"I know d.a.m.ned well what he meant," Veneno snarled, "but not what it signifies. Today we have a full plaza."

"Buena suerte," Rolleri said. Veneno replied: "In this dirty business a man makes his own good fortune, or his matador gets killed."

As far as we could reconstruct his movements on that busy afternoon, as soon as Veneno left the phone he hurried out to the building, where he slipped into the area where the bulls were guarded and casually asked a young fellow from the Palafox ranch: "When Sangre Azul died, did Don Eduardo mount the head?"

"No. He was sick about the loss of such a bull."

"Which one killed him?"

"That d.a.m.ned maricon," the boy said bitterly, and he pointed to the stall holding No. 47.

"Oh, Jesus!" Veneno muttered to himself "The one we missed in the barbering. The one that has already killed another bull." He ran to his car and drove at breakneck speed to the cement factory at the far edge of town where he made a great noise till he roused an a.s.sistant manager: "I need one oversize bag of cement, right now. A building under way."

When it was produced, it was so heavy it took both him and the workman to load it into the back of his car, and on the way back to town it became even heavier, for he stopped by a small stream and, using a pail in which he often carried sandwiches during a long trip from one fight to another, he soaked the bag until it was (hipping wet and far to heavy for one man to handle. He then drove back to the ring, parked his car near the patio in which the picadors kept their horses, greeted them and told a young fellow who tended the Leal horses, "When you get a chance, bring it in from the car," and he hurried off to dress in his heavy picador's gear for the fight that would begin shortly.

At the ranch, when we were led to the little ring in which the testing would take place--it could seat no more than sixty-- Penny could not be aware that shortly she would be goaded into proving that her expensive charro's costume was not merely for display. After we were settled, Don Eduardo asked the mariachis he had imported to sound a flourish and, borrowing their microphone, he announced: "We are not offering a formal tienta--that means a testing, our norteamericano friends. That takes too much time and too many cows. But we are going to throw three or four of our best cows into our little ring, and I've asked our dear friend Calesero of Aguascalientes--you saw him yesterday, and if you wish you may applaud him again. He's agreed to supervise our little exhibition, but as you see, he's not dressed in his bullfight costume. That's saved for real fights. We call it traje corto--short dress, clothes he'd wear at his ranch."

The crowd applauded as Calesero moved to the center of the ring. He was a handsome man who would soon "cut his coleta," the ritual act signifying his formal retirement from bullfighting; it consisted of cutting the wisp of hair matadors wear at the nape of the neck. He wore ordinary ranch shoes of some expensive make, work pants neatly folded up from the bottom so as to show two inches of white inside fabric above the shoe top, a white shirt b.u.t.toned at the neck, a shoestring black tie fastened to the shirt at the belt so that it hung straight, a short jacket of the kind that generals wear, and a sombrero cordobes; a rather small black hat not so large as a regular sombrero. He was a figure from the early days of the last century, adding dignity to the afternoon.

After he bowed to the audience in the stands and to the many more from the countryside who crowded in against the fence, he indicated that his colleague for the show should come forward, and I was surprised to see a young man, not yet a full matador, who would be in the ring that afternoon. I told Mrs. Evans and Penny, "That one should not be here. He should be in his hotel room, resting." When they asked why, I explained: "When only two matadors share the bull, mano a mano like today, there must be, for safety's sake, a third matador on hand, in case the first two get knocked out before the afternoon ends. Sobresaliente they call him from the Spanish sobre (over) and saliente from the verb salir (to go out), so the word really means subst.i.tute."

"If he shouldn't be here, why is he?" Mrs. Evans asked, and, making inquiries, I learned that this young Pepe Huerta, eager to please anyone important in the bullfight world, had allowed Don Eduardo to bully him into appearing briefly at the noontime fiesta: "After a few pa.s.ses he'll motor back to town to dress for the fight. Don Eduardo has a car waiting." So we would be seeing not only Calesero but also this apparently promising young aspirant. A bugler from the mariachi band sounded the traditional call: "Send in the bull!" and the gate swung open to release a two-year-old cow who looked as if she had just been shot from the mouth of a heavily charged cannon, for after a quick look around she galloped with great fury right at Calesero, who stood his ground, unfiirled his cape, and led her past.

