The nonsense over, Victoriano now dedicated himself and the banderillas to the crowd--always a popular gesture--and began the most colorful single feature of any bullfight. Across the ring, moving in a heel-and-toe rhythm peculiar to bullfighters, he proceeded in a straight line toward the bull, his back arched in a graceful half-circle, arms high above his head with fingertips pointing downward as they held the banderillas. Standing alternately on flat feet and on tiptoe, Victoriano broke into a run just as the bull did likewise, and the two met for a fraction of a second precisely calculated by the matador. The horns missed but the barbs sped home.
"That's impossible!" O. J. Haggard shouted to his crowd.
"But he did it," the red-necked oilman rebutted.
One of the differences between bullfighting in Mexico and in Spain was that the mother country's matadors were like Juan Gomez--they knew that placing the sticks, albeit dramatic, was the easiest part of the fight and considered it beneath their dignity; but in Mexico it was traditional for even the greatest matadors not only to place their own sticks but also to use spectacular styles that squeezed the last ounce of emotion from the ritual.
Victoriano now profited from the Mexican tradition. His placement of two more excellent pairs halted the fight while he took a turn of the ring as the crowd exploded in approval. Cigars, flowers and goatskin wine bottles cluttered the sand, and occasionally the matador picked up a flask and squirted a thin stream of red wine into his mouth.
"I guess that takes care of the Indian," Veneno said comfortably.
"A dancing boy who wins his laurels with the sticks," Juan
Gomez
muttered to Cigarro in complete contempt.
As Victoriano finished his tour of the plaza garnering still more cheers, he thought: I've won them back. You do what you have to do, and those were good banderillas. But even three pairs don't add up to one good kill. I'd like to get back to the way I did it years ago, before they took over. He then bowed before the president, asked for permission to kill his bull, and, always the shrewd calculator; reasoned: I'll make the dedication to Ledesma. They'll like that. And it did bring cheers. Then, turning abruptly to the bull he cried "Eh, toro!"
From where I stood it looked as if the bull charged before Victoriano was fully prepared, which would have excused what happened next; as the bull came at him he instinctively moved backward a few inches. The bull turned and charged again; and this time, with no excuse, he shuffled backward as before, revealing his fear. Fans who knew bullfighting began to whistle, and this stiffened his resolve, for he launched three fine, low passes and turned the whistles into cheers.
Heartened by the applause, he spontaneously decided to try a series of naturals, with the cloth kept low in the left hand and the sword behind his back in the right. "You're too far away!"
Veneno cautioned his son, who began to move in slightly, edging his feet toward the bull in a shuffling dance.
Suddenly, like a charge of dynamite, the bull boomed forward at the cloth. Suavely and with much skill Victoriano led him past. Three times in quick succession the beast doubled back to strike the target, and on each passage Victoriano gave him only a drooping area of red cloth in front of his left knee. The passes were long and slow and liquid, as good as the crowd would ever see.
Clicking my rapid-fire camera, I shouted to Ledesma in Spanish: "New York will grab that series. Show the readers what the pase natural can be." And he called back in English, "Now you know why I love this boy. He'll save bullfighting in Mexico."
On the last natural Victoriano was given an opportunity to display one of his surefire tricks. When the bull charged, as soon as the tip of his left horn was safely past Leal's stomach, the matador pushed his body hard against the bull to leave a smear of blood on the silver-and-white suit. The Oklahomans shouted to one another, "Did you see that?" One of the women gushed that it was the most thrilling thing she had ever seen, but Juan
Gomez
, leaning against the barrier, sneered: "They've been leaning into bulls like that for thirty years--always after the horn is past."
From the barrier Veneno called, "Kill him quick. No fooling around." Victoriano nodded assent, but approached the bull as if he intended another dramatic pass. "No!" Veneno commanded, and regretfully his son surrendered whatever plans he might have had, gave the bull four hurried passes, then prepared for the kill.
