, I should like to see Compostela again.
I was lucky in that my doctor was a student of Paul Dudley White, the notable specialist of Boston, whom I had known in Russia. As a courtesy Dr. White flew down from Boston and recited his now-famous theory: ‘If a man with a heart attack tries to do anything at all before the passage of three months, he’s an idiot; but if at the end of three months he doesn’t at least try to do all he did before, he’s an even greater one.’
When I returned to Spain my capacity to travel and work was unknown. If I have spoken in this book with a certain regard for the trivial hill city of Teruel it is partly because it was to Teruel that I first went on my return journey, and each step I took in that pregnant place was a test to see whether I could stand the sun, whether I could climb hills, and whether my mind could focus on a specific problem for some hours. Teruel, where I had first seen the true Spain more than three decades ago … Teruel, where I had lived and died with the Spanish Republic … Teruel, which had been a magnet for years, now became important in another way, and when I discovered that I could negotiate those hilly streets I decided that I was ready for the feria at Pamplona and the long trip across northern Spain.
When I entered the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela for the last time the national celebration of which I spoke earlier was in progress. The great botafumeiro was in full swing, its massive cargo of silver and incense descending perilously toward my head as I slipped through the crowded nave to a point behind the main altar, where the organ seemed to be exploding. There I found the small and narrow flight of stairs which took me upward to a hiding point behind the great stone statue of Santiago Matamoros which occupies the center of the altar. Only the rear of his head and shoulders was visible to me, the latter encased in a metal robe encrusted with jewels, but beyond the saint I could look through the peephole in the altar and out into the vast cathedral where the censer was coming to a halt, where Father Precedo Lafuente was sitting in his red robes, where Admiral Núñez Rodríguez in white uniform was preparing to make his rededication of Spain to the apostle, and where Cardinal Quiroga Palacios waited to make his speech of acknowledgment. It was a dazzling moment, as rich in pageantry and as filled with the spirit of Spain as any that I had witnessed, and there I hid in the darkness as if an interloper with no proper role in the ceremonial except that I had completed my vow of pilgrimage and stood at last with my arms about the stone-cold shoulder of Santiago, my patron saint and Spain’s.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The balanced view which this book endeavors to maintain regarding the Muslim occupation of Spain was checked against the anti-Muslim point of view expressed in Louis Bertrand and Charles Petrie, The History of Spain (London, Eyre and Spottiswoode, rev. ed. 1952).
In my general attitude toward Fernando, Isabel, Carlos V, and Felipe II, I was much influenced by R. Trevor Davies, The Golden Century of Spain 1501–1621 (London, Macmillan, rev. ed. 1958).
All statements made about the Inquisition were weighed against Henry Kamen, The Spanish Inquisition (New York, New American Library, 1965).
Data relating to the siege of the Alcázar in Toledo during the Spanish Civil War were checked against Cecil D. Eby, The Siege of the Alcázar (New York, Random House, 1965).
All material relating to the Carlist pretenders was checked against Theo Aronson, Royal Vendetta, The Crown of Spain 1829–1965 (Indianapolis, Bobbs-Merrill, 1966).
The quotation castigating bullfighting comes from Eléna de La Soudière, An Explanation of Spain (New York, A. A. Knopf, 1965), a powerful assault on many aspects of contemporary Spain.
The passage illustrating the interlocking relationships between Spain and England is quoted from H. V. Morton, A Stranger in Spain (New York, Dodd, Mead & Co., 1955) and that regarding Carlos the Bewitched from John Langdon-Davies, Carlos, The King Who Would Not Die (New York, Prentice-Hall, 1963).
Data and opinions in the last chapter were constantly checked against those expressed so felicitously by Walter Starkie in his The Road to Santiago, Pilgrims of St. James (London, John Murray, 1957). I used principally the Spanish edition (Madrid, Aguilar, 1958).
For the enumeration of the attendants waiting upon Juana la Loca at Tordesillas I am indebted to Amarie Dennis, Seek the Darkness (Madrid, privately published, 1961). Mrs. Dennis also consented to talk with me about various aspects of the Isabel-Juana story, for which I am grateful.
