Mexico (39 page)

If it is true as I claim that we are all Spaniards inexorably marching toward death, it is no less true that we are all stubborn Mexicans holding on like peasants to life on earth. Unquestionably we are, like Seneca, obligated to consider how we shall die, but we must not forget that for most of his life Seneca lived surrounded by the luxuries of imperial Rome and ignored death; nor should we forget that Garcia Lorca, who lived with death like a brother, spent the best years of his life in New York, where he lived vigorously.

We are tragic men, but we are also comic. We march to death, but we get drunk on the way. I cannot identify Juan Gomez with the pyramid or Velazquez or Seneca, nor can I see Victoriano Leal as his opposite in those categories. It is true, however, that I see these two matadors approaching the problem of death from two different philosophies, but just as the pyramid contains the Terrace of the Jaguars, so each of these men contains the best elements of the other.

Which matador do I prefer? As a child of Spain I should elect him who stands closest to death, and that is Juan
Gomez
, who knows how to kill, but I must make an unSpanish choice and say I prefer him who best depicts the flaming heart of life, and that is Victoriano Leal, who knows what grace is.

So to those traveling to Toledo I give the benediction that the great Spanish philosopher Miguel de Unamuno bestowe
d u
pon us all: "May God deny you peace, but grant yo
u g
lory." Gentlemen, to the bulls!

O. J. Haggard was first to finish the essay. As he stepped out of the cathedral and into the bright noonday sunlight he said: 'Too much like a tomb in here. Too much death." One by one, as each of us finished reading, we too went outside, glad for the life-filled plaza and the sun.

We saw Ed Grim leaving a cafe by the bullring, and as he approached us he called out in his hearty voice: "I was waiting in the bar till you finished your philosophy lesson."

"We're done," Haggard said.

"You know any more about bullfighting than when you started?"

"No."

"Well, I do," the red-necked man growled. "This bullfighting is a racket. When I went to the box office to buy us five seats for each of the three days, the poster said in Spanish, but with English beside it, that the cost was seven dollars each-- that's one hundred five dollars in all--but when I tried to give the man in the booth the money, he called an interpreter who explained, 'Sorry. All seats sold.' So I looked#around for a scalper and a mangy-looking character stepped forward. 'I just happen to have five good seats for today.' When I asked how much, he said, 'Twenty-five dollars each.' I almost gagged but paid him. Then he said: 'How about five each for the next two fights?' and I agreed. What else could I do? I cashed a traveler's check and paid him three hundred eighty-five."

"You overpaid," his daughter said. "Fifteen times twenty
-
five is only three hundred seventy-five."

"He demanded a tip. For just standing there he made a cool two hundred dollars or more."

"I make it two hundred seventy dollars," Penny said quiedy, and he growled: "But what really gagged me--when I gave him the money he went around to the back door of the ticket office and gave the same clerk I had talked to fifteen times seven dollars, that's one hundred five dollars. And without even blushing he came back to me and handed over the tickets. At those prices I guess the fat boy has a right to throw around some fancy words." Pointing to one of the newspapers, he asked: "He continue to lay it on pretty thick?"

"He didn't hold anything back," Haggard said.

Penny Grim cried: "He's come for us," and ran to tell him, "That essay was fantastic. You did beat around the bush, but in the end I think I caught what you were trying to say."

"Which was?" I liked the way he took the young girl seriously, and I listened when she asked hesitantly, "Maybe that life is more complex than we think? Two faces to everything? Pyramid, cathedral, the two matadors? One time we see it one way, next time another?"

"See what, for instance?"

She looked at him and then at Mrs. Evans as if seeking permission. "But there's always death--to make things equal. Is that it?"

"Yes," he said soberly. "You read with marked intelligence, senorita. But you're too young to worry about death."

"Not so. Last year my mother died."

