When I asked how it was possible to herd fighting bulls in unfenced fields, he laughed: 'Left to themselves, by themselves, my bulls are never dangerous. See, we ride freely among them, but only as long as they remain in a group. If we were to corner that fine fellow over there and keep him away from his friends he'd tear us and our horses apart in his anxiety to rejoin them.' And then he revealed why a matador was able to fight such a powerful animal: 'These bulls, after they are calves, are never touched by man, never fought, never shown a cape. They're pure animals, unsullied so that when they meet a matador in the ring, they do not know him as an enemy, so they follow the cloth, not the man. But they learn fast, and if the fight goes on too long, they'll peg the man, not the cloth, so the matador has limited time to subdue his bull. If he delays he dies.'

Continuing his fascinating account, he remarked bitterly: 'I say my bulls are uncontaminated by men or their tricks. But sometimes Gypsy boys from Triana sneak into my fields at night and with a.s.sistance from the moon and the use of a red tablecloth they fight my bulls in secret. Twice we found the boys' bodies when the sun rose. We try to stop them, but it's useless. The great Juan Belmonte learned his skills on this ranch, in dead of night. So did Lzaro Lopez. He should be grateful to me. He stole the use of my bulls to become a matador.'

When I admired one sleek animal feeding off to himself, Cayetano told me: 'That's the kind of bull we picked in past centuries when arenas gave exhibitions, Spanish bull against African lion, or tiger maybe, to prove which was braver. Mota bulls won every time. Gored the African animals and tossed them in the air. That one would do the same if put to the test.'

ON SAt.u.r.dAY he and I drove to Mlaga, that handsome Moorish-styled city on the Mediterranean to stay in an old hotel frequented by the bullfighting fraternity. The three matadors who were to fight the next day were the same we had seen in Puerto de Santa Mara, but they remained secluded, surrounded only by their own entourages and supporters. Don Cayetano, to my surprise, strove to make himself available to everyone, especially to members of the press. I knew that he found it distasteful to sit in a public lobby and greet strangers, but, as he said, he was fighting for his life, and I listened as he told newsmen: 'I think you'll find the bulls I've brought to Mlaga the finest our ranch has offered in many years.'

'Didn't you say the same about those you sent to Puerto de Santa Mara?'

'I did not. Those were the first of the season. We hadn't identified them yet. These will surprise you.' Then, as if loath to let the newsmen go, he quickly added: 'These bulls can be fought and you'll find them exactly suited to the matadors.'

'Even Lopez? We hear you had words after the float returned.'

'When Lzaro Lopez gets himself a good bull, he knows what to do with it, and tomorrow he'll have one of the best. Cut an ear, maybe.' It was painful to see this fine man lowering himself in his fight to protect the reputation of his ranch, and I found myself praying, like him, that his bulls would be good.

Early Sunday morning we went to Ma.s.s in an old church near our hotel, and he remained on his knees a long time praying audibly. I could not understand his words, but they were impa.s.sioned and directed not to the Lord or Jesus but to the Virgin. When the priest came forward to dispense the holy wafer, the Don reached forward like a hungry dog, so eager was he for any dispensation that might aid him on this critical day.

The Don urged me to watch the sorting of the bulls, a colorful ritual that had originated hundreds of years ago when the senior peons of the three matadors who were to fight later that day met to agree upon how the bulls should be paired so that no matador would get the two best or the two worst. It was one of the incorruptible features of the bullfight; all others were susceptible to chicanery or even near-criminal activity, such as shaving horns to disarm the bull, dropping bags of concrete on their backs to weaken them, slyly subst.i.tuting three-year-olds and calling them mature four-year-olds, and so on through a mult.i.tude of evil tricks. At the sorting, honor prevailed: three peons, each as learned in taurine ways as the others, each as eager to protect his matador, tried to compose three pairs as evenly matched as possible. I enjoyed hearing the arguments regarding the bulls identified by the numbers branded on their flanks: 'Two has what might be a bad right eye. Let's pair him with Five, who seems the best of the lot.' When that was agreed the next peon said: 'One is going to hook to the right. I say we pair him with Three, who looks fine.' When that judgment was fine-tuned to Six and Three, the last pair was obvious: One, who might hook to the right, with Four, who appeared superior.

The peons had to be honest in the pairings. After the pairings had been completed the numbers were written on three pieces of paper-Two-Five, Six-Three, One-Four-and hidden in a hat provided by the custodian of the ring. Only then did the three peons, in reverse order of their matador's seniority, draw from the hat the pair of bulls their man would fight: this day Lopez got Two and Five, El Viti would fight Six-Three, leaving Paco Camino with One-Four. Each peon, when he reported to his matador waiting in a hotel room, would a.s.sure him: 'Today we got the best of the draw. Two bulls just made for you.' While supporters in the dressing room discussed the reported merits of the two bulls, the matador, after discussion with his peon, decided which of his two bulls he would fight first. The graceful Paco Camino said: 'Let's start the afternoon with an explosion. Four, then One.' Like us amateurs who had partic.i.p.ated in the sorting, he believed, from reports, that Four might turn out to be the best of the afternoon.

