Under the stands, in private quarters reserved for the ranchers, Don Fernando Murillo, the breeder who had supplied the bulls for that day, looked at his friends as his first bull was hauled out. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, "Well, it wasn't one of our best bulls, but it wasn't too bad." n.o.body dared ask him what a really bad one would look like. Knowing that if even one bull fought well, the bad ones would be forgiven, they listened respectfully when the breeder predicted, 'This next one should yield ears and tail. On the range it looked precious." It was a lie, but uttering it gave him hope.

In the pa.s.sageway Cigarro, his trademark cigar arrogantly jutted upward toward the crowd, was dismayed but could express his concern to no one. In his matador's first performance there was honor, but none of the grace and excitement that would make a visiting impresario want to contract the Indian for future fights. "Not likely Ixmiq next year," Cigarro mused. "But there's another bull today, three more on Sunday. Maybe something happen." And if nothing happened today, it would be Cigarro's job to make something happen. "Maybe a riot, maybe Juan insult Veneno-oh, anything."

In the patio, where the picadors waited for the second bull, old Veneno astride his horse reflected: "This d.a.m.ned Gomez has guts. Whew! Those horns. Thank the Virgin my son didn't have to fight that one. Now if he can only do something with his own bull." Even as he worried about his son, his thoughts remained on the performance he had just witnessed. "That d.a.m.ned Gomez! Suppose a man with that much guts gets a good bull on his second?" He licked his lips and tasted salt.

Juan Gomez, using a towel to clean his sagging face, thought, G.o.d, they build these bulls of concrete. Seven tries! It's a wonder they didn't throw the bottles at me today. Maybe the next bull, maybe the next. He refused to think of the two tosses he had received, or of his miraculous escape from the horns as Victoriano swept out from the barrier like a protecting angel, flapping wings of magenta and yellow. Those things he would think of later, but his mind flashed back to the images he had seen. Since Gomez was of the school of matadors who preached, "Never take your eye from the bull's head," even when he was flying downward in his swift flight toward the horns, he was looking to see where he would land and could picture the swift and terrible upward rush of those black-tipped, silver-based horns as they sought him in the air. He had landed between them and, with his sharp eyes still watching everything, had slipped back off the bull's forehead and down along his wet flanks. With almost childlike relief he had watched the approach of the bull's tail as it heralded his escape from the horns. Thoughts he could postpone, but sights he could not, and again the abrupt appearance of Victoriano and his rescuing cape flashed before him. "Glad he was quick," the little Indian grunted to himself. His face now clean, he moved along the pa.s.sageway to where Lucha sat. "You mind if I dedicate the next bull to you?"

"Go ahead," the singer said. "You hurt?"

"No," the little matador grunted, and moved on to where Ledesma was talking with the impresario from the north.

"Lot of courage, matador," Ledesma said in greeting.

"Will you say so tomorrow?" Gomez snapped.

"If you want good notices, you know what to do."

"You miserable son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h," Gomez growled, but the critic replied with "Good luck on your next bull," as he moved off.

Here it might be helpful if I added an explanatory word. Whenever I'm talking to people who know nothing of bullfighting; or writing for them, I remind myself, They probably think the big, heavy capes that are so important in three quarters of the fight are red. That's completely wrong. The capes are magenta or a dull yellow, and they dominate the opening running, the matador's first pa.s.ses, the work with the picadors and positioning the bull for the sticks. Only at the dead end of the fight is a red cloth used, and it's about half the size of the cape, but it's in at the death and that's what counts. They've conducted tests and the bull is in no way enraged by the red color. The simple fact is, he sees it better, but he'll charge anything that moves, no matter the color. He is a killer, not an art fancier.

In the pa.s.sageway Victoriano Leal stood mumbling with his furled cape already over his eyes. "That d.a.m.ned Indian. On a bull like that he should have suffered a disaster." In the folds of his cape he shook his head. "If mine's the same kind, what can I do? But it won't be that kind. It won't be. There goes the trumpet. Now the gates. Now the bull. He takes the first cape. The second. Now he's running my way. Now! Now!" He dropped the cape from his eyes and saw a handsome thousand-pound bull on the other side of the barrier. Already the crowd was crying its approval of this animal's charges, and on the spur of the moment Victoriano rushed into the ring, his cape ready, calling, "No, Chucho. He's mine."

