The Black Madonna

by Peter Millar

  The two tickets were marked Palco 6 Tendido 9 Sombra. Tickets in a lodge, in the shade. They had no face value. Marcus suspected he could have asked whatever he wanted for them.

  ‘Come on, let’s see what’s in store for us,’ he said. Not only was an evening of gore in the midst of tens of thousands of bloodthirsty enthusiasts less than appealing, he was all too keenly aware that they had very little idea what they were letting themselves in for. One thing at least was reassuring: if they had any doubts as to the intentions of whoever it might be they were actually meeting, this was about as public a forum as possible. On the other hand, he thought, as they swept through the entrance to section 9 of the amphitheatre and the torrid heat gave way to clammy, sweaty corridors of people pushing past each other to get to the great staircases leading to the upper levels, in a crowd like this you could slip a stiletto between someone’s ribs as easily as pick their pocket.

  On presenting their tickets to the usher however, they were directed not to the teeming staircases but to an elevator. Within seconds they were stepping out into a passageway three floors higher, at the top of the vast arena. Nazreem leaned out through one of the exotic arched windows running her hands over the richly decorated enamel tiles, looking for all the world like a Moorish princess. Beyond, the great fume-belching metropolis of Madrid stretched into the distance, struggling back to life after the soporific heat of the day while the merciless sun tried to sweat the last drop of blood from the city before it set.

  An attendant interrupted their reveries with a respectful, ‘Señor, señora, por favor, su palco,’ ushering them into the equivalent of a private box at the opera. There were fifteen seats in three rows of five each. Several elderly men stood up and nodded politely as they entered. Marcus looked around, wondering where their mysterious host was and where they were supposed to sit, but the usher indicated that their places were in the empty row right at the front. Here, below them lay the dusty red sand of an arena the ancient Romans would have found familiar.

  Somewhat hesitantly, unsure of both himself and their situation, Marcus and Nazreem descended the few steps to the front of the box and sat down. It was only then that he took in the full vista spread out before them. He felt like Nero taking his seat in the Coliseum. In front and below was a vast stadium packed with more than 20,000 people seated in steeply banked tiers around the arena itself, a sandy ring in which already the evening’s performers in their glittering costumes were taking their bows. A curved line as sharp as a lunar eclipse cut across the arena and the capacity crowd, separating those in the expensive shaded seats from the hoi polloi sweltering in the sun.

  A band struck up and Marcus and Nazreem followed the eyes of the assembled multitude towards one of the boxes in the same row as theirs, near the centre of the arena’s shaded zone. The decoration surrounding the box at the very middle was a magnificent riot of Mudéjar exuberance, but it was to the one alongside that all eyes were turned, as a tall, self-important looking man who appeared to be the master of ceremonies draped a coloured handkerchief over the front of the box. Fanfares sounded, a roar went up from the vast crowd and they realised that not only were the matador and his two aides, all resplendent in pink satin with gold braid already twirling like ballet dancers in the centre of the ring, but that a huge black bull had thundered into the middle of it.

  There was something almost playful to the great beast’s attitude, Marcus thought ruefully as it snorted and bellowed, cantering around the ring before it caught sight of the ridiculously dressed human trio, in particular the man at the centre gesticulating with his cape, and threw itself at him. The man effortlessly swept out of its way as the animal in its confusion turned to first one, then the other of his colleagues, their flapping capes vying for its attention. Marcus looked around. Nazreem seemed almost as absorbed by the grotesquerie being performed before them as the old men in the seats behind, one or two of whom he noticed had purple showing beneath their dark jackets. Perhaps they had found themselves in a box reserved for the clergy. Nothing would surprise him in a country like this. No one, however, had yet appeared to announce themselves as their host.

