Mexico

by James A. Michener

  I learned later that just about the time Mrs. Evans and I reached this point in our conversation at the ranch, Veneno, in his room at the House of Tile, was on the telephone to a friend of his, the great banderillero Rolleri, now manager of the ring at San Luis Potosí: “Rolleri, what do you know about that bull the Palafox people were so proud of, Sangre Azul I think they called him?”

  “Not much, Veneno. I saw him in the campo last year, a handsome animal. Predicted at the time: ‘That one will yield ears.’ ”

  “Can’t you think of anything else? This is important.”

  “Now, wait a minute! In February, maybe March, I met a boy who works at Palafox, and I asked him: ‘How’s your great bull Azul Something doing?’ and all he said was ‘He went.’ I don’t know what he meant.”

  “I know damned well what he meant,” Veneno snarled, “but not what it signifies. Today we have a full plaza.”

  “Buena suerte,” Rolleri said. Veneno replied: “In this dirty business a man makes his own good fortune, or his matador gets killed.”

  As far as we could reconstruct his movements on that busy afternoon, as soon as Veneno left the phone he hurried out to the building, where he slipped into the area where the bulls were guarded and casually asked a young fellow from the Palafox ranch: “When Sangre Azul died, did Don Eduardo mount the head?”

  “No. He was sick about the loss of such a bull.”

  “Which one killed him?”

  “That damned maricón,” the boy said bitterly, and he pointed to the stall holding No. 47.

  “Oh, Jesus!” Veneno muttered to himself. “The one we missed in the barbering. The one that has already killed another bull.” He ran to his car and drove at breakneck speed to the cement factory at the far edge of town where he made a great noise till he roused an assistant manager: “I need one oversize bag of cement, right now. A building under way.”

  When it was produced, it was so heavy it took both him and the workman to load it into the back of his car, and on the way back to town it became even heavier, for he stopped by a small stream and, using a pail in which he often carried sandwiches during a long trip from one fight to another, he soaked the bag until it was dripping wet and far to heavy for one man to handle. He then drove back to the ring, parked his car near the patio in which the picadors kept their horses, greeted them and told a young fellow who tended the Leal horses, “When you get a chance, bring it in from the car,” and he hurried off to dress in his heavy picador’s gear for the fight that would begin shortly.

  At the ranch, when we were led to the little ring in which the testing would take place—it could seat no more than sixty—Penny could not be aware that shortly she would be goaded into proving that her expensive charro’s costume was not merely for display. After we were settled, Don Eduardo asked the mariachis he had imported to sound a flourish and, borrowing their microphone, he announced: “We are not offering a formal tienta—that means a testing, our norteamericano friends. That takes too much time and too many cows. But we are going to throw three or four of our best cows into our little ring, and I’ve asked our dear friend Calesero of Aguascalientes—you saw him yesterday, and if you wish you may applaud him again. He’s agreed to supervise our little exhibition, but as you see, he’s not dressed in his bullfight costume. That’s saved for real fights. We call it traje corto—short dress, clothes he’d wear at his ranch.”

  The crowd applauded as Calesero moved to the center of the ring. He was a handsome man who would soon “cut his coleta,” the ritual act signifying his formal retirement from bullfighting; it consisted of cutting the wisp of hair matadors wear at the nape of the neck. He wore ordinary ranch shoes of some expensive make, work pants neatly folded up from the bottom so as to show two inches of white inside fabric above the shoe top, a white shirt buttoned at the neck, a shoestring black tie fastened to the shirt at the belt so that it hung straight, a short jacket of the kind that generals wear, and a sombrero cordobés; a rather small black hat not so large as a regular sombrero. He was a figure from the early days of the last century, adding dignity to the afternoon.

  After he bowed to the audience in the stands and to the many more from the countryside who crowded in against the fence, he indicated that his colleague for the show should come forward, and I was surprised to see a young man, not yet a full matador, who would be in the ring that afternoon. I told Mrs. Evans and Penny, “That one should not be here. He should be in his hotel room, resting.” When they asked why, I explained: “When only two matadors share the bull, mano a mano like today, there must be, for safety’s sake, a third matador on hand, in case the first two get knocked out before the afternoon ends. Sobresaliente they call him from the Spanish sobre (over) and saliente from the verb salir (to go out), so the word really means substitute.”

