Mexico (11 page)

Close, close to death the ugly little man worked, his eyes staring with deadly antagonism at the huge bull.

Then came the time for the kill. So far there had been no embellishments to delight the eye, no arabesques to tease the brain. There had been only a bandy-legged little Indian with dark skin and hair in his eyes playing with life and death against a bull that was obviously intent on ending the game a winner. Now the aching sense of tragedy was to be heightened, for the man seemed hardly tall enough to reach over the horns to kill this huge bull.

But with his left hand he lowered the red cloth, dangling it before his right knee, and with his right hand he clutched the long, point-dipping sword as if it were an extension of his body. He stood perilously close to the bull, and for an agonizing moment of suspense the two adversaries remained motionless. Then deftly, and with exquisite judgment,
Gomez
flicked the cloth, lured the bull just slightly to one side, took two quick steps, and almost leaped onto the horns. Slowly the tip of the sword found the true entrance. The desperate brown hand pushed on the sword. Slowly it went in ... in ... in. Bull and man formed a single paralyzed unit. It seemed as if minutes had passed, but still the man and the horns were one. And then the brown hand flattened itself against the bull's dying neck, the sword blade completely vanished, and the man's palm came away covered with blood.

The moment passed. The bull staggered on a few feet to certain death and the man slipped off the flank in a kind of numb ecstasy. The picture of immortality was broken and from the vast concrete bowl came the sound of breath being released. For two or three seconds there were no oles and no cheers.

His head low toward the sand and not in easy triumph, Juan Gomez mechanically withdrew his sword and slowly marched toward the spot where he must make his traditional report to the president. But before he reached there, the stormy response of the crowd broke over him, cheers such as he had not heard for many years. The music blared and flowers were beginning to cover the sand. Humbly the little Indian bowed to the president, acknowledging his authority. Then, putting his sword in his left hand, he turned to face the crowd and raised his right index finger.

A riot started. The partisans of Victoriano refused to think that one lucky kill entitled this man with a trivial history to dispute the championship with an acknowledged master, who had triumphed in Spain. But this time the tough little Indian was not left alone with only a few supporters in the cheap seats on the sunny side. Many spectators, reviewing in their minds what they had seen that afternoon, must have concluded that there was something more to bullfighting than dancing gestures and poetic passages. There was, in all honesty, a naked moment when man and bull stood equal, with all nonsense gone. This was a. fight of life and death, a summary of all we know of man's dark passage, and it deserved a certain dignity. This dignity could not be observed in a hundred afternoons of Victoriano Leal, but this damned little Indian had somehow reminded the plaza of the very essence of bullfighting and life. And now the cheering was more evenly divided. That night Leon Ledesma wrote for The Bullfight:

The gauntlet has been thrown down. Rarely has a matador of Victoriano Leal's proven stature been so frontally insulted as after the third bull, when Juan
Gomez
made fun of him, suggesting to the crowd that Leal knew nothing of the essence of the fight. And rarely has a boastful gesture such as that of
Gomez
been so immediately backed up by a performance that must have exceeded even his wildest hopes.

The most graceful fighter of our age has been made to look inconsequential by a man who has hitherto shown little but bravery. As we saw this afternoon, the insulting actions of Gomez drove Victoriano to prodigies of effort, and he in turn made Gomez extend himself to ridiculous acts with the fifth bull. I frankly do not like to see a matador take the horn of a maddened bull between his teeth, defying the animal to kill him, but apparently the public loved this rococo gesture of Gomez, for tiie plaza exploded with cheers and awarded him two ears, in this critic's opinion one more than he deserved.

Yesterday Juan
Gomez
triumphed. He stole Leal's reception for himself and made the intended hero of the afternoon look pompous. I am sure that Victoriano will not tolerate this indignity, and thus each man will drive the other to more dangerous exploits, and in the end, unless sanity prevails, we shall see one of these matadors goad the other to a display that must end in death.