We reached the plaza at shortly after four o'clock, which pleased me, allowing almost a full hour to watch the incoming crowd, to scan the arena to note its condition, and even to roam the back areas where the six picadors were testing their horses and nine banderilleros were stretching their muscles. At about twenty to five the matadors began to arrive: sober El Viti first, of course, for he was a man with a high sense of ritual who felt that he must come early like the matadors of the past. Paco Camino, one of the handsomest matadors of this century though small, appeared next, accompanied by many well-wishers. Finally, in burst Lzaro Lopez in a garish suit of lights fashioned largely of green brocade. He posed for cameras, shook hands with everyone and tested his right leg by lifting his knee and pressing his instep against a railing. He had been gored in the last fight of the preceding year; it had happened, of course, during his futile attempts to kill a bull, a fact that was making him even more tentative and cowardly this year. I suspected that he would be scandalous this afternoon, but hoped that the performance of Camino and El Viti would come up to expectations and would save the day.

At ten to five one of the workmen at the Mota ranch found me among the horses and said: 'Don Cayetano hopes you'll join him in the rancher's box.' I accepted the invitation and was able to see the extraordinary events that occurred while perched on a stool not three feet from the Don.

The first moments of the afternoon were as exciting as ever: the sound of the trumpet, the gate opening and the horseman in eighteenth-century costume riding in to ask permission of the president to conduct the fight, the donation of the key, the gallop back and the opening of the red gates through which the bulls of Don Cayetano would emerge. 'Doesn't this moment grip you?' I asked, but he was awaiting the appearance of his bulls so intently that he said nothing.

The first fight proved that little Paco Camino and the peon who chose his bulls knew something about the animals, for, as they had antic.i.p.ated, Bull Four proved to be excellent and almost ideally suited to Paco's style. The matador realized this immediately; his peons had run the bull only twice when he saw that the animal followed the cloth as if its nose were glued to it. Hastening to the far side of the ring, he waved his peons away and cited the bull from a considerable distance, holding his big cape firmly by the ends. Moving cautiously forward, one graceful foot almost heel to toe with the other, he suddenly made a vigorous movement with his head, whereupon Number Four charged right at him, but he deftly led the bull off to his left, twisting his cape at the end so that the animal turned rapidly to follow the cape and charge again. Four times this heroic man, looking vulnerable in his resplendent suit, led the bull back and forth, stopping it each time in some magic way so that man and bull seemed linked. The crowd was in ecstasy, for one could come to many fights without seeing such a chain of pa.s.ses.

At the end of the last series, Paco halted the bull so that its feet were planted solidly, its head swinging and scanning the arena for its next adversary. What it saw was the first picador astride a large horse, and without hesitating, the bull drove at the target with such force that horse and picador came close to toppling backward. But the picador knew his job. Using his long, pointed lance as a prod, he held the bull off with a punishing stab that cut deep into the ma.s.sive neck muscles. It was a masterly exhibition of the picador's art and should have driven the bull back, but Four refused to retreat. Despite the cruel lance in his neck muscle, the bull kept driving until it succeeded in throwing the heavy horse and its rider to the ground. In a trice the bull was upon the fallen man, stabbing at him four times with deadly horns but miraculously missing him each time by inches. After the fourth unproductive stab, Paco and his peons were able to lead the maddened bull away, and the bullring attendants rushed in to help picador and horse get back on their feet. Both limped from the arena, their afternoon over.

In a normal fight the bull was expected to attack the picadors three times, for this heavy activity was required if the powerful bull was to be slowed down enough to allow a matador to fight him, but on this day Paco, realizing that this was a better bull than he had seen all the previous year, signaled with a show of bravado to the president: 'Take the picadors out.' This was a daring decision, for the matador was gambling that even though the bull was unweakened, it was such a superior animal that the contest would be more exciting if the animal came to the final segment of the fight in the best condition possible. The crowd roared approval of his gamble.

Pleased that a Mota bull had done so well so far, I said to Don Cayetano: 'Wasn't that the best charge on a picador you've seen in a long time?' To my surprise he made no reply, probably because he did not wish to be distracted from watching as his bull awaited the banderillas that would soon jab into its neck muscles. Paco allowed his peons to place only two pairs because he did not want to make this excellent animal jittery. Now the bull was alone on the far side of the ring, close to our seats, so we had the full advantage of observing at close range the amazing display that now occurred.

