Mexico by James A. Michener

THE SPANIARD

Victoriano Leal, slim-hipped and twenty-seven, was considered by many the best matador in Mexico and possibly the world. He was handsome, graceful and a joy to the eye as he led the bull past his chest, and I had come to Mexico to see him duel a stubborn, awkward little Indian, perhaps to the death.

In this contest, which would be taking place in my hometown, I could not be neutral. Victoriano I had known for some years, Gómez I had only spoken to, and that briefly. But each had made himself into a serious matador, worthy of respect and the attention my magazine was willing to focus on them.

I had abandoned Toledo in my voluntary exile long before Victoriano burst onto the taurine scene, but I'd heard rumors of his successes in Mexico so that when I was sent to Spain to write an in-depth article about who might succeed General Franco when the aging dictator died and saw in the papers that Victoriano Leal would be fighting in Madrid on Sunday, I sought permission to interview him. He was told that I was an American writer knowledgeable about bullfighting and that the publicity my magazine might provide could be profitable to him internationally.

When we met, he surprised me by saying: "I am eager to speak with you. Your Ernest Hemingway made many matadors famous by writing about them in English. For me, maybe the same. " But our interview would have been quite ordinary except that at one point he asked, "Where did you learn such good Spanish?"

"I was born in a Mexican city you've probably heard of. Toledo of the silver mines."

"Toledo! I've had some of my best afternoons in that plaza! " He paused, then said enthusiastically: "And I've taken part in some great tientas at the Palafox ranch. Don Eduardo, he's like the old-time breeders."

"Don Eduardo is my uncle."

He drew back, studied me and asked carefully: "Don Eduardo? You, a norteamericano? How?"

"My mother was a Palafox and I married Don Eduardo's niece. He's not really my uncle, but it's nearly the same."

"A Palafox! " He shook his head in amazement, and from then on we were friends.

I found myself quite intrigued by this young comer and had a feeling he might one day be a big success. During some of my free hours when I wasn't working on my Franco story, I hung around the bullring and picked up stories about Victoriano and his brilliant bullfighting family. They were so entertaining that I made notes on them in one of the little books I always carry with me. Years later, when Drummond cabled me in Cuba with my Toledo assignment, I was able to dig the old notebook out of my trunk, reconstruct the key moments from Victoriano's past, and cable it all to Drummond before even leaving Havana.

To summarize the history of this brilliant young matador I can do no better than cite the essential passages I had so far sent Drummond.

Seville, 1886. It was a hot, song-filled afternoon in the Sierpes, that cramped alleyway that has always served as the heart of Seville. In the small plaza that fronted a restaurant known for the past three hundred years as the Arena, a wedding party was under way celebrating the marriage of a matador, who had gained local fame, and a popular flamenco dancer. All who loved bullfighting were in attendance, but the guest of chief interest was Don Luis Mazzantini, down from Madrid in honor of the occasion, and those who were particularly addicted to the art of running the bulls kept close to the majestic Italian, hoping that he might speak to them.

Don Luis was a phenomenon, one of the most popular fighters in Spain and the most unusual ever to have followed the art. His father was an Italian lyric tenor who had fled the chaos of his homeland to seek refuge in Spain, and his mother was a well-born Spaniard. Don Luis inherited both a love of opera and a passion for bullfighting. He had reached his twenties still torn between the desire to become a principal tenor at La Scala opera house in Milan or to be a master bullfighter in Madrid. After much vacillation he settled upon the latter. He was very tall, finely built and quite bald. He was good in all aspects of the fight, but in the difficult final act of killing he was one of the best who ever lived. Out of the ring he manifested an interest in liberal politics, the arts, high society and the company of well-bred men and women. It was therefore extremely gratifying that Don Luis had deigned to grace the wedding.

Toward seven in the evening, when the celebration had calmed down somewhat, Don Luis announced with a flourish of his ivory-headed cane: "The main reason I came to Seville was to find an especially skilled peón to accompany me on my grand tour of Mexico. I'm seeking a helper who's superb with the banderillas to show the Mexicans how this art ought to be performed."

He had hardly stopped speaking when a wiry, blue-eyed young man leaped before him and said softly: "I am the man."

Don Luis leaned back, clasped his manicured hands over his cane and studied the intruder. He saw an insolence that he liked, a quick movement that was essential, and an inherent grace that sometimes came with a Sevillian bullfighter. "Your name? " he asked.

"Bernardo Leal," the young man replied.

"Your age?"