For those following David Yates’ The Last Bullfighter, here’s the final chapter. Ed
Now that the battle was over, it was time for the celebrations to begin – fiesta time! With Wee Andy and Wee Ally, his Hoopoe, leading the way, and their master, the famous Scottish film star playing the bagpipes close behind, thirty bulls in the centre of the field slowly followed the fleeing people into the town. Many others joined the Geordie bulls, but most of the bulls previously lined up in the big circle had now entered the town itself. Margarita’s helicopter hovered overhead, interspersing the live coverage with shots of bullfights and bird-shoots. She didn’t need to say much. Those watching their television sets around the world knew what Margarita, the birds and the bulls were trying to say.
A fanfare from four long silver trumpets blasted through the hot, narrow streets of the old Spanish town. An enormous crowd of bulls and birds roared and crowed. A group of calves and fledglings burst into the Plaza Santa Domingo to tear at the life size model of a man. His arms were wrenched off, the hat and moustache were ripped from his head, and holes were torn in his brittle sides to reach the bundles of brightly wrapped carrots and sweetcorn hidden inside. The calves and fledglings ran off stuffing the treats into their mouths. The carcass of the model man lay strewn across the square.
Another fanfare, this time much longer and more elaborate than before, sounded from the top of the church tower. In unison, the crowd of bulls and birds began to chant, “Moo-moo-moo – sree-sree-sree – queremos Valera – queremos Valera – we want Valera – we want Valera.”
The bulls squeezed to the sides of the streets leading from the outskirts of town, around the main square, and through the other winding lanes to the large, round, tiered building at the other side of town – the bullring. Birds’ necks craned from upper windows, and those bulls and birds standing at ground level stretched to see when the townsfolk would begin running.
There was one more short fanfare from the trumpets and then silence. Ten young bulls filed into position to stand fifty yards away from the front of the high-walled corral. The young bulls checked their hooves and flexed their legs, their mouths wet from freshly drunk water, in anticipation of the man run.
The church bell tolled twice. The great doors of the corral were flung open and the townsfolk were stampeded into the open, their slippery feet skating in different directions on the smooth cobblestones. The youngest bulls also stampeded – through the bull-lined streets as fast as their hooves would carry them. Other bulls stood longer, looking casual and leaving it until the very last minute when the people were almost upon them, before tearing off in the same direction as their comrades. Wee Andy and the thirty Geordie bulls chased the people through the town, and flocks of birds swooped down to poop on them as they ran. The bulls chased the townsfolk through the town to another plaza next to the bullring.
A large group of animal-rights protestors waved banners and shouted slogans. This time it did make a difference. Margarita’s cameras filmed the closing scenes, as the birds and bulls drove Valera, his men, and all the other people of the town into the last, specially extended high-sided corral. The people were badly out of breath – and covered in birds and bulls’ poop. Their hearts raced and they moaned and groaned as they stomped around the corral – desperately searching for a way out. From the street outside, the thirty bulls filed into the bullring to stand at the edge of arena.
Yul and all the other birds flew into the bullring and perched on the tiered seating and anywhere else they could find to rest. A fanfare echoed from the centre of the bullring. An announcer made a speech over the main broadcast. There was another fanfare. The birds crowed, and the remaining bulls roared outside the bullring. A door opened in the corral. Valera was driven through the opening, and the doors slammed shut behind him.
Valera was 44 years old. He was big, covered in poop, and glistening with sweat that dripped from his nose and the end of his long moustache. He peered through narrow gaps in the door facing him. On the other side he could see a large round arena, surrounded by thirty bulls and thousands of birds. The fanfare sounded one last time. Valera stumbled into the bullring, and bent on his knees to beg forgiveness.
On top of the main stand, two yellow budgies sat watching the scene below them in the bullring. They watched as a large TV camera inched forward, still beaming its live pictures around the world. The budgies could sense that something very good was about to happen. They nodded their heads and flew away as the crowd roared their appreciation. Valera was the last bullfighter this town would ever see, and all his kind had been exposed to the world. The bullfighting and bird shooting was over.
Dickie and Mucky’s quest was over, and there were plenty of farewells to make as the bulls returned to their fields to chew grass and grow fat, and the birds flew back to their native roosts. Yul and the other birds said their good-byes to Lola, Maria and Margarita, took to the sky to say farewell to Dickie Bird and Mucky Duck. After that, they all flew off into the sunset.
The End – Adios – Sree-sree-sree.