With delicate movements the tall young man goaded the bull, then dropped his hands very low toward the ground so that the top of the cape came no higher than his knees. The bull charged true, sought the cape, buried his sharp horns in its pliant folds, and thundered past with tremendous force. Victoriano kept his feet firmly planted in the sand and arched his back gracefully to incite the bull to attempt another charge. Again the huge beast hammered at the cape, and again the crowd sensed the subjugation of great animal force by cool human intellect.

"Ole!" shouted the audience, the first of the stormy cries that this Festival was to hear.

"Ole!" everyone shouted again as the great bull was brought back. In the breeder's box under the stands, Don Fernando breathed easier. "Like I said, two ears and a tail." On the roof, the band began to play.

When the Leal family got a good bull, it knew what to do. Now Chucho, who directed the fight until his father entered the ring, cried, "Two more pa.s.ses, Victoriano. Then the half." In compliance, the young matador executed two wonderfully suave pa.s.ses and finished with an exhibition that earned shouts of approval. He started the next as if he were about to make a normal pa.s.s but, as the bull approached, cut the pa.s.s in half, pulled the cape close to his body, and gave the bull no target at all so that the animal brushed very close to his left leg. It was a moment of exquisite art.

"Ole!" shouted the crowd.

In the pa.s.sageway Juan Gomez muttered, "I get a complete b.i.t.c.h but he gets a freight train that runs back and forth on rails." He spit.

When the trumpet summoned the picadors and the gates opened, old Veneno galloped in like a white-haired centaur l.u.s.ting for combat. He quickly guided his horse into position, studied the bull and waited for Chucho and Diego to lure the animal into the first pic. Testing his right stirrup, against which the bull would strike, he brandished his wooden pole and watched each motion of the beast, aware that in the next few minutes he would be required to make judgments that might determine the outcome of this fight.

Now the bull spied the horse. With a powerful lunge that strengthened the crowd's belief that here was a fine animal, he ripped at the horse with his right horn as Veneno reared in his stirrups, bore down with all his weight, and drove his lance sharply into the hump just back of the neck muscles. This was a dangerous moment, for one never knew how a bull would react to his first sharp stab of pain, and the picador had to be prepared for anything.

This bull was brave. Spreading his hind feet, he braced himself against his unknown adversary and drove ahead like a ten-ton truck plodding uphill. The lance quivered. The horse began to buckle at the knees from the force of the drive, but still Veneno pushed deeper. "We'll see how he takes this one," he grunted furiously as he leaned far out over the bull's horns to push home another lance.

The crowd, aware it was seeing a picador at his best, began to cheer, until it realized Veneno's intent was not merely to punish but to completely destroy the bull. "Let him go!" the men in the sunny seats shouted as the crowd began to boo and curse the old man. Someone threw a cushion, which bounced off his stout hat, but still he drove the iron-tipped lance deeper into the bull's neck. Dark red blood appeared on the animal's flank.

At this point, with the neck muscles damaged so that the bull could no longer carry his head high, Victoriano interposed himself between the horse and the bull and deftly drew the animal away from the picador, utilizing a pa.s.s which I had earlier described to Drummond as "poetry flowing over sand." Inciting the bull from a distance with cape low and extended, the matador seemed prepared to execute a normal pa.s.s until, when the bull was halfway into his charge, he suddenly pirouetted and twisted the cape about his body, leaving the enraged animal only a flicker of cloth at which to lunge. By the time the bull had turned to charge again, the man was again waiting with the tantalizing cloth, which he once more wound about his body.

"Now you see what Madrid saw!" a partisan shouted.

At the end of the seventh pa.s.s, as if Victoriano had planned the maneuver from the start of the series, the bull was left in position before old Veneno's horse, which it charged with such power that horse and picador were thrown to the ground. There was a moment of frenzy, during which the bull tried to gore the fallen man, but Victoriano protected his father with his cape while Paquito de Monterrey, with a series of skilled pa.s.ses, led the bull away and kept him occupied until Veneno was able to remount. From his subterranean position the breeder, who had remained in hiding during the disaster with his first bull, began waving in regal gestures to friends he knew. This bull was not exceptionally good, but it was acceptable, and everyone knew it.