Satisfied that he had a great bull, Paco stopped his approach with the muleta at a dangerously far distance, stared at the bull, which stared back at him, and then made the same quick nod of his head that he had used earlier. Nothing happened. Holding in his left hand the drooping red cloth so low it seemed to be waterlogged and with his wooden make-believe sword held tightly behind his back and pointing to the ground, so that it would be totally useless as a weapon of either attack or defense, he took one more step toward the bull, who at this movement thundered forward to attack this insolent creature. It was the moment of maximum danger; before the bull could reach the tantalizing muleta he had to roar completely past the exposed body of the matador, and if ever the bull could have a chance of killing the man, this was it. But with the delicate grace of a master dancer Paco inclined his body so that the bull missed, and at the same instant he gave the muleta a twitch that caused the bull to halt instantly, knowing he had missed the target.

The graceful matador, certain that he had a compliant bull, launched four more pa.s.ses of such elegance that I told Don Cayetano: 'If the boy manages a decent kill he'll be awarded all the trophies.' The president could award a deserving matador both of the bull's ears, the tail, a circuit of the plaza, and sometimes what Spaniards called a saliendo en hombros, the right to depart at the end of the afternoon through the great gates reserved for that honor.

Since I had never before seen a bull that followed the muleta so faithfully, I felt impelled to quote a saying used by true aficionados: 'Your bull is on railroad tracks,' he came and went on schedule-high praise indeed. When the Don ignored me, I saw that he was giving thanks to the Virgin for having been allowed one good bull.

Paco Camino must also have been praying, for with considerable daring he managed a superior thrust that fell short of killing the bull but did bring it to its knees, whereupon a peon rushed out, took his stance behind the bull's still-deadly horns and administered the coup de gce, a swift short stab at the base of the skull. Since this severed the spinal cord, the bull died instantly and painlessly.

As was to have been expected, as soon as the bull fell a blizzard of white handkerchiefs pet.i.tioned the president to award Camino an ear, then two and finally the tail. When Paco's peon had severed todos los trofeos, the matador was supposed to hold them triumphantly aloft and circle the plaza. Artist that he was, Paco indicated that his n.o.ble adversary who had made the triumph possible should circle the plaza first, and to the uproarious delight of the crowd, the plaza servants, whose job it was to drag away the dead bulls, whipped their mules to a slow run and the fallen bull circled the arena in triumph. When the mules reached the box where Don Cayetano and I sat, Paco ran forward to stop them and insisted that the owner of Mota ranch join his bull in their moment of glory.

To this Don Cayetano a.s.sented, and I helped him out of our box as Paco led him to the corpse of the exemplary bull. There the two men saluted the dead animal and indicated to the muleteers that they should resume their march. The crowd cheered ceaselessly, and when the bull finally left the plaza, the matador and Don Cayetano, hand in hand, made one more circuit. I was at the door of our box when Paco delivered him, and I embraced him: 'I have photographs of your triumph, Don Cayetano. In my story all the world will see it. What a climax!'

I was wrong. This was not the climax, for the afternoon had just begun. On his first bull the grave, magisterial El Viti performed the first parts of his fight with somber skill, executing those stately pa.s.ses of an earlier period that true aficionados prized, and the bull performed so properly that I told Don Cayetano: 'Your bull looks as if he's been hand-tailored for El Viti.'

As the matador prepared for his unique style of killing, I started composing the phrases about him that I planned to use in my report: 'Ten matadors will try maybe once in their lifetime to kill standing perfectly still awaiting the bull but nine out of ten will fail. El Viti, master of the art, will try it every chance he gets and also fail nine times out of ten. The bull hits the sword off to one side. The bull hesitates at the last moment and leaves Viti looking silly. The bull accepts the sword but refuses to fall down. All failures, but for his having tried we honor him.'

Now the moment was at hand when the grave matador, showing no emotion, stood inviting the charge. The bull snorted, plowed the sand with his right hoof and then hesitated, for he had been tricked too often this afternoon. Finally he thrust himself at the sword, which sank deep into his vital organs. With a gasp he fell dead at the matador's feet and the plaza exploded.

Don Cayetano, seeing perfection, shouted: 'Give him ears. Give him everything! Give him the plaza! For he's a man of honor!'

The spectators agreed: two ears, a tail and two circuits of the ring for the dead bull. As before, El Viti stopped by our box and invited Don Cayetano to join him for the parade of honor; when the two men and the bull reached the place where Paco Camino stood watching, they stopped to invite him to join them, and the kind of triumphal circuit ensued that Mlaga rarely saw.

In reporting this exceptional afternoon I can hear American and European readers outside Spain saying: 'Two such kills in one afternoon. Too much. Highly unlikely,' but I have twice seen afternoons in which all three matadors cut ears on their bulls, and two also awarded tails. I suspected that this afternoon might prove to be such a day, and when Don Cayetano returned to his box I said: 'Sir, if Lopez gets one of your good bulls, this could be a historic day,' and he replied: 'His first bull's one of the best I've bred. Made for him, but Lopez cannot fight. In the easy parts he's showy. In the dangerous parts, cowardly. Let's pray.'