To Mary Elizabeth Brooks I am indebted not only for her excellent study of King Sebastião of Portugal, A King for Portugal (Madison, University of Wisconsin, 1964) but also for the instructive dialogue we held in Madrid in which she explained sidelights of this bizarre episode. Where my account differs from hers I have so indicated in the text.
After my manuscript was completed, I had the privilege of meeting in person that queen of American bullfight aficionados. Alice Hall of Georgia. Her preferences were so violent and so persuasive that I modified certain opinions I had previously expressed in the taurine material.
In the text I have expressed my appreciation of the help provided by Don Luis Morenés y Areces, Marqués de Bassecourt, who helped me on three different occasions: in Las Marismas, in Madrid, and on the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. I have never known a better traveling companion nor a man more imbued with his subject, in this case a love of Spain.
During the two months that I concentrated on the question of bullfighting I had the pleasure of Matador John Fulton’s company, and while I must not saddle him with any of the heterodox opinions I express about his profession I do wish to thank him for his expert guidance.
For permission to explore the Coto Doñana I am, like naturalists around the world, indebted to José Antonio Valverde, who serves as custodian for this rare corner of Europe. Many of the incidents I report as to the passing of the year in the Coto I owe to Dr. Valverde.
To Patter Winslow Ashcraft I am indebted for some of the finest picnics I have ever had. To wander across Spain without halting for varied picnics would be to miss the best the country has to offer and from this fate I was saved by Mrs. Ashcraft.
To my two old diplomatic friends from Afghanistan days, Steven Baldanza and Osbert Day, I am indebted for their help in guiding me around their new duty posts, Baldanza in Lisboa, Day in Madrid.
I cannot adequately express my dependence upon and appreciation of Professor Kenneth Vanderford, Ripon College, Ripon, Wisconsin. At my request he read the manuscript and checked it against his encyclopedic knowledge. Barely a page escaped his savage eye. On esoteric points he was a prince of debaters. He also assumed responsibility for all translations from Spanish into English, except where historical ones had to be followed.
My deepest gratitude must go to that extraordinary tertulia of the Café León. That a group of distinguished members of the Real Academia de Española should have welcomed me, a stranger, and should have given their time to my questions was a testimony to the warmth of hospitality which Spain extends to the visitor. I am especially indebted to José María de Cossío, whose robust humor and wide spread of interests impressed me, and to that delightful and irreverent scholar from the University of Texas, Ramón Martínez López.
To the scores of other advisors, like Juan Quintana and Virginia Smith on bullfighting, William Frauenfelder on Cataluña, Ignacio Herguete G. de Guadiana on Trujillo, Luis Ybarra González on Las Marismas, Luis Morondo on the music of Victoria, Father Jesús Precedo Lafuente on Santiago de Compostela, Alcalde José Filgueira on Pontevedra, Fernando Zóbel on contemporary Spanish painting, José María Lassaletta on wildlife, Tess LaTouche on daily gossip, Brewster Cross on flamenco, Dr. José María Muguruza on the Prado, David Peace on tourism, and Madelyn Mack on one woman’s view of the romance of Spain, I owe a debt which can never be repaid.
JAMES A. MICHENER
January 15, 1968
Also by James
A. Michener.
FICTION
TALES OF THE SOUTH PACIFIC*
RETURN TO PARADISE*
THE BRIDGES AT TOKO-RI*
SAYONARA*
SELECTED WRITINGS
THE FIRES OF SPRING*
HAWAII*
CARAVANS*
THE SOURCE*
THE DRIFTERS*
CENTENNIAL*
CHESAPEAKE*
THE WATERMEN
THE COVENANT*
SPACE*
POLAND*
TEXAS*
LEGACY*
ALASKA*
JOURNEY*
CARIBBEAN*
THE NOVEL*
NONFICTION
THE BRIDGE AT ANDAU*
RASCALS IN PARADISE*
JAPANESE PRINTS: FROM EARLY MASTERS TO THE MODERN
IBERIA: SPANISH TRAVELS AND REFLECTIONS*
MODERN JAPANESE PRINT: AN APPRECIATION
PRESIDENTIAL LOTTERY: THE RECKLESS GAMBLE IN OUR ELECTORAL SYSTEM
SPORTS IN AMERICA*
KENT STATE: WHAT HAPPENED AND WHY*
THE FLOATING WORLD
* Published by Fawcett Books
Iberia Page 95
