Chapter 7 Part 1

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Chapter 7

Introduction
The Beginning
Chapter 1
Chapter 2 Pt 1
Chapter 2 Pt 2
Chapter 2 Pt 3
Chapter 3 Pt 1
Chapter 3 Pt 2
Chapter 4 Pt 1
Chapter 4 Pt 2
Chapter 5 Pt 1
Chapter 5 Pt 2
Chapter 6 Pt 1
Chapter 6 Pt 2
Chapter 7 Pt 1
Chapter 7 Pt 2
Chapter 8

The Man of Spain

1936 A.D.

The Bull had always been there in the field that he passed by on his way to school. He remembered the first day. He had looked into the field and saw far away the proud black figure of the Bull. "Ay, Toro," he whispered and knew the Bull heard him. He had seen it there every day for many years, and always it was the same as on the first day. He was as it was and one day he would fight it.

There was a time when he looked at it with all the cynicism an eleven year old can muster, and said to himself that the Bull wasn't the same one he had seen years ago. It couldn't be. It would have looked old and weak by now, as did the old men of the village. This obviously was another Bull, but he had summoned all the wisdom of twelve years and had seen that the Bull was timeless. It would be there when he went to fight it and would be just as proud and strong, and he would respect it because it would yield only to the man who could kill it. And the things it had been would live forever.

His father was a fanatic on the art of bullfighting and spent hours animatedly discussing the bullfights he had seen and analyzing the styles of the great matadors.

He practised regularly with the cape and sword his father had bought for him. Yet somehow his father hadn't thought he might seriously want to be a matador. One day, he recognized the look on his face, for he had seen it on the matadors in the moment of truth. He took his son to one side and had a talk with him.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"A matador."

"So does every other boy in Spain. A lot of them just dream, yet many become vagabonds who roam all over the country with their tattered capes, begging for a chance to prove they are good bullfighters."

"Don't worry, father, I'll find a patron."

The father looked at him sadly, knowing that his son was set on becoming a matador. "I had hoped you would be a doctor."

"Why a doctor?"

"Because this is what Catalonia needs. It is growing so fast, and already people are realizing how much we're lacking in the people we need. Scientists, engineers, doctors. Soon we will need them even more."

"Why?"

"Because one day we will be independent."

From then on, they talked often about the politics and history of Catalonia. Rapidly becoming one of the most industrialized areas in Spain, Catalonia resented the tariffs the other more influential provinces were putting on their products, so that it was at a disadvantage. The Catalans had always felt different from the rest of the Spanish peoples and for many years agitated for a separate homeland. Its industrial base, its trade unions and political parties were lifting its people out from the poverty which was still rife in the rest of Spain. It was a problem to the government in Madrid.

Yet because it was a problem which hadn't been solved for so long, the extremists were coming to the fore. Political murders were being committed almost every day in Barcelona, the capital. There were moderate people like his father who wanted Catalonia to have more independence but still be a part of Spain. Yet, they had been crushed so many times whenever they agitated for freedom for Catalonia that the moderates and the militants together planned for a time when Catalonia could declare its independence.

These were things which meant everything to the people of Catalonia, yet his father could see they meant nothing to him. His son wanted to be a matador, so let it run its course and in time it would die, as did all the dreams of children.

He knew it would not, for he saw the Bull waiting for him.

When he was fourteen, his father decided to take him to the bullfights in Barcelona. When he saw Barcelona the city, with its wide boulevards and magnificent graceful heavy buildings, he felt its passionate life-loving spirit touch him so that he wanted to make his mark there. One day, he would say 'I am of Barcelona', and that would be because of the time he went to the bullfights with his father.

Then off to the arena, and it was as though all Spain were there. And if not all Spain, at least its heart was there in that teeming mass of people.

The trumpet called across the crowd, across the arena, and then a hush descended over them all. The bullfighters marched across the ring and the music was playing and the crowd was a mass of emotion as it saw what lived in that ring.

Death.

And Life, he thought, watching the matador, a golden figure who walked out into the ring, reflecting the sun. He knew the thoughts of the matador, and, as the golden figure took off its hat and bowed to the people, was him.

