Mexico

by James A. Michener

  It required only a few minutes to reach the young matador’s room and in that time my guide reminded me of his own name and background. “Name in the States, Richard Martin. Down here where I’m doing a bit of bullfighting, Ricardo Martín, heavy accent on that last syllable.”

  “From where?”

  “Idaho and San Diego.”

  At Paquito’s mean quarters I found him with his suit of lights carefully laid out on the bed, his two peóns and picador standing by with their suits, and three or four local aficionados. It was the lower rung of the ladder that matadors had to climb and I understood why Ricardo had wanted me to lend it some semblance of dignity. “This is Señor Clay, famous photographer from New York. He wants some photos.”

  I had no desire whatever for shots of one more beginning fighter, but looking at the brilliant red suit of lights on the bed, I said with feigned enthusiasm, “I could use some shots of you being dressed—very colorful,” and in that way I watched the third of that day’s matadors put on his suit. When it came time to do the towel routine with the tight pants, I handed my camera to Ricardo and asked him to shoot me as I handled one end of the towel while we crammed the picador into his heavy pants and Paquito into his lighter ones.

  When the four toreros were properly dressed, we rushed down back paths to enter the House of Tile from the rear so we could join the other two matadors when they came down to get into the limousines that would take them to the bullring. In this way it would look to the public as if the kid from Monterrey had also stayed in the expensive hotel, and this was important, for in the pecking order of matadors, maintaining a first-rate appearance is obligatory.

  Ricardo Martín served as scout for us, and soon he whispered: “They’re coming down,” and with the skill of master spies on a secret mission, Paquito and his men insinuated themselves into the general milieu of the hotel stairways and halls so that they appeared to have stayed there for some time.

  On the Terrace I watched as Juan Gómez and Cigarro overtook the four Leals. Briefly the two matadors stared impersonally at each other, then bowed ceremonially as Paquito de Monterrey and his shabby troupe, picked up for pennies, joined them. A little overeagerly, the young matador greeted the other two as each group climbed into its own limousine for the drive of a few blocks to the plaza.

  As soon as the limousines left, the guests of the hotel began to congregate for their own less formal parade to the bullring. With two cameras slung from my neck, two notepads and three pens stuffed into the various pockets of my safari jacket, I led the Oklahomans down the sunny canyon of Avenida Gral. Gurza, flanked with brightly colored houses of blue and cerise and green. “This couldn’t be anywhere but Mexico,” Mrs. Evans cried. “And there’s nowhere else in the world I would rather be today than right here.”

  My own thoughts were more complex. Watching the three matadors dress in the colorful uniforms they used when challenging death, I took macabre satisfaction as a workman in knowing that if anything did go wrong in this first fight justifying a magazine article, I would have those fascinating photos of how men dressed for this strange occupation. But even if nothing happened till the last day I’d still have the good shots of the two principals. Those of Paquito would be of no account, except for their brilliant color.

  My reverie was broken by a sound totally inappropriate for a bullfight.

  From well beyond the cathedral on land that was usually vacant came the tinkling music of a merry-go-round, the soaring tunes from a Ferris wheel. Yes, for as long as I could remember, street fairs had been held there to coincide with the bullfights of Ixmiq, so the childish music was a vital part of my childhood.

  Before long we pedestrians had caught up with the matadors, whose limousines were constantly halted by crowds of Indians far too poor to afford tickets to the fight but who crowded the Avenida for a glimpse of the toreros. Impassive, they did not cheer as Spaniards would have, but the manner in which their dark eyes followed the four handsome men showed they appreciated the Leals’ fame. When Gómez rode past, an Altomec like themselves, they gazed at him in silence and he stared back with stony Indian dignity. I was walking beside the matador’s car when it was halted by a mass of sandal-shod Altomecs, from whom not a flicker of an eye betrayed the fact that they wished him well.

