Matador Moves
From 'Massacre' To
Moment of Grace
Posted Sept. 26,
2002
By Kenneth R.
Timmerman in
Arles, France
Media
Credit: Cristina
Abadia/EFE
In
part because of
his stellar
performance in the
previous yearís
bullfights, El
Zotoluco received
top billing at the
Feria du Riz.
For El Zotoluco,
known to his mother as
Eulalio Lopez, it was
supposed to be a
triumphant return to
Arles, where at last
year's Feria du Riz he
performed with gusto
and grace against the
fighting bulls of the
Miura ranch, the
oldest and most
prestigious finca in
Spain. Instead, it was
a massacre. His first
fight was so bad that
the crowd stood up to
boo him from the
arena, and booed him
again when he came
back for his second
bull.
He claimed top billing
as a matador and
hailed from Mexico,
giving him an exotic
flair at the annual
bullfight, which is
held in the
excellently restored
Roman amphitheater in
this otherwise
undistinguished
southern French town.
The fight impresarios
managed to ward off a
legal challenge from
the hard-left
"animal-rights" crowd,
which tried to
convince a court in
Carcassonne recently
to ban all traditional
bullfights in France.
But the biggest
challenge to the final
day of this year's
three-day feria in
Arles was an act of
God: torrential rain
which, just one hour
before the opening
trumpets were supposed
to sound on Sunday,
Sept. 8, drenched the
city, emptied the
streets of revelers
and food vendors,
silenced the itinerant
mariachi bands and
filled the tiny canal
saddled to the
disheveled main street
with gray muck.
(Floods killed six
people in the area
that evening and the
next day).
Seating at bullfight
arenas varies in
prestige (and price)
according to whether
you sit in the sun or
the shade. It's been
that way since the
Romans first built the
arenas that the French
have restored. But
today, more prized
were cheap blue
ponchos, available for
$3, and the proximity
of the huge stone
porticos where the
nonafficionados took
refuge from the
periodic gusts of
rain.
But it wasn't the
threat of rain that
spooked El Zotoluco
when the first bull
charged out of the
gates at the far end
of the arena. The
top-billed torero and
his entire cuadrilla
(the team of junior
matadors,
banderilleros and
sword carriers that
accompanies him)
scattered like scared
monkeys, taunting the
dark brown bull with a
quick fling of their
yellow and pink capes
then running as fast
as fear could carry
them for the gates.
The bull was good:
Despite his weight ó
600 kilos (1,323
pounds) of lean muscle
ó he was fast and his
movements were quick.
He was a noble bull.
His charge was frank,
focused and direct. He
never swung his head
around as some bulls
do when they come in
close, a gesture of
apparent distraction
that can be deadly to
the unsuspecting. In
one of his first
passes, he tore away
El Zotoluco's cape and
tossed it up on his
horns. When the
picador entered the
arena the bull charged
from midring, slamming
the armored horse like
a freight train,
nearly knocking the
picador to the ground.
Two of the
banderilleros swerved
away as the bull
charged them and
managed to get in just
one of the long
festooned banderillas
each.
Perhaps it was the
recollection of
another Miura bull
that had ripped apart
his friend and fellow
matador Juan JosÈ
Padilla in Pamplona
last year that spooked
El Zotoluco. Going in
for the kill on his
second bull at the
Fiesta de San Fermin,
Padilla caught the
horn and was opened up
from his neck to the
base of his spine. The
encornada severed his
esophagus like a razor
and finished by
smashing two vertebrae
in his lower spine
like a hammer. It was
the type of wounding
you never forget.
El Zotoluco never came
close to this bull in
the final faena, when
the torero works his
magic with the red
muleta held stiff by
the killing sword. His
rough, hurried
veronicas, instead of
flourishing backward
gracefully with the
bull following him
around, all ended in
flight. His
shoulder-high pechos
were so distant from
the bull that the
audience jeered and
catcalled. His
performance screamed
fear, not mastery, of
the bull.
But the worst was the
final death ritual. El
Zotoluco faced off
with the bull, then
made a hurried thrust
from the side as it
charged toward him,
getting the long sword
in two-thirds of the
way. The bull
continued his charge,
spun around and
howled, popping the
sword out of his body
so it clattered
useless to the ground.
With a fresh sword, El
Zotoluco tried again
but only got it in
half way. The crowd
hissed. The bull still
was strong and still
charging. On his third
try, El Zotoluco
missed the bull
completely, and the
crowd erupted in a
thunderous chorus of
boos. Twice more he
jabbed at the bull
with the long sword
without managing to
sink it in. Finally,
one of his assistants
took the short
butcher's knife used
to execute the coup de
gr‚ce, a single sharp
plunge intended to
sever the spinal cord
at the base of the
neck. He jabbed at the
bull once, twice, and
the animal continued
to rage. Finally he
just stabbed the bull
over and over with the
knife until it
collapsed. By this
point the crowd was on
its feet, jeering and
booing hysterically.
"It's a massacre,"
someone called from
below me. "Send him to
butcher's school,"
someone else yelled.
El Zotoluco left the
ring with his head
hung low, disgraced by
a Miura bull.
When a fight goes bad
like this, you can
feel despair thick in
the air. It is
something palpable; it
makes the heart beat
faster, in expectation
of some disaster. El
Zotoluco's performance
is a betrayal of the
sacred trust between
the matador, the
audience and God. This
is the pact that
allows the matador to
commit ritual murder,
but only if he does it
with talent, grace and
with great risk to
himself. El Zotoluco
displayed none of
this. Now we in the
audience wondered if
somehow we were not
going to be punished
for our sin.
