TORO! TORO! TORO!, page 5
The topaz eyes of lizards and snakes watched over Doña Carlota Madrigal as she tended her indoor gardens. A slithering of serpents surrounded every task. Her dead son’s reptile collection was her only company and she was comforted by its cold-blooded presence. Her movements adopted a sinuous grace and she performed miracles with plants and flowers, her every gesture a caress. Often, while trimming or transplanting, she would stop, her hand poised in midair, and stare into the distance, lost in snakelike concentration. Not even the torpid rattler, coiled behind a glass partition, sat any stiller.
After the animals had fed they would lie motionless for hours, even days. Once, when the python escaped, it ate the neighbor’s goat and didn’t move for six months. Doña Carlota found this reptilian languor infectious. The sight of sleeping crocodiles stretched like tree trunks in the shallow pool filled her with tranquility. Their stillness was bliss. The lidded slivers of their eyes held the promise of eternal peace.
There was no movement among the crocodiles. The brutes were well gorged and would sleep the day away. When night came they would finish their feast in darkness and silence. The pink curve of a rib cage and one gnawed thigh were all that showed above the muddy surface of the pond.
Stripped to bra and panties, Esmeralda Fabada did her Royal Canadian Air Force exercises in front of a long mirror attached to the closet door. Chief Petty Officer Hooper’s shore leave ended at eight bells and Esmeralda had the hotel room to herself until noon. She had good reason to be grateful to the military of many nations. Her new red skirt, hanging in the closet to save it from wrinkles, was a gift from a sergeant in the 103rd Highland Fusiliers. Every time she touched her toes she remembered the gray-haired lieutenant colonel, his face as red as the maple-leaf decal on his luggage, who first taught her how. And that’s not all she remembered, for laced on her feet were brand-new zapatillas and every toe-touch called to mind ten stalwart members of the Atlantic fleet.
Esmeralda was in fine shape, her muscles firm and ready. She slapped her hard, flat stomach. Not an extra ounce of fat anywhere. On a whim, she ran to the dresser and seized a dime-store tube of fuchsia-colored lipstick and very carefully, with only the mirror’s reverse image to guide her, she printed the words La Fabalita across her taut tummy, dotting the i with a five-pointed star.
Lucky Sam Wo was dressed in his Sunday best: two-tone black-and-white shoes, red silk cravat, pin-striped double-breasted suit, the ox yoke and arrows of the Falange pinned to his wide lapel. In his right hand he carried a black leather doctor’s examination bag. At the corner, he stopped and checked the time on his pocket watch with the clock in a jewelry-store window before crossing the wide avenue encircling the Plaza de Toros.
He got through the main gate without any trouble, but a policeman was stationed at the entrance to the corrals and stables. Lucky Sam flipped open his billfold and flashed an impressive piece of forged identification. “Ministry of Agriculture,” he barked. “Official business.”
“What sort of business is that?”
“Veterinary examination: horn measurement, blood tests, saliva samples; the works. You will have to sign this form when I’m finished, officer.”
The policeman clicked his heels and waved Sam Wo inside with a hand motion he had learned directing traffic. “You will find me at my post, Señor Doctor.”
“Good.” Lucky Sam paused on the ramp leading down to the stables. “No one else is to come through until I have finished my work. Too many interruptions make the animals nervous.”
“You can count on me, Señor Doctor.”
Lucky Sam laughed silently as he hurried down the dark passageway. The flatfoot had actually saluted him! Wait until he told Don Pepe. The empresario had drawn a small map, detailing the subterranean mysteries of the arena, and Lucky Sam continued past the stabled horses to the first of several holding pens located behind the toril gate. On the side of each pen was a chalked number, and the Chinese inventor stopped at #119. Using a length of board to prod the animal’s rump, he urged the bull forward into the stanchions and locked his head in place.
