As mentioned earlier in the week, VentnorBlog is pleased to bring you the serialisation of David Yates’ novel, The Last Bullfighter. Published every weekend in the run up to Christmas, we hope you enjoy David’s work. Ed
A fanfare of long silver trumpets blasted through the hot, narrow streets of the old Spanish town. An enormous crowd cheered, and a group of excited children burst into the Plaza Santa Domingo to tear at the life-size model of a bull. The tail was wrenched off, the horns were ripped from the head, and holes were torn in the brittle flanks so that the children could reach the bundles of brightly wrapped sweets hidden inside. The children filled their pockets and ran off stuffing sugary gems into their mouths. The carcass of the model bull lay strewn across the square.
The fanfare sounded once more from the top of the square church tower – this time much longer and more elaborate. In unison the crowd began to chant,
“Queremos los toros – queremos los toros – We want the bulls – we want the bulls.”
The crowd squeezed to the side 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. Necks craned from upper windows, and those standing at ground level stretched to see the start of the annual running of the bulls.
The trumpets gave a short blast and the crowd fell silent. Ten young men filed into position to stand fifty yards away from the front of a high-walled corral. There were a few nervous cheers of support. The young men checked their shoe laces and flexed their legs, their lips wet from freshly drunk wine, but their mouths now dry with the anticipation of the bull run. The church bell tolled twice. The great doors of the corral were flung open and six bulls stampeded into the open, their hooves slithering wildly on the smooth cobblestones.
The lanky, young men also stampeded – through the crowd-lined streets as fast as their skinny legs would carry them. Other men stood longer, looking casually at the crowd until the bulls were almost upon them, before dashing away in the same direction as their terrified comrades.
Despite the dry, but slippery ground, the bulls quickly gathered pace. They hurtled through the town, oblivious to the cheering masses, interested only in catching up with the young men who raced in front of them. Many of the youths tripped and fell, and some were overtaken and trampled underfoot as the bulls charged. None of the bulls were harmed. Not yet.
The bulls chased the men through the town to a plaza next to the bullring. A small group of animal-rights’ protestors waved banners and shouted slogans, but were ignored. Here, holding an array of old gates on either side, men drove the bulls on with long sticks, and they were soon channeled into another high-sided corral. With all six bulls inside, the large wooden doors were slammed shut.
The bull’s sides were heaving. They snorted and bellowed as they stomped around the corral desperately searching for a way out. In the streets outside, the townsfolk filed into the bullring to take their seats on the tiers of benches that ringed the arena. They carried bags of food, bottles of wine, parasols and fans. There was an atmosphere of excited anticipation. Another fanfare echoed from the centre of the bullring. An announcer made a speech over the main broadcast. The fanfare sounded again. The crowd roared. Another wide door opened in the corral. Men with long sticks drove the largest of the six bulls through the opening and the doors again slammed shut behind him.
The bull behind the door was not more than two years old. Big, black, and glistening with sweat that dripped from his lowered nose and the end of his long horns. Through the narrow gaps in the door facing him he caught glimpses of the arena, surrounded by hundreds of grinning people. The fanfare sounded one more time. The doors leading to the bullring were flung open. The bull charged into the open space. The first bullfight of the new season had begun.
The bull reached the centre of the ring and stood still as the crowd roared. He was alone, confused and angry. Four colourfully dressed Picadors jumped into the ring from their position on the rail of the perimeter fence. The bull charged at one of them and the Picador leapt back onto the fence again. Another Picador jumped into the ring and started yelling, “Hey Toro. Over here.”
The bull charged again, across the full diameter of the ring this time, but he was still too late to catch the man with his horns before he’d reached the safety of the top rail. This game of cat and mouse went on for several minutes, then two men jumped into the ring at the same time. The crowd roared louder and louder each time the bull charged – and drew their breaths each time he narrowly missed one of the leaping men. The bull had been running through the streets and charging in the ring for over half an hour now, and he was visibly tiring. All four men jumped into the ring at the same time and began running around the edge of the ring – keeping the bull moving – never letting him stand still for a single moment.
As the bull tired even further, the Picadors drove three short pointed lances into his neck, making blood trickle down his front legs. Then, three Banderillas each drove a coloured stick with a barbed end into the bull’s shoulder. The pain angered the bull even more, and the seeping blood drained his energy.
The tormenting momentarily ceased and the bull stood in the centre of ring, alone. As he swung his head from side to side, he was aware of a tall, finely dressed man standing in the ring with him. The man adopted a statuesque pose and beckoned the animal towards his outstretched red silk cloak.
The bull breathed hard through his nostrils, thick, dripping moisture spraying as he poised to charge the man. The bull charged, lowering his head for the attack, but he missed by a foot or more. The man had raised his red cloak and pirouetted out of harm’s way – to a loud cheer of “Ol’e” from the crowd.
The bull breathed harder and more clouds of moisture exploded in great snorts. He roared, turned, and charged again, this time from a shorter distance, but again he missed his target – to the sound of another “Ole”.
Two Picadors, now on horseback, goaded the bull into making fresh attacks. The Matador repeatedly teased the bull with his cloak. The bull charged again and again, but each assault was fruitless.
The bull was weakening from the loss of blood, and was now totally exhausted. He came to a halt in the centre of the ring, totally defeated by the red-cloaked man in the black hat. His breathing came in short, sharp bursts. His head slumped forward. He stood perfectly still.
High above on top of the main stand, two yellow budgies sat watching the scene in the bullring, wondering why the bull was being tortured and humiliated in this manner. They watched as the Matador inched forward, fixing the bull with his piercing eyes. He raised aloft a long, thin, shining sword in his un-cloaked hand. The budgies sensed that something very bad was about to happen. They shook their heads and flew away as the crowd roared their appreciation. The bullfight was over.
Chapter One continues tomorrow … check back then to read on.
