Mexico by James A. Michener
No. 42. 444 kilos/977 pounds. Shaved. Small horns. Very quick. Weak left foreleg.
No. 47. 473 kilos/1041 pounds. Unshaved. Monster. Eager to attack. Dangerous.
Quick to absorb details. Ledesma said: “Interesting set, well chosen, Don Eduardo, to fit the styles of the two matadors,” and as he gave a rapid review of the figures I was struck by his perspicacity.
“Obviously there are two that must be separated, both heavy—38 big and slow would be ideal for Victoriano, 47 even bigger and powerful horns, ideal for Gómez.” He then analyzed which bulls Veneno would want for his son, and which Cigarro, as spokesman for Gómez, would want for him.
“Gómez is here,” Mrs. Evans said. “Won’t he pick for himself?”
“Never. The picking of the bulls is always done by the agent. Gómez is one of the few matadors who attend the sorting.”
In the few minutes before noon I asked Don Eduardo to hold our places while I showed Mrs. Evans one of the gracious elements of the taurine world, a bronze plaque that addicts had paid for years ago to commemorate a historic fight and had set into the wall of the sorting area:
Homage of the aficionados of Toledo
to the great Mexican matador
Juan Silveti
remembering his complete fight given in
this plaza on 25 December 1931
with the bull Explosión of
Palafox
“I saw that fight,” I told Mrs. Evans. “Silveti was unforgettable. A Mexican redneck. Always dressed in public in a charro uniform, Mexican cowboy, with a huge sombrero and a cigar. But he could fight, as he proved that day. One writer said: ‘Our beloved Juan tied a golden ribbon about the bull’s horns and led him where he wished.’ And that was about it.” There were other plaques, too, making this almost a hall of fame, for through the years the best matadors had come to the Festival of Ixmiq, which had been built into an important event, I told her, by my grandfather.
Now the bartering began, with Veneno and Cigarro exercising every skill to ensure that the two groups of three would be evenly matched, for as I had explained when we first reached the corrals, neither side could be sure which set it would get in the draw, so it had to be honest. At the end of a lot of haggling, with several additional experts throwing in their judgments, it was agreed that the pairings would be 29, 38, 42 in one group, 32, 33, 47 in the other, and when this was announced, Ledesma told us knowingly: “Now Veneno starts to sweat, because he must be desperately afraid that his boy Victoriano will draw that second group, the one containing Forty-seven, that unshaved bull.”
Again Ledesma was right, for after each set of numbers had been written on a thin sheet of cigarette paper, rolled into a tight wad and placed in a hat provided by the keeper of the corrals, Veneno, as representative of the younger matador in terms of promotion to senior status, made the sign of the cross, and raised his eyes to heaven. Not daring to look at the fateful hat, he allowed the corral keeper to guide his hand to it. Fumbling inside for a moment, trying to detect in some mysterious way the favorable wad of paper, he took one, meticulously unfolded it, and stiffened. For Victoriano he had picked the second set of three, the one with the deadly bull No. 47.
At that moment I suffered the most extraordinary sensation. My right forefinger started twitching, as if eager to start photographing Victoriano’s fight with the deadly bull in anticipation that a tragedy would occur that I could use as the high spot of any second article I might write if something significant occurred today. Never in the history of bullfighting, so far as I could remember from Cossío, the world authority on the subject, had two toreros ever been killed in one fight or even in one protracted festival, so I could not reasonably anticipate the murder about which I’d planned my article, but I did have a right to speculate on what dramatic events might unfold when two matadors of such contrasting styles met those fine exemplars of the Palafox breed. The name of the ranch played a significant role in my guessing because the Palafox bulls had proved they could kill matadors, but Victoriano’s lot would be the more dangerous, for he would have to fight the bull with the unshaved horns.
Veneno, aware that he had served his son poorly, now took frantic steps to see if he could rectify the draw. Edging close to Cigarro, he whispered: “Gómez does great work with big bulls. I could let you have Forty-seven,” but the Indian’s agent whispered back: “You really want to get rid of those horns, don’t you?” and he walked away, leaving Veneno with an even greater determination to get rid of that deadly bull.