Lucky Sam whistled a medley from “La Traviata” as he took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. In the doctor’s bag he found a canvas apron, which he tied about his waist. Next, he laid out the instruments in a neat, stainless-steel row: syringe, scalpel, bone drill, curved suturing needle, surgical clamps and hemostats. The last item out of the bag was a transistorized stimulator/radio receiver no larger than the dial of a wristwatch, and bristling with fine wires. Lucky Sam placed it carefully in line with the other tools. Behind him in the pen, bull #119 was urinating. The fastidious Oriental mechanical wizard took a step backward to keep his socks from getting splattered.
While the empresario Don Pepe caroused with his cronies in the other room, Carlos Carretera, looking rested after four nights in jail, stood by the window, gazing down at the rented Hispano-Suiza parked in front of the hotel. He was deeply into the role of el Chicote, aspirant matador, with a tendency to pose near any handy reflection. Moving from the window glass to the mirror over the dresser, Carlos studied his image and straightened his shoulders.
His satin pants were nicely mended, although he noticed a run in one of his pink stockings. The glittering gold-embroidered jacket lay carefully folded on the bed; his narrow tie hung from the top of the mirror. Soon he would finish dressing, but first, in lacy shirt sleeves and suspenders, el Chicote got down on his knees before the plaster Virgin on the dresser. This was a good pose: flickering votive candle in one hand, his shirt open at the throat, a tousled forelock tumbling as he bent his head in prayer. “Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name…”
The lime-green Maserati spun to a stop behind the main hacienda and a pursuing cloud of chalk-colored dust threatened to envelop everyone in the courtyard. Paco Machismo peered through the billowing grit and peeled off his perforated pigskin driving gloves. Safety-belted into the bucket seat beside him, Mercy Malone was waving at Abe Wasserman and Marty Farb, unmistakable in their sunglasses and boldly patterned dashikis. A girl doesn’t get that many chances to wave at Hollywood producers, and Mercy was giving it her all.
“Bienvenido, Paco,” the Conde de San Conejo called, advancing with open arms into the settling dust. “My house is your house.”
Paco Machismo pulled himself from the low-slung automobile and embraced the elderly count. “It is an honor, your Lordship.”
“Howdy, partner,” Abe Wasserman said, extending his hand for a hearty shake. Marty Farb was right behind with a big smile.
Paco waved Mercy over and introduced her to the Conde de San Conejo.
“It is always an honor to have so beautiful a visitor,” the Count said, bending to kiss her hand.
“Amen!” Abe Wasserman lifted his highball glass in salute.
“Where’s Alfredo?” Paco asked. “I thought he would be here today.”
“This boy never goes anywhere without his manager,” Marty Farb said. “Pretty smart.”
“Don’t worry, Paco.” The venerable count patted the young matador on the back. “Alfredo went to the house to get you both a drink. I have a case of Pepsi on ice in honor of your visit. We were on our way to have a look at the… animal when we heard your car approaching.”
“Ah, yes, the animal, where do you keep it?”
“In a small arena behind the calling sheds; the first two days it ran free in the marsh but that was too dangerous. Are you anxious to see it or shall we wait until after lunch?”
“I know the lunch will be excellent, Excellency, but it is not fine food which brings me here today.”
“Then by all means, let’s satisfy your curiosity.”
“Wait till you get a load of this critter, Paco,” Abe Wasserman said. “It’s antediluvian.”
El número uno answered with a finger snap and a swagger. “I don’t care what its politics are, I want to know if it will charge straight.”
The Conde de San Conejo led his guests across the farmyard, past monumental stone barns and granaries, to a wooden grandstand overlooking a circular arena. Paco was reminded of provincial towns where amateur corridas were held annually on the feast day of the local patron saint.
“We use this to amuse our visitors, caping calves and fighting cows,” the old count said. “Today it would be a good place for a safari.”
“Jesus and Mary protect you, Paco,” wailed Mercy Malone. “Just look at the size of that bugger.”
Abe Wasserman was smiling. “That baby weighs close to two tons and is meaner than Primo Carnera with a hangover.”
Stolid as a bulldozer, the rhinoceros grazed on a scattered hay bale in the center of the arena, not bothering to raise his massive armor-plated head or acknowledge the presence of his excited admirers.