He studied her carefully, took her hand and kissed it. Her father, seeing this, came and put his arm around her, then told Ledesma: "I read only part of your essay. Much too deep for me. But I'm glad one of our family knew what you were shooting at. I wondered if you were just throwing words around for effect."

Again Leon bowed. "Sir, you're as clever as your beautiful daughter. You saw through me. Shameless exhibitionism. I do it for two good reasons. To impress my Mexican readers with the fact that I've read books. And because I get paid by the word." And he led us from the church back to the House of Tile for drinks before the afternoon fight. As with the picnic lunch, he paid for them.

Chapter
8.

FRIDAY FIGHT

THROUGH THE YEARS visitors to the Festival of Ixmiq have established certain revered traditions. From one o'clock to three, lunch on the Terrace to partake of the Widow Palafox's enormous meal. Three to four, a brief siesta. Four-fifteen sharp, back on the Terrace to applaud as the three matadors elbow their way through the cheering guests and climb into their conspicuous limousines for their journey to the fights. Four-fifteen, march down Avenida Gral. Gurza to the historic bullring of Toledo. Five sharp, cheer the entrance parade of the matadors as the corrida begins.

On this Friday, of course, we broke the ritual, for we'd had our picnic lunch at the pyramid and a protracted stay at the cathedral reading Ledesma's essay, so it was a quarter to three when we returned to the House of Tile, just in time for the Oklahomans to take a siesta and for me to participate in one of the hallowed rites of bullfighting: dressing the matador. From time immemorial, meaning from about 1820, it had been the custom for grown men who loved bullfighting and adored their favorite matadors to visit the hotel suites in which the toreros climbed, sometimes awkwardly, into their suit of lights, that ancient costume so bright in its vivid colors and so heavy with brocade and even bits of metal adornment. Since it was believed that attending a matador in this ritual proved your allegiance to him, his rented rooms were apt to be crowded.

Because I was a confirmed bullfight junkie, as soon as I reached my room I dressed myself hastily for the fight, then hurried down the hall to the Leal rooms, where I explained to the guardian of the door: "Norman Clay, New York photographer here to get some shots of the matador." I did not, on such occasions, use the word "writer," because that might bar me.

Everyone who was trying to force his way into the sanctuary claimed to be a writer, but a man with an expensive Japanese camera with a motor drive who might really take a picture that would appear in a paper was welcomed.

Inside the crowded room I found activities that were pleasantly familiar. In that corner a group of important Toledo aficionados was talking with Veneno regarding details of the afternoon fight. "How were the bulls at the sorting?" "Precious." This was the code word for "Stupendous." Always the bulls at three o'clock in the matador's room are precious. At seven later that evening they would be more accurately described as disappointing ratones, little mice. "How did you do in the lottery?" "Magnificent. We drew the two best animals." At seven it will be acknowledged that the two beasts our man drew in the choosing were the poorest of the lot. With the bulls that other matador was lucky enough to receive we'd have cut ears and tails.

I loved this artificial ritual and even threw in my contribution. When asked what television company I worked for, I said: "Magazine in New York. They'll print maybe four full pages of this fight. The home office sees it as sensational." And I was treated with respect. But I was not concerned about my reception: I wanted to know what Veneno would be telling his three sons. Now a reverential hush fell over the room as the toreros entered into serious discussion. And when I edged my way into where they had gathered I heard the familiar litany.

"At the selection we got the two best. They're precious. But the bulls Gomez got are pretty good, too. His man Cigarro drove hard bargains in arranging the pairs. Between us we took the best ones, and I'm afraid the boy" (he was referring to Paquito de Monterrey, who was fighting for almost nothing) "may have drawn two bad ones. We'll see."

A Toledo valet, hired for the occasion, moved back and forth between the rooms of the suite, laying out the glittering gold and silver costumes to be worn that day. Victoriano and his two brothers, each in a white shirt without tie or jacket, smoked cigarettes as conversation lagged and fell into a long silence in which the four toreros thought of nothing but the coming test. And the ghost that haunted the room was Juan
Gomez
.