It was this impending murder that I had been sent to Mexico to cover, and in the nine weeks that had passed since Ledesma's first delineation of the struggle, the two matadors had fought together eight times. The perceived wisdom in Mexico was that Victoriano would be the victor because he would be supported in a crisis by the cunning of his father, Veneno, and the skill of his brothers, whereas Gomez could rely solely on his own courage.

I did not buy this easy generalization. I feared that Victoriano was not a complete man, was allowed no mind of his own, whereas Gomez was ferociously self-directed and a veteran of both triumph and despair. But as twilight fell I realized that I knew Victoriano but not Gomez and would have to find out more about this stubborn little Indian.

Chapter
3.

THE RANCHER

BEFORE I COULD get to my typewriter to start my report on the background of Juan
Gomez
, I was distracted by the noisy approach of men whose appearances reminded me that I had come not only to observe a series of bullfights but also to attend a festival honoring Ixmiq, the founder of Toledo. They were a group of nine musicians dressed in brown suede suits with silver ornaments and flowing green ties, oversized tan sombreros and high-heeled cowboy boots. All were grave of face, especially the three who wore long mustaches, and as they marched slowly toward me they played a rhythmic Mexican music that from the days of my childhood had always evoked visions of festival. They were a band of mariachis from Guadalajara, the home of this uniquely Mexican art, and they had come to earn money at the Festival of lxmiq.

What lively music the mariachis played! The tempo was always fast, and when they sang, the words were full of anguish over love or lost dreams. Besides conventional instruments like guitars, violins and a deep-voiced mandolin, which looked like a bass fiddle, there was also a gourdlike rasp and castanets. They produced a pleasant sound marked by a heavy unbroken beat that gave the music an identifiable Mexican Cast. When the leader saw me he stopped his men abruptly, came over, bowed low, and announced in English, "For our American friend, 'Cielito Lindo,' " and before I could stop them, the mariachis galloped mechanically into this song that I was sure they could not like. It was music for tourists, hammered out in tourist fashion.

At the noisy conclusion the leader tucked his violin under his arm, bowed again and announced, "Another fine song for the norteamericano, 'San Antonio Rose,' " by this flattery hoping to win a few dollars from me. Again the mariachis ground out what they thought I wanted, but before they had reached the first chorus I raised my hand and shouted in rapid Spanish. "Stop that garbage! I want 'Guadalajara'!"

The stolid-faced musicians gaped and the leader asked in Spanish, "You know 'Guadalajara'?"

"Why not?" I snapped. "I'm one of you."

The mariachis grinned and the leader apologized: "We thought you were only a norteamericano." I winced at this pejorative term but said nothing, because I knew that proud Mexicans liked to remind visitors from the north, "Everyone on this continent is an americano, you're a norteamericano. Don': rob us of our name by stealing it for yourselves."

He beat the air twice with his violin bow and the mariachis began to sing, " 'Guadalajara, Guadalajara!' " They pronounced the name Mexican style, which lent the cry an added poignancy: "Wath-a-la-cara." Into this name the singers poured their love of land that was so powerful a force in Mexico, and children who had not yet seen that city of the west paused to hear the sweet song.

The voices gave way to trumpeters who blared out the basic rhythm. Abruptly the trumpets stopped and the troupe sang with unabashed sentimentality, " 'Wath-a-la-cara!' " In close harmony four voices sobbed in conclusion: "How beautiful was that spring in Wath-a-la-cara." A series of minor chords leaped from the strings, while the trumpets danced in furious arabesques above the melodic line, and the song ended in a bath of Mexican emotion. From the terrace of the hotel across the street two travelers from Guadalajara cheered.

The mariachis gathered about me, asking for their fee, but I deferred payment: "You didn't finish 'San Antonio Rose,' so you owe me one more song. I'd like to hear 'The Ballad of General Gurza.' "

The mariachis stopped smiling, and the leader stepped forward deferentially: "Does the senor norteamericano really wish to hear this song?"

"I asked for it."