The breeder was correct in his guess that the first of Lopez's bulls was a fine animal, and once the Gypsy saw that it moved properly, he was, as Don Cayetano predicted, showy. He pranced around the stately animal, almost burlesquing it. He used his cape behind his back and on his knees and while smiling at a pretty girl in the first row. He placed his own banderillas, and did so with grace. The man demonstrated that he was a poet, a ballet master, a sculptor, but even so, he used his fine bull improperly. At the height of his performance, which the less knowledgeable members of the public adored, I said to Don Cayetano: 'Now if he can only do something acceptable with the muleta, we may again hear dianas.' I am sure the Don also hoped to hear these evocative chords played when a matador executed a superb move, but he said nothing, for he was praying for the Gypsy to treat his bull properly.

No guardian angel helped us, for in the first half of his muleta work, Lopez was unbelievably coa.r.s.e. He appeared to be performing the pa.s.ses that Camino and El Viti had done, but he used his unusual height to keep himself as far away from the bull as possible. At one point I said in a loud voice to Don Cayetano: 'd.a.m.n it, he's ruining a fine bull, and he's too dumb to realize it.' The breeder, who must have been appalled at this humiliation of a decent animal, made no response; he had already told me what he thought of Lopez and saw no necessity to repeat himself.

The nadir of the Gypsy's performance came when the bull, tired and no longer seriously engaged in this burlesque, stood immovable as if to say: Proceed with your nonsense-it's beneath contempt. Knowing the exhausted bull was now safe, Lopez dropped to his knees, stuck his face against the bull's flat, wet nose and kept it there for almost ten seconds. Tourists in the audience were impressed. Having given that display of insolence, he turned his back to the bull while still on his knees and yawned, as if the job of dominating his bulls was boring.

But as in all bullfights, the time came inexorably when he had to kill the bull, and now there could be no escape in sensationalism. Lzaro Lopez was obliged to stand in the plaza alone with a long, slim sword and kill the best bull he'd had in six years. I prefer not to degrade this fine animal by describing how Lopez disposed of him, but the words 'butchery' and 'a.s.sa.s.sination' come to mind. In the middle of what threatened to become a debacle I said to Don Cayetano: 'That son-of-a-dog should not be allowed in any public place, much less a bullring,' but the Don, heartbroken over this obscene interlude in what should have been an afternoon of unbroken triumph, was too grieved to speak. Only after the bull finally died in shame-the Gypsy's shame-did Don Cayetano say: 'The wrong person died in that ring just now.' I started to ask him what he meant, but now the mules came out at halftime to smooth the sand with drags, and one of Don Cayetano's men came in with drinks.

'That last bull could have been the best of the lot,' the man said, and Don Cayetano agreed: 'Can you imagine what a matador of honor like Diego Puerta could have done with him? Or Mondeo, who practiced his art with such gravity that he quit the ring to become a Dominican monk?'

The next two bulls continued the Mota triumph: Paco Camino cut two more ears and El Viti once again killed recibiendo, the only time in recent history any matador had done this twice in one afternoon, and he collected todos los trofeos. While I again watched the two triumphant matadors circle the ring together, I said to Don Cayetano: 'It's your triumph, not theirs. You gave them bulls that looked as if they wanted to help. A productive partnership,' but he replied: 'That's expected of a good ranch.' I then said: 'I hope you've provided a good final animal for Lopez, because if he handles it well you and the three matadors will leave this plaza on shoulders.' A few triumphal exits, befitting a Roman emperor, had happened in Spain in recent years, but never after a fight with Mota bulls.

It was not to be. The Gypsy was even more shameful with his second adversary, for as soon as he had to work with the muleta, he complained to the president and the crowd that the bull had been fought before and that it was following him, not the muleta. a.s.suming the role of a heroic man asked to face an impossible animal, he begged the president tc have the bull taken from the ring as unfightable. At this disgraceful appeal, patrons screamed and began throwing things, and now Lopez had just cause to fear attacking his bull with his sword, because a thrown cushion might really imperil him.

But the president rightly refused to allow the fight to end in that manner, and by telephone from his high box he instructed his agent supervising the ring to inform Lopez: 'You kill the bull or go to jail for forty days.' Since that would eat into the heart of the season and cause him to lose half his earnings for the year, Lopez summoned up what little courage he had, went out among the cushions while surrounded by his protective peons, and on the seventh wild attempt wounded the bull so severely that it finally fell down. Quickly the man with the dagger, who had been paid an extra fee by Lopez 'to be special quick on my bulls,' darted out and cut the spinal cord. Don Cayetano turned to me and, in a voice quivering with anger, said: 'That man should be removed from bullfighting,' and I replied: 'I was about to say the same.'