Turning with speed, she came back at him, and with practiced skill he led her past again, then delivered her with expert pa.s.ses into the jurisdiction of Huerta, who also gave her a pair of pa.s.ses. Having struck nothing but cloth, she was so frustrated and bewildered that she stopped to reconnoiter, and this provided time for Don Eduardo to signal that the first two of the amateurs who wanted to test their skills against the cow could replace the two matadors, and into the ring rushed two boys about fifteen armed with borrowed capes and hoping to dominate the cow as the matadors had done. But now the little cow had adversaries more her size and, also, she had learned something from those first futile charges. Driving at the first boy, she again hit only cloth, but in a swift turn she was upon him again before he could reset his feet, and down he fell like a bowling pin. Thus encouraged, she headed for the second lad, who could do nothing with her, and for the next moments at least one of the boys was always on the ground and sometimes both of them.

The boys were called from the ring to applause for their bravery, and the signal was given that all who wished could jump into the ring with or without capes and try to dodge the galloping cow. It was a gay and lovely frolic, with the cow making one hit after another, and enjoying it as much as the young men.

But now the bugle sounded, the ring was cleared of everyone except the two matadors, who deftly led the excited and triumphant cow to the exit, where she kicked her heels, tried to charge Calesero again, and disappeared to loud applause as Don Eduardo said on the loudspeaker: "You've seen a real Palafox cow. Her sons will be brave."

A second was brought in, and after a few pa.s.ses from the professionals two more young fellows were invited to show their skills, and they were much like the first pair. When their feet were firmly set they knew how to use their capes, but when the spirited cow turned quickly, the young matadors were not prepared. I explained to Mrs. Evans and Penny that the cow really had no horns-that is, none that had reached a point of development where they pointed forward. "So getting hit by the cow is much like getting struck by a flat object. It pushes you about but it doesn't puncture."

As I said this the third cow was allowed in, and when Calesero saw in the first pa.s.s that she charged straight and hard and true, he motioned to young Huerta to take her to a far part of the ring. He then astounded Penny and Mrs. Evans by coming to the stands and addressing the movie starlet in Spanish: "Divine senorita, will you help me to conquer this brave bull?" To the delight of the crowd she agreed, left the stands, kicked off her high-heeled shoes and grabbed one end of a long red cloth while Calesero held the opposite end, about five feet away. In this formation the two marched slowly, breathlessly across the sand while young Huerta used his cape to point the cow in the direction of the oncoming enemy. Then the sobresaliente retired while remaining close enough to the actress if anything went wrong.

Nothing did. The cow saw the fluttering cloth, lunged at it, struck it exactly in the middle, and pa.s.sed both the actress and the matador. It was a lovely action, with the aspect of a fairy tale. I thought: He's like a medieval knight, she's like a princess wearing a hennin, that conical headdress topped with a veil. And the little cow is really a fierce dragon.

Penny must have had similar thoughts, for as the exhibition ended, she cried to no one in particular: "I could do that!"

"What did you say?" Don Eduardo asked, and Penny said almost as a challenge to the actress: "I could do that. Any cowgirl could."

"Are you a cowgirl? Like a cowboy?"

"Sure."

Don Eduardo called for Calesero and they spoke at the barrier, then the matador, with a grand gesture, extended his right hand to Penny, and without any urging from me or Mrs. Evans, she rose, nodded to the guests and started down to the sand, but as she pa.s.sed me she whispered: "You were right. These clothes are too good to waste."

Trying to protect her, I grabbed a wrist and whispered: "You don't have to do this," and she whispered back: "If she can do it, so can I."

"But she's a movie star. She's supposed to-"

Brushing my hand aside, she said: "I wasn't thinking of her. It's Conchita," and with the agility of a schoolgirl in gym cla.s.s, she vaulted over the railing and into the ring.

As the crowd cheered, Calesero graciously asked in broken English if she cared to take off her boots as the actress had done, and she replied in Spanish: "No es necesario. Se hicieron para esto" (Not necessary. They were made for this.).

As Penny and her matador started their slow march toward the cow I thought: What an exquisite scene. An elderly matador about to retire with honors, a beautiful young woman with spirit, and each costumed exactly right. The red cloth! The eager animal! With my automatic I took six rapid-fire pictures, and with the last one caught Pepe Huerta whispering to Penny just before the cow came up: "Feet firm. Don't move. Hold the cape tight."

