I’m slugging down my Cruzcampo—it’s out of necessity. The sun is hotter than it was at noon and we’ll be receiving no break. That’s what you get when you only pay four Euro fifty to watch bulls get slaughtered.
Our seats are in the direct sunlight and I am surprised by how fierce the sun is in Madrid at 7:00 pm. An application of sunscreen makes me feel that only the insides of me are baking. The stadium is half full and like us many people have carried in their own food and drinks. I am armed with beer and Doritos, my wife with water a beer or two and olives. Elizabeth made fun of the amount of beer I purchased prior, but in one hour she will enjoy one of the tasty, mildly warm cervezas.
Hemingway and Picasso saw bull fighting as an art. We remind ourselves of this before the killings begin. Perhaps we’re justifying our presence.
Across the Plaza de Toros is a small band. They play spunky music throughout each of the six fights. Each part of the “fight” has a musical interlude that accompanies it. The strangest and most gleeful music is played at the end of each fight when the dead, bloodied bull is hooked up to the horses, paraded once around the ring and dragged out. Maybe he’s on his way to the butcher and this is why the music is so happy?
Cigar smoke does not fill the air, but the smell is persistent. We are not sitting on the cushions that are for rent; instead we are on the hot cement. The cushions are at times used as an object to illustrate one’s displeasure with the matador. To do so one only need hurl their cushion into the ring. We don’t see this display of displeasure.
Just before 7:00 pm a grounds crew comes out working the surface. It is similar to a grounds crew in baseball, except the uniforms are a lot cooler. Seven men groom the dirt in the ring wearing black pants, green shirts with a red collar and two chest pockets that are also red. The ensemble is topped off with a black hat and red belt. Once they leave the bull pops out and looks a little confused and unsure. I am not an animal lover, nor even much of an animal sympathizer, but it is hard not to feel a little something for the bull. That feeling will grow.
The bull is tired out by a handful of guys who run the thing around for a few minutes. They get the bull to charge and then duck behind a little fence that is up against the edge of the ring. After this the brave horseman comes out and spears the bull between the shoulder blades. We will see one bull get the better of a horse, goring it and dropping it. The horse does have armor, but on this occasion it appeared as if the bull managed to get underneath the lattice looking armored coat.
After tiring it out and spearing it, three guys come out one at a time to plunge what looks to be giant scrolls into the back of the bull. These guys come out into the center of the ring. No cape, no sword, just their buoys of pain. If there were a respectable part of this entire process it would be this stage. Yes, the bull has been run tired, yes it’s been speared in the back, however coming into the center of the ring and provoking it to charge takes gusto. Some men are able to plunge their darts deep in. Some miss entirely, while others get somewhere in between. It is graceful and exciting to watch the bull charge, the men jump and twist their bodies out of the way all the while plunging their scrolls having nothing to do with salvation into the bull.
The bulls keep going after all this. They are slower and some less spunky, but some seem inspired by the relentless assault. At this stage the matador comes up full of bullshit bravado, often times waving their beret and dropping it in the ring. They do a skilled dance with the bull; the skilled ones often time place their cape behind their back or turn their back entirely to the bleeding beast. Most of the action takes place in the shade, not necessarily because it is a little cooler for the matador, but to reward those who paid more for their tickets. The tickets are on a tier that include how close one is to the action as well as whether or not one is in the sunlight and if so for how long.
We continue baking in the sun and an hour into the event I reapply sunscreen, finish my Doritos and keep drinking the Cruz Campos that are gradually becoming warmer and warmer.
The second of the six fights we see the matador is able to finish the bull with one stab. The end is signaled by the matador exchanging his sword for another. When this happens the arena gets quieter, all knowing the end is near. I do not like this, any of this, but am glad I have come once to form an opinion. The second matador wafts his cape around a few more times; the bull is seemingly dizzied and exhausted. With a quick thrust the sword is all the way in between the shoulder blades, the handle rests against the bull’s back. The sword is removed and the bull drops to its haunches then to the dirt that must still be hot even thought it is in the shade. The crowd cheers, music plays and a man comes running out with a small dagger, digging it into the neck of the bull. He does this quickly and then is gone. I am not sure about this process, but it happens during each fight. Is it an attempt at making this more humane? Like many of the events of this night I am left wondering. I am left wondering if this is a cultural relic that should die and never come back, or if this deserves to continue in what we consider a civilized world. I wonder whether the half full arena is a good sign of this slowly coming to an end.
The fights all conclude with the obvious outcomes—all bulls lose. No humans are injured, which of course is not always the case, and one horse may have died. It is 9:00 at night and the sun is still present, but like the bull after a few stages it is not as fierce. As we leave Elizabeth reflects on the night, “We just saw six bulls and possibly one horse get killed.” We sure did and it’s a bit of a strange feeling.
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