He could understand the tragic heroic bravery of the ring. The bull must die, but it was the man who must face the bull and know that death could touch him too.

Then another trumpet call and the bull appeared. It wasn't his Bull, but it was proud and massive and had the eyes of Spain on it. For one moment, it was as though there were only two beings there, matador and bull, then the picadors moved in, preparing it for the moment of truth. Then the matador and bull again.

The man reached out to his cape and in a fluid motion passed it so closely that it almost grazed his golden suit. The bull lunged against the golden suit, then one horn dipped low and thrust upwards and the matador fell to the yellow brown earth.

He is dead, he thought, and in his mind's eye could see the life-blood pouring out into the earth. They waited quietly for the announcement. The matador had died. Then the bull was killed, and in its dying it wasn't defeated.

He was quiet, his father noticed as they headed home. Was it because of the death that day? It wasn't. He remembered only the way the sun beat down on the golden figure, the music, the bull, the man. You will have a blue suit, the thought said. You will have a blue suit flecked with red and silver and it too will shine in the sun one day.

Then this came to him. The blood you saw today is nothing. It was that man's moment to die, and when you die, your blood too will flow. He felt the emotion now and his shoulders trembled, and he realized that if he didn't stop now, he would cry. Then he saw the blood and it was his blood, and he cried.

His father put his arms around his shoulders.

"Be a brave man, my son. One does not cry for the death of a bullfighter. It was as it should be and he lived and died well. Why therefore cry for him? Death is after all only a part of living, of life."

Yes, why cry? Death wasn't even an obstacle he must overcome. He had already overcome it by living, and would go on overcoming it until the day he must go on to another world. These were the words which came to him and he absorbed them, buried them deep inside, and he was calm.

He grew older, but the Bull was still there in the field. It was the one constant thing besides himself in that ever changing world.

For the world was changing. Political parties and trade unions were growing stronger and seeking to change the order of things. The socialists, the anarchist-idealists and even the communists, all had a common cause in working towards a republic. The Catalans were demanding freedom for their province. Opposing them, indeed opposing any change at all were the monarchy, the landlords, and the Church.

Father and son went again to Barcelona, but this time it was to meet his uncle. His relatives were waiting to greet them. Hugs and kisses all around, including one from his cousin Esmerelda.

After dinner, the men retired to the study to talk and his father took him along. Maybe now he'll see what we believe in.

After pouring out a brandy for him, his brother asked, "How are things in the village, brother?"

"If you mean how's our group doing, then it's doing very well."

"How are you coming along with the youth education classes?"

"Well, you know each one of us tries to pass on our ideals to our children, brother. But surely, it's up to them to develop their own ideals? Anyway, you know that every child grows up to be a Catalan nationalist. We don't have to force them into becoming one before their time."

"Force them? How can you say that? Can any Catalan child want anything else but to be a part of the movement? You should see what they are like sometimes. It's as though they are ready to die for Catalonia."

"In Barcelona, perhaps. But for the thousands of children out in the country, Catalan nationalism is something their parents believe in but it doesn't touch them."

"It should touch them! If we can't achieve our goals in our lifetime, at least they will be able to do so, but only if we reach them now."

"I don't believe in indoctrinating children, brother. Believe me, every child who's born here will grow up wanting freedom for Catalonia. And on his own."

"Who is to teach them, if not their parents? You should see how Esmerelda studies our manifestos and asks me so many questions about the future. Our future."

"You must be proud."

"Yes, I am." He turned towards his nephew. "Do you belong to the socialist youth?"

"No, I don't."

"Why isn't he in the youth movement? I wouldn't even mind him being in the communist youth, as long as he was a member of one of the groups."

"I won't belong to any group."

This unequivocal statement brought his uncle up short, and he looked angrily at him.

"I should have told you," his father said mildly, "he knows what he wants. And he wants to be a matador."

"There are many matadors in Barcelona who are also patriots," his uncle said, then realizing he had been a less than gracious host, said easily, "You're right, brother. Every child born here is born a Catalan. Enough of that. Tonight we're going to go to the cafe of the matadors. You should enjoy this very much," he said to his nephew.