She obeyed, tensing both her wrists and her jaw as the cow roared between the two, but now came the critical part, for Huerta yelled at Penny: 'Turn with her! Plant your feet! Hold tight!" and again the cow smashed right into the middle of the cape, but this time she turned with such incredible swiftness that Penny had no time to prepare. The cow was upon her, b.u.t.ting her sharply in the right leg and tossing her into the air, but she did not fall back onto the sand, for Huerta caught her, held her in the air, and delighted the crowd by kissing her on the cheek as he stood her back up.

'Toro!" warned the crowd, for the cow, seeing this new center of action, was bearing down on the pair, but Calesero deftly interposed himself in front of Penny and led the cow away.

I supposed that this was the end of Miss Grim's performance, but I was mistaken. Ashamed of having allowed herself to be knocked down, she recovered her end of the cape, handed the other end to Huerta and indicated that she at last was ready for another charge. Now it was Calesero who stood at her side, coaching: "Feet firm. Hold tight," and it was either her skill or Huerta's, but the cape had been placed perfectiy, for the cow roared safely past, but again, even before Calesero could reposition Penny, the little beast was upon her from the rear. This time Penny went up in the air, and this gave Huerta a chance to catch her before she crashed. As he planted her gingerly back on the ground, he again kissed her, then held her hand aloft as he coached her in taking a turn of the arena to wild applause from the watchers. And that is the way Penny Grim of Tulsa, an incoming freshman at S. M. U., met her third torero in three days, and had twice been kissed by him.

As she stood close to him at the railing, waiting for the fourth cow to be let in, I thought: What a handsome pair they make! Two young people, bright-eyed, full of vitality, each leaning toward the other. The quaint essence of youth!

My attention was diverted to Ricardo Martin, who had obviously learned of the tienta through the bullfighters' grapevine and now wormed his way in with hopes of making at least a few pa.s.ses with a real animal. Undetected by Don Eduardo's guards, he now edged toward the arena, saw that Huerta was paying more attention to Penny Grim than to the bull, s.n.a.t.c.hed a red cloth that had been draped over the railing, and with an athletic leap landed in the ring to face a still-vigorous and determined animal. Lacking the stick that would normally have held his muleta open, he had to rely on the most difficult pa.s.ses in the repertory: limp cloth low in the left hand, right hand behind the back, moving slowly toward the cow and stamping his right foot softiy to provoke the charge. It was risky, even with a cow, but he performed the ritual so perfectly and with such style that watchers began to clap. The cow charged and Martin remained immobile except for the slow motion of his left hand as the cow swept past. Then, like a real matador, he turned quickly but with an economy of movement and presented the cloth again, low, slowly, gracefully.

In those magical moments he announced to the taurine world that he knew what he was doing and on his third pa.s.s, even better and closer than before, I heard some around me saying: "He knows, that one."

Calesero came to him and embraced him, leading him personally back to a seat beside Mrs. Evans. When the exhibition ended, Ricardo tried to steal the red cloth he had borrowed but was detected by one of Don Eduardo's men, who said boldly: "If you don't mind, I'll take that." In great humiliation Ricardo had to surrender it. But at that moment Mrs. Evans stepped in and asked the functionary: "What is the muleta worth?" for she had already learned the word, and the man said: "They're not cheap, the proper ones, the way they're cut and stretched. Ten dollars." And he showed her how what seemed to be a simple square of cloth had a pocket in it for holding the stick or sword that the matador used and also how small washers were sewn into the fringe to keep it from blowing about in a wind. "If it blew up, covering the matador," the man said, "he would become the unprotected target and might be killed. This is an important piece of cloth."

"You've explained it beautifully. Here's ten dollars and the cloth belongs to him." When the exchange was made and Martin tucked the muleta into his shirt, Leon Ledesma looked at me quizzically and I nodded, which meant: "That's right, Leon, he hopes to be an espontineo this afternoon," and the big man groaned: "Not two in two days. The G.o.ds are punishing me."

As we pa.s.sed out of the ring toward our cars, which would take us back to the bullfight, the workman who had tried to take the red cloth from Ricardo overtook us and grabbed Martin by the arm, and for a moment I feared there might be a brawl. But the man had brought a matador's stick, the kind whose point fitted in the pocket of the cloth. It was about three feet long, too much by far to hide under a shirt when one was going to try an espontaneo. But this one had been sawn in half and brought back together by a clever system of hinges and screws. Folded, it could be hidden and when reconst.i.tuted in full length as one climbed over the red fence into the ring where the bull waited, it would be a helpful tool.

