Men without women
The critic of _El Heraldo_ reached for the bottle of warm champagne that
stood between his feet, took a drink, and finished his paragraph.
“—the aged Manolo rated no applause for a vulgar series of lances with
the cape and we entered the third of the palings.”
Alone in the centre of the ring the bull stood, still fixed. Fuentes,
tall, flat-backed, walking toward him arrogantly, his arms spread out,
the two slim, red sticks, one in each hand, held by the fingers, points
straight forward. Fuentes walked forward. Back of him and to one side
was a peon with a cape. The bull looked at him and was no longer fixed.
His eyes watched Fuentes, now standing still. Now he leaned back,
calling to him. Fuentes twitched the two banderillos and the light on
the steel points caught the bull’s eye.
His tail went up and he charged.
He came straight, his eyes on the man. Fuentes stood still, leaning
back, the banderillos pointing forward. As the bull lowered his head to
hook, Fuentes leaned backward, his arms came together and rose, his two
hands touching, the banderillos two descending red lines, and leaning
forward drove the points into the bull’s shoulder, leaning far in over
the bull’s horns and pivoting on the two upright sticks, his legs tight
together, his body curving to one side to let the bull pass.
“Olé!” from the crowd.
The bull was hooking wildly, jumping like a trout, all four feet off the
ground. The red shaft of the banderillos tossed as he jumped.
Manuel standing at the barrera, noticed that he hooked always to the
right.
“Tell him to drop the next pair on the right,” he said to the kid who
started to run out to Fuentes with the new banderillos.
A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. It was Zurito.
“How do you feel, kid?” he asked.
Manuel was watching the bull.
Zurito leaned forward on the barrera, leaning the weight of his body on
his arms. Manuel turned to him.
“You’re going good,” Zurito said.
Manuel shook his head. He had nothing to do now until the next third.
The gypsy was very good with the banderillos. The bull would come to him
in the next third in good shape. He was a good bull. It had all been
easy up to now. The final stuff with the sword was all he worried over.
He did not really worry. He did not even think about it. But standing
there he had a heavy sense of apprehension. He looked out at the bull,
planning his faena, his work with the red cloth that was to reduce the
bull, to make him manageable.
The gypsy was walking out toward the bull again, walking heel-and-toe,
insultingly, like a ball-room dancer, the red shafts of the banderillos
twitching with his walk. The bull watched him, not fixed now, hunting
him, but waiting to get close enough so he could be sure of getting him,
getting the horns into him.
As Fuentes walked forward the bull charged. Fuentes ran across the
quarter of a circle as the bull charged and, as he passed running
backward, stopped, swung forward, rose on his toes, arms straight out,
and sunk the banderillos straight down into the tight of the big
shoulder muscles as the bull missed him.
The crowd were wild about it.
“That kid won’t stay in this night stuff long,” Retana’s man said to
Zurito.
“He’s good,” Zurito said.
“Watch him now.”
They watched.
Fuentes was standing with his back against the barrera. Two of the
cuadrilla were back of him, with their capes ready to flop over the
fence to distract the bull.
The bull, with his tongue out, his barrel heaving, was watching the
gypsy. He thought he had him now. Back against the red planks. Only a
short charge away. The bull watched him.
The gypsy bent back, drew back his arms, the banderillos pointing at the
bull. He called to the bull, stamped one foot. The bull was suspicious.
He wanted the man. No more barbs in the shoulder.
Fuentes walked a little closer to the bull. Bent back. Called again.
Somebody in the crowd shouted a warning.
“He’s too damn close,” Zurito said.
“Watch him,” Retana’s man said.
Leaning back, inciting the bull with the banderillos, Fuentes jumped,
both feet off the ground. As he jumped the bull’s tail rose and he
charged. Fuentes came down on his toes, arms straight out, whole body
arching forward, and drove the shafts straight down as he swung his body
clear of the right horn.
The bull crashed into the barrera where the flopping capes had attracted
his eye as he lost the man.
The gypsy came running along the barrera toward Manuel, taking the
applause of the crowd. His vest was ripped where he had not quite
cleared the point of the horn. He was happy about it, showing it to the
spectators. He made the tour of the ring. Zurito saw him go by, smiling,
pointing at his vest. He smiled.
Somebody else was planting the last pair of banderillos. Nobody was
paying any attention.
Retana’s man tucked a baton inside the red cloth of a muleta, folded the
cloth over it, and handed it over the barrera to Manuel. He reached in
the leather sword-case, took out a sword, and holding it by its leather
scabbard, reached it over the fence to Manuel. Manuel pulled the blade
out by the red hilt and the scabbard fell limp.
He looked at Zurito. The big man saw he was sweating.
“Now you get him, kid,” Zurito said.
Manuel nodded.
“He’s in good shape,” Zurito said.
“Just like you want him,” Retana’s man assured him.
Manuel nodded.
The trumpeter, up under the roof, blew for the final act, and Manuel
walked across the arena toward where, up in the dark boxes, the
president must be.
