Muerte en la Tarde

"A steady diet of bier, crackers, and salami may suffice for a short while, but it is inevitable that the boy's stomach will ache for something more....or maybe it's his mind that aches as it gnaws at thoughts of running bulls. Maybe it is his mind that plays tricks on his stomach? His stomach is full, but it craves for something more, something real...something bloody. Ah yes, it is indeed his mind. Ernest had told him about the bulls, before - the thought has devoured him ever since."

As I gasped for breath in my sweat soaked room, I reached for the water bottle that lay on the floor beside my tiny bed. It was 1:30 pm and I had just woken up. I could hear the stale, sickly coughs from my next door neighbor, and wondered if this was reality. It was. My walls are paper thin, and everyone hears every little sound, so I yelled at the top of my lungs.

"What day do the bulls run?"

In between queezes, he answered, "Sunday."

"What day is it?"

"Sunday."

Perfecto.

In Spain, bullfights are called Las Corridas de los toros - which literally translates to the run of the bulls. It is not considered a fight, but more a performance, or an artistic expression in which bull and man go to battle. Toreros enter the ring to risk their lives, and give the people what they want - they are modern day gladiators. They are at the mercy of the crowd. There is no winner in a bullfight - there is only honor. A torero's honor is the only thing at stake in the ring. Well, actually his life is on the line, but to a bullfighter his honor and life are one in the same.

A short anecdote.

Juan Belmonte is widely considered throughout the world to have been the greatest bullfighter to ever walk this planet. It is ironic that I say "walk" because Belmonte was born with a condition in which he could not walk correctly - his feet were not put together properly. His condition did many things. For one, it made him slower, so he had to be beyond precise. Two, it made him bitter, so he was madly driven to be the best. Three, it made him bold, so he stood his ground as bulls charged towards him - he anchored himself in the ground like no other fighter did. And lastly, it made him proud, so he stood tall with his knees straight and chest out. Belmonte was a rare specimen of man. A rare kind of person that only comes around every century or so - he revolutionized the art of bullfighting. He refined what it meant to have style in the ring.

Belmonte enjoyed an extroardinary career filled with triumph and downfall. He was violently gored well over six times throughout his career. He retired, and then returned to the ring. He realized, as all masters do, that he could not live without doing what he loved; and it was wasteful and selfish not to do it while he was still physically able. I'm sure you can think of a few other masters who have come to the same conclusion.

As I have said bullfighters are proud people, and Belmonte was especially proud. And as he was proud, he was equally stubborn. Once retiring from the ring for good, he continued to savor the things that he loved in life - bullfighting, alcohol, cigars, & women. He proudly made his way over the hill into old age - all the while his condition worsened. Until finally, doctors told him that he would never be able walk again. They told him that he could no longer ride his horses, drink alcohol, smoke cigars, or have sex - they told him that he would die a painful death if he continued to live in the manner that he was living.

Belmonte would not live then, nor would he leave this world on doctors' terms - he would leave on his own terms. He promptly bought a case of his favorite whiskey, a box of his favorite cigars, and rode his favorite horse to Casa de Campo where he picked up three of his favorite hookers - Mujeres de las noches. He enjoyed his favorite things one last time, and shot himself in the head with his favorite pistol. Belmonte was a bullfighter. Just as the bulls in the ring stubbornly charge with no regard for their life - so, too, did Belmonte. Juan Belmonte was a troubled genius, who was starkly dark, and unquestionably skilled. He was a bullfighter.

The bullfight was at six thirty pm, and it was necessary that I was prompt and on time, because if you arrive after the first bull is released you have to wait till it is dead before you can enter the ring. I arrived just before 6:30 pm, bought a cheap ticket from a scalper in front of the stadium, and snuck in just before they released the beast.

Las Ventas is the name of the bullring. You can feel the anticipation in the air. The aficionados are eager to see the performance. Aficionados look at a bullfight in a much difference lens than a casual spectator. They want to know how the bulls are. Are they angry? Are they ready to charge? A bull that doesn't charge does not allow the torero the chance to display his skills. Do the toreros enter the terrain of the bull, or do they merely over-exaggerate their movements to imitate danger?