"iHoy dia, quizas?" the workman asked. (Today, maybe?) "Si."

"Buena suerte." And he left us to ride back to the bullring with workmen from the ranch.

On our ride back Mrs. Evans asked Ledesma to share the rear seat with her while I drove her Cadillac with Penny perched beside me, and I heard Mrs. Evans say: "It's pretty obvious Ricardo's going to try to get into the ring this afternoon, isn't it?"

"He and about six others," replied Ledesma.

"But if he does leap in, and if he does as well with the bull as he did with the cow, will you say so in your report?"

"I don't deal in such matters. Nothing ever comes of such an act."

"I'm told that's how Gomez got started."

"He's one in a thousand-ten thousand,"

"But let's suppose he does something spectacular, would you then say so?"

"I told you I don't deal-"

I cannot say for sure what happened, because I could see their heads in my mirror but not their hands, but I'm fairly certain that money was exchanged, paper money, and after a long silence, Mrs. Evans asked: "In your sober opinion, Senor Ledesma, what would it cost an American boy to become an apprentice and then a matador, always providing he had the talent?"

"Well now!" and he began to reel off numbers that staggered me. "First the basics. Two suits, five thousand dollars. Swords, capes, muletas, thirty-five hundred. The special cape for the entry parade, twenty-five hundred. Then the recurring fees, your Peons and picadors, three thousand dollars a fight. Tips to everyone, six thousand dollars. And then the important things, publicity^ including the critics, five thousand dollars. Manager maybe as much as eighteen thousand dollars. So when you are looking at one of our top matadors, Mrs. Evans, you are looking at big money."

"But with a beginner, if one wanted to do it on the cheap?"

'That's the way I'd do it. If you had a winner, someone who could get contracts, not many but a few. Secondhand suits, swords as available, maybe as little as nine thousand dollars."

"Could an American make a real dent, at nine or ten thousand dollars?"

"Six or seven try each year, probably on less. I know of two who tried real hard on twice that much. They all failed."

"Have any succeeded?"

"Within severe limits, two or three."

"If young Martin does get into the ring this afternoon, will you be able to tell by whatever he accomplishes whether or not he has a chance?"

"Mrs. Evans, be realistic. If he tries, you'll see total chaos. He'll be lucky if he even gets near the bull. The peons won't allow it."

"But if he should?"

"You've been a tonic in this festival. And I've grown quite fond of you. So I will give you my opinion free, such as it is. So ask away."

"What I want to know, if he does well, will you say so in print?"

"I've already promised you I'll say something favorable about the testing at the ranch. I've drafted the opening lines. 'Yesterday at the Palafox Ranch I saw Calesero in his traje corto perform his arabesques with the st.u.r.dy, cows of Don Eduardo, but the highlight of the abbreviated tienta was the well-regarded norteamericano aspirant Ricardo Martin, who proved once again that he knows how to handle the muleta. He is definitely a young man to watch.' "

"Have you seen him before?"

"No, but it sounds better that way, a more considered judgment."

At this point I again lost sight, literally, of whatever transaction occurred, but when it was concluded, Ledesma said: "But only if he actually gets near the bull." And on those terms I drove the Cadillac into the parking lot and headed for the bullring, unable even to guess what might be about to happen.

Chapter 19.

SOL Y SOMBRA.

RELIEVED TO LEARN that my account of the tragedy at Ixmiq-61 was in New York and that my photos had been delivered by air, I was free to attend the final fight as a spectator. I took along my notebook and cameras, on the odd chance that something memorable might happen, but my major concern was to see that my Oklahomans had a meaningful conclusion to their stay in Toledo. I had grown attached to Mrs. Evans, who seemed to have all the best attributes of a mother, and I was aware that had I been a couple of decades younger I'd have been paying more than casual attention to Penny. So it was a privilege for me to stand outside the bullring with them as crowds gathered for the culminating mano a mano between Victoriano and Gomez.

'The two gates, this Sol and that Sombra, symbolize the fight," I told them as we marked the sharp difference between the two groups of aficionados using those gates. "You'll notice that those with tickets reading Sol, a motley crowd, use the one leading to the cheaper seats. They'll sit facing the sun, which can be d.a.m.ned bright in Toledo this time of year. Look at how they bring hats with brims or eyeshades to keep out the glare. Even so, they'll be uncomfortable during the first three bulls, but they watch with pleasure as the sun starts to disappear behind the upper tiers of the ring."