Ledesma, Mrs. Evans and I had heard parts of the above exchange, and we could fill in the other arguments, but as Ledesma explained: “The sorteo is the one absolutely honest part of the bullfight. The bull’s horns can be fixed, as you’ve seen. The ranch can slip in a bull that’s overage, like Number Twenty-nine, clearly more than four years. The judge can award ears that haven’t been earned. And even the critic”—he bowed politely—“can on occasion be subverted. And as for the matadors and picadors, they can be guilty of abominable trickery, but the sorteo is inviolate. It’s conducted honestly and Veneno should be ashamed of himself for trying to upset this one in order to protect his son.”
The six bulls were led back into the individual stalls where they would await the bugle that called each one in turn to the entrance gate. Now the substitute from the other ranch was led to his stall, and the bulls in effect left the pre-fight area, but in their absences Ledesma said ominously: “In daylight, Veneno lost his fight. His man is still saddled with that tremendous bull. But in darkness he’s sure to have some card to play.”
When I asked: “Now what does that mean?” he replied: “We’ll keep a watch on the evil one, and maybe you’ll learn something more about our national pastime.” He smiled at me, aware that he had ended with a phrase usually reserved for American baseball. He was a learned rascal, but I had no idea what his words meant.
At twelve-twenty that Sunday morning the sorting was over, but as men stood around arguing probabilities, Don Eduardo circulated among them, inviting certain friends out to his ranch for the afternoon festivities that would occupy the four hours till the start of the fight. When he reached Mrs. Evans, Ledesma and me, he said: “It would not be a fiesta without you. Please bring the little Oklahoma redhead,” but Mrs. Evans asked: “Would a girl like Penny fit in at such an affair?” and Don Eduardo clasped her hands: “Dear Mrs. Evans, a famous Mexican movie starlet will be there, not much older than Penny. They’ll form an international pair, Mexican and norteamericana.” He pressed his invitation with such obvious sincerity that I told Mrs. Evans: “Let’s see if we can persuade her to quit her mourning for lost love.” To my surprise Mrs. Evans said: “We really should, you know. She spent a fortune putting together a wardrobe for such an outing in the country. It’d be ridiculous to waste it,” and when we returned to the Terrace she tossed me the keys to her Cadillac and said: “You’ll find two huge cases in the trunk. Please bring them up to our room.”
When I opened the trunk I found exactly what she had described, an enormous suitcase and a big round leather hatbox. When I lugged them upstairs to the hotel room, I found Penny still abed, pillow rumpled, eyes downcast. “I didn’t ask for them,” she mumbled, and in reply Mrs. Evans spoke not to her but to me: “Mr. Clay, please open the boxes,” and when I did I saw tags showing that everything had recently been purchased from the Dallas Neiman-Marcus, the West’s leading department store, and I thought: I’ll bet the two cases cost more than what’s in them, maybe four hundred dollars each.
“Please empty them,” Mrs. Evans said. “Let her see what she’s throwing away.” As I removed the contents of the cases I learned what it meant to be the daughter of an Oklahoma oil millionaire, for the items were not only exquisite, each in its own way, but also grotesquely expensive. When the Hispanic adviser in Dallas assembled the outfit, she had told Penny: “You’ll be the star of any fiesta you wish to attend,” and indeed there was every reason to think she was right. Th
“But you already have those alligator boots. Why these?” asked Mrs. Evans.
For the first time since we entered the room, the listless girl in the bed, covers drawn under her chin, showed interest: “Flexible,” she said. “Twist them.” When I did, the boots responded as if they were made of some exotic cloth, not leather. “Girls who work in rodeos need boots like that,” she added.
“Have you ever worked in a rodeo?” I asked. “Wrestling calves and all that?”
“Barrel races. I’m fairly good when I have my own horse.”