He went into the garden to be by himself. Yes, he was a Catalan, he thought. And at school, he had seen the map and heard his teacher say, This is Spain. But though he had been born a Spaniard, he belonged to an even greater world. How small a place must we cling to, he thought, remembering how Catalonia had looked on the map of the world. Can we then go on and say of even smaller things, say, this is my village and I am different from the man in the next village? Our village should declare its independence from the rest of Spain, he said laughingly.

What of you? the voice asked him. You think of Barcelona as your city.

It has a heart, he said to it. It has a heart that I love and is like my own. But that is all it means to me. And as there really is no place I can hold to, I cannot think of myself as belonging to any nation. But, he thought, feeling again the soul of the city, I can still say I am of Barcelona.

Esmerelda joined him. "Mother sent me to keep you company." Then she said kindly, "You poor boy. We heard father haranguing you through the study window and mother said she was going to admonish him for his poor manners. But why did you say you wouldn't belong to any group?"

"Because I don't like belonging to any group. They all act like sheep, from the school children to the political processions. I feel different from everyone, that's all. So why be a part of them?"

"Papa says that many individuals can still share the same ideals and work together to achieve them."

"True. But at the moment what I want to do..."

"Is be a matador. I heard that."

"You heard so much I should have looked for you at the keyhole instead of the window."

"The window shows so much more imagination. Everyone listens at keyholes."

"Probably the socialist youth," he wisecracked, and she was angry so he leaned over and kissed her for no other reason except that he was young, and they went back to the house.

The cafe of the matadors wasn't filled to capacity yet, and his uncle was well known so they got a good table close to the empty ones which were placed where everyone in the cafe could see them. These tables were reserved for the matadors. They had dinner but still the matadors hadn't come.

Then as he was sipping his coffee, the matadors arrived. They made their way through the tables with their friends and their women, greeting everyone because they knew everyone there and everyone knew them. They stopped at his table to pay their respects to his uncle and he was introduced to them.

Some of them were strong, some vain, but all of them were so fragile. There was a gaiety about them all. They lived well, as all those who understood death did, as all those who understood death should. He wanted to be like them.

You are like them in many ways, the voice said. But you are yourself too. Whatever you do or will do is what you are. Therefore, as you're going to be a matador, you must already have the qualities you're admiring. You too can live as they do, and now. Maybe not the adulation or the women you're looking at so slyly while pretending to look at the matadors, but the happiness in living, the knowledge of death is already within you.

He was eighteen. One night, he took his cape and sword and left the house. When he came to the field, he jumped over the wooden fence and walked up to the Bull who stood against the backdrop of the dark sky.

"Ay, Toro," he called out, his cape flew up and the Bull charged. But somehow he wasn't there and it passed by a few feet away. He could hear the music now. There had been no thunderous crash of cheers from an arena, no flutter of handkerchiefs for his first pass at the Bull. But the music still played inside his head as he held his cape even closer to his body and saw the horns sweep by that much closer.

The Bull stopped at the end of his charge, and looked at him with red eyes that wanted to kill, and he was drawing death to him with his cape. He laughed and folded it so that it was even smaller and closer to him, and death passed by.

He looked at the Bull and the love he felt for it then came over him. He could not kill the Bull because it was brave and deserved to stay there as it always had. He saluted it with his sword, and the Bull watched him as he turned away.

The horsemen rode up and surrounded him. What he had done passed through his mind again. He looked at the man who led them, the owner of the ranch, and life bubbled through him and he laughed. Punish me as you want, his eyes said to the man, tonight is a memory I had to have.

"The man is drunk," they said to each other, but the Don knew otherwise.

"I know your father," he said as he tried to collect his thoughts and decide what to do. "He will be pained to hear what you have done. Have you no consideration for the shame he will feel when I tell him of your impropriety?"

"This is what I had to do," he said. And he knew that the man wouldn't tell his father.

No, he wouldn't tell his father, the Don decided. "Come to see me tomorrow morning," he said genially, and rode away.

He went to see the Don in the morning.