"Do they pay a lot less over there?" Penny asked, and I said: "You bet, but now look at these coming in with Sombra tickets. Well dressed and scrubbed. Entering by a gate adorned with that statue of a Palafox bull. They'll enjoy protection from the sun through the entire fight, for their ticket means shade. You don't have to be a sn.o.b when you're sitting in comfort here in Sombra to think: Look at those poor slobs over there in that blazing sunlight. Such thoughts even occur in Christian minds! I'mm in heaven, they're in h.e.l.l.' The extra pesos you pay to get seats in the shade are well spent. You ladies will be in shade."

There was a third entrance reserved for a few privileged people like Ledesma the critic and Clay the journalist. We could enter by the gate used by the matadors, but whereas they remained in a holding area until time for their processional entrance, Ledesma and I could slip through an even smaller red door that gave entrance to the narrow s.p.a.ce between the tiers of seats and the sandy arena in which the bulls would be fought. This narrow pa.s.sageway was called in Spanish the callejon, and many incidents during the fight would occur here. The manager would whisper suggestions to his matador. Functionaries would carry out orders from the president high in his box overlooking everything. Occasionally a bull would leap over the barrier separating the pa.s.sageway from the arena and create havoc in the narrow s.p.a.ce, which was supposed to be a refuge. In what looked to be a safe pa.s.sageway men could be killed.

On this day I would not be using the privileged entrance, for I had no reason to be down in the pa.s.sageway. I could sit in a seat behind the two Oklahomans, and it was fortunate that I was there because Penny gave me a commission. Leaning back from her front-row seat she whispered: "Mr. Clay, that subst.i.tute matador at the ranch told me the big matadors might let him place one pair of sticks, maybe. If he does, he promised me: 'Mexico will not see a better pair this season,' so if it happens, do catch a photograph," and she added softly: "I would like that."

Mrs. Evans also gave me her commission in a voice even more subdued: "If Ricardo tries it, photograph everything," and I replied: "If I have enough film." She warned: "You'd better have."

As the minute hand on the arena clock crept toward five, the band of ten instruments high in the rafters began a traditional bullfight march, then suddenly stopped to allow their two trumpeters to sound the call that officially started the afternoon. A big gateway on the far sunny side of the arena opened partially and out rode a man in an ancient costume astride his white horse, which high-stepped in a slow dance to our side. There the man picked up a ceremonial key with which he galloped back full speed to open the red door through which the bulls would enter the arena. Then the big doors opened fully and into the sunlight stepped the three matadors followed by their troupes, including two mounted picadors for each matador. Trailing behind came a dozen men wearing white shirts who were called monos sabios (trained apes) whose job it was to clean up the arena after each of the six separate fights.

This entry scene was like nothing else in sport or spectacle. Even the most jaded aficionado had to be thrilled by the sight of the three matadors so handsome in their special capes, resplendent in color and decoration and used only for this entry march, followed by the Peons, each also wearing the best cape he could afford. When they reached our side, Victoriano, at the height of his public acceptance, came to where the actress we had seen at the ranch sat and with a bow offered her his cape, and at the same time Pepe Huerta, the subst.i.tute, came to Penny Grim and offered her his somewhat tattered cape, which she also spread out. The difference between the two capes was immediately and almost cruelly obvious: $2,800 to $69. But the audience applauded the two gestures, and both the matador and subst.i.tute posed momentarily before the two women as we snapped our shutters. The afternoon was off to a memorable start.

But then Juan Gomez, almost fighting to establish and maintain his role as a major matador, eclipsed the other pair, for he waited till they had made their presentations, then marched slowly to where Lucha Gonzalez sat and with the gestures of a grandee at the court of Versailles presented her with his rather shopworn cape as spectators whispered: "She's the flamenco singer, Lucha. She danced in that movie, remember? Some years back," and the arena applauded.

Now at a signal from the president the bugler sounded his plaintive call, an echo from centuries that spoke of battle and death. The sound created an ominous mood, and as it wailed away into silence, the little red door across from us opened, and out roared the first Palafox bull of the afternoon, head high, legs pumping, horns jabbing this way and that in search of targets. The fight had begun.

