"It seems almost irreligious to say it, but this bloodstained Station of the Cross was a perfect introduction to the fight w
e s
aw. I'm not sure I can stand two more fights at this level of intensity."
From the great altar of the cathedral, which must have been a stunning structure when it was covered with silver and precious stones, Father Gregorio droned on and I tried to ascertain what element of the people of Toledo had come to attend the melancholy Mass, but I could reach no conclusion, for the audience seemed to represent a cross section of the entire population. There were Indian women who had probably not been able to afford the bullfight. There were men who luxuriated in the emotionalism of the night. There were young boys who wanted to be bullfighters and there were whole families who would be indignant if a bullfighter were to ask for their daughter in marriage. No common trait characterized this motley crowd, yet they had all come in obedience to a common passion. They sought to understand the significance of death.
The night reminded me of experiences I'd had at our air base during the Korean War. Whenever there was a major disaster we would work like demons to clear up the mess, but later we'd want to congregate and talk about it, as if we'd suddenly started living on a higher plane of consciousness. Invariably someone said, for example, "Wasn't it awful about Larry and his crew?" But Larry and his crew, in dying, produced in the living an added appreciation of life. In later years I often thought of fighter pilots and bullfighters as identical--that is, I thought of them with equal respect and, if they died, with equal reverence.
Mrs. Evans touched my arm and said, "Look! Your friends have all come to mourn," and in various parts of the cathedral, clustered together in different groups, sat Veneno and his sons in shadow, Juan Gomez and his crew near a pillar still pockmarked with revolutionary bullets, and Leon Ledesma and Ricardo Martin, both silent and somber. And beyond them, sitting alone, was the tall, thin, beetle-browed poet, Aquiles Aguilar, who had won the poetry prize the night before at the Tournament of Flowers. He was writing, and I was sure that he was using the cathedral and the Mass as inspiration for his own elegy on the death of the young matador.
From where I sat I could see the four handsome Leals, a battered arch and the Station of the Cross that showed the crucifixion. The shadows were deep behind the men and the vaulting of the desecrated cathedral seemed like an archway t
o d
eath. Kneeling in the aisle, I framed the old picador and his sons and clicked the shutter before they were aware of me, but the slight noise alerted them and, like the actors they were, they understood at once what I was after; so each set his face a little more overtly in an expression of grief. I could not then foresee that one of these photographs would ultimately be used in half a dozen different books as a classic representation of toreros contemplating death. But what I did appreciate even then was that of my half-dozen shots, the one that came out best was the one I took before the four Leals had begun to pose. In this one their grief was not so obvious, so the picture was more compelling.
When the Mass ended near midnight I approached the poet Aguilar, who had been writing in the shadows, and said in Spanish, "Excuse me, sir, but I heard that you work in Don Eduardo's museum. I'm taking some visitors from the States around Toledo. Could we one day ... ?"
"Of course!" the tall, angular man said with the enthusiasm that amateurs have for a field in which they have done some work. When we were all outside the cathedral he said, in English, "It's a museum Don Eduardo has supported for years. Not very good, but it'll show you what bullfighting's all about."
"Where did you learn such good English?" O. J. Haggard asked.
"Worked as a druggist in Texas," the poet replied.
"You Mexicans put us to shame," Haggard said.
"We like to talk," the poet laughed. "To think of being locked up in Texas without being able to talk the language would drive a Mexican crazy." Impulsively he stopped us under a streetlight and asked, "Would you like to hear the poem I have just completed about the death of Paquito?"
"Oh, yes!" Mrs. Evans cried.
"We'll go into the bar," Haggard suggested, pointing to the cantina where Lucha Gonzalez sang.
"Poems are not for bars," Aguilar said stiffly. "At least not this poem." He spoke quickly, switching back and forth between English and Spanish, which I didn't bother to translate.
"Make a circle for the poet," Ed Grim cried, and something in his voice betrayed the contempt he felt for both Mexicans and poets. We all sensed this, so Mrs. Evans quickly said
,
"Stand here by me, where the light's better," and I said, "Senor Aguilar won first prize last night in the big poetry contest."
"He did!" Mrs. Evans repeated. "Senor, may I congratulate you?" She said this so simply, with such exquisite rightness, that the poet had to forget the earlier insult. "It was an ode," he explained, "to our local beauty queen. She was the prettiest girl I saw yesterday. You are the prettiest tonight." The other women clapped.
"And now the poem," Mrs. Evans said.
"It's in Spanish, of course," Aguilar explained. "I'll read it in that language first, because Spanish is the language of poetry, and then I'll give a rough translation in English, which is the language for making money." Forthwith he launched into an impassioned recitation of his reactions to the death of a young bullfighter, and as his voice rose in the quiet night air, a crowd began to gather under the streetlight. When the poem reached its climax, I saw that from the terrace of the House of Tile had come the blond young American in the Pachuca sweater, and he listened intently as the agitated poet declaimed his threnody. When the last words had died away the young man pushed his way through the crowd, came up to the poet and said in hesitant Spanish, "Maestro, you have spoken for all of us." Without waiting for comment, he abruptly left us.
"In English," Aguilar explained, "the ideas in the poem are more restrained, and of course they won't rhyme." As he started to improvise, it was natural that those in the crowd who could not understand English should start to drift away, but I was surprised at the number who remained to hear the awkward words:
"Death, who lives near the aqueduct, Called for him a little sooner than for us. There was dancing and sweet candies and festival And death did a little jig with a red cape."
I could see Grim trying to figure this one out, and even Mr. Haggard was looking a little speculative, apparently of the opinion that whereas it might be pretty good in Spanish, in English it was pretty bad.