  Finally the policemen had to open a path for the limousines, and I caught a great shot of Paquito de Monterrey nodding to the crowd, which re-formed like a wave behind his passage. When the Indians engulfed me again, silent and earnest, I was assailed by another assault on my senses. It was the inviting smell of chiles and tripe frying in deep fat, reinforced by the aroma of lemonade and sweet oranges. I was no longer an American journalist but a little Mexican boy holding his father’s hand as we hurried to the bullring of Toledo to revel in the Festival of Ixmiq. But even my revered father was eclipsed in my memory by the Indian woman in a shawl who bent over a shallow pan, frying tortillas to accompany the tripe. As I looked at her I thought: She must have operated that stand when I was a boy, selling her wares at the same corner for half a century. I forgot the bullfighters and the rich Oklahomans and asked in colloquial Spanish, “Old mother, may I take your picture, for I used to live here, long ago.”

  Without halting the trained motions of her hands, she looked up at me but not a flicker of reaction crossed her dark face. She simply stared, her blank, Indian face rimmed by the bright fringes of her shawl. I took the picture, and she returned her attention to her tortillas and tripe.

  At last we reached the ring, whose big wooden gates stood slightly ajar to admit us to the shady section where the Oklahomans, using the tickets Mr. Grim had bought from the scalper, had seats as good as the extortionist had promised—second row. As an accredited journalist I was allowed to roam the passageway between the spectators and the red board fence behind which the matadors stood for protection when not fighting in the ring.

  At five minutes of five, six workmen in white pants and blue cotton shirts hauled from the center of the ring an enormous plastic bottle that directed the spectators to “Demand Coca-Cola.” Perched on chairs atop the roof, a police band played bullfight music while the rusty hands of the old German clock imported in 1883 creaked their way toward the starting hour. The legal authority who would supervise the fight and ensure compliance with custom was always a local luminary who perched in a gala box at the highest point in the stands. Called the president, he started the festivities by waving a small white handkerchief, whereupon drums rolled, a trumpet sounded, and the rooftop musicians broke into the traditional accompaniment for the fight to begin.

  The big red doors through which the matadors would soon enter in their resplendent parade were opened and out rode an elderly man astride a fine white horse. The alguacil, as he was called, the constable enforcing the decisions of the president, was handsomely dressed in the frilled costume of the eighteenth century, and made a fine figure as he rode in a stately manner across the ring to ask permission to open the small red door through which the bulls would explode into the ring. Petitioning the president, he received a big brass key, which he held high in the air as he galloped back to disappear through the big doors to hand the ceremonial key to the attendant who guarded the small door from which the six bulls would emerge, one by one.

  No matter how many times you have seen the entrance of bullfighters it is always a thrilling experience. They come out not in single file, for that would denigrate the fellow in last position, but side by side, as if all were equal, which is the case as the fight begins. From my safe spot in the passageway I slipped out into the middle of the ring itself, snapping a fast series of color pictures. Through my viewfinder I could see the three matadors as they marched in the order prescribed centuries ago: to my left as I photographed them the senior matador, in this case Juan Gómez in his faded purple suit; on the extreme right, second in point of experience, Victoriano in silver and white; and always in the middle the youngest, in this case Paquito the kid from Monterrey, in scarl
et.

  When they reached our side of the arena, the one in the shade for the first-class patrons, they spent some minutes in a pleasant ritual. Searching the stands for some beautiful woman sitting in the first row, they draped over the railing before her their ceremonial capes, the richly brocaded garments used only in the opening parade. Then they tested their real capes, the judge nodded to a trumpeter, who rose and sent forth the exciting Moorish bugle cry that traditionally heralds the appearance of the bull. The brassy notes rose impressively, then fell away in mournful cascades, ending in an Oriental wail. The crowd roared and across the ring from where the matadors waited a red gate swung open. From a dark passageway beneath the stands there came a bellowing, a black flash of power and a swirl of dust as the bull torpedoed into the sunlight. Braking with his front feet, he gazed momentarily left and right until, catching sight of a flickering cape, with the mad instinct of his breed he launched a furious charge at his enemy.