Gomez ran to his first beast, the one we had described as having "small horns but quick movements," and tried to set the pattern for the afternoon by attempting a series of stately pa.s.ses, but the bull did not comply. The animal was not cowardly, for when the well-padded horses came out it attacked them furiously, but again, when Gomez tried to lead the bull away for a set of really fine pa.s.ses with the cape wrapping around his body as the bull roared past, there was no bull roaring anywhere, and the matador's attempts to make something happen proved not only fruitless but also just a bit ridiculous. The bad afternoon started for Gomez at that moment, but worse was about to happen, for now the intricate strategy of a hand-to-hand fight intruded.

When Gomez, having demonstrated that he could do nothing with his first bull, stepped away, Victoriano was on hand to sweep in, unfurl his cape and give the bull a series of brilliant pa.s.ses that evoked cheers throughout the plaza. "d.a.m.n that bull," I would hear Gomez muttering to his peons. "Why charge at him and not me?"

With the picadors it was the same. After the first pic, not a good one, Gomez tried to lead his bull away for some fancy pa.s.ses, but the animal would not respond. Now the bandylegged little Indian faced the cruel decision: ask the president to move the fight on to the next stage, knowing the bull had not been adequately tested, or deliver him to the second picador in hopes that this one would do the necessary job. But, if the bull did attack the second picador, then Victoriano was ent.i.tled to try his luck with pa.s.ses. Gomez evaluated the situation only briefly, then allowed Victoriano his chance, and the graceful younger man again received a bull ready to cooperate. Victoriano gave him two sets of exquisite pa.s.ses in which the cape became part of a flowing sculpture, the bull a friend to the matador, not an enemy.

With the sticks Gomez was adequate, but not exceptional, nor could he afford to hire men who were, so on this first bull he placed a desultory pair, but then felt obligated to offer Victoriano a chance to display what he could do, and the fans applauded this gesture. But it turned out poorly for the Indian, because poetic Victoriano drifted across the sand like an angel, rose on his toes and placed a pair so elegantly that the crowd cheered.

There was always a brief interval between the placing of the last sticks and the final stage of the fight, and in this pause Ledesma came to where we were sitting, pushed his big head between Mrs. Evans and Penny and whispered to me: "Norman, you'd better come down here with me," but I demurred: "I'm happy with these two." Severely he said: 'There may be something you should see," and with those cryptic words he lured me away from the Oklahomans and down into the pa.s.sageway, from where we watched Gomez try to do something with his bull.

The animal, somewhat confused by previous happenings, did not arrive at the end of his day suitable for the kind of pa.s.ses and close-in work at which Gomez excelled. Juan accomplished little with the red cloth and failed three times to drive the sword home. As the bull was dragged out he heard what the reporters called divisos, or a division of opinion: a few cheers for his bravery and effort to do well, many jeers for having failed.

It was as if the drab first fight had been a forgivable prologue to the real afternoon, for the second bull, belonging to Victoriano, seemed to have been sent by Don Eduardo to prove that any Palafox bull carried with him the possibility of a superb performance. At the sorting that day I had noted No. 33 as "Placid, allows others to shove. Explosive???"

I was privileged to see this fight through the eyes of Ledesma, who allowed me to look over his shoulder as he jotted down a running series of notes to aid him when he wrote his critique: "Vic. two beautiful veronicas. Gomez finally does something. Leads toro off 2 fine walking pa.s.ses. Vic. magnificent banderillas. Band plays. Gomez only regular. Vic. opens faena farolazo de rodillas. [Starts final stage on knees with swirling pa.s.s over his head]. Gets better, better. Muleta held behind back, bull under his arm, inches. A decent kill, but bull stands. One jab with the dagger sword. Bull falls. Dianas [traditional music of applause]. Wild cheering. An ear. Another ear. More dianas. Cheers. Tail. Tour of the arena. Another. Another. He invites Don Eduardo to join him. Triumphant. Note his clever placement of toro."

When I asked what the last note meant, I was treated to another example of why it was rewarding to be near Ledesma at a taurine affair. He not only loved the gallantry of the bullfight world but also served as the recorder of its more sardonic elements: "Always watch how Victoriano places his bull during a fight. Whenever he feels capable of giving a fine series of pa.s.ses, he directs his Peons to bring the bull over here to Sombra, so that the high-paying customers can marvel at his artistry. When he has a bull with which he can do nothing, his men lead it over to Sol and leave it there. Victoriano goes over, gives a few bad pa.s.ses and dispatches the bull as quickly and ineptly as possible. Sol gives meaningless cheers, Sombra pays the rent. He likes rich people, but, of course, so do I."