  He turned his attention back to the arena and found, despite himself, that he was impressed by the studied insouciance displayed so arrogantly by the svelte young men in their absurd finery as they danced and pirouetted around the ring while the matador himself flamboyantly manipulated his cape. Each of them was playing to the audience as much as the bull. The bull, however, now had more to worry about. The picadors, two men, each on horseback, had entered the ring armed with long lances decorated with gaudy strips of cloth, and begun to goad the animal.

  The bull’s response seemed provoked almost as much by the sight of the horse as by the human baiting. It was as if the animal had a natural antipathy towards its fellow four-legged beast, thrusting at it with its horns in a way that made Marcus think blood-sport opponents had more to worry about here than just the fate of the bull. The horses were blinkered and had thick protective padding on their sides but their main protection came from the men on their backs as they kept the bull at a distance by thrusting the points of their lances into the taut muscles of the animal’s mighty neck.

  A horn sounded. Now the banderilleros were in the ring, like circus athletes coming on after the dancing ponies as the horseback picadors trotted out. Two of them took turns running and jumping in front of the angry bull now beginning to drip rivulets of blood from its wounded shoulder blades. Then plucking two gaily decorated steel barbs from an aide behind the protective barriers, the first began to perform an almost ridiculous shilly-shallying dance in front of the wounded beast, waited until it lunged towards him then made as if to plunge them into the beast’s neck only to retreat at the last second as its horns veered towards him and run, legs wheeling like a circus clown, for the cover of the wooden barricades from behind which his colleagues looked on.

  Jeers, whistles and boos mingled with scornful laughter. From the far, sunbleached side of the ring a few heavy cushions were hurled into the sand of the ring. The coward was being given the bird. Even his colleague seemed to shake his head at him in wondering disapproval before emerging himself to twirl and leap in front of the bull before waiting until it moved towards him and then expertly planting his sharp and savage barbs into the muscles behind its head. A mild ripple of applause ran around the arena only to be replaced by boos again as the coward re-emerged.

  To Marcus’s disbelief it looked like a repeat performance was about to occur as the man ran towards the bull, then away from it and then did the same again, this time ending up on the far side of the arena. The bull had lumbered towards one side, snorting angrily. The banderillero was standing in front of the royal box, head hung down, as if embarrassed by his performance, but more to the point dangerously ignoring the angry animal pawing the ground before him.

  And then, just as it seemed the animal was about to charge and Marcus all but closed his eyes so as not to see the inevitable goring, the man spun on one heel as if gifted with second sight. One moment he had been a sorry-looking clown, the next he was rushing headlong towards the animal as if he, not it, was the charging beast, facing directly at its lowered horns, only to spring at the last moment with the astonishing agility of a leaping gazelle, thrusting down with his barbs and planting them into the massive neck while he himself flew up and over its back in a somersault, landing upright on two feet with his empty hands thrust upwards towards the crowd like some twelve-year-old girl gymnast. The crowd erupted, roaring its approval. On the far side of the arena, from where the cushions had been thrown, a few flowers fluttered into the ring. In the seats just below their box there were squeals of delight and a flagon of wine tossed into the air. From the old gentlemen in the seats behind them came a ripple of mild applause.

  Marcus looked round at them and made a deliberate grimace. He might have the best seat in the house courtesy of some unknown host who so far had not had the decency even to show himself, bu
t this was not a spectacle he would have chosen to attend and he saw no reason to disguise his distaste. He was amazed Nazreem could continue to watch so impassively. Then without warning a voice in his ear said: ‘You have a problem?’

  36

  Marcus turned in surprise to find one of the elderly gentlemen who had been seated in the rows behind them had softly relocated to the seat next to him, and was looking at him sideways without taking his eyes wholly from the bloody spectacle unfolding before them in the arena.

  ‘Not to your taste, I see,’ the old man said loudly in English. I have to say that last performance was a bit theatrical even for me. I am a traditionalist, myself.’

  ‘I don’t see why they have to torture it so,’ Marcus said pointedly, wondering at the same time why he was bothering to reply.

