John D. MacDonald
Tank-Town Matador
The room where he changed had the stink of failure, the tired smell of poverty and defeat. He could hear the growling roar from the crowd in the bull ring. Paco Solis smiled without humor as he fingered the dusty blackness, the stained embroidery of his montero, the traditional hat of the torero. He stood, lean, hard, the healed horn wound, the cornada he had received in the Mexico City bull ring, a deep dimple in the smooth shoulder flesh.
So many years, so many heartbreaks — and so many dreams. He pulled on the stiffly embroidered jacket. Juaquim Montez, who would place banderillas for him, strolled in, said, “Ah, nearly ready. What is the matter, Paquito? Are you affronted to perform for these country clowns, this muy ranchero collection of aficionados?”
“You have much mouth, my friend.”
Juaquim picked up the discarded letter from Juanito. He read a few lines before Paco Solis snatched it away.
Juaquim laughed. “Ah, Juanito is the wise one. He won the silver ear in Mexico one year after you did. Each of you, in your own year, was the best of all the novices, the novilleros, and could elect to become a full matador.”
Paco said sullenly, “You are correct. Juanito is the wise one. When we were both offered the alternativa he elects to remain a novillero, while I become a torero. Now I fight in these stinking little provincial towns, and he fights in the novillero season in Mexico and gets bigger purses than I get as a professional torero. I cannot get a booking in the professional season in Mexico City. Yet there is no turning back. I have chosen, and I must remain a torero. Yes, Juanito was wise. It was not a good time to become a torero.”
Juaquim thumped Paco’s shoulder. “Don’t brood, little one. We have work. Two spavined, over-age bulls for you to kill.”
The traditional pomp and ceremony of the starting moment was as absurd in the weathered little bull ring as would be a symphony orchestra in a cantina. The Alguacil had requested the usual permission of the Juez de Plaza to begin the fight. He had backed his horse to the Puerta de Cuadrillas, and he advanced once again, leading the pitifully small parade.
Behind him walked the three toreros. Paco walked, as did the others, with the head-high strut of the torero. On one side of him was the eldest torero, Ricardo Espinosa, who would kill the first bull. On his other side was Pepe Redondo, a new one. Paco saw the glow of dedication on Pepe Redondo’s face, the dilated nostrils, the extreme pallor. And Paco was amused.
Behind them marched the four banderilleros, whose services they would have to share, and, on padded, aged horses, the three picadores, followed by the monosabios, the ring servants.
They advanced across the ring, saluted the judge, a beefy, florid man who lolled, half-drunk, in his box.
As Paco turned to trade his embroidered cape for the working cape, he glanced over the crowd. The small ring was packed with what he guessed to be about seven thousand persons. The sun side, the cheap-ticket side, was rowdy, as usual, with a sprinkling of touristas on the shade side.
Paco stood behind the barrera and watched Ricardo Espinosa work the first bull. The animal was spirited, but too small for the big-city rings. Probably nine hundred pounds.
After Ricardo had watched the bull, made a few cautious veronicas with the big cape, the picadores entered and, in pic-ing the bull three times, did a clumsy job, hurting the animal too much. The shrill whistlings of the crowd expressed their displeasure. The picadores left the ring and the banderilleros did an equally awkward job, setting the banderillas lightly enough, but with one pair so far forward that they would obviously interfere with the kill.
Ricardo came out with the muleta, the small cape, and the sword. The bull was uncertain and, because of the mishandling, unpredictable. Paco half-smiled as he watched Ricardo’s clumsy faking. His stance for the natural pass shifted clumsily into a safer molinete pass as the bull charged. As soon as the horn was by, Ricardo would assume once more the natural pass position. It did not fool the crowd. There were yells of “Maleta!” and more whistling.
At last the small bull stood in the correct position, head lowered, feet together. Ricardo went in with the sword, surprising the crowd with the neatness and bravery of the kill.
The next bull was Paco’s. He had long since decided that, in working the provinces, there was no need to perform spectacular work. Why die before these audiences of clowns?
It was necessary to dedicate the bull — and profitably. On the shade side, in a front row, he saw an elderly couple, obviously prosperous touristas, with a young, lovely, golden-haired daughter. They had a guide with them. Paco Solis marched to that portion of the barrera, dedicated the bull to the girl, saw her confused blush.
As he turned away, he flung his hat back to them, knowing that the guide would explain that he would return for the hat after the kill and would expect to find a substantial bill in it.
He went behind the little gate in the barrero, while the banderilieros took up their positions in the ring to await the entrance of the bull.
As the bull came into the ring, the flick of a cape in the hand of a banderillero attracted the animal’s attention. He charged the cape, and as the man ducked, the huge bull leaped the barrera, jumping the five-foot fence with all the agility of a thoroughbred horse. The gate was quickly opened and the bull, running inside the barrera, found his way back into the ring. Head high, he moved quickly from side to side, alert and dangerous.
Paco knew what had happened. This bull had been inspected on the big Piedras Negras ranch, had been judged too big, and thus not sufficiently agile for the big-time ring. He would weigh upward of twelve hundred pounds. But the inspectors had been wrong. This bull was as quick as a great cat.
It was a bull such as a torero dreams of, and fears.
The banderilleros ran the bull back and forth across the hard-packed yellow sand. Paco watched, fearing that something would be wrong with this bull. No, the bull followed the trailing cape, charging clean and true and straight. Nor did he pause before his charge. He charged so fleetly that it was difficult to guess the precise moment of his charge. The crowd was yelling wildly, knowing and appreciating a good bull. The brave and proud animal stood, snorting, incredibly strong, incalculably dangerous.
This animal had been bred to die with dignity and raw, brute courage. In addition, his mind was keen. This was the first moment that he had encountered man, a puny, two-legged animal which dared the deadly power of his horns.
At last Paco knew enough of the bull to go forward with his own cape. As matador he was the first to be permitted to use two hands on the cape.
At closer range the bull appeared to be even more enormous. Paco flicked the cape, enticed the charge, passed the bull by him with a cautious veronica that passed the horn a good foot and a half from his thigh.
Ah, this was a bull! If only he could have a bull such as this in the ring in Mexico City! But here, where even his best work would be remembered only by these country Indios...