  “If he shouldn’t be here, why is he?” Mrs. Evans asked, and, making inquiries, I learned that this young Pepe Huerta, eager to please anyone important in the bullfight world, had allowed Don Eduardo to bully him into appearing briefly at the noontime fiesta: “After a few passes he’ll motor back to town to dress for the fight. Don Eduardo has a car waiting.” So we would be seeing not only Calesero but also this apparently promising young aspirant. A bugler from the mariachi band sounded the traditional call: “Send in the bull!” and the gate swung open to release a two-year-old cow who looked as if she had just been shot from the mouth of a heavily charged cannon, for after a quick look around she galloped with great fury right at Calesero, who stood his ground, unfurled his cape, and led her past.

  Turning with speed, she came back at him, and with practiced skill he led her past again, then delivered her with expert passes into the jurisdiction of Huerta, who also gave her a pair of passes. Having struck nothing but cloth, she was so frustrated and bewildered that she stopped to reconnoiter, and this provided time for Don Eduardo to signal that the first two of the amateurs who wanted to test their skills against the cow could replace the two matadors, and into the ring rushed two boys about fifteen armed with borrowed capes and hoping to dominate the cow as the matadors had done. But now the little cow had adversaries more her size and, also, she had learned something from those first futile charges. Driving at the first boy, she again hit only cloth, but in a swift turn she was upon him again before he could reset his feet, and down he fell like a bowling pin. Thus encouraged, she headed for the second lad, who could do nothing with her, and for the next moments at least one of the boys was always on the ground and sometimes both of them.

  The boys were called from the ring to applause for their bravery, and the signal was given that all who wished could jump into the ring with or without capes and try to dodge the galloping cow. It was a gay and lovely frolic, with the cow making one hit after another, and enjoying it as much as the young men.

  But now the bugle sounded, the ring was cleared of everyone except the two matadors, who deftly led the excited and triumphant cow to the exit, where she kicked her heels, tried to charge Calesero again, and disappeared to loud applause as Don Eduardo said on the loudspeaker: “You’ve seen a real Palafox cow. Her sons will be brave.”

  A second was brought in, and after a few passes from the professionals two more young fellows were invited to show their skills, and they were much like the first pair. When their feet were firmly set they knew how to use their capes, but when the spirited cow turned quickly, the young matadors were not prepared. I explained to Mrs. Evans and Penny that the cow really had no horns—that is, none that had reached a point of development where they pointed forward. “So getting hit by the cow is much like getting struck by a flat object. It pushes you about but it doesn’t puncture.”

  As I said this the third cow was allowed in, and when Calesero saw in the first pass that she charged straight and hard and true, he motioned to young Huerta to take her to a far part of the ring. He then astounded Penny and Mrs. Evans by coming to the stands and addressing the movie starlet in Spanish: “Divine señorita, will you help me
to conquer this brave bull?” To the delight of the crowd she agreed, left the stands, kicked off her high-heeled shoes and grabbed one end of a long red cloth while Calesero held the opposite end, about five feet away. In this formation the two marched slowly, breathlessly across the sand while young Huerta used his cape to point the cow in the direction of the oncoming enemy. Then the sobresaliente retired while remaining close enough to the actress if anything went wrong.

  Nothing did. The cow saw the fluttering cloth, lunged at it, struck it exactly in the middle, and passed both the actress and the matador. It was a lovely action, with the aspect of a fairy tale. I thought: He’s like a medieval knight, she’s like a princess wearing a hennin, that conical headdress topped with a veil. And the little cow is really a fierce dragon.

  Penny must have had similar thoughts, for as the exhibition ended, she cried to no one in particular: “I could do that!”

  “What did you say?” Don Eduardo asked, and Penny said almost as a challenge to the actress: “I could do that. Any cowgirl could.”