Continuing with the first bag, I produced a pair of heavy socks of a lighter gray. These would come to her knees. And then came an extraordinary short skirt in a muted blue, made of some fabric I could not identify but still carrying the price tag: $485. It seemed little bigger than my hand and contained no decoration whatever; it had a dull, slightly roughened finish, which indicated that the weaver had paid careful attention to his cloth. Its quiet elegance made Penny, wearing only a skimpy undergarment, jump out from beneath her covers and grab the skirt from my hands.
“I’ll wait outside,” I said, but she laughed: “No need. I wear less than this in gym class.”
Even so, I turned my back on her as she slipped into the various items I handed her, each of which was perfection, exactly right for a day in the country. The blouse I handed her was beyond my experience. Of some exotic South American weave, it was decorated with a host of hand-embroidered pale blue-and-gold flowers, so subtle they were barely visible. Over this she wore a form-fitting jacket of the thinnest pliable leather adorned with small bronze studs, which was not garish but soberly dignified. The last item in the big case was an alpaca scarf so fragile it weighed nothing in my hand; she tied it loosely about her neck, then said: “Now for the best part,” and she pointed to the round case. From it I lifted a woman’s sombrero, an elegantly molded felt that had been created by a cowboy’s hatter in Tulsa, whom Penny had visited six times before he was satisfied that his finished product cast proper shadows on her lovely face. When she tilted the sombrero properly and smiled at me, I said: “It would have been criminal to leave you here,” and she looked so appealing with wisps of red hair sneaking out from under the hat that I was prompted to make an observation that I hoped the two women would not consider macabre: “I want to photograph you, Penny, as you put on the jacket, the scarf and the sombrero. In a room like this, two days ago, I photographed Paquito as he dressed for his death. You’re dressing for your life.”
“And what do you mean?”
“In that costume, something good’s bound to happen.”
She took off the garments to put them on again while I snapped her picture. She was satisfied, I’m certain, that indeed some exciting surprise awaited.
On our way down to the car I whispered to Mrs. Evans: “What did that outfit cost, would you guess?”
“I don’t need to guess. I had one like it when I was younger. Maybe eighteen hundred dollars, counting the two cases.”
“I should think that would assuage a lot of grief.”
“When you’re seventeen, nothing assuages a love wound, but a Jason Cree sombrero helps. My husband had three. I still have two.”
For the entertainment of guests who attended the periodic testing of cows the Palafox ranch had a small wooden arena that was a duplicate of the big ones in which real fights were held, as well as a tastefully landscaped garden under whose big trees a lavish barbecue could be served. There was also a spacious recreation room with two pool tables and chairs made of highly polished bull’s horns with leather seats and raw-wool cushions. Around the walls, each on a hardwood plaque, ranged the heads of nine bulls that had brought glory to the name of Palafox. Beneath each of the dark heads with their glistening horns appeared in neat lettering the name of the bull, what he had achieved to gain immortality, the arena in which it had occurred, the matador who had fought him and the date. To visit each of these bulls in turn was to relive the glories of the ranch and its line of bulls.
“Torpedo, 11 febrero 1881,” read Mrs. Evans, “todos los trofeos, Mazzantini, Plaza de México.” When she asked what the Spanish meant, Don Eduardo said proudly: “All the trophies. Awarded by the judge to the matador that performed miracles. “Two ears, tail, a hoof.”
In 1903 Ciclón had killed a young matador in Guadalajara, and in 1919 Triunfador had proved he was entitled to that name by dominating the plaza at Monterrey, knocking down five horses, sending to the infirmary all three matadors who tried, one after another, to subdue him, and defending himself to the last.
Then Mrs. Evans, one of the sharpest-eyed women I’d ever met, said: “But these two have no mention of the plazas,” and Don Eduardo explained: “They’re two I told you about, two of the greatest. Our seed bulls, Marinero from the marquis of Guadalquivir in 1910, and Domador in the 1950s. They were too valuable to be sent to plazas. We wanted to keep them alive.”