"Do other matadors behave any differently?"

"Gomez. Watch the way he orchestrates his fight. When he has a great series of pa.s.ses in prospect, he takes his bull to the Sol, because those are the people who support him, the people who know what real bullfighting is. With them, no sham or fancy-dancy."

"Where did you hear such a word?"

He laughed: "I once escorted a Hollywood starlet who was mad about Mexico. She taught me."

When I watched how the two matadors used the broad expanse of sand to do their work I saw that my earlier instinct had been accurate: Ledesma was right. Victoriano was indeed the artist of Sombra, Gomez the man of Sol.

The litde Indian, having been forced to listen to the triumphant cheers for his opponent, was challenged to outperform him, and he certainly tried, but his valiant work on his second bull, the one we had spotted as being overage, was still unrewarding. For him the afternoon was degenerating into a debacle. One splendid moment, unfortunately, did not involve Gomez. True to his promise to Pepe Huerta, the subst.i.tute whom management had picked up on the cheap from Guadalajara, he allowed the young aspirant to place the second pair of sticks, having himself messed up the first pair. The eager subst.i.tute must have been rehearsing what he would do this day, if he got a chance to show the skills he knew he had but which others did not recognize. He took the sticks, decorated with garish purple tissue paper wrapped about their length, strode manfully to where Penny sat above him in the front row, and with the sticks in his left hand he pointed the barbed ends at her and announced he was dedicating his performance to her. The crowd cheered, and Penny, sitting with his frayed entrance cape still gracing the railing, started shouting in a most unladylike voice: "Mr. Clay! Mr. Clay! Get the photo!"

Heart pounding, nerves alert, wearing the one decent suit of lights he owned, Pepe went out toward the middle of the arena and started that long, dreamlike stalk toward the bull, feet together, jumping up and down now and then to hold the bull's attention. Fortunately, considering what Pepe had planned, the bull initially remained cautiously immobile, watching the thin figure approach with his arms extended over his head, until finally, with a mad rush, he came out of his defensive position driving right at the man. At that moment Huerta ran toward the bull, made a complete 360-degree turn to the right, and wound up facing the now bewildered bull only a few feet away. Up in the air leaped the man, sticks still high above his head, and with a deft turn and twist of his body he escaped the horns but left himself high enough in the air to enable him to place the barbed sticks exactly in the neck muscle behind the horns.

My automatic camera had caught some dozen shots of those last electric moments. One that showed the full drama and grace of that last turn and downward dip of the sticks would be widely circulated in Mexico as The Pair of Toledo. In a poster-size reproduction paid for by Penny Grim it would come to rest on the wall of her dormitory room at S. M. U. in Dallas; beside it would be a small shot of Huerta dedicating the famous pair to her. It had happened. She had come to Mexico hoping to meet a bull-fighter and she had found a champion.

Huerta's performance did nothing to help Gomez, because when Juan tried the third pair he looked almost pathetic in comparison with what the subst.i.tute had just done. And with the sword at the end he was brave but luckless. This time at the unsatisfactory kill there were not even divisos; they were all boos.

The pause after the third bull was like the midpoint of a baseball game in the United States when the groundkeepers run out to smooth the diamond, for now the big gate on the sunny side opened to admit two teams of mules dragging behind them heavy bags that leveled out the sand. Since the horses wore c.o.c.kades in their manes and their drivers wore blue shirts, they made a colorful show and concluded their work at the far side of Sombra, from where they galloped in a mad chariot race to see which team would reach the exit gate first. After cheering the winner and booing the loser, the crowd was ready for the festival to resume.

Victoriano's second bull was almost a replica of his first, except that this time he was awarded only the two ears. The crowd made a noisy demand for the tail also, and when it was not granted, they made the triumphant matador circle the arena twice to wild cheering. I watched him as he pa.s.sed and suspected that fear was hiding just below the joy he was ent.i.tled to show: 'There's still that big one to face. The killer." I knew from past experiences with matadors that he was already beginning to sweat, and I put new film into my camera to be ready for what was likely to be the climax of the afternoon.