My First Bullfight

I remember watching my first bullfight. I had been looking forward to it all week, and you can imagine my excitement when a young torero, already dressed in his Traje de Luz (Suit of Light), stalked arrogantly out of my very own hotel and got into a car. I was sitting on the balcony of my room watching the foot traffic in the street below. I saw why the costume is called a suit of light; it gleamed and glittered as sunlight reflected from the gold liberally embroidered all over it. And this was one of the less ornate ones, as its owner was still working his way up the ranks and couldn’t yet afford a really expensive costume.

I was told that such suits could cost as much as $10,000 American; this was in 1960. Lord knows what they cost now. This guy was only a minor torero, as evidenced, I suppose, by the fact that he was staying at the same hotel as I. The real stars, the Matadores, would have chosen much swankier lodgings. Still, I was as impressed by his confident, haughty bearing as much as by his glittering outfit. I don’t recall if I saw him later at the bullring.

Once we arrived at the bull ring and the first match got under way, it soon became apparent why there were butcher shops (carnicerías) hard by the arena. The cards were pretty much stacked against the bull leaving under his own power at the end of the battle. He was stabbed, pierced, prodded, and beleaguered by various people long before his principal adversary, the matador, came out to confront him. First, mounted picadores taunted the bull into charging their steeds so they could pierce him with their lances, weakening him. The horses are protected by padded armor, and the picadors’ legs are encased in armor. The bulls vigorously charged the horses, despite the lances digging into their backs and shoulders.

After several moments of this, the picadors trotted out of the arena, and the banderillero entered with his miniature harpoons. This man, I believe, has a sublimated death wish. He and the bull eye each other, he with his little spears raised above his head, and the bull probably selecting a tender spot on this bold soul where he could most advantageously insert a horn. Then the banderillero and bull charge!

The man avoids the horns, athletically twisting his body away from their murderous swing as he places his long, colorful darts in the bull’s shoulder muscles. I was told there was considerable skill, as well as danger, involved in placing the shafts properly. The banderillero does this several times, but not to excess. The aficionados in the stands don’t want to see a porcupine, and get derisive if too many of the banderillas are placed. I was told that some matadors occasionally inserted the banderillas themselves.

A torero finally comes out with a large cape, but he still isn’t the star. His job is to make several passes with the bull so the star, the matador, can get an idea of the bull’s moves and tendencies: does he hook to the right or left? This guy doesn’t stay out too long, because the bull is also learning things. Like it’s not the cape, but what’s attached to the cape, that he should be pissed at.

Too many passes and the bull will charge the mostly stationary man, not the moving cape. They don’t want him to learn too much. Nor does this torero want to look too good and detract from the star. At last, the featured torero himself takes over.

This man, too, aside from being extremely courageous, must also be a wee bit daft. I saw matadors lead the bull so close to their own bodies that their costumes were smeared with blood from the bulls’ wounds as they brushed against them while charging the cape. The fans cheered mightily if the matador stood his ground with both feet planted and did not move them as he gracefully enticed the bull into charging the cape.

The ones with ‘happy feet’ got derisive catcalls and boos. Some brave souls got down on one or both knees and made passes from there. I found myself watching with total fascination.

Finally, the matador, if skillful enough, has the bull so exhausted and befuddled that it stands still for a few seconds. One even kissed the bull between the eyes, and another placed his hand on the bull’s forehead before turning his back and strutting away. The bulls just stood there, momentarily unable to respond. At about this point, the large, flowing cape is replaced with a much smaller red one, and the matador is given a sword. The moment of truth has arrived.

The matador makes a few more passes with his little cape, then stands in front of the bull, which remains still, eyes fixed on the matador before it as though hypnotized. The torero takes careful aim with his sword, goes straight in over the horns and delivers the death blow. He slips the sword between the bull’s shoulder blades and pushes it down through his heart. The bull stands there for a moment as I watch, mesmerized. It coughs some blood, then sinks to its knees and slowly tumbles over, dead. I’m full of emotions at this point: horror, fascination, excitement, and regret, all jumbled together and fighting for supremacy. I had never seen an animal, or anything else, deliberately and methodically, publically killed before. A team of horses dragged the carcass away to the waiting carnicería.

There were several different matches in this particular corrida. I watched them all, but I did not attend another after that. One match in particular ended pretty brutally. The bull was eventually killed with a knife blade inserted somewhere at the base of its skull after several sword thrusts failed to dispatch it. The bull dropped like a rock when the knife went in. The mortified and thoroughly humiliated matador was pelted with debris from the stands and left the bull ring in disgrace. That was too bad, because he had given a good performance, until the very end when he couldn’t get a clean, swift kill.

Another memory from Spain, this one not so pleasant.

By the way, the Matador is distinct from the Torero, who also does some cape work with the bull. The matador is the star and the one who dispatches the bull with the sword. Matador is derived from matar – to kill.