Chapter Thirty-Two
“Bastardo!”
After the great cathedral and the famed Alcazar Palace, the magnificent Baroque-style Plaza de Toros de la Real Maestranza de Caballeria de Sevilla is the most visited monument in the whole of Seville and generally acknowledged, especially by Sevillanos, as the Mecca of bullfighting.
(Not an inappropriate comparison, when one considers the reverence in which this pursuit is held in certain Spanish circles, even as her other great religion is being celebrated just down the road.)
The matadors who practise their hazardous art in this beautiful but challenging ring are amongst the most celebrated ‘killers’ in Spain.
And their fans, all twelve thousand of them on capacity days, the most unforgiving.
The statue outside the gates, that of the bewitching but tragic gypsy Carmen, cigar-girl and dusky Sevillian temptress, welcomes the world to the glamour and spectacle that is the essence of corrida.
So there is no reason in the world why kindly Senor and Senora Barbadillo should presume that their female guest this afternoon, at the commencement of the season, would rather find herself in the seventh circle of hell.
“Bastardo!” is the word she keeps muttering under her breath. But not so far under that William – who needs no translation this time – isn’t hugely relieved that she’s not seated right next to his ebullient prospective client.
Senor Barbadillo, a florid Sevillano in his mid-sixties, with a belly that stubbornly refuses to stay contained within his expensively loud, short-sleeved silk shirt and chest hair that feels the same about his collar, is extremely proud of the seats he has obtained for his new friends from chilly London.
And the influence it took to secure them.
“You are very lucky, my friends. These seats in the Sombra, they are like the gold.”
When William looks quizzical, the man patiently explains that the seats here are divided between those in the “Sol” – the unrelenting sun – and the ones in which they find themselves: “Sombra” – the shade.
With more than an inference that only peasants, or tourists who know no better, occupy the former.
There are representatives of all species here today.
The Maestranza is buzzing. And, if Spaniards can be noisy in trains and restaurants, even in cathedrals, they excel themselves in bullrings.
It is as if their reputation as the highest decibel form of humanity is in constant danger of challenge and they have to keep reasserting its dominance.
William can spot a few obvious tourists here and there, amongst the over-animated spectators.
They’re the ones whose heads appear to swivel all around, like that kid from The Exorcist. But he is fairly certain that the bulk of the crowd is composed of locals and their compatriots, many of them corrida aficionados.
All primed for a pleasant afternoon of chopitos and carnage.
Senora Barbadillo, a striking, raven-haired woman, considerably taller and probably slightly younger than her husband, leans over to add more colour to the introduction.
Like several of the ladies around her, she holds a small bunch of flowers.
Perhaps, ponders William, these are to be thrown into the ring.
Or maybe they are just to mask the smell of death.
“Is finest corrida in Spain,” she says proudly. “So – in whole world, sí, Luisa?”
“My cup is running over,” says Luisa, who does some more muttering for William’s benefit. “I cannot believe you do this. To bring me here again!”
It takes a moment for William to absorb what she has just said, amidst the music that has just been turned up to max. And of course he’s pretty tired – neither of them had the best of silent nights. He can’t even look at what is going on down below – he can only stare at Luisa.
“Luisa, this is very important. We need the money. My business is – AGAIN?” He’s shaking his head. “Luisa, we never came here. We couldn’t aff—” Suddenly a brand-new memory from a new long-ago rushes in, like a diverted river discovering its freshly altered course. “Oh bugger,” he mutters.
He starts to look frantically around the arena, especially the hot seats, whilst at the same time placating his wife and offering his hosts his full attention. He has never multitasked so hard in his life.
Senor Barbadillo feels that his own importance needs reinforcing one more time. Or perhaps he has simply run out of conversation. “No sol, no sweatings.”
“Aye. Perfect,” says William, still thrown by Luisa’s last remark. “Very – generous of you, Cristobal. Eh, Luisa?”
“Perhaps this time I ask a matador to put me out of my misery. With a big sharp—” William feels that a nudge at this moment would not be inappropriate. But it only seems to make things worse. “Ooh, sshhhh… Clients! Ssshhhhh!!! I see her husband gives her flowers.”