  ‘They are weakening it, making it possible for the matador to kill it,’ the older man said as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘That is his job, you see.’ Then, after a slight pause: ‘I think you do not speak much Spanish? The verb matar means to kill. Now he is watching, observing the movements. He must be skilful, you see. Nobody wants an ugly kill. It should be noble for both man and beast.’

  Marcus shook his head. He had heard stuff like that before but it had never cut much ice. But he was intrigued by this stranger who had suddenly decided to join them without introducing himself. Could this be the man who had provided the tickets? Was he a representative of the bishop from Guadalupe? And if so, why had he not made himself known to them earlier? Nazreem too now had let herself be distracted from the gory spectacle in the arena and was studying the craggy face of the elderly man who had joined them.

  ‘Let me ask you a question,’ he said, talking to Marcus but returning Nazreem’s attention. ‘If you were given a choice of living to the age of twenty years with only male companions in little better than nursery accommodation, then knocked unconscious, strung up by your heels for your throat to be cut, or if you could live to be twice that age, free and well fed, and given the choice of the finest women before being put in an arena to die with a sword in your hand, which would you choose?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘That is the difference between the life of an average English bull and a Spanish toro bravo.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. It’s a phoney comparison.’

  ‘Is it? Perhaps. Perhaps not.’ He looked at Nazreem and even Marcus, to his irritation, could see the trace of a faint smile playing on her lips. ‘The señora, however, does not seem to share your opinion. You do not find the bloodshed of the corrida shocking?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, remarkably calmly. ‘I am familiar with the halal slaughter of a goat, when its throat is cut while the animal is still conscious and the blood gushes forth. That is different, of course; it is a religious ritual.’

  ‘Rather than a sport,’ Marcus added, keen to regain the offensive, though why they were bothering to discuss bullfighting at all with this man whose name they didn’t know was beyond him.

  ‘You think this is a sport?’ the man replied, still concentrating his attention on Nazreem. ‘Perhaps because the English call it ‘bullfighting’ and say it is not fair because the fight is not equal. But for us it is not a sport. The Spanish word is corrida. It is a ritual. You will not find the descriptions of today’s events here in the sports pages of our newspapers; you will find them listed as espectaculos. A spectacle perhaps, but such a literal translation is less than adequate. It is culture, I think. Not yours – maybe – but ours all the same.’

  ‘You mean like the opera?’ Marcus was finding the man’s pious equivocation irritating. Most of these people were here for the blood, with the chance of a matador being gored an extra thrill, like the possibility of a fatal accident at a Formula 1 Grand Prix. And yet he was aware there was more to it too, something almost sexual. The strutting matador in his tight-fitting costume presenting his satin-clad buttocks to the horns of the bull with a display of calculated insouciance. The picadors with their phallic barbs. The final act of fatal penetration. He had noted how the bottle blonde three rows below their box clutched her partner’s thigh every time the banderilleros planted one of their barbs.

  ‘Or like your church,’ Nazreem said, in a remark that to Marcus seemed unwarrantedly rude and wondered if she was aware of the fact, but there was no indication that the man had taken it so. On the contrary he smiled and said, ‘Touché, madame, touché.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Marcus, his irritation finally getting the better of him. ‘I think you ought to tell us …’

  A horn sounded again and the man next to him raised his hand slightly, in a way that made clear he was used to people heeding his authority and gestured to the ring: ‘La suerte suprema,’ he said.

  The matador himself, alone now and strutting in his skin-tight silk and satin finery, the personification of Latin vanity. Nazreem took her eyes away from the spectacle for a second to shoot a glance at Marcus’s sombre, uncomprehending face.

  She could feel the old man’s eyes flicker towards her and then away as he too drank in the sight of the young athlete in the ring ceremoniously doffing his black tricorn hat to the bull he was about to kill. At his side this time was no longer the great bicoloured cape he had waved at the opening. ‘La muleta,’ their host indicated. The red rag to the bull.

