Fortunately for Penny, the bull had taken a stance about as far away, on the sunny side, as he could get, but now, as bulls often did in such disasters, he began a long, slow, plodding march across the arena to where we sat, He seemed to be telling Penny: "You wanted to see me die. Well, here I am," and he stopped right in front of our seats, so everything that followed occurred practically in Penny's lap. The anxious young woman could almost reach out and touch Fermin as he swore and sweated in his frantic effort to terminate this fiasco, but he was able to accomplish so little that we heard the wailing bugle sound, the first aviso. "Oh, no! That's so unfair!" She was right. Her matador had been in no way responsible for this calamity. The damned bull itself was responsible, but now the shame of trumpet calls in the fading light of a dying day fell on him, and she sat close enough to him to see each mark of anguish on his face.
The bull was backed against the barrier just below us, with his head and horns pointing out into the arena so that when Fennin tried to attack he was looking straight at Penny, and I was proud of the way she handled herself, not looking away to escape the humiliation of her man but sharing it. Keeping her gaze full upon him, she called repeatedly in Spanish:
"
Coraje, muchacho!" (Courage, little fellow) and groaned when each of his efforts failed.
Fermin's task was brutally difficult, for the bull, settled in a spot where he felt confident, still fended off any sword thrust by jerking up his head or swinging his horns to knock the sword away. He was, I thought, much like a skilled baseball player who stands feet apart, bat held short, and successfully fouls off any ball thrown at him, or like a skilled duelist who parries every thrust with what my teacher called "a twist of the wrist."
But now a second disaster occurred, because it was entirely possible for a matador to make a perfect attack on the bull only to have his sword, by sheer bad luck, strike bone. Then the flexible sword would double back, acquire great tension, and spring out of the matador's hand, making a graceful curve over his head and falling into the sand, point down. On certain tragic occasions this flying sword lands not in the sand but in the body of some spectator in the first rows, and death is instantaneous.
When the second aviso sounded, Fermin's face grew ashen. Calesero called out: "One sword will do it," and the young fighter, who had never before had such an experience, stopped the trembling in his right arm, planted his feet firmly, twisting his ankles as if digging himself into the sand, rose on his toes, and made three attacks that were flawless, except that eac
h t
ime he hit bone.
Calesero, hoping that Fermin might avoid the indignity of a third aviso, told the younger man firmly: "Time left for one more try. Make it good." Fermin decided that his only chance to outwit this knowing bull would be a running pass away from the left horn and a swift sword thrust as he reached a spot between where the horns should have been. Though extremely dangerous and even foolhardy, it might work, he thought, moving off to the bull's right so that his powerful arm would be free to thrust downward. His movements revealed his strategy and unanimously the other toreros shouted: "Over the horn!" and "From the front!"
As the trumpeter brought his mouthpiece to his lips, Fermin started his run. The third aviso ended the fight. In a last gasp of heroism and folly, Fermin attempted the impossible. The bull anticipated his approach and with a wild toss of his head, caught the sword and tossed it in the air. It fell point down in the sand as the trumpeter finished his mournful announcement that the matador had lost his bull and that the oxen would now be brought in to lead it to slaughter in the corrals.
Like many a matador before him who had heard that third aviso, which sealed his shame, Fermin wanted to chase after the bull and finish him before he left the arena, but was restrained by Calesero and Pepe Luis. His own banderillero said: "Let him go, Fermin. You did your part. It was that damned wall." So, head down, the young matador returned to the passageway where he had left his brocaded cape and his other swords. As he reached for his gear he heard a voice from the stands and looked up to see Penny. "You were heroic, matador," she said. "Fate stole your bull from you." Her voice wavered as tears choked it, but Fermm's sense of shame was so great he could not look at her.
Turning his back on her as if he wished to be rid of these intrusive Americans, he hurried out of the arena, through the patio de caballos where the horses were kept, and into his waiting limousine. Speeding to the House of Tile, he jumped out, rushed upstairs to his room unwilling to look at anyone, and packed for his escape from this distasteful town and for his long drive north to Torre
o
n, where he would fight tomorrow.