The next two bulls
came from different
fincas, but they were
just as noble as the
Miura bull. French
torero Denis LorÈ, the
darling of the French
audience, redeemed us
with his close passes,
his fresh style, his
courage. During the
final muleta, with the
blood from the artful
French picador Michel
Bouix splashed across
the bull's grey back
but not spurting, LorÈ
put the edge of his
cape on the bull's
nose, taunting him to
charge. Again, to
great applause, he
offered the bull his
entire body; then he
leaned forward,
thrusting his face
into the bull's own,
staring it down until
he was satisfied, and
he snorted and whirled
around, victorious.
After plunging in the
killing sword, LorÈ
held out his hand
toward the horns as
the bull wavered,
pawed the crowd,
wavered again, then
collapsed in a
tremendous heap. The
judge awarded LorÈ an
ear in appreciation of
his skill.
In the next fight,
Manolo Sanchez, the
third and youngest
matador, acquitted
himself with calm
skill and competence,
wrapping the bull
around his body to the
delight of the
audience.
But then, the dread
returns. Each of the
three matadors is
booked to fight two
bulls. Will El
Zotoluco be allowed
back into the arena?
The crowd went silent
as the president of
the corrida announced
the fourth bull, a 550
kilogram (1,213-pound)
5-year-old from the
Vargas finca. They
erupted in boos when
he announced that the
bull would be fought
as scheduled by El
Zotoluco.
And yet, the crowd
went quiet when the
disgraced torero came
back into the ring. We
saw immediately that
something in his
manner has changed. He
strutted out into the
middle of the arena,
saluted the crowd with
his black hat, to
polite applause, then
threw his hat onto the
dirt and left it there
in challenge.
When his picador
entered the ring on
his armored horse, the
black Vargas bull
charged and pushed the
horse out of the end
zone where the picador
is supposed to keep
him. He tried to work
the long lance, with
its three-inch blade,
into the veins in the
bull's back, but it
was inelegant work. He
withdrew the lance,
repositioned it and
pierced the bull again
and again, but the
bull just continued to
master his horse and
turn him around. The
feeling of dread
filled the arena once
again.
Then, El Zotoluco
entered with his red
muleta and the crowd
went silent. This time
he was poised,
standing erect and
proud, calling the
bull in a loud voice
that carried from one
end of the hushed
arena to the other. He
began with a series of
pechos, the muleta
held out shoulder high
so the bull flipped it
over as it passed
beneath.
The audience realized
something was
happening, a
transformation was
taking place, and
gasps of pleasure and
applause erupted after
each series of passes.
El Zotoluco was taking
risks, bringing the
bull closer with each
pass, until you could
not see the space
between the tip of the
bull's horns and El
Zotoluco's white
"costume of light," as
the heavily brocaded
matador's vest is
called. He stopped
just two meters from
the bull, wrapping the
red muleta around him,
offering his whole
body as target, daring
the bull to charge. He
advanced one foot
straight in front of
him, not angled out
from his body as most
toreros do, but
directly in front, and
took short hops,
edging closer and
closer to the
mesmerized bull.
Finally, he took hold
of the bull's horn and
pulled the huge animal
beneath his arm,
guiding its pass, and
the arena exploded in
thunderous applause.
El Zotoluco was
redeeming us from his
miserable performance
earlier on. But he had
just begun.
The bull now belonged
to him, and he had
total control. During
one pass, he gave the
animal a friendly swat
on the shoulder as it
went by. At another
point, he took the
horn again and inched
his body forward until
it seemed his entire
torso was cradled
between the bull's
horns. Then he fell
down on his knees,
turned full circle
right before the bull,
just inches from its
horns, and sprang up
at the last instant
just before the animal
charged. El Zotoluco
has alegria, that joy
that comes from
totally mastering the
bull, and he shared it
with us.
The crowd fell silent
as he drew the long
sword from the folds
of the muleta, just a
few meters in front of
the bull. This is when
it all could collapse,
when the redemption he
had worked for us can
plunge us once again
into sin. It was so
quiet, we could hear
the bull breathing.
El Zotoluco stared at
the raging animal,
calling him, all the
while aiming the sword
at the precise spot on
the back that will
send its tip directly
into the animal's
heart. He called him
again and when the
animal responded and
charged, he also
charged forward,
plunging the sword
into the hilt. The
bull spun round and
came in for another
pass, then falls over,
dead. El Zotoluco's
perfectly executed
estocada sent the
crowd into a frenzy.
Suddenly, the bright
blue ponchos in the
arena were replaced by
a sea of white, as
people frantically
waved white
handkerchiefs in a
sign to the president
of the corrida to
award the redeemed
matador an ear, two
ears, or even the
tail, for his magical
performance. People in
the cheaper seats
stomped on the metal
bleachers above us,
turning the applause
and cheers into a
thunderous roar that
continued unabated as
the team of workhorses
was driven up to the
bull and the
red-shirted cleanup
crew hitched their
chains to the bulls
legs to drag it away.
Everyone was waving
white handkerchiefs,
and when the president
signifies he will give
no award to our
torero, the cheers
turned into boos as we
hooted the president
out of the ring.
Unperturbed, El
Zotoluco took his
seconds and began a
slow walk around the
arena, just beneath
the first row of
seats, basking in his
triumph, pointing out
friends and
acquaintances in the
crowd and taking his
trophy from us if not
from the judges.
We had all witnessed a
moment of grace and it
was as miraculous as
any apparition of the
Blessed Virgin, for
with El Zotoluco we
all fell low and now
we had been redeemed
in a magical
reaffirmation of
faith.
[Note: El Zotoluco
returned to fight in
the nearby French
city of Nimes on
Sept. 15.]
Kenneth R.
Timmerman is a
senior writer for Insight
magazine currently
on assignment in
Europe and the
Middle East. His
first encounter with
Miura bulls was in
the streets of
Pamplona during the
Fiesta de San Fermin
in 1975.
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