"Not yet!" roared the crowd, sensing that the animal had several more minutes of excellent play. Victoriano appealed to them with his hands spread in a pleading gesture as if asking, "Do you demand still more of me?"
"Yes! Yes!" shouted the crowd.
This presented Veneno with another difficult decision: if his son gave a bad, hasty kill before the bull was properly prepared, all trophies would be lost; but if Victoriano began a new series of passes this bull, learning rapidly, might gore him. The last natural had been far too risky. "Kill now," Veneno growled to his son, and to himself he muttered, "And may the Virgin make it a good one."
When I saw what Victoriano was about to do I thought: I wish Drummond and his moment-of-truth gang could catch a load of this. The bull had been a strong, courageous animal, deserving of a real fight to the end, and what was about to happen to him was a disgrace. Victoriano ran in a wide circle, made no attempt to go in over the horn, and assassinated his enemy. The brave bull would have needed horns six feet long to have had a chance of catching the distant man. Yet I had to admit that Leal had managed his kill with an illusion of bravery that appealed to the crowd.
While the handsome young matador ran around the arena showing the two black ears he had been awarded, Cigarro came up to me and growled: "You get a picture of that kill?"
"Yep."
"Every photographer got dozen shots showing kills like that, but they never print."
"Why not?"
"Because old Veneno, fight ends, he pays off photographers," Cigarro explained.
"If my story's ever published there'll be one page with Leal killing the way he just did and directly across will be Gomez killing the way he does. Even the little old lady in Dubuque will be able to. see the difference."
Cigarro spat into the sand: "If you publish in America only, how they gonna hurt Leal?"
When I heard O. J. Haggard say, "That was really something. Made the Indian look like a beginner," I had to agree that Cigarro had a point.
On the third bull, Paquito de Monterrey in his bright red suit was pathetically out of his class. On the cape work following the pics both Leal and
Gomez
made him look foolish, a disadvantage from which he was unable to recover. Of such drab performances the critics customarily report: "He complied."
The fourth bull was Gomez's test case, for if the Indian wished to reestablish his reputation in the festival after what Victoriano had accomplished, he had to do well. When his bull came out with feet high and head tossing wildly, chopping viciously at everything in sight, he groaned and muttered, "God, he's worse than the first. But he does charge."
He allowed his peons to give the bull more preliminary runs than usual, and when the crowd protested he insolently directed his men to take the bull around once more. With some relief he noticed the animal was powerful and willing, but wild as a summer storm. At last he entered the ring himself and tried two classic passes. He launched them well, but the bull was so agitated--so loose, as the matadors say--that Juan was forced to shift his feet or the beast would have run over him. The crowd made no comment, but down in the caverns the breeder predicted, "A great matador could make something of this bull. You watch."
Gomez
, beginning to sweat, tried two more classic passes, but again the bull gained terrain and forced him backward. This time the crowd booed. To end the opening section
Gomez
tried to give his bull one of the half passes Victoriano had used with such effect, and he planted himself properly and with much dignity, but the skittish bull roared past so wildly that Gomez did not just move, he ran, clumsily and without even attempting his pass. The crowd did not boo; its laughter was much worse.
Gomez recovered his composure and tried again. This time the wild, horn-swinging animal lunged past like a runaway truck, but nevertheless
Gomez
completed his pass. When the picadors appeared Cigarro advised them, "Lay in a ton."
In the routine passes that followed the pics none of the matadors was able to accomplish much. Gomez tried. The other two went through spurious motions, thinking, This isn't my bull. I don't have to prove anything.
When it came time for the banderillas, the
Peon
s placed three perfunctory pairs, keeping well back from the rambunctious horns. At the dedication of the bull, Lucha Gonzalez found herself wishing it could be given to someone else, for she suspccted there was going to be very little honor out of this beast, but when
Gomez
came before her, she had to accept graciously and the crowd applauded.