"I know your father well, young man. He is a man of honour and I respect him. For that, I am not going to tell him anything. I must confess I was watching you last night. I do that everytime some vagabond wanders into the fields and fights one of my bulls. And if they fight poorly, I have them whipped for their stupidity. As for you, I would like to take you into my service and train you to be a bullfighter."

"Thank you."

"What about your father? Will he object?"

"He will let me be a bullfighter."

"Well, go and ask his permission anyway. And now you're going to come for a ride with me."

A horse was waiting for him and they rode around the ranch. The Don wondered why he was doing this. There was something he could see but still not understand, and he wondered what it was that fascinated him. Then he looked at one of his own bulls, and saw what he had seen in the man. Power. And he wondered, in which direction is that power channelled? Can it be channelled?

He read the Don's thoughts. The power you see is in yourself too, and in everyone else. It may be closer to the surface in me, but it's only the will which takes me along my road. And it can only be channelled in that direction.

Spain is going through so much. I hope you will turn that strength towards the good of your country.

How would you have me do this? By joining some political party, or perhaps the army? It isn't in everyone to do this. If this were my path, then I would become a politician or a soldier. But I am going to be a matador. Beyond that, I can see nothing.

His inner voice now spoke to himself. And because you are what you are, you will turn your strength towards the good of a cause, one day. Not now, but one day you will be faced with a decision to accept the world as it is, or fight to change it. You will fight. And again, he saw blood flowing to the ground.

His father accepted the news well because he knew that the changes coming to Spain would force him in the end to become more involved in his country's future.

He began training under the stern eye of the Don's chief trainer, a retired bullfighter who pushed him hard until his wrists were flexible and strong and the cape seemed to flow through the air.

For practice, a bull's hide was tautly stretched over a wooden framework on wheels. Bull's horns were attached to it, and when it was pushed around by a farmhand it looked just like a real bull. The horns followed the cape and went on, and he mocked the man who fought wooden bulls.

He learned how to hold the sword, sighting along its edge for the spot on the hump that he must penetrate. If he didn't place it well, it wouldn't be a clean death or a good fight, but a butchery, and he would deserve the boos of the people.

The time came when he was experienced enough to fight in the local arena. This was the first step for a promising bullfighter. First, he would fight in the local arena, and if he fought well, he would travel to the other arenas and build up his reputation as he went along. When he had gained some experience and caught the attention of the newspaper reporters who attended the small bullfights looking for new talent, he would begin to fight in the bigger cities.

So, one day they drove down to the local arena. He was helped into a brown and gold suit which was a gift from the Don. It wasn't his blue red silver suit, but he would get it one day.

The music of Spain. Life and death and bravery. He killed his first bull that day.

From that point on his career grew. He travelled to the other arenas in the province fighting good bulls and bad bulls, honouring them all by killing them cleanly. He began to build up a following in the towns, and his name on the card was enough to ensure that a good crowd would turn out.

Local papers began to write about him, one of them printing a photograph which made him look most heroic. And through the Don's contacts and the newspaper stories, an offer came from Barcelona.

He persuaded the Don that he needed a new suit for his first fight there, even though the people were used to his old one. So they drove down to the city one day, and he found his blue red silver suit. He tried it on. It fit well. These were the colours that he would be known for.

The day came and he drove down again with the Don, his family following behind, for they too would be there to see him fight. They would stay in a hotel, while his family went on to his uncle's house. When he arrived, he went to his room to lie down and think of the day ahead, when he would walk into the ring at Barcelona. He didn't have much time to himself, though, because the Don stopped by his room to let him know that a reporter wanted to interview him.

The reporter asked the usual questions that would come out in the usual story. When the interview was concluded, they decided to go to a cafe for dinner. It wasn't the cafe of the matadors, but he would be going there soon.

As they sat down at their table, the talk moved away from bullfighting to politics, which didn't interest him, and anyway, he was looking at a pretty lady who was definitely looking at him with interest, he thought, wondering why she tolerated the company of the obscene man who was with her. Then she got up and walked away with the obscene man, and she had only been looking at something behind him. Obviously, the voice teased him, she hadn't seen the heroic picture in the newspaper.

