Gypsy Airs and Bull Runs

Why do we kill what is holy?

I found myself possessed by this thought as I stood in front of the corral at midnight. I was not supposed to be here, the Festival of San Fermin was not for over another week. The bulls needed their rest, before they marched through the cobbled and ancient streets of Pamplona. Through throngs of thrilled, terrified, adrenaline-drunk men of all ages. A tribute to both tradition and mortality.

"Brother Andro! You are here late at night! Not that I am disappointed to see you..." Eder, one of the caretakers of the bulls, and a friend of a friend, greeted me during this starry evening. He was a tall, portly man, with a grin as wide as the horns of the majestic bulls within the pen next to him.

I turned and gave a tired smile. It was midnight, and the air was muggy and warm. I adjusted my habit, hoping he would notice that perhaps I was not in the most talkative mood. The slap on the shoulder he gave me said otherwise.

"Do you like the bulls? Sturdy bunch this year, they ought to make a good show. But what brings a Franciscan friar to the Running of the Bulls? You're not planning to run in that dress, are you?" he snickered, his voice far too loud for someone standing inches in front of me.

I gave a slight grin, and turned back to see the bulls. Two of them were standing side-by-side, eyeing me curiously. One, the taller bull, was a hazelnut color and very stocky. The slightly smaller one was black, so dark I could only see his sparkling, mahogany eyes from the corral.

"Oho, looks like you've made two friends! Spiritus," he nodded to the hazelnut bull, before motioning to the black one, "and Sanctus."

Truth be told, I was not actually in Pamplona to participate in the bull run. I was here for a less well-renowned festival of Pamplona: The Pablo Sarasate International Violin Competition. Among my fellow brothers, I quietly composed and played music as a part of Masses. I did not have any intentions of traveling far from the monastery-the sacred quiet of the grounds and the order were one of the reasons I became a brother there in the first place. Yet the Abbott had heard my playing, and he had ordered that I participate. I still did not understand why the Abbott, or why God, would want me to thrust myself into the spotlight, when I had joined an order that hid me from the world. Yet I went as ordered, and I could not go to Pamplona without seeing the main attractions: the bulls.

I yawned loudly, a little louder than I intended. Eder was not offended, however, and he snickered. "Up past your bedtime, Brother?"

I nodded. "I suppose so..." I was not sure why I had come at such a late hour to see the bulls. Yet their eyes were fixated on me, as if they would speak to me if only they could. I imagined their voices. Spiritus had a robust, hearty voice, much like the Abbott. Sanctus had a softer, more contemplative voice, like nervous, young novices arriving late for Mass and trying to scoot into the pews unseen.

"You seem like you're starting to drift while standing! Why don't you go rest, I got a back-room for you. Cook breakfast bright and early?"

I gave a polite nod. "Thank you." Then, I walked quietly into his residence, where I would stay for the next week during the competition. I could feel the bulls' lively eyes resting on my shoulders as I turned my back, and another page turned in the last chapter of their lives.

The next morning, a hot breakfast of pinxto de tortilla with peppers and cheese sat in my nervous stomach as I left the abode to go to the competition. I thought I could feel Spiritus and Sanctus staring at me as I walked outside, and sure enough, two pairs of curious, beady eyes followed me around the front yard. Looking back and seeing their ears flick, I wondered if they were cheering for me.

I would most certainly make a statement in my grey friar's robes, with a secondhand violin I had played lovingly for many years. Yet the other friars and the Abbott believed in me, and so I had to go.

The stage was grand, full of wealthy patrons and viewers sitting in the opulent Teatro Gayarre. I certainly seemed out-of-place in my simple, grey, hooded robes. Underneath them, I was shaking like a leaf. But I remembered the first song I planned to perform, and when my time came, I walked onto the stage. At least 800 eyes turned in my direction. In my mind, the two curious bulls' eyes were among them.