Now old Veneno, shaken and dusty, faced one of the most tantalizing decisions in bullfighting: should he give the powerful bull a third pic, which would weaken the animal and make him easier for Victoriano to handle at the kill, or should he allow his son to make the grand gesture, sure to be popular with the crowd, of pet.i.tioning the president to "dismiss the picadors, this brave bull has been punished enough"? It would seem that all evidence would be in favor of the first choice, but there was a catch that might endanger Victoriano's chances for a stupendous triumph.

The rule of the ring was: "After the first pic, the matador whose bull it is has the right to lead the bull away and try to make a series of brilliant pa.s.ses." After the second pic the matador next below him, in this case Paquito de Monterrey, had taken the bull from the fallen Veneno and made a few pa.s.ses. Now, if there was a third pic, Juan Gomez, as next in line, could step in, take the fine bull and perhaps launch a series of pa.s.ses that would eclipse Victoriano, and make a muddle of the afternoon. It was a difficult decision, and I, along with all the other aficionados in the plaza, appreciated Veneno's dilemma.

Victoriano thought: Veneno won't risk a third pic. That's all right with me. He gave the beast h.e.l.l on the first one. But if he does go for a third pic, it's all right too, because even if Gomez does pull something good, I can still recover with the sticks. I'll show them banderillas they never saw before.

Juan Gomez stood impa.s.sively in the escapeway and thought: The old b.a.s.t.a.r.d doesn't want to give me a crack at his precious bull. But he knows his son's a coward, so he'll want to destroy the beast. If he tries it, I know what I'm going to do. He waited.

Cigarro, chomping his cigar, was exultant: 'This may be it. Veneno's going to go for a third pic and Juan'll tear that bull apart. Now the festival really starts." Outside the arena the merry-go-round played children's songs.

The decision was made by the bull, who sought further battle with the horses, and headed at a trot toward the reserve picador. This unexpected turn dismayed the Leals. The bull would get a third pic, but it wouldn't be as effective as Veneno's and, what was worse, Gomez would get his chance to show.

The Leals swung into action. Chucho rushed across the sand to intercept the galloping bull as Diego leaped the barrier and threw himself in front of the reserve picador. Veneno spurred his horse into a favorable position while Victoriano, with four swift, immaculate pa.s.ses, drew the bull directly onto the lance of the old man. "Jesus," Cigarro whistled in admiration.

"Those clever b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" Gomez snarled. "But wait."

It was nearly two minutes before the little Indian had an opportunity to show what he could accomplish with a good bull, for Veneno was demonstrating how a wily picador could do a matador's work for him. His third pic, delivered in defensive surprise, as if he were astonished that the bull had switched from the second picador to him of its own volition, was perfect, placed far enough back to damage the bull yet forward enough to permit and encourage the animal to keep lunging ahead. With quick, terrible applications of his right arm, the old man drove the pic deeply home until he could feel bone.

The bull tried to disengage, not through fear but because his backbone seemed about to explode. Veneno allowed no escape, deftly swinging his horse into a tight circle, so that when the bull tried to break away the horse's body was across his path. Man and bull and horse entered into a stately waltz, with the bull always turning to the right to escape but the horse turning a little faster, the man leaning far out of his saddle so that his entire weight drove the pic closer to the backbone. Aficionados called this maneuver "the carioca," and when a bull danced it for two or three minutes, especially with rugged Veneno leading the steps, he was apt to be finished.

During the dance Juan Gomez waited patiently with his cape gathered about his chest, inconspicuously shifting his feet so as to be in position for what he had in mind. Astride the horse Veneno caught a glimpse of him. "That d.a.m.ned little Indian, there he waits like a pauper hoping for sc.r.a.ps at a banquet."

Finally the carioca ended and the bull, gushing blood, staggered free. A matador who rushed in would have accomplished nothing, but Juan Gomez, understanding bulls better, waited until the animal recovered his senses. Then the Indian electrified the crowd by swinging his bright cape over his shoulders as if wearing it against a storm, his unprotected body facing the bull. When he extended his right arm a small triangle of yellow cloth presented itself to the bull, but to get to it the animal had to pa.s.s under the man's arm and very close to his right leg.

"Eh, tori to!" Gomez cried, and the beast charged directly at the small triangle of cape. With thundering speed he pa.s.sed under the man's arm, brushing his leg with his horn.