  “Are you a cowgirl? Like a cowboy?”

  “Sure.”

  Don Eduardo called for Calesero and they spoke at the barrier, then the matador, with a grand gesture, extended his right hand to Penny, and without any urging from me or Mrs. Evans, she rose, nodded to the guests and started down to the sand, but as she passed me she whispered: “You were right. These clothes are too good to waste.”

  Trying to protect her, I grabbed a wrist and whispered: “You don’t have to do this,” and she whispered back: “If she can do it, so can I.”

  “But she’s a movie star. She’s supposed to—”

  Brushing my hand aside, she said: “I wasn’t thinking of her. It’s Conchita,” and with the agility of a schoolgirl in gym class, she vaulted over the railing and into the ring.

  As the crowd cheered, Calesero graciously asked in broken English if she cared to take off her boots as the actress had done, and she replied in Spanish: “No es necesario. Se hicieron para esto” (Not necessary. They were made for this.).

  As Penny and her matador started their slow march toward the cow I thought: What an exquisite scene. An elderly matador about to retire with honors, a beautiful young woman with spirit, and each costumed exactly right. The red cloth! The eager animal! With my automatic I took six rapid-fire pictures, and with the last one caught Pepe Huerta whispering to Penny just before the cow came up: “Feet firm. Don’t move. Hold the cape tight.”

  She obeyed, tensing both her wrists and her jaw as the cow roared between the two, but now came the critical part, for Huerta yelled at Penny: “Turn with her! Plant your feet! Hold tight!” and again the cow smashed right into the middle of the cape, but this time she turned with such incredible swiftness that Penny had no time to prepare. The cow was upon her, butting her sharply in the right leg and tossing her into the air, but she did not fall back onto the sand, for Huerta caught her, held her in the air, and delighted the crowd by kissing her on the cheek as he stood her back up.

  “Toro!” warned the crowd, for the cow, seeing this new center of action, was bearing down on the pair, but Calesero deftly interposed himself in front of Penny and led the cow away.

  I supposed that this was the end of Miss Grim’s performance, but I was mistaken. Ashamed of having allowed herself to be knocked down, she recovered her end of the cape, handed the other end to Huerta and indicated that she at last was ready for another charge. Now it was Calesero who stood at her side, coaching: “Feet firm. Hold tight,” and it was either her skill or Huerta’s, but the cape had been placed perfectly, for the cow roared safely past, but again, even before Calesero could reposition Penny, the little beast was upon her from the rear. This time Penny went up in the air, and this gave Huerta a chance to catch her before she crashed. As he planted her gingerly back on the ground, he again kissed her, then held her hand aloft as he coached her in taking a turn of the arena to wild applause from the watchers. And that is the way Penny Grim of Tulsa, an incoming freshman at S.M.U., met her third torero in three days, and had twice been kissed by him.

  As she stood close to him at the railing, waiting for the fourth cow to be let in, I thought: What a handsome pair they make! Two young people, bright-eyed, full of vitality, each leaning toward the other. The quaint essence of youth!

  My attention was diverted to Ricardo Martín, who had obviously learned of the tienta through the bullfighters’ grapevine and now wormed his way in with hopes of making at least a few passes with a real animal. Undetected by Don Eduardo’s guards, he now edged toward the arena, saw that Huerta was paying more attention to Penny Grim than to the bull, snatched a red cloth that had been draped over the railing, and with an athletic leap landed in the ring to face a still-vigorous and determined animal. Lacking the stick that would normally have held his muleta open, he had to rely on the most difficult passes in the repertory: limp cloth low in the left hand, right hand behind the back, moving slowly toward the cow and stamping his right foot softly to provoke the charge. It was risky, even with a cow, but he performed the ritual so perfectly and with such style that watchers began to clap. The cow charged and Martín remained immobile except for the slow motion of his left hand as the cow swept past. Then, like a real matador, he turned quickly but with an economy of movement and presented the cloth again, low, slowly, gracefully.

  In those magical moments he announced to the taurine world that he knew what he was doing and on his third pass, even better and closer than before, I heard some around me saying: “He knows, that one.”