"Does the senor know--well--perhaps the words--"

"I know the words," I said firmly. "Because I'm also a Mexican. Years ago I used to sing this song up at the mines."

The mariachis relaxed and one asked, "Didn't your American father spank you for singing such a song?"

"He did "

The mariachis made a place for me within their circle, and the strings ripped out seven quick chords, followed by campfire trumpet calls, whereupon three voices, and mine, began the galloping chant:

"In the year 1916 President Wilson sent his Yankees Into the state of Chihuahua To punish our valiant General Gurza.

"Valiant, valiant General Gurza!

Let me ride with you.

I am young
,
But I can fight the americanos.

"Up and down the highways of Durango The americanos sought our valiant leader. Never did they catch him, But in the evenings he assaulted them.

"Valiant, valiant General Gurza!

Let me fight with you.

I am young
,
But I can shoot the americanos."

The ballad had many verses detailing the courage of General Gurza as he evaded the troops of President Wilson-- pronounced Veel-son in our song--and ended with a typical Mexican conclusion, involving muted trumpet calls and the promise that whenever Mexico was in danger from the Yankees, valiant General Gurza would rise from his grave in the mountains of Chihuahua and lead his ghostly armies to defeat the enemy. Solemnly we chanted the last chorus:

"Valiant, valiant General Gurza!

Let me die with you.

I am young
,
But my heart aches for Mexico."

The song died away in a crash of trumpet flourishes that would have stopped dead any of President Wilson's Yankees, and I shook hands with the leader of the mariachis. "Those days are gone." I laughed. They bowed and would accept no money, even though I explained that another man had given me some for them.

"No," the leader insisted. "This time we have welcomed you home. Next time we charge you double."

I bowed and said, "Valiant, valiant General Gurza. Always a valiant bandit."

The mariachis laughed at my insult to their national hero and cried, "A valiant bandit," and they resumed their counterclockwise march around the square, leaving me with my memories of the brutal General Gurza. I felt shivery, as I had as a boy when I heard that name mentioned with terror by my mother, who had seen her relatives slain by Gurza. Seeking companionship, I crossed the paved street that separated the statue of Ixmiq from the House of Tile, whose blue-and-yellow facade reflected the last light of day.

In Mexico some buildings are faced with blue tile and they seem cold. Others are fronted with brown-and-yellow tile, and these are garish. But a few, like this hotel, are covered with tile of flowered design in which the leaves are blue and the petals yellow, and that combination yields both warmth and dignity. My hotel had such decoration, and it warmed the heart and extended a welcome to all travelers.

The first Bishop Palafox, who erected the building, did it, he said, as a tribute to his Indian wife, "as fine a helper as any man ever had." It was a lovely building, rather small and intimate in style, and we Palafoxes felt that it was a worthy symbol of both his love and the remarkable qualities of his wife. For almost four hundred years it had served as a kind of rural hotel and in this century it had become the prestigious place for visitors to stay. During the bullfight season, it was obligatory housing for matadors and their troupes.

A classic building of two low stories, it was decorated with bas-reliefs of the saints who protected Toledo. Its facade had originally been of dark stone, but one of the later Bishop Palafoxes had imported blue-and-yellow tile from Spain and redone the face with style. Now the original brownstone saints looked out through frames of colorful tile.

For some happy reason the first Bishop Palafox had made the front of his convent not flat but concave, thus producing at the north end of the square an extended open terrace, which for the last fifty years had been filled with white restaurant tables and wire-backed chairs. During mealtime the tables were covered with red checkered cloths; the rest of the time they stood bare, inviting all who wished to drink.

When I entered the terrace I looked to the left flanking wall and saw, with some satisfaction, that the broken tiles along that side had not been repaired. As a boy I had been stood against those broken tiles week after week to measure my growth, and I remember the day when my head finally reached the line of holes that had caused the tiles to crack. Looking at the tiles now, it seemed impossible that I could ever have been so small. To see these broken tiles was an assurance that things were not going to change in Toledo.