“I gave you churros.” Her scoff reverberates around the ring and down the ages.
Senor Barbadillo, who William thinks would have to be deaf and blind not to pick up the tension in the costly seats to his right, carries on gamely with his hosting.
“Somebody say Jesucristo is not the only death we think about in Sevilla this week. But the bulls, William, they do not get up again on Sunday!”
He gives a huge, irreligious roar at this, then looks around to see if anyone else, equally rich and well-connected, has caught the multilingual wit emanating from Barbadillo, the tile-king.
His wife clearly has and scolds him quite unconvincingly.
“Cristobal!” She too is not averse to looking around, presumably to check if anyone is acknowledging their suitably Sombra presence.
William joins in dutifully with the laughter.
He has discovered over the years that a subtle mimicking of the reactions or emotions of prospective clients is more likely to encourage a warming disposition, leading on to even more warming contracts.
He has laughed at some shit in his time.
He draws a line at overt racism or sexism but, hand on heart, he can’t honestly admit to having sacked or rejected any client because of it.
He salves his conscience just a tad by overcharging them.
And now the trumpets sound.
The crowd goes quiet, or as near to quiet as they are able, which isn’t actually that close.
The participants – toreros in their suits of lights, embroidered with silver or golden thread, picadors on horseback, banderilleros or flag-men and their crew, including the mozos or sword handlers – all enter the arena.
The band plays life-affirming paso dobles as the cheers erupt and the players take up the formalised positions that ritual dictates.
Finally, the bull arrives, adorned with the rosette of his proud estate, unwitting star of the show.
This one, obligingly shaking his massive head and snorting wetly, is a jet-black and achingly noble beast. As William assumes they all are, at least at the outset.
His enormous neck bulges on cue, mighty shoulder muscles glistening dangerously in the sun – no Sombra for him – as he kicks up dust and wonders what the hell he’s got himself into.
He is about to be tested for ferocity by the banderilleros, flaunting their magenta and gold dress capes.
As the discerning crowd makes its own informed assessment.
He is not about to disappoint.
All this is explained in great detail to William, who finds himself genuinely fascinated – he has been wanting to witness this spectacle for over thirty years. Yet it is also beginning to feel disconcertingly familiar and he is starting to realise why.
“Tercio de varas,” announces Cristobal, “with the – the lances, sí? The matador he watch the bull very very carefully, he study him with his whole head, while the banderilleros they do the workings with the capes.” The portly host turns to William, genuinely hoping he is as impressed as he should be. “And then he is doing the veronica.”
He is puzzled to see that his esteemed British guest is now staring fixedly to his right, well away from the action and deep into the sun-drenched rabble, with his mouth wide open and an expression of pure shock in his eyes. How can anyone not be held spellbound by the prospect of veronica?
“Senor – William? It is okay?”
It is very much not okay. Yet there is no way William can tell the man what or who he has just seen. And it isn’t Veronica. He only knows that he is feeling some empathy with the bull.
*
Across the Maestranza, in the now scorching Sol, almost all eyes – and a lot of chunky cameras – are on the picadores.
Working in pairs, they prance the ring on their blindfolded and seriously well-padded horses, goading the bull with their lances.
One pair of eyes, however, is firmly closed and pressed painfully tight into the shoulder of a young and totally absorbed red-headed man.
Will tries gently to turn his young wife’s head back, so that she can see what she is desperately trying to miss.
He can’t understand for a moment how she wouldn’t be enjoying this, her national sport.
Especially when he has had to pay so much for the seats.
They’re in the glorious Andalusian sunshine, for pity’s sake, watching angry bulls being mercilessly goaded and tormented.
Even allowing for massive sunburn and definite heatstroke, how much better can life get?
“Hey, Senora Sutherland, meet me halfway,” he says affectionately. “At least open your eyes.”
*
“So – what do you do, Senora?” asks William, with more assurance than he’s feeling.
He realises he is fast slipping down the client sociability league and needs to clamber back up before it’s too late. Gamely, he tries to ignore what right now he – and, thankfully only he – can see just a few metres and several sunny degrees away from him.
“I am flamenco,” announces Senora Barbadillo, her large hands fluttering in unconscious confirmation.