“Okay, matador,” Marty Farb said. “That’s no Elsie the Borden cow out there; don’t it make you want to say your rosary real quick?”
Paco Machismo curled his upper lip with disdain, the look that made the conquistadors famous. “It only has one horn,” he sneered. “The odds are already in my favor.”
El Camión had a headache. The fighting bull waited in his dark pen, the first fierce flashes strobing out of the icy numbness between his horns. Even for an animal by nature ill-tempered, el Camión’s mood was exceptionally foul. Many centuries of inbred genetic viciousness conspired to produce this wrathful monster. All his systems were Go.
Hatred comes naturally to a fighting bull, but el Camión’s black rage was something altogether new. As the anesthetic wore off, the bull felt a strange presence between his horns. Shaking his head didn’t dislodge it and el Camión was unable to rub the spot against the side of the pen because of his wide, curving horns. Whatever this itching thing was, the two-legged had caused it. Fighting bull #119 stood very still in the darkness, remembering the pink ballooning of intestines that follows a horn thrust. Once, on the ranch, el Camión had disemboweled a horse. A two-legged would split open even more easily.
At the first fandango peal of the trumpet, Esmeralda Fabada entered the bullring on the arm of an American sailor. They had expensive front-row seats in the barrera section and pushed their way along the crowded aisle as the band began to play “La Virgen de la Macarena” at the start of the bullfighter’s paseo.
Three matadors led the procession, sunlight brilliant on their trajes de luces, their left arms wrapped in the ceremonial capes. They walked with an easy, fluid swagger, and behind them in orderly rows marched the cuadrillas of banderilleros, mounted picadors, and the monosabios in red shirts, leading the mule teams which remove the dead bulls.
Esmeralda thrilled at the glittering sight of these brave toreros. Today she would share their glory. At the first opportunity it was over the rail and into the arena. She ignored the bosun’s mate shoving peanuts into his pink face at her side and tapped her heelless slippers impatiently in time with the music.
El Chicote was a very nervous matador. He waited behind the barrera and watched the first two bulls of the afternoon go to their deaths with a minimum of difficulty. The second kill was quite elegant and stylish and, in spite of a poor showing with the muleta, the jubilant torero was awarded an ear and a tour of the ring. As he paraded past el Chicote, clutching his bloody trophy, the rival matador winked and called out over the cheering, “You’re next, Aviator, better strap on your wings.”
“Don’t listen to that shit, Carlos,” his manager whispered. The empresario felt the boy trembling when he took hold of his arm. “There’s nothing to worry about; I’ve made certain arrangements.” On the contrary, there was everything to worry about; Lucky Sam Wo had yet to appear or send any sort of message and Don Pepe was worried sick.
“Tell me again how big he is, Don Pepe.” The quaver in el Chicote’s voice was every bit as haunting as a flamenco singer’s keening.
“He’s a big one all right, but never mind his size, it’s all taken care of. You’re going to look good out there.”
“But what should I do? How should I handle him?”
Don Pepe was about to advise caution when he saw Sam Wo come into the arena. The Chinaman hurried down the concrete steps. For the first time that afternoon, Don Pepe permitted himself a small smile. “Why, Carlos, handle him bravely,” he said. “Be bold. Take chances. No harm will come to you, I promise. In fact, why not try something showy? Plant yourself on your knees before the toril gate and pass the bull with a cambio de rodillas on his charge into the ring.”
“But… Don Pepe, that would be suicide.”
“Nonsense, it’s fixed, I tell you. Now go on out there, you’re up. And remember: on your knees, it’s a crowd-pleaser.”
Don Pepe watched el Chicote stride into the bullring. His legs were shaking badly but on his knees the kid would be a sensation in there today.
“Pepe! Pepe!”
The empresario turned at the sound of his friend’s voice. “Hurry, Pepe,” the Chinaman called.
“What’s the matter, amigo? What made you so late?” Don Pepe grinned in anticipation of Chicote’s triumph.
“Pepe, come over here. We’re in trouble.”
“Something go wrong with the operation?” The empresario’s smile faded.