So Paco Camino, El Viti and Don Cayetano were by the cowardice of Lzaro Lopez denied the right they had so richly earned of leaving the ring at Mlaga on shoulders. As I trudged out of the plaza I thought: How cruel. The papers tomorrow will headline TREMENDOUS BRONCA AT MLAOA, and the story will deal not with the rebirth of Mota bulls but with the fact that the police had to arrest seventeen men who tried to a.s.sault the Gypsy torero because of his misbehavior in the ring, and that finally water hoses had to be used to disperse the rioters. Little wonder that Don Cayetano wanted to remove this despicable man from the bullring, but there was no legal way he could do this. The president had sent the order to kill the bull and Lopez had obeyed, in his shameful manner. What was especially galling to Cayetano was the fact that the following Sunday Lopez would again be fighting Mota bulls in Seville.

A VISITOR to the Seville spring feria will retain a precious memory of a s.p.a.cious tree-lined park with wide, rambling sandy avenues along which the most beautiful women in Europe ride on horseback or in horse-drawn carriages from a past age. Their young men, in the Andalusian dress worn by their grandfathers, prance by on meticulously groomed steeds, and since half the parade moves clockwise and the other half counter, the men meet the same women twice on each circuit. Courtships are often arranged by meaningful glances of the eyes.

Colorful kiosks purvey drinks, sandwiches and candies, and a surprising feature of this almost bucolic scene is the endless number of casetas, small and large, tucked under the trees and lining the avenues. Some of these summer houses are splendid affairs, though built only for this brief season. As the riders pa.s.s a caseta they are apt to rein in their horses and lean down to greet the occupants of the caseta, who must, of course, offer copas of sherry. At night many of the larger casetas employ orchestras, and dancing can last into the dawn. There is no raucous aspect to the Seville feria such as one would find at the great carnivals of Rio or New Orleans or Trinidad; this is a stately celebration filled with grace and memories of old Spain.

Among the finest casetas this year was the one belonging to Don Cayetano Mota, for with the extraordinary revitalization of his ranch's reputation at Mlaga, he was in a mood to host his many friends who stopped by to congratulate him, to share a copa, and perhaps to linger on until the day's roast beef was served wafer-thin on little biscuits flavored with French mustard. Twenty hours a day the Mota caseta throbbed with festivity, and Don Cayetano savored each moment, for there had been years when people stayed away from him because the fortunes of his ranch had been so depreciated.

But no matter how enjoyable the merrymaking at his caseta, each afternoon at half after four he and I rode into the city and took our seats in the Maestranza to watch that day's fight, but we watched the bulls more than the matadors. With his a.s.sistance I was learning to estimate how well a bull would perform from the way he entered the ring and responded to the first capes dragging in the sand. I was not able to detect the irregularities that he could-'He favors his right leg, probably b.u.mped it in the truck that brought him here' or 'That one has a bad eye, very dangerous when it comes time to kill'-but I was beginning to see why Don Cayetano loved bulls, those from the other ranches as well as his own.

At the Wednesday fight with Murube bulls he told me: 'Great animals, aren't they? Vistahermosa line, rather older than our Vzquez line. The two breeds have always been in compet.i.tion, regardless of who the ranchers are in a particular period that represent them. That Sunday in Mlaga, how we must have made the other Vzquez breeders preen!' For the Thursday fight a special treat had been prepared, a rare appearance of the bulls from the notorious Miura strain. Normally these bulls were reserved for Sunday fights, because their fame guaranteed a gala day, but the Seville feria had sufficient leverage to get the Miuras for midweek fights. Aficionados held these bulls in high regard, for they were the fiercest of all the Spanish breeds, but Don Cayetano said: 'I wouldn't want to breed that line. It's famous only because its bulls have killed so many matadors, including the immortal Manolete. I want my bulls to give every matador a fair chance to display his art. That's been my dream in breeding, a bull of honor who will pull no surprises in the ring-the way a man should stand by his pledged word and not destroy another by a sudden shift in purpose.'

'At Mlaga your bulls were honorable. At times it seemed that every bull conducted himself precisely right for that particular matador. The way the big black one allowed El Viti to kill him while standing feet-in-cement. It looked to me as if the bull wanted to die that way, and helped El Viti accomplish it.'

'You're getting a sharp eye, Shenstone!' As he said this I remarked to myself: Strange how forthcoming he is about other people's bulls but how reticent about his own.