In the front row of seats the substitute bull-fight critic of _El
Heraldo_ took a long drink of the warm champagne. He had decided it was
not worth while to write a running story and would write up the corrida
back in the office. What the hell was it anyway? Only a nocturnal. If he
missed anything he would get it out of the morning papers. He took
another drink of the champagne. He had a date at Maxim’s at twelve. Who
were these bull-fighters anyway? Kids and bums. A bunch of bums. He put
his pad of paper in his pocket and looked over toward Manuel, standing
very much alone in the ring, gesturing with his hat in a salute toward a
box he could not see high up in the dark plaza. Out in the ring the bull
stood quiet, looking at nothing.
“I dedicate this bull to you, Mr. President, and to the public of
Madrid, the most intelligent and generous of the world,” was what Manuel
was saying. It was a formula. He said it all. It was a little long for
nocturnal use.
He bowed at the dark, straightened, tossed his hat over his shoulder,
and, carrying the muleta in his left hand and the sword in his right,
walked out toward the bull.
Manuel walked toward the bull. The bull looked at him; his eyes were
quick. Manuel noticed the way the banderillos hung down on his left
shoulder and the steady sheen of blood from Zurito’s pic-ing. He noticed
the way the bull’s feet were. As he walked forward, holding the muleta
in his left hand and the sword in his right, he watched the bull’s feet.
The bull could not charge without gathering his feet together. Now he
stood square on them, dully.
Manuel walked toward him, watching his feet. This was all right. He
could do this. He must work to get the bull’s head down, so he could go
in past the horns and kill him. He did not think about the sword, not
about killing the bull. He thought about one thing at a time. The coming
things oppressed him, though. Walking forward, watching the bull’s feet,
he saw successively his eyes, his wet muzzle, and the wide,
forward-pointing spread of his horns. The bull had light circles about
his eyes. His eyes watched Manuel. He felt he was going to get this
little one with the white face.
Standing still now and spreading the red cloth of the muleta with the
sword, pricking the point into the cloth so that the sword, now held in
his left hand, spread the red flannel like the jib of a boat, Manuel
noticed the points of the bull’s horns. One of them was splintered from
banging against the barrera. The other was sharp as a porcupine quill.
Manuel noticed while spreading the muleta that the white base of the
horn was stained red. While he noticed these things he did not lose
sight of the bull’s feet. The bull watched Manuel steadily.
He’s on the defensive now, Manuel thought. He’s reserving himself. I’ve
got to bring him out of that and get his head down. Always get his head
down. Zurito had his head down once, but he’s come back. He’ll bleed
when I start him going and that will bring it down.
Holding the muleta, with the sword in his left hand widening it in front
of him, he called to the bull.
The bull looked at him.
He leaned back insultingly and shook the wide-spread flannel.
The bull saw the muleta. It was a bright scarlet under the arc-light.
The bull’s legs tightened.
Here he comes. Whoosh! Manuel turned as the bull came and raised the
muleta so that it passed over the bull’s horns and swept down his broad
back from head to tail. The bull had gone clean up in the air with the
charge. Manuel had not moved.
At the end of the pass the bull turned like a cat coming around a corner
and faced Manuel.
He was on the offensive again. His heaviness was gone. Manuel noted the
fresh blood shining down the black shoulder and dripping down the bull’s
leg. He drew the sword out of the muleta and held it in his right hand.
The muleta held low down in his left hand, leaning toward the left, he
called to the bull. The bull’s legs tightened, his eyes on the muleta.
Here he comes, Manuel thought. Yuh!
He swung with the charge, sweeping the muleta ahead of the bull, his
feet firm, the sword following the curve, a point of light under the
arcs.
The bull recharged as the pase natural finished and Manuel raised the
muleta for a pase de pecho. Firmly planted, the bull came by his chest
under the raised muleta. Manuel leaned his head back to avoid the
clattering banderillo shafts. The hot, black bull body touched his chest
as it passed.
Too damn close, Manuel thought. Zurito, leaning on the barrera, spoke
rapidly to the gypsy, who trotted out toward Manuel with a cape. Zurito
pulled his hat down low and looked out across the arena at Manuel.
Manuel was facing the bull again, the muleta held low and to the left.
The bull’s head was down as he watched the muleta.
“If it was Belmonte doing that stuff, they’d go crazy,” Retana’s man
said.
Zurito said nothing. He was watching Manuel out in the centre of the
arena.
“Where did the boss dig this fellow up?” Retana’s man asked.
“Out of the hospital,” Zurito said.
“That’s where he’s going damn quick,” Retana’s man said.
Zurito turned on him.
“Knock on that,” he said, pointing to the barrera.
“I was just kidding, man,” Retana’s man said.
“Knock on the wood.”
Retana’s man leaned forward and knocked three times on the barrera.
“Watch the faena,” Zurito said.
Out in the centre of the ring, under the lights, Manuel was kneeling,
facing the bull, and as he raised the muleta in both hands the bull
charged, tail up.
Manuel swung his body clear and, as the bull recharged, brought around
the muleta in a half-circle that pulled the bull to his knees.
“Why, that one’s a great bull-fighter,” Retana’s man said.
“No, he’s not,” said Zurito.
Manuel stood up and, the muleta in his left hand, the sword in his
right, acknowledged the applause from the dark plaza.
The bull had humped himself up from his knees and stood waiting, his
head hung low.
Zurito spoke to two of the other lads of the cuadrilla and they ran out
to stand back of Manuel with their capes. There were four men back of
him now. Hernandez had followed him since he first came out with the
muleta. Fuentes stood watching, his cape held against his body, tall, in