“No, the operation went fine.”
“What is it then?”
“The suitcase—”
“What suitcase?”
“The suitcase with the control system; on the way over here I got jumped by a pair of strong-arm boys. They stole it, Pepe; they stole the suitcase!”
“Isn’t there something you can do?”
“Not without the controls. The bull will act normal until the ‘stimuceiver’ is turned on.”
“Poor Carlos, I’ve signed his death warrant.” The empresario stared dolefully at the bullring as el Chicote lowered himself to his knees in the sand.
“Listen, Pepe,” Lucky Sam said, “I put McHaggis on this. If anyone can find the thieves, he can. He’s got the word out among those who buy stolen goods. The suitcase will turn up, you’ll see.”
But Don Pepe was no longer listening. Anticipatory mourner’s tears welled in his bloodshot eyes.
Esmeralda Fabada watched eagerly as the novillero, el Chicote, walked the length of the arena, trembling like the leaves of a poplar. The matador’s fear telegraphed across the arena and all the knowledgeable customers in the cheap seats hooted with derision. This Chicote was the answer to Esmeralda’s prayers. She was waiting for a clumsy matador, and a provident fate had provided the Aviator. It was said that not once in his career had he finished a corrida on his feet. When the novillero dropped to his knees less than ten varas from the toril gate, Esmeralda knew she would soon get her chance.
The trumpet called and the toril gate swung open. There was a long moment when time itself seemed to hold its breath; then, boom, the very darkness of the shadowy passageway congealed, and like a chunk of midnight, a tremendous black bull thundered out of the bowels of the stadium. The huge animal never slowed his initial charge across the arena. El Chicote, kneeling directly in his path, made an absurd flapping motion with the cape and was gathered up in a pitchfork toss of those wide, gleaming horns and flung like a rag doll high into the air, arms and legs akimbo. As the novillero nose-dived into the sand, the fighting bull, el Camión, rammed the barrera on the opposite side of the ring, splintering the red-painted boards and sending peons and sword-handlers diving for cover.
No one dared to make the quite. El Chicote staggered to his feet and was run over like a drunk lurching in front of a taxicab. The fighting bull trampled the unfortunate matador and continued his circuit of the arena. The other matadors ducked back behind the barrera to safety as the huge bull came snorting by. El Chicote lay sprawled like a sack of dirty laundry, alone in the ring. It was the chance of a lifetime.
Esmeralda stood on the railing and leaped over the heads of sword-handlers and plainclothes police into the arena. Her pleated red skirt opened like the petals of a poppy as the crowd roared approval. The girl sprang to her feet and ran toward the circling bull, pausing once to pirouette with her hands above her head. At the sight of her beautiful smiling face the crowd went berserk.
Esmeralda Fabada stopped at the exact center of the bullring in that terrain which is called medias. She struck a dancer’s pose and clapped her hands twice above her head. Over by the toril gate, the black, heavy-necked bull turned and looked. As he lowered his head for the charge, Esmeralda unbuttoned her pleated skirt and removed it with a flourish.
A roar burst from the crowd like a volcano erupting. The sight of a nearly naked young woman standing alone and vulnerable in the path of a charging bull awoke passions long forgotten. Not since the days of ancient Crete, when bare-breasted maidens performed acrobatics with wild aurochs, vaulting the high, curving horns, had such a cry been heard in any arena.
The crowd’s howl built in volume as the gap between bull and girl closed. There was a moment of fusion, a merging of the hulking black animal and the slender pale-white body into a single image, divided by the fluid, floating swirl of red skirt. No ballet could boast a more dramatic pas de deux. Esmeralda passed the bull with a graceful veronica and the inarticulate uproar formed a single word: “Ole!”
The girl’s control was perfect and the crowd responded to her every move, answering each successful pass with an enthusiastic “Olé.” Esmeralda wore the tails of her blouse tied up under her breasts, leaving her midriff bare, and during a thrillingly executed pachanga, the bull’s horn tip traced a thin red line as fine as a thorn scratch across the lipstick letters printed on her milk-white tummy.