Clearly, he was more concerned about caring for his bulls than about discussing them. For he paid fanatical attention to the welfare of his animals. Every morning at dawn, no matter how late the festivities in his caseta had gone on, he left his bed and rode across the Guadalquivir to Triana, where he went directly to the Virgin of the Toreros. There he prayed in silence for many minutes, seeking her a.s.sistance on the last day of the feria. I accompanied him to the church on Monday and Wednesday-on Tuesday and Thursday I had been too sleepy from reveling-and saw nothing unusual as he implored the Virgin's help in seeing that his bulls conducted themselves respectably. I also studied the little church made famous by the fact that Triana bullfighters came here to pray before their major fights, but made even more famous by the custom that when a Triana Gypsy died in the ring, killed by a fighting bull, his corpse lay in state before this Virgin, to whom he had dedicated his life and his art. To men in the bullfighting fraternity this was a sanctified place, and the marble plaques set into the walls with their florid statements about this or that matador's death lent the church an aura that no other had. In accompanying Don Cayetano to pay his respects to the Virgin, I felt privileged to have been able to share this shrine with the toreros.

On Friday morning, when we arrived just as the sun rose, something happened while Don Cayetano was kneeling in prayer that quite staggered me. I happened to be looking directly at him-bowed head, with hair falling in his eyes in front and bald in back, heavy shoulders, pudgy hands clasped in prayer and held close to his chest-when from her place above the altar I thought I saw the Virgin descend, walk in a stately manner through the sunbeams that filled the church and come directly to where Don Cayetano knelt. Illuminated by the same aura that I had seen underneath her float on Sierpes, she stood over my friend as if bestowing a benediction, and I heard her say as clearly as if she had been speaking to me from a distance of two feet: 'Once more.' At this she turned to go back to her accustomed place at the front of her church, but when she reached it she paused, faced Don Cayetano again and raised her right arm in the gesture of bestowing a blessing. From there, and in a clear voice, she repeated her cryptic message: 'Once more!' and she resumed her wooden image and her position in the niche.

I was afraid to speak of this apparition to Don Cayetano, for he had given no indication that he had either seen or sensed it. If it was merely an illusion of mine because I was so tired, he would not have heard the four words. I studied the scene where this miracle had occurred-I could call it nothing less-and as my eyes roamed the area I broke into laughter, for it was obvious that what I thought I had seen had been caused by the strong sunlight streaming into the darkened church. It was an illusion, nothing more, and now even as I studied the sun's rays I could see that they made the Virgin seem to be moving again.

But what about the four words? I doubted that I could really have heard them. I had been too generous with my sherry toasts at the Mota caseta and was obviously in a euphoric state. More likely, I had become so obsessed, like Don Cayetano himself, with the fortunes of the Mota ranch that I had begun to imagine favorable omens that were clearly unreal. The combination of circ.u.mstances-tricks played by the sunlight, the effects of the sherry, the intense preoccupation with the hopes of the Mota ranch-had accounted for what I had interpreted as a miracle. It was brain weariness, that's what it was.

As Don Cayetano and I were about to leave the church, we saw the Triana matador Lzaro Lopez coming in, and as soon as he spotted the Don he leaped at him, grabbed him by the shirt at his throat and cried maniacally: 'I know what you've done, you swine. You've bewitched your bulls. I don't know how you did it, but you've found the secret.'

I tried to separate the two men because Lopez was much younger and more powerful than Don Cayetano and might have hurt him badly had he started throwing his fists, but to my astonishment the Don did not want my help. Indeed he started to attack Lopez, both physically and verbally: 'You're not a bullfighter, you're an a.s.sa.s.sin! At Mlaga I provided you with the two best bulls of the afternoon. They were perfect. Allowed you to do whatever you wished with them. Didn't you feel the magic, you fool?'

'I did,' Lopez shouted, 'and it terrified me. It wasn't real. No bulls behave with such perfection. When I saw El Viti kill his second while his feet were planted in stone, I knew I was involved in witchcraft of some kind. That bull wanted El Viti to kill him, and so did Paco Camino's. Somehow, you evil old man, you bewitched those animals, and since you hate me, I knew that in the last moments of the last bull, you'd use him to kill me.' Drawing back, Lopez pointed a long finger at Don Cayetano and said in a deep, menacing voice: 'I've discovered your secret, you agent of the devil. You'll not kill me with your witchcraft bulls. Not me!'

'You deserve to die on the horns of a bull, the indecent way you mistreat them-the horrible way you destroyed my two great bulls at Mlaga. Lopez, you could have left the ring on shoulders through the great gate if only you'd done your share!'

The matador thrust Don Cayetano aside and growled as he moved forward to pray to his Virgin for success and safety on Sunday: 'I'll see you in Seville, Don Cayetano, you and your evil tricks.'

'On Sunday, then,' Mota said, with a menace of his own. Each adversary stepped back with mock politeness to let the other pa.s.s, and the last I saw of Lopez he was kneeling in the exact spot occupied by Don Cayetano only a few minutes before.