With my secondhand violin, I began to play the fast, dangerous, and sonorous tune called Zigeunerweisen, or Gypsy Airs. The powerful moderato sounded like a dramatic revelation, which unfolded into a tune full of melancholy pondering. When I closed my eyes, it felt like I was telling the story of a sorrowful, dangerous dance.

I saw Spiritus in the bullring, waltzing with the matador who would pierce him several times before he met his death. In my mind, the piercings coincided with the allegro molto vivace, the fastest and wildest part of the song. The final dance of the bulls, their last graceful stand.

I was hardly standing as I finished the song, but the audience gave their applause and I knew that I had succeeded. One performance finished.

When I returned that evening, I saw Spiritus and Sanctus once again. They were walking around their corral, eating and relaxing. They did not turn to look at me, but I stared at them. My suitcase was in my left hand, and for some reason that same hand started shaking. I wondered if the bulls noticed my anxiety when they turned and looked at me. Their eyes were very bright, as if they were almost glad to see me.

"Ahhhh they were looking for you! You know, I've heard that animals like music, but I'm not sure. I'm about as musically-talented as a brick. Maybe you should try!"

Before he could finish speaking, however, I had put my case on the ground, and my violin was in my hands. Gyspy Airs would sail in the wind, for an esteemed audience of six bulls and their handler.

Spiritus and Sanctus's ears flicked, and they walked to the fence. The song was the only noise beside the occasional snuffing and scuffing of hooves. Eder was silent, and out the corner of my eye I could see his mouth scrunching, as if he was trying to contain some subtle emotions. I felt awed, and humbled, though I had just performed in front of hundreds of people-which should have been the more humbling experience. Yet as the song ended almost ten minutes later, and the last notes faded into the air, I could feel my heart pounding again.

"That's...Wow. That was...something." Eder could not find the words to speak, but in his voice I heard that he was shaking.

I put a hand on his shoulder, and for once I gave a genuine smile. Somewhere between our silent divide, music spoke for us. Music spoke for the bulls as well, who stood transfixed for a few moments. Four of them walked away.

Spiritus and Sanctus remained.

"...Are they going to really run next week?" I asked him, after a few moments of wispy silence.

He nodded. "They're quite fast...Should put on a good show." He chuckled, though I felt an odd echo in that chuckle. As if he should have been prouder, but wasn't for some reason. Perhaps we both hoped for more performances, more time, more music. More bulls staring at violins, understanding but not.

The Pablo Sarasate Competition lasted for the rest of the week. Each day, I felt anxious, as I wondered if my performance was anywhere as wonderful as that of these other, more classical-looking musicians. Yet when I returned, I would play the bulls a song I heard. Danse Boheme. Queen of the Night. La Primavera. Each time, the bulls and Eder listened. A week of songs, a tribute to these strong, fearsome creatures, at once docile when they heard something lovely.

Soon the week ended, and the judges read the results. I was stunned. The entire time, the crowd around me clapped. Who were they clapping for? They had seen my grey robes and my old violin, the short and unkempt beard I had not shaved in a week, my tired eyes. Yet I stood in the midst of them, and my hands went numb. They clapped. They clapped. They clapped.

Spiritus and Sanctus snorted.

When I returned to the ranch, I was still in shock. My whole body was numb. I needed to play one more song. My scrambled mind reached in its archive of songs, and my bow met the violin's aching strings.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee...

Schubert's Ave Maria floated before the bulls, and before an Eder who now emerged from the car with tears in his eyes. Soft grace filled the air, and my eyes became misty. The song drifted to its lofty crescendo, before falling asleep on the strings. Tears fell off my cheeks, but I was not aware of them until I finished the song.

More silence. I could hear Eder crying softly behind me. The bulls did not cry, but they watched us as always. Maybe they knew the emotions that spun in the air like falling leaves. Against my better judgment, but knowing that I would not have another chance, I walked directly to the corral and stood a foot or so in front of the bulls. Spiritus and Sanctus stared, never nervous. Constant and steady. Powerful reminders of my own mortality.

"...I...I won," I whispered, between sniffles. "...I won."

And at that moment, they were the only audience that truly mattered.