"What we must do"--Veneno finally broke the silence--"is to play cautious with our first animal. Frankly, it's a very bad bull and today Gomez has the better of us in the draw." At this unprecedented honesty Victoriano stared sullen-eyed out the window. He preferred never to hear of his bulls, and certainly never to see them,until that vital moment when they burst into the arena seeking an opponent. Even then, during the early moments, he remained safe behind the barrier that protected toreros not in the ring, keeping the gathered edge of his cape over his eyes, choosing when to lower it and look at his enemy for the first time.

But no matter where he looked, here in this quiet room, he could see Juan
Gomez
and hear his father's droning rasping voice, filled with experience. "With the first bull we will comply--get it over with. Gomez may be strong with his, and it may look as if he's better. So with our second bull we've got to cut at least one ear and maybe two."

Diego, the younger son, who would have to place the banderillas if the first bull was bad, observed: "At the sorting I thought our first bull hooked to the right. Be careful."

Veneno continued, driven to talk by the importance of this fight. "If we can get rid of that first mouse without a disaster, everything will be all right, Victoriano." I noticed that at these empty words Victoriano winced, as if weary of the passive role his father had forced him to play. He was about to break another of his rules against discussions of the bulls prior to a fight, when a noisy group of well-wishers from Mexico City pushed their way into the room crying: "Good luck, matador!" One said, "We were at the sorting, and you got the best ones." Another assured Victoriano: "Your bulls, so precious!" After they left, the buzzing echo of their lies continued. Three-thirty came as a relief, and the four Leals, who had of course eaten nothing (they did not want a bull's horn to rip into their gut and find it crammed with half-digested food because that way led to septicemia and death) started the ritual dressing.

Veneno and his sons dressed without the valet's help, but there was one operation in which the toreros had to enlist aid--forcing the very tight crotch of their pants up into position. To help their father climb into his extra-heavy leather pants, Chucho and Diego waited until he had eased his legs partway into the suit, aware that he could not possibly finish the job of pulling the boardlike trousers up into proper position. The traditional way to solve this problem was for the boys to pass a rolled-up towel between the legs of the suit, each to grab one end, and pull strenuously upward until the suit seated itself protectively around the picador's belly, groin and buttocks. It was not an elegant operation but it worked.

When Veneno was satisfied he was properly clad, he grabbed one end of the towel and passed it between his son's legs so that Chucho could ease himself into his expensive suit. Victoriano, as the matador, was dressed by the hired valet until time for the towel act, when half a dozen eager watchers stepped forward, hopeful of being allowed the supreme honor of being allowed to hold one end. If Victoriano was killed that day, the two lucky men who had given assistance could forever afterward boast, "I dressed the matador for his last fight." The valet pointed to the most prosperous-looking and said, "You two! The towel!" The lucky chosen bowed as if being presented at court.

As Mexico's first family of bullfighting, the Leals were expected to look good, and by four o'clock they did. Victoriano was dressed in a new suit imported from Seville, silver and white ornamented with disks of shimmering gold. It fitted so snugly and its seams were so well hidden that the slim young matador did indeed seem to be made of lights. Veneno, to ensure success on this opening day, was wearing his lucky suit, a dark blue studded with silver. Chucho was in maroon and Diego gleamed in green. As they waited for the mariachis to signal the hour for departure, Victoriano lounged awkwardly in a chair, silent as always, as if brooding on the fact that the entire burden of the afternoon fell on him, and not on his father and brothers. Chucho stood smoking by the window while his younger brother Diego, seated backwards in a chair, pressed his teeth against the back. Veneno, now encased in many pounds of protective gear, which the bulls would attack many times that afternoon, found it more comfortable to remain standing by the door. They were stiffly immobile, nervously thinking of Juan Gomez and the bulls, when Leon Ledesma entered.

"Good luck, matador!" the critic called across the room. "I saw the bulls," he lied. 'They were precious."