And so the German tourist's aptly named Saturnine Saturday ended, with little having been accomplished and no honors won. The band did not play to signal the end of day, nor did people congregate to discuss the interesting events of the afternoon, for there had been only the few passes of Calesero, the bravery of Pepe Luis and Fermm's pase de pecho, thin reward fcr a long afternoon. In silence the crowd dispersed, not because they were frustrated or disgusted but because the day had never sprung to life.
Ledesma, in bidding us good-bye, said: "Now I have a job harder than any of yours. I've got to report what happened." He smiled at Mrs. Evans and said: "As your talkative American friend, Senor Clay, has no doubt told you, Don Eduardo's paying me to tell the world that today was a four-part triumph."
She groaned: "With this fight no one could justify that," but he replied: "I have to say it. Besides, you will concede that each torero did do some one thing that was meritorious. You see, I never lie. What I do is suppress the ugly truths that might damage Don Eduardo when he's trying to sell tickets to his festival."
The mournful ending fell most heavily on Penny. The others had no justifiable complaints. They had watched a rejoneador do passably well, a rare occurrence, and Mrs. Evans had enjoyed two enlightening conversations, with Ledesma at the hotel and with Ricardo Martin at the corrida. But shortchanged Penny had finally met a matador, had identified with him and been forced to watch him collapse and then walk away. However, I had observed during the last fight that she was a resolute young woman, and now, to my keen delight, she proved it by insisting that we find Fermin. "Let's hurry back to the Terrace before he drives off."
"Where's he going?"
"Torreon, he told me. Has a fight there tomorrow," and she revealed how intensely she had become involved with Sotelo during their brief conversation on the Terrace: "I wanted to borrow Mrs. Evans's Caddy and drive him but he wouldn't allow it. Said matadors did not travel to their fights chauffeured by women. I think he meant, especially not by American women."
When we reached the Terrace, now filled with guests who had attended the fight, Penny asked me to take her to Fermfn's room, where we found him in the last stages of packing for his hurried ride north. Ignoring his
Peon
s, who were stowing his matador's gear in specially designed suitcases, she walked to him, quietly embraced him and burst into tears. He console
d h
er but passed her on to me: "Take care of her. She's a princess," and with no further farewell he hurried to his waiting limousine, with Penny trailing behind. It wasn't a real limo, of course; as a newly fledged matador he couldn't afford that. What he had was a used hearse, big and spacious with room for six and a new paint job hiding the original black. It was a fine conveyance, really, and one in which he could sleep during long trips, if he could keep from thinking: I'm riding in my coffin.
He had expected to jump in the front seat next to the driver and be on his way, but Penny reached him before he could close the door, and I overheard her say in Spanish: "Don Fermin, you were very brave. And that's what I'll always remember about this day and my trip to Mexico."
Like a caring parent, he shoved her firmly back to me and said: "If you're her uncle, look after her. She's lovely." He shut the car door and headed north, the tires of the hearse kicking up pebbles.
As we walked back to the Terrace I put my arm around her and said: "I'm proud of the way you acted at the fight. This is one you'll never forget. The day you grew up," and she asked almost tearfully: "How could a bull with one horn defend himself with such diabolical skill? And against my matador?" And I said: "That's what he's been bred to do. That's his job."
Chapter
15.
AMERICAN ANCESTORS: IN VIRGINIA
WHEN A MAN has a background consisting of three radically different bloodlines--in my case Mexican Indian, Spanish and Virginian--he has, in each branch, about fifteen hundred generations of ancestors, allotting thirty years to the generation. So, to describe my heritage, I would be free to start almost anywhere in history, and I reached fairly far back to recount the Indian influences, back to the sixth century. But when dealing with my Spanish ancestors I felt it proper to go back only to the early 1500s in Salamanca.
