We therefore spent Monday and Tuesday at the Mota ranch assembling with extreme care the two sets of bulls, and I appreciated the Don’s strategy: ‘I mustn’t make the mistake of thinking that only Seville is important, just because its feria is known everywhere in Europe. If we have a bad day in Málaga they will boo us in Seville before the fight even starts. So let’s be sure we get the best animals possible for Málaga.’
It was a privilege for me to learn what a historic bull ranch the Mota was. Starting sometime around 1785, a strain of bulls called the Vázquez was identified as producing the finest animals available. Manageable in size, they had several distinguishing characteristics: outstanding courage, big, smooth bodies, well-formed horns, legs well positioned for driving against picadors’ horses and a remarkable propensity for following the cape or the muleta rather than the man. They became almost the prototype of the fighting bull and dominated the plazas during the nineteenth century, when Vázquez bulls from the duke of Veragua’s ranch were notable. In the early twentieth century the great bulls from Concha y Sierra upheld the honor of the Vázquez strain, and now Don Cayetano’s Mota ranch, among other notable ones, represented the breed.
‘I’m not allowed to fail,’ he told me as we rode on horseback through open fields where hundreds of animals roamed unfenced. ‘When the public sees one of my bulls they see not me but the honorable reach of history.’
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 assistance 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 Lázaro López. 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 SATURDAY he and I drove to Málaga, 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 María, 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 Málaga the finest our ranch has offered in many years.’
‘Didn’t you say the same about those you sent to Puerto de Santa María?’
‘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 López? We hear you had words after the float returned.’
‘When Lázaro López 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 Mass 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 impassioned 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 substituting three-year-olds and calling them mature four-year-olds, and so on through a multitude 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 López 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 assure 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 participated 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 Lázaro López 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 performan
ce 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 anticipated, 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 passes.
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 massive 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 passes 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 gâce, 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 petitioned 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 noble 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 assented, 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 passes 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 ni
ne 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 Málaga 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 López 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 López cannot fight. In the easy parts he’s showy. In the dangerous parts, cowardly. Let’s pray.’