Cigarro, watching his former mistress accepting the dedication like a queen acknowledging a suitor's bow, thought, She always know how to behave good, suppose she want to. Then he turned to Gomez: "Don't have to prove nothin', Juan. Kill and be done."
But Gomez had never been able to be content with finishing a bad job badly. His sense of honor would not permit that, so now as he slowly approached the difficult animal I could hear him chanting, "Come to me, torito. I'll teach you how t
o d
ance." And I thought, That bull weighs half a ton but to him it's his little toro. The bull did not move, so Gomez, maintaining his shuffling gait, crept closer. "Come to me, torito," he whispered, "and I will make you immortal." Ever closer to the dark horns he moved.
It was only then that I awakened to what this tremendously brave little Indian was going to do. With no flamboyance, no dazzling passes that caused the crowd to shout "
Ole
!" he was going to move right up to the bull's nose and with a long series of low, chopping passes, pulling the neck this way, then that, he was going to tire the bull's great muscles so that he became docile and manageable. This was the art of torero at its finest, the unspectacular but heroic act of a man dominating a wild bull, dispelling his rambunctiousness, taming him with one masterly low pass after another.
Then suddenly, to the surprise of both the bull and the crowd, Gomez stood upright, feet resolutely planted, and with a high pass that brought the bull's horns close to his head, he wrenched the animal's head high, as high as it could go, stretching the tired neck muscles in the opposite direction. As the bull turned and came back, head still high, Gomez dropped the red cloth and down crashed the head, and the horns, and the exhausted neck muscles. The fight was over. The fractious bull had surrendered. The man had won.
Leon Ledesma observed grudgingly to an impresario from the north, "We won't see better fighting this year."
"How does he have the guts?" the impresario asked.
"He's an Indian."
"I'd give him a contract if he had a little style."
When Gomez came to the barrier for a drink of water, he told me, "Not sixteen people in this plaza realize what I've done. No cheers. Nothing for me. Well, I've subdued the bull, now I'll subdue the crowd."
In order to understand what he did next, you must know that his series of masterly passes had left the bull perplexed and uncertain as to how or when to charge. The matador was about to risk his life on the assumption that he knew more than the bull himself about the animal's intentions. Carefully testing the bull's eyes, and watching his confusion, Gomez walked slowly up to the black snout. With great control, so that no sudden action might alarm the animal,
Gomez
dropped to one knee, his face only a few inches from the bull's. When the confuse
d b
east gave no sign of moving, Juan dropped his other knee to a position from which flight was impossible. If he had guessed wrong and the bull charged, he was dead.
"Look what he's doing now!" Ledesma groaned.
"This craziness is his only hold on the public," the impresario replied. "It sickens me."
The crowd, remembering how difficult this bull had been, fell silent. Cigarro looked away and prayed. Veneno thought: 'This damned Indian! Why is he allowed to do such ridiculous things? This isn't bullfighting.' Victoriano thought: 'He's better than that.' Leon Ledesma, disgusted that a classic matador should resort to such cheap exhibitionism, muttered to the impresario from the north, "Get me a gun. If the son-of-a-bitch does the telephone act I'll shoot him."
On the ground Gomez leaned forward until his forehead touched the bull's. For five long seconds he stared at the animal's dark and hairy face, then slowly he drew back. The crowd roared approval of the vulgar display, and from the cheap seats a man who had lugged a set of batteries into the arena for just such a moment began ringing a bell, which echoed through the stadium, while the sunny side chanted: "Telefono, telefono!" In the passageway Leon Ledesma groaned: "I refuse to look. Tell me when it's over."
In the center of the ring, still on his knees before the bull, Juan Gomez cocked his ear as if listening to the bell ringing in the stands. Then, with his left hand he grasped the bewildered bull's right horn and slowly pulled it down until its tip was level with his own left ear. In agonizing silence he brought the tip of the horn directly into his ear, and for almost ten seconds he kept it there, carrying on an imaginary conversation. One chop of the great black head and Gomez would be dead.