"This next part gets rather difficult," Aguilar apologized. He tried twice to put his words into an alien tongue, then crumpled up the paper and cried, "Damn English." He sighed, unfolded the poem and tried again:
"Water from the aqueduct where death lives
Cools my sorrow. And the pyramid
Is able to accommodate itself to one more loss.
In the cathedral I try to weep, but there is dancing.
Paquito is no more, but the bull's head will be mounted."
He ended with a flourish and once more assured us, "In Spanish it's better."
"I don't get it," Grim exploded. "I just don't get it. What's this about the aqueduct?"
Senor Aguilar was not the least embarrassed by the question. "What I'm trying to do," he explained patiently, "is to indicate that this young man from Monterrey was killed in Toledo."
"Then why didn't you say so?" the oilman asked.
"It's got to be done with symbols," the poet expounded. "You don't just say, 'Paquito was killed in Toledo.' "
"I would," the oilman snapped.
"That's because you're not a poet," Aguilar said in Spanish. The crowd laughed.
Aguilar translated his comment and, to show that he had enjoyed the oilman's reactions, threw his arm about Grim's shoulder and said, "Off we go to the Terrace for a goodnight copa," and the poetry reading ended in harmony.
To my surprise, Mrs. Evans, agitated by the afternoon tragedy, wanted to escape any frivolity at the hotel. "Could we," she asked tentatively, "go back to that chapel?"
"It's midnight, but if you wish ..."
"I do." She told the others, "I've asked Mr. Clay to show me the outdoor chapel again," and the manner in which she spoke indicated that she intended going alone with me. At this Ed Grim cried, "Laura! He's young enough to be your son!" She replied, "I wish I had a son like him." And off we went.
When we were seated on a tile-bench in the small plaza that faced the outdoor chapel Mrs. Evans said, "That was an amusing remark Ed made about your being young enough to be my son. We've just come from Cuernavaca, as you probably know, and what impressed me there--throughout all Mexico for that matter--is the astonishing number of American widows who live in Mexico and who are invariably attended by handsome young American men from Yale and Princeton. Nobody ever told me this was going on."
"Were you envious?" I asked.
The sixty-four-year-old widow laughed and said, "I might have been. Even a sensible woman might have been. It's most flattering to be attended by an attractive young man. But one evening in the hotel I saw a particularly good-looking widow in her sixties, silver-gray hair and all that, who was accompanied by a broad-shouldered young god, probably in his late twenties, and I was thinking, how handsome they both are, when I realized that this young blond god was the son of a poor Oklahoma druggist. I had represented my husband on the committee that had selected him for a scholarship to Yale, where he had played football and done very well in his studies. It was the same boy, a boy of really outstanding talent, and here he was in Mexico, working as a paid escort."
"Good work, if you can get it," I observed.
"But not for a young boy with promise. I was so distressed that one morning I introduced myself to the young man, telling him of my past interest in his career, and he wasn't the least embarrassed. 'Who'd want to go back to Oklahoma?' he asked. I pointed out that people of accomplishment lived there and he replied, 'It's all right if you like oil and heifers.' He said that one week of Yale had convinced him that Oklahoma wasn't for him. When I asked him why he hadn't taken a job in New York or somewhere he said, 'I may marry Ethel and then I'll have a job in New York, just as you suggest.' When I asked what, he said, 'Managing her money--on Wall Street.' I felt like telling him that Oklahoma was glad to be rid of him, but instead I started to cry, and do you know why? Not for him and for his lack of principle, but because the first substantial check I wrote after my husband's death was my contribution to the scholarship fund for Yale. And this pathetic creature had won that scholarship. I had intended helping some deserving boy start in the world, and my good money ..
She blew her nose and, regaining her composure, she said, "My visit to Mexico has had some rather emotional overtones, as you can guess, but none equal to this day's. I'd like to talk with that Ledesma man for hours. So many people you meet say nothing." She pointed to the low arches of the outdoor chapel and said, "I lived with my husband for forty-two years
,
and until I heard Senor Ledesma chattering this morning I never even dimly understood what marriage was all about."
"I don't recall his saying anything about marriage," I replied, "although if you're around him long enough you're bound to hear him say something about everything."
"It was while he was talking about the cathedral. He said there were two entrances to any edifice. And of course there are, but in sixty-four years of life I didn't discover this for myself."
"In what particular?" I asked.
The widow sat staring at the strong low entrance to the fortress-church. She tapped her fingers against the tile bench and watched the night shadows play back and forth across the carved stones. At another bench a young couple were kissing and from the corner bar up the street we could hear the faint echo of Lucha Gonzalez's singing. It was a beautiful night and for a long time we said nothing. Then she observed, "There are two entrances to any marriage, the low, brutal, honest one down the side street and the highly ornamented, delicate one up front. And I never realized that his entrance was just as valid as the one I preferred."
I decided to let this comment stand by itself, for with my record I was certainly no one to comment on marriage, but Mrs. Evans followed up by observing, "In ten years--think of it, only five hundred weeks--I will probably be dead and this cathedral will still be here and this plaza and the ghosts of the Spanish soldiers who stood on those ramparts to fire at the Indians. I was fascinated by the bullfight today and by that gaunt poet, and the matadors. I think I shall die a sounder woman for having experienced today."
This was getting too deep for me, so I said, "We'd better get back to the hotel and have some supper."
When we reached the Terrace we found that the other Oklahomans had collared Ledesma, who sprawled in his chair explaining the day's fight and any other topic that came up.
Ed Grim cried, "Ah, the lovers back from the cemetery. Remember what the old man said to his wife, 'When I think of our beautiful daughter laying out there in the cemetery, I almost wish she was dead.' "
"Not funny," Haggard said, making a place for us at the table that the Widow Palafox was about to cover with food.