  Sensing the bull’s great power, the crowd roared encouragement and men yelled to their seatmates, “This one looks good!” When the bull saw the red barrier looming, the cheers died, for he cowardly veered away from contact with it, forefeet splayed in the air and horns slashing wildly. Those who knew bulls muttered, “Another disaster,” and they were right.

  With this bull, who got worse as the fight progressed, Gómez could do nothing. The bull would not follow the cape, nor charge at the picadors, nor allow the banderilleros to place their sticks. By the time Gómez marched out with his sword to attempt a kill, Cigarro was shouting: “This one, nothing. Finish him how you can,” but the Gómez sense of honor would not allow that. Six times he tried to do a decent job and six times he struck bone, the sword flying back in a lovely arc and landing point down in the sand. On the seventh try Gómez wounded the beast, but the bull refused to fall. Slowly he paraded around the rim of the arena, refusing to die. The trumpet sounded, warning Gómez to finish this travesty, but he was powerless to do so.

  At last the bull staggered sideways and fell. A dagger man leaped out on foot to stab the fallen animal at the base of the skull, and the dismal fight was over.

  In the plaza, reactions to this opening fight were varied. The red-necked Oklahoman shouted to his party, with some relief, “I’m glad Ledesma warned us most of the fights are like this. It was even worse than he said.”

  Mrs. Evans told her companion weakly, “Señor Ledesma intimated this morning that he thought Americans were somehow degenerate because we couldn’t tolerate bullfights. How can anyone tolerate this?”

  Ledesma, parading through the passageway to chat with friends, saw the Oklahomans and cried in English, “Well, what do you think?”

  O. J. Haggard asked, “Was this one of the three that you described as disasters?”

  “Oh, no! I’d rate this as one of the better fights. The matador was at least trying.”

  “My God!” Haggard gasped. “Even with that awful business at the end?”

  “Of course!” Ledesma replied with no irony. “A real disaster comes when everything goes wrong and those devils over there”—he pointed to the sunny side—“begin to act up. This time they could see that Gómez was doing his best with a bad bull. You wait. When a real disaster comes, you’ll recognize it.” He passed on to greet an impresario from the north.

  “This is one of the better fights?” Haggard repeated to his group. “I don’t think I want to see a disaster.”

  “You will!” Ed Grim assured him. “From what Ledesma said, by the time this is through, it’ll be sickening.”

  Under the stands, in private quarters reserved for the ranchers, Don Fernando Murillo, the breeder who had supplied the bulls for that day, looked at his friends as his first bull was hauled out. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “Well, it wasn’t one of our best bulls, but it wasn’t too bad.” Nobody dared ask him what a really bad one would look like. Knowing that if even one bull fought well, the bad ones would be forgiven, they listened respectfully when the breeder predicted, “This next one should yield ears and tail. On the range it looked precious.” It was a lie, but uttering it gave him hope.

  In the passageway Cigarro, his trademark cigar arrogantly jutted upward toward the crowd, was dismayed but could express his concern to no one. In his matador’s first performance there was honor, but none of the grace and excitement that would make a visiting impresario want to contract the Indian for future fights. “Not likely Ixmiq next year,” Cigarro mused. “But there’s another bull today, three more on Sunday. Maybe something happen.” And if nothing happened today, it would be Cigarro’s job to make something happen. “Maybe a riot, maybe Juan insult Veneno—oh, anything.”

  In the patio, where the picadors waited for the second bull, old Veneno astride his horse reflected: “This damned Gómez has guts. Whew! Those horns Thank the Virgin my son didn’t have to fight that one. Now if he can only do something with his own bull.” Even as he worried about his son, his thoughts remained on the performance he had just witnessed. “That damned Gómez! Suppose a man with that much guts gets a good bull on his second?” He licked his lips and tasted salt.

