Men without women
Manuel drank a glass of water poured for him by one of Retana’s
deputies, who was acting as his manager and sword-handler. Hernandez
came over from speaking with his own manager.
“You got a good hand, kid,” Manuel complimented him.
“They like me,” Hernandez said happily.
“How did the paseo go?” Manuel asked Retana’s man.
“Like a wedding,” said the handler. “Fine. You came out like Joselito
and Belmonte.”
Zurito rode by, a bulky equestrian statue. He wheeled his horse and
faced him toward the toril on the far side of the ring where the bull
would come out. It was strange under the arc-light. He pic-ed in the hot
afternoon sun for big money. He didn’t like this arc-light business. He
wished they would get started.
Manuel went up to him.
“Pic him, Manos,” he said. “Cut him down to size for me.”
“I’ll pic him, kid,” Zurito spat on the sand. “I’ll make him jump out of
the ring.”
“Lean on him, Manos,” Manuel said.
“I’ll lean on him,” Zurito said. “What’s holding it up?”
“He’s coming now,” Manuel said.
Zurito sat there, his feet in the box-stirrups, his great legs in the
buckskin-covered armor gripping the horse, the reins in his left hand,
the long pic held in his right hand, his broad hat well down over his
eyes to shade them from the lights, watching the distant door of the
toril. His horse’s ears quivered. Zurito patted him with his left hand.
The red door of the toril swung back and for a moment Zurito looked into
the empty passageway far across the arena. Then the bull came out in a
rush, skidding on his four legs as he came out under the lights, then
charging in a gallop, moving softly in a fast gallop, silent except as
he woofed through wide nostrils as he charged, glad to be free after the
dark pen.
In the first row of seats, slightly bored, leaning forward to write on
the cement wall in front of his knees, the substitute bull-fight critic
of _El Heraldo_ scribbled: “Campagnero, Negro, 42, came out at 90 miles
an hour with plenty of gas——”
Manuel, leaning against the barrera, watching the bull, waved his hand
and the gypsy ran out, trailing his cape. The bull, in full gallop,
pivoted and charged the cape, his head down, his tail rising. The gypsy
moved in a zigzag, and as he passed, the bull caught sight of him and
abandoned the cape to charge the man. The gyp sprinted and vaulted the
red fence of the barrera as the bull struck it with his horns. He tossed
into it twice with his horns, banging into the wood blindly.
The critic of _El Heraldo_ lit a cigarette and tossed the match at the
bull, then wrote in his note-book, “large and with enough horns to
satisfy the cash customers, Campagnero showed a tendency to cut into the
terrane of the bull-fighters.”
Manuel stepped out on the hard sand as the bull banged into the fence.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Zurito sitting the white horse close
to the barrera, about a quarter of the way around the ring to the left.
Manuel held the cape close in front of him, a fold in each hand, and
shouted at the bull. “Huh! Huh!” The bull turned, seemed to brace
against the fence as he charged in a scramble, driving into the cape as
Manuel side-stepped, pivoted on his heels with the charge of the bull,
and swung the cape just ahead of the horns. At the end of the swing he
was facing the bull again and held the cape in the same position close
in front of his body, and pivoted again as the bull recharged. Each
time, as he swung, the crowd shouted.
Four times he swung with the bull, lifting the cape so it billowed full,
and each time bringing the bull around to charge again. Then, at the end
of the fifth swing, he held the cape against his hip and pivoted, so the
cape swung out like a ballet dancer’s skirt and wound the bull around
himself like a belt, to step clear, leaving the bull facing Zurito on
the white horse, come up and planted firm, the horse facing the bull,
its ears forward, its lips nervous, Zurito, his hat over his eyes,
leaning forward, the long pole sticking out before and behind in a sharp
angle under his right arm, held half-way down, the triangular iron point
facing the bull.
_El Heraldo’s_ second-string critic, drawing on his cigarette, his eyes
on the bull, wrote: “the veteran Manolo designed a series of acceptable
veronicas, ending in a very Belmontistic recorte that earned applause
from the regulars, and we entered the tercio of the cavalry.”
Zurito sat his horse, measuring the distance between the bull and the
end of the pic. As he looked, the bull gathered himself together and
charged, his eyes on the horse’s chest. As he lowered his head to hook,
Zurito sunk the point of the pic in the swelling hump of muscle above
the bull’s shoulder, leaned all his weight on the shaft, and with his
left hand pulled the white horse into the air, front hoofs pawing, and
swung him to the right as he pushed the bull under and through so the
horns passed safely under the horse’s belly and the horse came down,
quivering, the bull’s tail brushing his chest as he charged the cape
Hernandez offered him.
Hernandez ran sideways, taking the bull out and away with the cape,
toward the other picador. He fixed him with a swing of the cape,
squarely facing the horse and rider, and stepped back. As the bull saw
the horse he charged. The picador’s lance slid along his back, and as
the shock of the charge lifted the horse, the picador was already
half-way out of the saddle, lifting his right leg clear as he missed
with the lance and falling to the left side to keep the horse between
him and the bull. The horse, lifted and gored, crashed over with the
bull driving into him, the picador gave a shove with his boots against
the horse and lay clear, waiting to be lifted and hauled away and put on
his feet.
Manuel let the bull drive into the fallen horse; he was in no hurry, the
picador was safe; besides, it did a picador like that good to worry.