ONE OF THE BIGGEST DAYS at the Seville spring feria was the last Sat.u.r.day, for then older men, who had not been able to partic.i.p.ate earlier in the week because of business responsibilities, paraded to give the procession a more stately character. After our early morning prayers in Triana, I rode my own horse alongside Don Cayetano's because I had hired a Spanish photographer to snap some shots of me riding with the subject of my article. I hoped his camera might catch us stopping at one of the more ornate casetas, accepting sherry from a seorita dressed in a red-and-gold flamenco costume. One picture like that would epitomize the feria and allow me more s.p.a.ce to describe the performance of the Mota bulls.

That afternoon the big event was the first appearance in the Maestranza of fighting bulls from the recently established ranch of the charismatic Peralta brothers, Rafael and Angel, who had grown up near Seville and who fought bulls from horseback. They were an extremely popular pair in Seville, and aficionados who attended the fight would be hoping that their bulls performed well. It promised to be a gala.

When bulls were fought from horseback, a skill that the brothers had perfected, this act in the corrida came first. This distinct art form placed the matador astride a marvelously trained horse with which he performed extraordinary feats of skill and daring, culminating in the moment when, guiding his horse only with his knees, he held aloft two banderillas, rode straight at the bull, leaned far out of his saddle and placed the barbs in the neck muscle of the charging bull, then nudged the horse away from the horns at the last possible moment. It was breathtaking, but not entirely to my taste.

Of course, the horseman would try also to kill while mounted, using a long lance, but this maneuver required such a demanding mixture of horsemanship, skill with the right arm and luck that it was rarely completed. In such a case the horseman dismounted, took an ordinary muleta and sword and dispatched the bull on foot. On this afternoon it would have been improper for either of the Peraltas to fight and kill their own bull, so the a.s.signment was given to the horseman Fermn Bohorquez, who performed commendably. The afternoon was off to a fine start, but the Peraltas' bulls, giving ample evidence that they came from a new ranch, so dispirited the other three matadors that they gave only perfunctory performances and the affair degenerated into a corrida that produced no ears for the matadors and no accolades for the Peraltas. True aficionados did not lament the disappointing afternoon; they accepted it as the luck of the draw and were consoled by the thought of tomorrow's opportunity to see whether the apparent revitalization of the bulls of Mota extended into a second Sunday. If it did, the fight in Seville could be historic.

The day was so important to the fortunes of Don Cayetano that he did not join the Sat.u.r.day-night revelry in his caseta, nor did I. We went to bed in a back room, rose early and drove across the bridge to the bullfighters' church, where we offered our prayers to the Virgen de los Toreros. Once again in the sunlight the Virgin seemed to smile at him, as if promising that his prayers would be answered. For breakfast we went to El Gallito, and as we approached the bar I chuckled at its colorful sign. Through the years Gypsy toreros about to fight in the Maestranza had stopped by to ask the rooster for good luck. If he helped them perform well, late that night they would come back, salute the tough little fellow and whisper 'Gracias.' Then they would turn to the church and tell the Virgin: 'We thank you, too.'

Breakfast at El Gallito was invariable: a hard roll toasted and soaked in olive oil and rubbed with garlic, a small copa of Machao, an anise liqueur, and perhaps a mug of bitter chocolate so thick you could hardly dunk your roll in it, accompanied sometimes by murderously greasy doughnuts laden with granulated sugar. It was a meal ideally suited for men who spend all day unloading ships docked in the nearby river-not for a magazine reporter-but I had to admit it was delicious.

As we ate, a ragam.u.f.fin of ten or eleven came to our table and, after looking about cautiously, said: 'I know you, Don Cayetano. My brothers and I sometimes sneak out to your ranch at night with our muletas to fight your young bulls. They're fine animals and we hope they do well this afternoon.'

Cayetano, who could not be happy to hear that his bulls had been caped, said gruffly: 'You be careful doing that. You'll get yourself killed. Boys do, you know.'

'You don't take them to the police?' I asked Don Cayetano.

'No,' piped up the boy, 'and that's why we feel good about you, Don Cayetano.' He hesitated, then added: 'That's why I've come to warn you.'

'About what?'

'You yourself may be killed this afternoon.'

Don Cayetano blanched, took the boy by the arm and asked: 'What do you mean? I might be killed?'

The boy drew closer, looked around the cafe again and said in a whisper: 'It's Lzaro Lopez, he's an ugly man.'

'What about him?'

'We heard him say the other evening-my brother and I clean up this place, so no one notices us-'

'What did he say?'

'He was bragging to other bullfighters-said that on Sunday in the Maestranza he was going to kill you.'

'How was he going to do it?'

'The others asked the same question, but he wouldn't answer. Said only that he had found out your secret. Knew how you did it.'

'Did what?'