  Calesero came to him and embraced him, leading him personally back to a seat beside Mrs. Evans. When the exhibition ended, Ricardo tried to steal the red cloth he had borrowed but was detected by one of Don Eduardo’s men, who said boldly: “If you don’t mind, I’ll take that.” In great humiliation Ricardo had to surrender it. But at that moment Mrs. Evans stepped in and asked the functionary: “What is the muleta worth?” for she had already learned the word, and the man said: “They’re not cheap, the proper ones, the way they’re cut and stretched. Ten dollars.” And he showed her how what seemed to be a simple square of cloth had a pocket in it for holding the stick or sword that the matador used and also how small washers were sewn into the fringe to keep it from blowing about in a wind. “If it blew up, covering the matador,” the man said, “he would become the unprotected target and might be killed. This is an important piece of cloth.”

  “You’ve explained it beautifully. Here’s ten dollars and the cloth belongs to him.” When the exchange was made and Martín tucked the muleta into his shirt, León Ledesma looked at me quizzically and I nodded, which meant: “That’s right, León, he hopes to be an espontáneo this afternoon,” and the big man groaned: “Not two in two days. The gods are punishing me.”

  As we passed out of the ring toward our cars, which would take us back to the bullfight, the workman who had tried to take the red cloth from Ricardo overtook us and grabbed Martín by the arm, and for a moment I feared there might be a brawl. But the man had brought a matador’s stick, the kind whose point fitted in the pocket of the cloth. It was about three feet long, too much by far to hide under a shirt when one was going to try an espontáneo. But this one had been sawn in half and brought back together by a clever system of hinges and screws. Folded, it could be hidden and when reconstituted in full length as one climbed over the red fence into the ring where the bull waited, it would be a helpful tool.

  “¿Hoy día, quizás?” the workman asked. (Today, maybe?)

  “Sí.”

  “Buena suerte.” And he left us to ride back to the bullring with workmen from the ranch.

  On our ride back Mrs. Evans asked Ledesma to share the rear seat with her while I drove her Cadillac with Penny perched beside me, and I heard Mrs. Evans say: “It’s pretty obvious Ricardo’s going to try to get into the ring this afternoon, isn’t it?”

  “He and about six others,” replied Ledesma.

  “But if he do
es leap in, and if he does as well with the bull as he did with the cow, will you say so in your report?”

  “I don’t deal in such matters. Nothing ever comes of such an act.”

  “I’m told that’s how Gómez got started.”

  “He’s one in a thousand—ten thousand.”

  “But let’s suppose he does something spectacular, would you then say so?”

  “I told you I don’t deal—”

  I cannot say for sure what happened, because I could see their heads in my mirror but not their hands, but I’m fairly certain that money was exchanged, paper money, and after a long silence, Mrs. Evans asked: “In your sober opinion, Señor Ledesma, what would it cost an American boy to become an apprentice and then a matador, always providing he had the talent?”

  “Well now!” and he began to reel off numbers that staggered me. “First the basics. Two suits, five thousand dollars. Swords, capes, muletas, thirty-five hundred. The special cape for the entry parade, twenty-five hundred. Then the recurring fees, your peóns and picadors, three thousand dollars a fight. Tips to everyone, six thousand dollars. And then the important things, publicity, including the critics, five thousand dollars. Manager maybe as much as eighteen thousand dollars. So when you are looking at one of our top matadors, Mrs. Evans, you are looking at big money.”

  “But with a beginner, if one wanted to do it on the cheap?”

  “That’s the way I’d do it. If you had a winner, someone who could get contracts, not many but a few. Secondhand suits, swords as available, maybe as little as nine thousand dollars.”

  “Could an American make a real dent, at nine or ten thousand dollars?”

  “Six or seven try each year, probably on less. I know of two who tried real hard on twice that much. They all failed.”

  “Have any succeeded?”

  “Within severe limits, two or three.”

  “If young Martín does get into the ring this afternoon, will you be able to tell by whatever he accomplishes whether or not he has a chance?”