He’d stay on longer next time. Lousy pics! He looked across the sand at
Zurito a little way out from the barrera, his horse rigid, waiting.
“Huh!” he called to the bull, “Tomar!” holding the cape in both hands so
it would catch his eye. The bull detached himself from the horse and
charged the cape, and Manuel, running sideways and holding the cape
spread wide, stopped, swung on his heels, and brought the bull sharply
around facing Zurito.
“Campagnero accepted a pair of varas for the death of one rosinante,
with Hernandez and Manolo at the quites,” _El Heraldo’s_ critic wrote.
“He pressed on the iron and clearly showed he was no horse-lover. The
veteran Zurito resurrected some of his old stuff with the pike-pole,
notably the suerte——”
“Olé Olé!” the man sitting beside him shouted. The shout was lost in the
roar of the crowd, and he slapped the critic on the back. The critic
looked up to see Zurito, directly below him, leaning far out over his
horse, the length of the pic rising in a sharp angle under his armpit,
holding the pic almost by the point, bearing down with all his weight,
holding the bull off, the bull pushing and driving to get at the horse,
and Zurito, far out, on top of him, holding him, holding him, and slowly
pivoting the horse against the pressure, so that at last he was clear.
Zurito felt the moment when the horse was clear and the bull could come
past, and relaxed the absolute steel lock of his resistance, and the
triangular steel point of the pic ripped in the bull’s hump of shoulder
muscle as he tore loose to find Hernandez’s cape before his muzzle. He
charged blindly into the cape and the boy took him out into the open
arena.
Zurito sat patting his horse and looking at the bull charging the cape
that Hernandez swung for him out under the bright light while the crowd
shouted.
“You see that one?” he said to Manuel.
“It was a wonder,” Manuel said.
“I got him that time,” Zurito said. “Look at him now.”
At the conclusion of a closely turned pass of the cape the bull slid to
his knees. He was up at once, but far out across the sand Manuel and
Zurito saw the shine of the pumping flow of blood, smooth against the
black of the bull’s shoulder.
“I got him that time,” Zurito said.
“He’s a good bull,” Manuel said.
“If they gave me another shot at him, I’d kill him,” Zurito said.
“They’ll change the thirds on us,” Manuel said.
“Look at him now,” Zurito said.
“I got to go over there,” Manuel said, and started on a run for the
other side of the ring, where the monos were leading a horse out by the
bridle toward the bull, whacking him on the legs with rods and all, in a
procession, trying to get him toward the bull, who stood, dropping his
head, pawing, unable to make up his mind to charge.
Zurito, sitting his horse, walking him toward the scene, not missing any
detail, scowled.
Finally the bull charged, the horse leaders ran for the barrera, the
picador hit too far back, and the bull got under the horse, lifted him,
threw him onto his back.
Zurito watched. The monos, in their red shirts, running out to drag the
picador clear. The picador, now on his feet, swearing and flopping his
arms. Manuel and Hernandez standing ready with their capes. And the
bull, the great, black bull, with a horse on his back, hooves dangling,
the bridle caught in the horns. Black bull with a horse on his back,
staggering short-legged, then arching his neck and lifting, thrusting,
charging to slide the horse off, horse sliding down. Then the bull into
a lunging charge at the cape Manuel spread for him.
The bull was slower now, Manuel felt. He was bleeding badly. There was a
sheen of blood all down his flank.
Manuel offered him the cape again. There he came, eyes open, ugly,
watching the cape. Manuel stepped to the side and raised his arms,
tightening the cape ahead of the bull for the veronica.
Now he was facing the bull. Yes, his head was going down a little. He
was carrying it lower. That was Zurito.
Manuel flopped the cape; there he comes; he side-stepped and swung in
another veronica. He’s shooting awfully accurately, he thought. He’s had
enough fight, so he’s watching now. He’s hunting now. Got his eye on me.
But I always give him the cape.
He shook the cape at the bull; there he comes; he side-stepped. Awful
close that time. I don’t want to work that close to him.
The edge of the cape was wet with blood where it had swept along the
bull’s back as he went by.
All right, here’s the last one.
Manuel, facing the bull, having turned with him each charge, offered the
cape with his two hands. The bull looked at him. Eyes watching, horns
straight forward, the bull looked at him, watching.
“Huh!” Manuel said, “Toro!” and leaning back, swung the cape forward.
Here he comes. He side-stepped, swung the cape in back of him, and
pivoted, so the bull followed a swirl of cape and then was left with
nothing, fixed by the pass, dominated by the cape. Manuel swung the cape
under his muzzle with one hand, to show the bull was fixed, and walked
away.
There was no applause.
Manuel walked across the sand toward the barrera, while Zurito rode out
of the ring. The trumpet had blown to change the act to the planting of
the banderillos while Manuel had been working with the bull. He had not
consciously noticed it. The monos were spreading canvas over the two
dead horses and sprinkling sawdust around them.
Manuel came up to the barrera for a drink of water. Retana’s man handed
him the heavy porous jug.
Fuentes, the tall gypsy, was standing holding a pair of banderillos,
holding them together, slim, red sticks, fish-hook points out. He looked
at Manuel.
“Go on out there,” Manuel said.
The gypsy trotted out. Manuel set down the jug and watched. He wiped his
face with his handkerchief.