'He wouldn't say. Just repeated "I know what he's up to with his bulls," and no matter how many times they begged him to explain, all he would say was "We Gypsies know these things. My sister tells fortunes, you know-she solves riddles." And then he repeated: "Tomorrow that son of a pig"-that's what he called you-"tomorrow he dies." '

The boy had delivered his message to a man he admired and even considered in some strange way his friend, and he slipped away, but Don Cayetano, unwilling to see him go without a reward, told me quietly: 'Run after him and give him this. I want no spies to see me talking with him.' When I caught up with the boy he refused the money, saying: 'I fight his bulls at night. I owe him something,' but I insisted: 'You're a brave boy to fight bulls by moonlight and to come see Don Cayetano with such a message. You've earned the money. Take it.' He reached for it, but before letting him have it I asked: 'Lopez said his sister solves riddles? What does that mean?'

'She's a strange one. A witch maybe. When I was young we were afraid of her, but when my brother's wife was going to have a baby he went to see her and without ever seeing his wife the Egyptian told him: "Twins. One boy, one girl," and that's what came out. People say she sees things others don't.'

'Who is this Egyptian?'

'Magdalena Lopez. She calls herself The Egyptian. They learn how in Egypt.'

'What could she see about today's fight?'

'She and Lopez talked a long time-about Mota bulls, about mysterious happenings in Mlaga, and the fight in the church.... She told him something-magic and something like that.'

'You think she was serious when she warned her brother?'

'Oh, yes! That one doesn't play games.'

Intrigued, I asked: 'Could I see this Egyptian?' and without hesitating he said: 'You'll have to give money. She tells fortunes, you know.' When I indicated that this would be no problem he said: 'Come along,' and we moved toward the exit. But feeling I could not leave Don Cayetano alone in the bar, I went back and was somewhat relieved to find him surrounded by aficionados with whom he was discussing that afternoon's corrida.

Their interests were professional: 'Tell me, Don Cayetano, how could your bulls have been so rotten in Puerto de Santa Mara and so excellent in Mlaga?'

'When a bull ranch is on its way back to respectability, sometimes the older bulls can be pretty bad, never rotten as you say, but difficult. A rancher like me has to live with that.' Here he smiled expansively: 'But he gets his joy in seeing what his new bulls are doing, and mine are on their way back. This afternoon in the Maestranza you'll see how fine a Mota bull can be.'

'You really think so?'

'I'm convinced of it. If the matadors prove equal to their task, you'll see miracles.'

The men listened in silence, for they respected this old man, even though his fortunes were down at the moment. He was a neighbor, a compadre, so they meant it when several of them embraced him: 'Buena suerte, Don Cayetano.' As I left the group I thought that in Triana it means something to be the owner of a bull ranch, even one like Mota that's been declining.

The boy led me to a typical Spanish cottage opposite the Church of the Toreros, a small whitewashed affair jammed in between two larger ones, also white, all of them encroaching on the sidewalk lining the road that crossed the Guadalquivir into Seville. The house, marked by a colorful sign proclaiming LA EGIPCIANA, had four windows facing the street, each barred with a heavy iron grille to prevent the riffraff from ransacking the place. Other than its sign, it was indistinguishable from a thousand others to be found in the small towns of Spain, but when the boy led me inside I found myself in a unique world, for Magdalena Lopez was an authentic Gypsy fortune-teller, and the room in which she met with her clients exuded an air of sinister mystery. It was dominated by a round table covered by a hand-woven cloth with a fringe that reached down to the floor. On it rested a milky-white globe some twelve inches in diameter. Around the table were four comfortable-looking wooden chairs, and in the only one that had arms sat the woman who had so entranced me at the tapa bar. When she came forward to greet me, her graceful walk made her skirt sway in the most charming manner, and again I was captivated.

The room contained many objects bespeaking her trade: a stuffed owl, a six-pointed wooden star, a deck of cards fanned out and glued to a board, a tall, slim earthenware vase containing a bundle of sticks that protruded at uneven lengths and colorful chromolithographs of the pyramids, Luxor and the Sphinx. Shades were drawn over the grilled windows facing the street, but the solitary one in the opposite wall looked out on a garden with flowers.

'I bring an American,' the boy said. In colloquial Spanish she addressed me: 'I'm a businesswoman. I will tell you all things, but we go no further, Mr. Shenstone, until you place silver here,' and she indicated a circle woven into the cloth covering the table. While I responded to her request the boy said: 'Remember, Magdalena, I brought him. Something for me, too,' and she gave him some pesetas. He then turned to me: 'And you? How would you have found her without me?' After I too contributed, he ran off, leaving us alone.

As I sat down her comment proved she had continued to monitor the movements of Don Cayetano and me: 'You continue to visit the Virgin across the way.' When I nodded, she continued: 'You want to know about the corrida this afternoon, and I know the answers.'

'Will your brother do well?'

'Ears and tail.'

'And the other matadors?'

'You're not interested in them. You want to know about the bulls of Don Cayetano.'