  Juan Gómez, using a towel to clean his sagging face, thought, God, they build these bulls of concrete. Seven tries! It’s a wonder they didn’t throw the bottles at me today. Maybe the next bull, maybe the next. He refused to think of the two tosses he had received, or of his miraculous escape from the horns as Victoriano swept out from the barrier like a protecting angel, flapping wings of magenta and yellow. Those things he would think of later, but his mind flashed back to the images he had seen. Since Gómez was of the school of matadors who preached, “Never take your eye from the bull’s head,” even when he was flying downward in his swift flight toward the horns, he was looking to see where he would land and could picture the swift and terrible upward rush of those black-tipped, silver-based horns as they sought him in the air. He had landed between them and, with his sharp eyes still watching everything, had slipped back off the bull’s forehead and down along his wet flanks. With almost childlike relief he had watched the approach of the bull’s tail as it heralded his escape from the horns. Thoughts he could postpone, but sights he could not, and again the abrupt appearance of Victoriano and his rescuing cape flashed before him. “Glad he was quick,” the little Indian grunted to himself. His face now clean, he moved along the passageway to where Lucha sat. “You mind if I dedicate the next bull to you?”

  “Go ahead,” the singer said. “You hurt?”

  “No,” the little matador grunted, and moved on to where Ledesma was talking with the impresario from the north.

  “Lot of courage, matador,” Ledesma said in greeting.

  “Will you say so tomorrow?” Gómez snapped.

  “If you want good notices, you know what to do.”

  “You miserable son-of-a-bitch,” Gómez growled, but the critic replied with “Good luck on your next bull,” as he moved off.

  Here it might be helpful if I added an explanatory word. Whenever I’m talking to people who know nothing of bullfighting, or writing for them, I remind myself, They probably think the big, heavy capes that are so important in three quarters of the fight are red. That’s completely wrong. The capes are magenta or a dull yellow, and they dominate the opening running, the matador’s first passes, the work with the picadors and positioning the bull for the sticks. Only at the dead end of the fight is a red cloth used, and it’s about half the size of the cape, but it’s in at the death and that’s what counts. They’ve conducted tests and the bull is in no way enraged by the red color. The simple fact is, he sees it better, but he’ll charge anything that moves, no matter the color. He is a killer, not an art fancier.

  In the passageway Victoriano Leal stood mumbling with his furled cape already over his eyes. “That damned Indian. On a bull like that he should have suffered a disaster.” In the folds of his cape he shook his head. “If mine’s the same kind, what can I do? But it won’t be that kind. It won’t be. There
goes the trumpet. Now the gates Now the bull. He takes the first cape. The second. Now he’s running my way. Now! Now!” He dropped the cape from his eyes and saw a handsome thousand-pound bull on the other side of the barrier. Already the crowd was crying its approval of this animal’s charges, and on the spur of the moment Victoriano rushed into the ring, his cape ready, calling, “No, Chucho. He’s mine.”

  With delicate movements the tall young man goaded the bull, then dropped his hands very low toward the ground so that the top of the cape came no higher than his knees. The bull charged true, sought the cape, buried his sharp horns in its pliant folds, and thundered past with tremendous force. Victoriano kept his feet firmly planted in the sand and arched his back gracefully to incite the bull to attempt another charge. Again the huge beast hammered at the cape, and again the crowd sensed the subjugation of great animal force by cool human intellect.

  “¡Olé!” shouted the audience, the first of the stormy cries that this Festival was to hear.

  “¡Olé!” everyone shouted again as the great bull was brought back. In the breeder’s box under the stands, Don Fernando breathed easier. “Like I said, two ears and a tail.” On the roof, the band began to play.

  When the Leal family got a good bull, it knew what to do. Now Chucho, who directed the fight until his father entered the ring, cried, “Two more passes, Victoriano. Then the half.” In compliance, the young matador executed two wonderfully suave passes and finished with an exhibition that earned shouts of approval. He started the next as if he were about to make a normal pass but, as the bull approached, cut the pass in half, pulled the cape close to his body, and gave the bull no target at all so that the animal brushed very close to his left leg. It was a moment of exquisite art.