SON LOS TOREROS, part 2

yesterday, the front page of el país (i inadvertently stole it -- it was inadvertent, i swear -- from the cafe when i thought that i was in fact helping the staff by removing for them some of the garbage left behind by another customer) featured an article on the end of the bullfighting season in catalonia, which this year also marked the death (as the paper put it, although i didn't get much further than the headline) of bullfighting in that autonomous community as a result of the catalonian parliament's having voted to ban it earlier this summer. the front page photo, which occupied most of the space on the page above the fold -- and relegated an article on the left taking the french senate for the first time since 1958 to a narrow column on the right -- showed a jubilant crowd carrying a smiling matador out of the bullring, behind him a large flag demanding (in catalan of course), "libertat per a la nostra cultura."

it was clear from his fight with his first bull that josé maría manzanares wasn't likely to win the honor of being carried out of the real maestranza on sunday evening, be damned the expectations and excitement of the end of the season, even at this, the oldest ring in the country. although he was not to be outdone for style in his suit of maroon, manzanares almost completely missed his mark when he went in with his sword for the kill, and his adversary, though wounded, bucked the blade out of its back and stumbled pathetically toward another charge, its miserable condition a certain reflection of the matador's poor technique, which ultimately required that the bull be taken down unceremoniously with a stab to the head by an attendant. the bands didn't play nearly as triumphantly as they had after the first two fights, even for the three swords it took matador number one to finish his job (which, it seemed, we should have assumed to be done less spectacularly than those of the men with the better billings).

but there was certainly no love lost for manzanares over his initially poor showing. in definitely didn't keep us from leaving our seats in the alto sol section across from the royal box -- which we couldn't actually see from where we'd been sitting for the imposition of the pillars of the eave over our section -- to squeeze ourselves behind the security guards protecting one of the portals onto the lower, better seats in hopes of being able to better see his face as he faced off against his second bull.

by the time of that fight, at roughly eight, the sun had set to where it was just barely visible over the upper edge of the maestranza on the opposite side of the ring. we weren't able to see as much of the action at large as we had been from a higher vantage, and that was no doubt in large part due to our having to stretch up to grab the railings beside the the stairs of the portal to keep ourselves on tiptoe and as much of a head as possible above the other spectators crowded behind the guards. (graciously, when they realized it was for a photo opportunity, they did allow us momentary access onto the aisle to get a picture of the big hat under the waning sunlight, that hat that had been come by through so much difficulty only to find itself solidly in the shade when we found our seats.)

it seemed obvious that it should when presented with the reality -- they are, after all, called suits of lights -- but from closer on it was actually possible to see that maroon suit of manzanares' shine, its adornments of mirrored glass sparkling toward every direction even when the matador appeared to be completely still. and even if parts of that last fight were obscured (although probably no more than other parts would have been obscured by those pillars up in alto sol), our position for bull number six and for manzanares' redemption couldn't have been better, if only for understanding (or deciding to appreciate, maybe) the spectacularity of the spectacle of the bullfight. the sparkling matador as he struts around the ring, especially when with his back to the bull after having led it through a half dozen passes, the crowd having risen from its hush to clap and cheer only to be hushed again by an ardent insistence from within its ranks as the matador replaces his sword behind the muleta and stares down the bull for another go. and the bull seems then to be just a given in the setting of the scene, the setting for the real spectacle, which is played out between the matadors and the fans in the crowd. and there's a pun there, at least for talking about the bullring in sevilla where, shade or sun, at least half of the crowd seems to be fanning itself at all times, which is a sight to see in itself -- and perhaps one of the only things seen best, in wide angle panorama, from the cheap seats highest up. and at least in sevilla the popular claim by bullfighting opponents that the spectacle is favored principally by foreign tourists is proven entirely untrue. maybe it was just for manzanares and only for the social cachet of having seen him fight at the maestranza at the close of this historic season, but the identifiable tourists seemed all to have left the ring by bull number four, and that left the maestranza still looking completely full, full of fans with their fans, many of them dressed -- not to rival the matadors -- but still to kill; many of them minors, and all of them with rapt attention for their next cue of the show.

and we followed the most devoted (or maybe just the most enchanted) of them to the gate from which the matadors would leave after the sixth bull went down. manzanares wasn't going to be carried out, but he'd still have to leave, and we were there with the others pressing the shutter buttons of our digital cameras in rapid fire succession when he did. neither of us were so bold as to grab one of his arms to pull him into the frame of a photograph, or we didn't realize that we could have been so brazen until after the crowd had swelled around him and we were being pushed to its periphery as manzanares' entourage pushed him toward the mercedes van that was waiting to collect him at the end of the street, the van out of which one of the entourage was passing photographs of the matador staring down a bull, promotional materials for the new www.josemariamanzanares.com. we were among the devoted who pushed our way back to the center of the crowd and up to the window of the van to fight the flurry of hands to grab our trophies, which we then carried proudly through the crowded, twilit streets of santa cruz, the bars and restaurants of which, already dense with the impeccably groomed heirs to the sevillian upper crust (the ones who hadn't chased manzanares to his van had apparently gone ahead to save seats), seemed to be caught somewhere between the spanish versions of a derby party and the prom. it was lucky we had the hat.

i didn't get far enough into that article in el país to find out if the air around the ring in barcelona was so rarified, but it probably didn't say. no doubt there were confrontations between the saddened supporters of that last fight and their detractors outside of the ring. ironically, had they all been in sevilla, where the bullfight seems to be entirely safe from assault, there would have been shit aplenty for them to hurl at each other, even on the streets of santa cruz. in that front page photo, the matador being carried out of the ring in barcelona is smiling, but his smile seems already tinged with nostalgia, even if he still has the chance to be carried out of other fights during other seasons at other rings. and the sevillanos will be happy to do the carrying. that's the feeling that the price of admission to the plaza de los toros la maestranza bought us, anyway. or maybe we'd just been blinded by the brilliance of the light from those suits. son los toreros. looking damn fine in those pants.