When a torero enters the terrain of the bull he makes his body vulnerable, he risks his life - this is how a bullfighter gains respect. The bull grazes Belmonte as it makes its pass. The horns miss his thigh by less than an inch...would these Sunday fighters be able to live up to Belmonte's standards?

It was an impossible task. The ghost of Belmonte laughed in the crowd as he drank his whiskey and smoked his cigar. There were three fighters - one from Portugal, one from Spain, and one from Ecuador. The first two were nothing special. Boos poured down from the crowd as the Portuguese torero failed to cleanly kill his bull. It took him well over 8 stabs to lay that noble bull to rest. When a fight is sloppy and careless like that I, undoubtedly, root for the bull.

The torero from Ecuador was the only fighter who won the crowd's favor. His first bull was average, and he killed it rather cleanly. His second bull was mean, and clever. The bull fought vigorously to no avail - the red cape of the torero, called a muleta, constantly alluded him. Until finally, the bull found an opening.

As the Ecuadorian fighter stood facing the bleeding bull, he held his muleta out in front as a mask, and slowly lowered his sword, pointing it directly at the bull - this signals that the torero will attempt to go for the kill. A small twitch of his cape, and the bull charges. The fighter stands his ground. He tries to thrust his sword in between the shoulder blades, piercing the bull's heart. The bull is clever, and violently uses his horns as a boxer would, he has a right and a left. The torero is arrogant and stands his ground for a second too long - the bull catches him with a right...I thought I was witnessing the death of a torero. I thought the bull had gored him right under his ribs. He was stuck on the horns. The bull took him to the ground and gave one last go at it, before he was swarmed by bandilleros with bright pink capes. They lured the bull away from the bruised torero. The torero stands, and walks with his head down to retrieve his sword and muleta. He is not physically hurt, but he is angry with himself. As he gains his composure, he walks to the middle of the ring, each step methodically placed. He stands tall, his posture overbearing as he stares at the bull - now it is a fight. The crowd cheers and whistles out of respect for both the bull and the torero. They know that it is a battle royale - both fighters wounded and tired.

The torero dances around the bull until he feels it is time to go for the kill, once again. The torero lines up his sword and is ready to end it - this battle is too good to end. The crowd cheers, whistles, and roars to let the torero know it is not time to end this fight just yet. They are not ready. The torero re-sheathes his sword, and the dance continues. The torero leads the bull through a couple more passes - his lines are tight and continuous. He is a skilled fighter, but can he use his sword?

The crowd fuels the torero as gasoline does to fire. The cheers give him strength and make him more daring. He opens up his body to the bull, and takes great risks. The sun has almost set, and the lights have been turned on. This fight has gone on long enough. As the torero stands, once again, facing the bull with his sword drawn a subtle whisper moves through the crowd, "Puede usar su espada?" "Can he use his sword?"

The bull charges with greater fervor than before, and the torero charges back. He avoids the boxer's horns this time, and makes a clean stab through the bull's heart. The bull stands wavering. The torero looks on. The bull knows it has been defeated, but it refuses to give up. It stumbles and falls down, dead. The crowd erupts. White handkerchiefs appear and the crowd waves them in the air. The torero blows kisses into the sea of white. The handkerchiefs represent the crowd's respect and love for the torero's performance - they signify that he should be awarded the ear of his bull, a great honor in bullfighting.

When the crowd erupted after that final kill I got goose bumps, and I could not stop smiling. It was a gruesome, bloody sight but I could feel the respect that these people had for both the bull and the torero. To them, it is an honorable death for the bull to die in the ring - that is why they get so upset when a sloppy and careless fighter deprives a good bull of a clean death. If you are skilled at dodging and making the bull dance you will be liked, but if you are skilled with your sword you will be loved. You will be immortal.

Ernest had told me about the bulls before, but now I knew for myself. It is an ancient experience that gets inside of you - it is filled with such detail, and loyalty. One has to know how to watch a bullfight to truly appreciate it. I don't know how to exactly watch one, yet, but I am learning.

Las Ventas, el proximo Domingo a las seis y media.

Earnestly yours,

C.M. Stassel