"Ole!" cried the crowd as the bull turned quickly to a new attack. There again was the fragment of cape, this time raised by the matador's left arm. With a new burst of fury the bull drove at it and again pa.s.sed under the man's arm. Back and forth, under alternate arms, the bull roared.

The crowd shouted its approval of one of the finest series of pa.s.ses that would be exhibited during the festival, and back in the corrals old Veneno swore. "I should never have taken that last pic. What's that d.a.m.ned Indian doing out there?"

Veneno, goaded by the Indian's brilliance, was thinking intelligently; his son was not. Victoriano, aware that Gomez was exciting the public, could only think bitterly and disjointedly: I didn't want that third pic. Why is that Indian so d.a.m.ned lucky with my bull after his failure with his? What can I do to regain control of my bull? And most important, I wish they'd stop ordering me what to do, as if I knew nothing. This is their fault.

The Indian's final pa.s.s sent the bull off to the barrier and left Gomez where he had intended to be, alone in the center of the ring. Keeping an eye on the distant bull, he acknowledged the applause that bombarded him. Scarcely moving his body, he bowed his head three times, then, with an eye on the bull, strode with insulting arrogance back to the barrier.

"You see that?" O. J. Haggard asked his group. "I feel weak."

One of the impresarios from the north said to the woman, he was with: 'These d.a.m.ned Indians know something about emotion the rest of us don't. You see how he kept the bull tied to him in the middle of each pa.s.s? Fantastic."

Despite his cry for freedom to direct his own actions, Victoriano now looked for signals from his father, who had returned 011 foot to the pa.s.sageway, and the old man indicated the boys were to put on an act that had proved popular elsewhere. As Chucho and Diego made ready to place the sticks, the audience protested in unison with loud cries of "No! No!" Chucho, pretending not to understand what the commotion was about, actually incited the bull as if intending to go through with his job, but as he did so Victoriano moved into the ring and looked up at the crowd as if uncertain of their desires. Using a schoolboy's self-effacing gesture, he pantomimed, "You mean you want little old me to place the sticks?"

Gomez, who had seen the act before, thought: This is sickening, but the audience shrieked with approval when the matador signaled that he would place his own banderillas.

But Chucho pretended not to see Victoriano and began a slow run toward the bull, whereupon Victoriano feigned anger and ran to intercept him. For a few carefully timed moments they wrestled not far from the startled bull, who, as they had antic.i.p.ated, was too surprised to charge. After a sharp scuffle Victoriano grabbed the sticks and dismissed his brother, who sulked back toward the barrier with broad gestures indicating he couldn't understand what the fuss was all about.

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 reb.u.t.ted.

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 pa.s.ses 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 pa.s.sage Victoriano gave him only a drooping area of red cloth in front of his left knee. The pa.s.ses 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 a.s.sent, but approached the bull as if he intended another dramatic pa.s.s. "No!" Veneno commanded, and regretfully his son surrendered whatever plans he might have had, gave the bull four hurried pa.s.ses, 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 pa.s.ses 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 a.s.sa.s.sinated 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 cla.s.s. 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, "G.o.d, 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 cla.s.sic pa.s.ses. 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 cla.s.sic pa.s.ses, 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 pa.s.ses 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 pa.s.s. 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 pa.s.s. When the picadors appeared Cigarro advised them, "Lay in a ton."

In the routine pa.s.ses 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 Peons 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 to dance." 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 pa.s.ses 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 pa.s.ses, 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 pa.s.s after another.

Then suddenly, to the surprise of both the bull and the crowd, Gomez stood upright, feet resolutely planted, and with a high pa.s.s 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 pa.s.ses had left the bull perplexed and uncertain as to how or when to charge. The matador was about to risk his life on the a.s.sumption 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 confused beast 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 d.a.m.ned 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 cla.s.sic matador should resort to such cheap exhibitionism, muttered to the impresario from the north, "Get me a gun. If the son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h 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 pa.s.sageway 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 c.o.c.ked 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.

No one moved. No one applauded. In the unbearable suspense the little Indian matador slowly drew back from the horn and began a slow pirouette on his knees until he had turned completely around, exposing his back to the horns, his brown face gazing up at the crowd. Dropping his sword and cloth, he raised his hands in a gesture of supplication.

There was a suppressed gasp from the crowd and Ledesma asked the impresario, "What's he doing now?"

"Knees, back to the bull."

"That cheap, cheap b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Ledesma muttered.