For my American antecedents I can relate everything relevant by starting as late as 1823, when a baby boy was born to the Clay family that operated a cotton plantation near Richmond, the colorful capital of Virginia. Northeast of that city there is a large area of swamps* matted trees, gullies and rotting logs. Called the Wilderness, it is frequented by wild turkeys, feral hogs, beautiful birds and an occasional mountain lion, and its waters provide exceptional fishing. It's a place to stay clear of, but throughout history Clay men were familiar with it and found pleasure in its cool retreats and unexpected beauties.
Our family plantation, Newfields, lay at the extreme northeastern edge of the Wilderness where in the late seventeenth century trees could be felled from relatively flat land, broad fields constructed and cotton grown. To the east lay the rivers that flowed into the Chesapeake and then into the Atlantic, and to the west, through the Wilderness, ran the road that took us to Richmond.
On a spring day in 1823 Joshua Clay ran from his plantation home, leaped on his horse and spurred it down our tree-lined lane, out onto the public road, into the Wilderness and on to Richmond. He galloped through the streets till he came to his club, where he told his fellow members: "It's a boy! I'm registering him for entry into the Virginia Third!" Some of the witnesses had welcomed Joshua himself into the famed regiment forty years before.
As far back as the people of Richmond could remember, the Clays of Newfields Plantation had been known for their ability to handle their land, all two thousand acres of it. They were knowledgeable not only about agriculture and the growing of cotton but also about horseshoeing, carpentry, irrigation and the management of Negro slaves. Joshua Clay had some two hundred slaves, whom he treated decently and from whose labor he built a modest family fortune.
The family's patriotism spoke for itself: Clays had served with Colonel George Washington in his frontier fight against the Indians, with General Washington at Valley Forge, and with Andrew Jackson at New Orleans after the English burned our capital during the War of 1812. Clays had also served in the Virginia government, and one branch of our family had led a settlement party to tame the frontier in Kentucky and had stayed on to help build that state.
In 1823, when my grandfather was born, there was no war in progress in which the Clays could take part. They spent the peaceful years improving their plantation, removing the tall trees that encroached upon their cotton fields, and building strong business relationships with cotton traders in Liverpool. They also did a considerable business with the trees they cut down in the area they called the Wilderness by converting the wood into lumber, which they sold to carpenters in cities like nearby Richmond and Washington. Since the family holdings were only some dozen miles from Richmond, the Clays were often in that lively city. As soon as their newborn son was about two weeks old and able to travel, the family drove him to Richmond to visit with the relatives who preferred city living, and it was there that Uncle Clay, who served as clergyman in the Episcopal Church, baptized the child as Jubal Clay.
The first name had occasioned debate in the family, for the boy's father preferred a more military name like Gideon, whom the Lord had specifically called a mighty warrior; the mother, who was a delicate young woman who loved books and painting and music, begged her husband to allow her to name the boy Jubal, of whom the Bible said: "He was the father of all who play the harp and flute." But when the father looked in Genesis to find that citation he read: "Zillah also had a son, Tubal-Cain, who forged all kinds of tools out of bronze and iron," and so he made a pact with his wife: "You can call him Jubal if you wish, and I'll call him Tubal," and that is how the boy grew up. He could play the musical instruments his mother provided, but he could also work in the smithy to help his father shoe horses and forge the tools a plantation required.
In time the mother's name prevailed, in part because she bore a second son whom her husband was allowed to name Gideon, after the warrior who slew the Midianites. But the christening had little effect because Gideon became a banker.
In 1846, when Jubal was a married man of twenty-three with a son of his own, he was growing dissatisfied with his life helping direct the plantation. With his father's guidance he had made himself into a skilled toolmaker, an inventive engineer and a shrewd manager of slaves, selling off the unproductive workers to unsuspecting neighbors and buying black men and women in their late teens who could bear children while doing fruitful work in the fields. In the evenings he enjoyed playing music with his mother and his wife, the two women playing together on the piano, he on a clarinet imported from Germany. He also enjoyed going to Richmond to discuss affairs with businessmen there, to visit with his brother in the bank, or to attend the various plays and musical entertainments the city provided.