Old Hands, part 2

The kids had new teachers, too. Lisa’s third grade teacher was Tica Echols, a kind and loving American woman married to a Spaniard. The girls in the class adored her and took turns styling her hair and massaging her feet during story time every day. And for sixth grade Julie had Sibley Labandeira, another American who had lived in Spain for many years. She and the other sixth-grade teacher, Lin Peterson, actually team-taught their two classes, and Julie came to like them both, despite Ms. Labandeira’s tough geography quizzes.

Besides that, there were some special fall events to look forward to. Up first was the local week-long fiesta in Pozuelo, which included a daily running of the bulls followed by bullfights in a temporary ring set up in a plaza.

This was the only bullfight I saw in person while I was in Spain. I never made it to the major league—Las Ventas, the famous bullring in Madrid, where the finest bulls and toreros fight. Unlike Ana, who hated bullfighting, I had no moral objection to it. When I was a kid in Chicago, the advent of UHF television broadcasting brought with it Chicago’s channel 26, which showed Mexican bullfighting nearly all day long, every day. My dad got interested and studied the spectacle, and he got me into it a little, too. I learned to regard it as an art form, though I understood why some people saw it as inexcusable cruelty to animals.

Mike had been to Las Ventas once or twice with business acquaintances, but tickets were hard to get. I had watched the fights once in a while on television in Madrid—the season ran from April to November, with broadcasts in the late afternoon. It was similar to the Mexican bullfighting I had seen decades before, but a couple things were new to me. First, ticket choices were based on whether your seats were in sol (sun) or sombra (shade). And second, though the majority of matadors worked on foot, there were also occasional fights conducted entirely with the matadors on horseback.

This was the style used for all six fights we saw the night we went to the ring in Pozuelo. Mike and Julie had been to the running of the bulls twice already—each day the animals were let loose from a paddock up the hill from the bullring, and they ran uneventfully down to the ring, with adventurous people running alongside. These were not the full-sized bulls that would appear at a place like Las Ventas, but rather ¾-size bulls whose horns had been shaved to make them less dangerous. This was analogous to a minor league ballgame.

We went to the fight around 6 p.m.—Spanish afternoon. The temporary bullring was about 100 feet in diameter, with seven rows of bleachers around it. We found some seats and listened to the two bands stationed in the half-full stands as they took turns playing. After a few minutes two ladies entered on horseback and did some dressage moves, controlling their horses elegantly as they side-stepped, turned and backed up. Then a dozen men on horses joined them for more display.

These riders left the ring, and the first fight’s human combatants entered. I was feeling excited—for all the bullfighting I’d watched on TV, first in Chicago, then in Spain, I’d never seen one in person. Being part of the crowd increased my anticipation, and the color and pageantry added to the atmosphere. There was a matador dressed in long leather chaps, a short wool jacket and a flat-brimmed hat. He was accompanied by four toreros with capes who were dressed in the traditional gaudy brocade bullfighter’s costume.

The bull was let out of his chute, full of energy, charging around like mad. Not a huge animal, but clearly powerful anyway. The four toreros attracted him with their capes and kept him running for a while. They slipped behind shelters at the perimeter of the ring whenever he got too close. The matador, now mounted on his horse, called to the bull, urging him to give chase. The majestic horse was beautifully groomed, with a ribboned mane and a fancy saddle. It was extremely agile in its moves and showed no fear at all, though it wore no padding.

We gasped with fear as the bull frequently got close enough to have its horns literally under the horse’s tail, but the horse was never gored. Between passes the matador would make his horse prance or do a little dressage just to show how much control he had.

Then the matador went to the edge of the ring and picked up a 3-foot-long stick with a dart at its end. He stuck this into the bull’s back, and when the dart came off the stick a small flag unfurled, so the matador was left holding a little flag that he used like a miniature cape to attract the bull. He repeated this move a few times, and once or twice he was quite stylish in his motion, leaning way over the bull’s horns to place the dart.

Then the matador left the ring to change horses, and the toreros came out to do a few passes meanwhile. When the matador returned the toreros retired to the edges again, and he went to the side to pick up another stick, this one frilled with colored paper. When it was placed in the bull’s back the entire stick remained hanging off the bull. Each dart had the effect of both enraging and weakening the bull. With two of these sticks placed, the matador again left to change horses.

By the time the matador was on his fourth horse, the sticks he received at the edge of the ring were just a foot long, meaning he had to get much closer to the bull in order to place them. This ratcheted up the excitement. One more change of horse and he came back to pick up a really tiny dart with a 4-inch spike. Once the spike was placed in the bull’s back, the paper frills left showing looked like a small flower.

The killing instrument, to my surprise, was not very swordlike. It looked like an umbrella, with about two feet of stick above a two-foot dart with a three-inch spike. When the dart was placed, the matador was left holding the two-foot stick. The bull fell to the ground, and a torero came out and severed the bull’s spinal cord with a dagger.

I loved the drama and the risk involved, and the color and tradition were things I could appreciate, but I also felt the death of the bull was brutal and sad. A team of two horses came to drag the carcass away, and the matador took a victory lap around the ring, having been awarded two ears. I couldn’t help but admire him for his skill and courage.