Don Eduardo then showed us a display that he said would amuse us: “I doubt there’s ever been a fight like this one. This great bull Tormento was given in the sorting to one of the mercurial characters in Mexican bullfight history, Lorenzo Garza, the formidable izquierdo, left-hander. Temperamental as a bumblebee. On a good day he would justify his name, Lorenzo El Magnífico, on a bad he could be dreadful. With Tormento he ascended to the highest cloud in the heavens, more than magnificent. Ears, tail, hoof, six rounds of the plaza, flowers strewed where he stepped. Then, with the second bull, who might have been just as good as the first, he was so deplorable, so inadequate, that a great riot started with cushions and chairs filling the plaza. Sixteen brawny men jumped into the arena to beat him up, but seventeen policemen rushed in to rescue him. Look at the two photographs taken by a friend of mine.”
The first showed El Magnífico garnering a level of praise that few athletes ever know; the second revealed the arena filled with debris, rioting bullies and police in phalanx formation. Same matador, same bulls, same Sunday afternoon, same spectators. “That’s bullfighting,” Don Eduardo said. “An inexact science.”
Now Mrs. Evans cried out: “Here’s your bull, Mr. Clay,” and when I joined her there was Soldado looking down at me, and I was afraid to speak lest my voice break.
Then I heard her voice from another part of the room, for she walked fast: “I don’t see Reina, and you said she was one of the greatest of all.”
“We don’t hang cows on our walls. It wouldn’t look right to the men drinking here.”
Then I said: “For the last three days I’ve heard about your really great bull, Sangre Azul.” To Mrs. Evans I explained: “Blue Blood,” and she said, rather abruptly, I thought: “Thank you.”
After a reflective pause, as if it pained him to speak, Don Eduardo said: “He was born in 1957, branded in ’58 and faced the men on horseback with lances in March of ’59.”
“How did he test?”
“Phenomenal. That’s when we knew we had a tremendous bull. A year ago we had already nominated him to be our lead bull for this year’s Ixmiq, and as he put on weight and his horns steeled into their length and position, he became what we all agreed was the perfect Palafox bull. Not too heavy, he was going to come in at Festival time at about four hundred fifty kilos—what’s that in pounds?”
“As always, 2.2 pounds to the kilo, so let’s say just under a thousand pounds.”
“Very strong up front, nicely tapered at the rear, but very strong hind legs for pushing.”
“He wasn’t in the corrals today. What happened?”
Don Eduardo leaned back, thought and after a while called to the men tending bar: “Have we a photo of Sangre Azul?” and when one was provided it showed a majestic bull at top fighting power, exactly as Don Eduardo had described him. Then, to answer the question, he began hesitantly: “It’s a delicate subject to discuss with a lady present, but
“So far it’s understandable.”
“But occasionally,” Don Eduardo broke in, “every ranch will produce a bull to which this normal activity becomes not a youthful exploration but a fixation. The bull becomes a maricón—what’s the word, Clay?”
“Spanish slang for male homosexual.”
“Goodness! You’re telling me that this handsome creature was a maricón?”
“No, damn it. What I’m trying to say,” Don Eduardo blurted out, “is that the splendid bull you saw this morning, Number Forty-seven, is an incurable one. But we didn’t detect it soon enough. He pestered many of the bulls in his generation, but they fended him off easily. However, two unfortunate things happened. Number Forty-seven developed a positive fixation on Sangre Azul, who fought him off every time he tried to mount. This infuriated the bigger bull, and one afternoon last January when both bulls were at their greatest, a magnificent pair for this year’s Ixmiq, Number Forty-seven pursued Sangre Azul all about the grazing field, until Azul had enough. Turning on Forty-seven before anyone could separate them, Azul drove right at him, hurt him badly, whereupon Forty-seven lashed out with those huge horns and killed Azul.”
No one spoke, then after we had studied the photograph of the exceptional bull, Mrs. Evans said: “So Número Cuarentay-siete has already killed an enemy. Will he remember that when he comes out this afternoon?”
“We cannot say,” Don Eduardo replied. “But we did not broadcast the news that the fight between the two bulls had occurred, and we’ve certainly kept it secret that our prize bull lost.”