  The matador used the wooden stick to which his cape was attached to flick it to one side, a flash of brilliant crimson against the churned, stained sand, then lifted his sword until the tip caught the sunlight and brought the blade to his lips. Across from him the great black beast, wounded, shook its heavy head slowly from side to side. Then advanced.

  The cape now along the length of the matador’s left arm, the sword held downwards from his right hand behind it. He stood his ground as the bull advanced, then in a sudden rush lurched forward, its horned head bowed, the horns rearing upwards. But the man pulled back his body from the rag, and the beast, uncertain as to which posed the threat, followed the ruse.

  Quickstepping backwards with the skill of a prima ballerina, the matador swept the muleta out and away from him so that the bull’s horns at one stage passed within inches of his waist. Then he flicked it up and out of the animal’s line of vision, retreating smartly, backwards. When the bull turned its head again he was almost half the arena away, posing for the crowd in profile, left knee bent, cape stretched out along the left arm, right hand held high holding the sword pointed forward and down, the classic position for the kill to come. He held his ground, then lowered his weapon and advanced on the bull, daring it forward.

  It did as bidden. Lunged, horns finding nothing. Then again, and again, turning on itself in frustration, the banderillas planted in its neck swaying, the blood from the wounds they caused trickling down the dark hide. Exhausted, confused, it stopped and stood and shook its head. As the matador crossed the line from shadow into sunshine, the evening rays glistening on his satin suit. Behind him, the bull stood and swayed as if it were rallying its forces for one last lethal lunge. Slowly it lumbered forward and a hushed cry ran through the crowd, as the matador delayed for a heartbeat before he turned and once again displayed his crimson cape to the steadily advancing animal.

  The matador circled, repositioning himself in the shade, out of danger of a blinding ray that might be fatal. The bull turned towards him and he advanced to meet it. The animal’s head was down now, and Marcus suddenly realised the practical point of the wounds inflicted in its neck: unless its head was down there was no way the matador could even attempt to kill it with a single thrust.

  The matador raised himself on his toes, the sword aimed downwards, and gripping the pummel suddenly plunged the blade straight between the damaged, but still mighty, shoulder blades. The animal sank immediately to his knees and rolled over. The audience rose to its feet with a roar of approval and all of a sudden the stadium was a flurry of white handkerchiefs.

  From the presiding box t
oo now a handkerchief was waved in return. Reluctantly Marcus gave the old man next to him a questioning look.

  ‘Una oreja. He has awarded him an ear.’ And then when Marcus’s puzzlement obviously increased. ‘For a noble kill. And a noble death. Sacrifice, and atonement. I had hoped you would understand.’ He looked across at Nazreem, and Marcus could see there was moisture in her eyes.

  ‘But perhaps your young lady does. And in the end maybe that is all that matters.’

  37

  A line of taxis stood at a rank on the edge of a dusty triangle, their drivers standing together smoking cigarettes and swapping gossip in the lengthening shadow cast by the great amphitheatre behind them. Occasionally a roar would go up accompanied by a chorus of klaxons from within the arena, a muffled ghost of the blood and passion in the ritual drama in the dust.

  There was still one bull to kill when the old man led Marcus and Nazreem out of Las Ventas and across the road into a small side street lined with seedy bars. The second on the left was called, with a drab predictability, El Torero Bravo. A man in a long white apron was sitting on a metal chair at a small table outside, mopping his brow and savouring a small cigar. He nodded as they approached and gestured them with one hand into the air-conditioned interior.

  The long bar was all but empty, just a couple of men drinking beer at the far end and two waiters watching a replay of a football game on a television fixed high on the wall by a bracket. Behind the curved glass of the counter were dishes laden with tapas: olives stuffed with garlic or almonds, chunks of chorizo sausage in rich red paprika sauce, darkly marbled slivers of Jabugo ham, little rounds of bread topped with tripe in tomato sauce, others with thin slices of red onion and marinated anchovies, or boiled egg festooned with fat orange globules of fish roe.