When morning came and he looked out at the city and the people who would see him fight that day, it was as though the whole world was waiting for him to conquer it. The Don knocked at his door and it was time for them to go to the arena.

His suit was waiting for him, the sparkling colours filling the drab room. He was helped into the tight trousers, the sash wrapped around him, and then the rest of the suit was put on.

Everyone left to go to their seats, while he walked on to where the other bullfighters waited for the trumpet call. They looked at him and not a word was spoken as they assessed him, took him into their brotherhood, then retreated into themselves.

The trumpet call reached out to them, then the music and the roar of the crowd. Pride lived in all of them and made the roar of the crowd that much more beautiful. They were brave men who must face the red eyes of death and they walked ahead proudly, their backs straight not because they were held that way by their tight suits, but because at that moment they were Spain. He could see the brightness of the ring ahead coming to meet them and they were out in the sunshine.

The crowd was cheering for the other matadors, and for him as well, wondering how he would do. He closed his eyes, seeing even more clearly the bull that had been allotted to him. When he looked at it, he had seen the blood spread across the powerful muscles, from the spot where he would thrust his sword. He was third on the card, so he stood behind the barricade while the first two matadors fought their bulls, and then it was his turn.

There was silence as he entered the ring, practised eyes knowing how the fight would go by observing the way he stood and held his cape, and tilted his head.

The gates swung open and he was alone with his Bull. The crowd let out its breath at the same time, but they had been alone for that one moment. Then the other bullfighters moved in to show the crowd the Bull's spirit. Then he was alone again with his Bull and it was exactly as when he had fought it in the field years ago. The Bull had come back from the place it had gone to and was here now because he must fight it again, and this time he could not let it live on.

The Bull looked into the man who beckoned to it, and it too knew that it would die, and charged at him. Knowing of the man who stood behind the cape, but when the cape moved away from its horns in a liquid motion as though carried away by the wind, the Bull followed it, horns pointing upwards, trying to impale it and then it must charge by. The weight of its charge could not be stopped and in that one instant when the cape moved away, it saw its true enemy.

And the music and the people touched the Bull too, and it must charge again and again at the man, only to be drawn away by the swirling red cape.

The cape was smaller now drawing the Bull even closer, feeling its eyes on his body, yet held them with his cape and watched it pass by again. Then the banderillas held in his hands were placed deftly in the Bull. He held the sword to him, then brought it up and when the moment came, the Bull charged at him, reaching out for the man who held the sword and he thrust it deep, and it could see the man who stood over it as it died.

The crowd was cheering him. He bowed to them and to the Bull who lay there, waiting for the horses to come and drag it out of the ring. It was only an animal, he thought, not wanting to feel sadness, then knew it had died bravely when so many men do not, and one cannot be sad for those who die well.

He looked at the crowd that was still cheering him and then at the flowers scattered in the ring. He picked them up, blowing kisses to the pretty things who had thrown them, and the crowd was Barcelona, and he had made it his. He was awarded two ears and a tail. The crowd thought that it should have been more, but he was content.

The Don was waiting with his family in the dressing room to congratulate him.

"You did well, today. Soon, you will be fighting in Madrid itself."

"For the time being, I want to fight in Barcelona."

"Of course. So many great matadors have made a name here before going on to Madrid. And after today, you should be getting more offers to fight here."

That night, he went out with the Don and a group of friends and some actresses who had wanted to make his acquaintance. You must be a matador now, he said to himself sarcastically. At long last, he was going to the cafe of the matadors.

He became the centre of attention at the empty tables that were still placed where everyone in the room could see them. They laughed and joked and toasted him, and the lady beside him moved her knee against his. He was enjoying it, the company, the laughter, the atmosphere of the cafe and this was how he wanted to live.

They entertained past midnight, then the lady asked him to see her home and how could he refuse? he asked himself, as she drove there.

The Don was right. He got many offers to fight in Barcelona and soon he was going there regularly. The people came to know the blue red silver suit that glinted in the sun. They would roar and applaud him every time the bull charged by and in the end when the bull died and was dragged away, they would cheer he who touched them all as he fought.

He now lived in Barcelona in an apartment that looked out over his city. He was satisfied with what he was doing, even when the newspapers wrote that he lacked artistry and that his skill wasn't very impressive. They also wrote that he was courageous and killed the bulls cleanly. The people liked him, and even the most critical spectator would be moved by the danger that hung over him as he fought the bull. Yet there were times when his inner voice reminded him that this wasn't all he was meant to do. One day, he would be doing more and when that day came, he would recognize it.

He hadn't visited his uncle for a long time, but an invitation came one day, and realizing that he had been ignoring his relatives, he went.

After dinner, they went for brandy and coffee in the study and Esmerelda went with them.

His uncle was wondering if he could be moulded and steered in the right direction.

"I'll come straight to the point. You know who I am and what the party your father and I belong to stands for. What do you think of the party, and more important, will you join it?"

He smiled ruefully. "I haven't thought about any party, uncle. And I won't be joining any of them, either."

"You may not know them very well, but surely even you know that Spain is going through an upheaval and that there will be even greater upheavals to come?"

"The government is in upheaval, uncle, but the country is more or less the same as it always was. Yes, there are changes taking place, but isn't that the way it's always been? Talk to the man in the street today, and he'll tell you that he's content, living better than he ever has before and would prefer to have it stay that way."

"There are people who want to improve their lot, too."

"Like your political parties, of course. So what you have is a group of trade unions of various leanings on one side, and monarchists and conservatives on the other. But neither side interests me. What I must confess is that it doesn't touch me at all."

But it was touching him now. For he knew that Spain was approaching a time of great change. The streets had looked so peaceful that morning. This meant that the time was ripe for violence and blood. And it would be a time which would touch them all. What could he do? he asked of himself and the voice came to him. Live! Your time will come, one day.

"You're a well known figure here. For you to speak out against all that is wrong would inspire many more people to come forward. Your father has the same ideals as we do. Can you say that those ideals are wrong?"

"No, but they aren't my ideals. And my joining your party may inspire more people to join it, I agree. But first, they should join on their own initiative, and second, I can't join a party unless I really believe in it. And I don't really like any one of them."

His uncle pondered his words quietly for a moment. "I see. Well, I can understand that, but one day you will have to do all you can to bring about a better Spain."

"I hope that day never comes," he said, knowing and seeing the blood that would pour into the earth and that yes, it would come. He said it so resignedly, that they knew what he meant.

When he said good night, Esmerelda walked to the gate with him. "I understand why you don't want to join the party," she said, "and so does Papa. But that isn't important. I would like to be your friend."

"I would like that, too." He didn't have many real friends, but he had made one now.

After that, he met Esmerelda and her friends often. They were all very political and intellectual, and they loved to argue endlessly.

They were the worst type of thinkers, he thought. They would go on with their abstract intellectual theorizing that would go round and round in a circle, never coming to any conclusions or producing anything tangible. Every question they answered would lead to another question, and they would go on thinking for the sake of thinking in their poor little heads, but nothing of any consequence would be produced from it.

He felt sorry for them because of their endless thinking, knowing that those who were like them were rarely happy. But the one thing many of them had was that they would die for an ideal...

He would go out with his friends to some cafe where they would congratulate him on his last fight and toast him and his next fight. He saw that they too lived when he fought the bulls, and he would think of a night when he had fought a Bull and there had been no one there except for the two of them.

Then they would go on to another cafe where the smoke curled up and hung in the air. Dancers would move to the music which touched them and they would be fiery beings, captured by the savage rhythm that was old, that was of a time when the Moors held Spain and had brought the spirit of Africa to the land and the people.

The music moved him as the music of the ring did, but in the ring it had been a story of man and bull and death; here it was the story of the deepest emotions, the greatest darknesses that a person could feel.

He decided to go to a party meeting one evening with Esmerelda, and there he met the woman he was to marry. He didn't love her, he said to himself, as he walked down the aisle of the church. So why was he marrying her?

Because you must.

Why must I? he asked it, but the voice was silent.

Chapter 6 Pt 2 | Chapter 7 Pt 2

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