La Corrida del Toro

Click here to go back to part one!

El sol había salido y caído and the stars took its place, shining brightly in the sky. I looked at my reflection as I pressed the front of mis pantalones and I saw a young man staring back at me that I could barely recognize. Ahí se puso mi traje de charro, looking quite debonair and bold.

The charro was of black leather, embroidered with silver swirls of roses all along the lining and the pants followed suit, tapered, and trimmed to perfection. I placed mi sombrero on the top of my crown and turned proudly with balled up fists, I finally looked the part of the vaquero. The reflection before me was no longer a boy, but a man. Estaba orgulloso!

I left my quarters and entered the room where mi madre y mi abuelita met me with shock. Their lips curled and their eyes rounded and welled. I felt a tad embarrassed and harassed as they beamed at me. They gushed over how dashing I looked. Considering it was yet another symbol and another way of showing nuestro estado en el sistema de castas, I felt regal, and I looked damned good.

“A dónde vas, Rodrigo? Will you be back for supper?” My mother asked, fiddling with my lapels, and dusting off my shoulders.

“La va a ver. I told you, esta enomorado.” Abuelita chuckled. She kissed her fingers and patted my cheek and waddled over to the cocina.

“Who is the lucky girl?” My mother asked again.

“Solo una niña, mamá. Vamos a la corrida de toros.” I grinned. I moved her fidgeting hands from my suit and gave her a peck on the forehead. “I will be back later.”

“Ten cuidado, mijo. Come back in one piece!”

I nodded and was out the door as fast as I could. I trotted down the path, following the dim red glow from the town’s light. Would she be there? Era un tonto? Yo no la sabia, but I had to find out. I had to risk heartbreak. I entered the plaza and was welcomed by an arrangement of colors, merry drunkards, and dancing women. It was una fiesta para los toros.

I waited for what felt like an eternity. I had bought un derecho to steady my nerves and a bouquet. The flowers wilted and molted in my hands as I nervously twiddled them between my fingers.

“Disculpe, lo siento.” A familiar voice beckoned, tapping me on the shoulder. “I hope I have not kept you waiting long.” It was Constanza! I turned to see her face, cincelado por dios. She was no longer in her rich silk and satin attire, but a much tamer red vestido and a black cloak. Ella era mas hermosa que antes!

“No. The wait was well worth it, señorita.” I lowered my head and presented the bruised bunch. She giggled and accepted them, sniffing their aroma with a graceful nod of her head. I took her hand in my mine and kissed her knuckles gently. Her perfume surrounded me, much more delicious and stimulating than any flower could ever wish to possess.

I offered her the crook of my arm and she obliged. We meandered through the market and she was like a child. Her eyes wide at the sights and the sounds. It was as if she had never seen anything like it before and at that moment, I knew… Ella era Española! I knew she was richer, and I knew she was higher in the caste, but I had never once thought that she was from their blood, that she was one of them. Era ella una diabla en disfrazada?

It would explain her present shroud. She was hiding her fictitious superiority. Fuimos una burla? A source of sick entertainment? I tasted a bitterness in my mouth and swallowed. I looked at her from the corner of my eye. Her smile was sincere, her eyes were glossy and excited and her grip on my arm was tight. No, I shook my head and put the thought to the back of my mind.

We reached la entrada. The crowd was already ferocious and full of vibrance. There were many in chairs and boxes and even more people along the fences. The matador had already taken his place in the center stage. He donned his ebon traje de luces with frills of gold and a red sash upon his waist. His muleta rested neatly folded over his forearm. My stomach leapt. Que interesante!

“Are you ready, Constanza? It’s about to begin!" I shouted over the crowd. Her fingers locked with mine and she nodded. Her grip was firm, although her body trembled. We took a seat on a nearby crate and watched as the man twirled into the center of the arena. The view was most excellent!

Los tamberos thundered from the right, followed by las flautas y las caracolas. A triumphant symphony cut through the air on the heels of hisses from las sonajas. The matador took his stance, bowing to the screaming audience and then with a swirl of sus dedoes de los pies, his muleta was released. It spread like the mighty wings of un aguila. A boy scampered over to him, bringing forth a purple pillow that he could barely lift and upon it rested his sable.

The man rested his lips on the cold metal and then placed it within its sheath and then he stood. Perfectly still with a hand in their air, he was like a statue. The crowd was silent, the music stopped and all the was left was the stirring of hooves in soil. With a shrill cry from the caretaker, the pen opened.

La gran bestia emerged. His great horns shone like mighty swords in the pale of the fire’s glow, his breath streaming like smoke from a dragon’s snout. He kicked his hind legs and dug his front hooves into the earth as a warning. He moaned over the crowd’s snickers and shouts, but el matador was unperturbed.

La corrida del toro had begun and the man began his dance. He shook the muleta, taunting the beast and the bull charged. The matador was like a flickering flame, dancing between two realms. He clung within purgatory- fighting for life or fighting for death. He barely moved as the bull rushed him. The sheer force ripped through the air, tickling at his sides and you could hear the muleta whip around in his grasps.

Esto fue un ballet, un arte! It was pure talent, precision, and strength of will. If you cut him, the man would bleed courage.

The bull rounded, lowering his heavy brow. His foot ripped backwards. His eyes glowed. Constanza’s hand tightened in mine. Her body went stiff, she inched forward, and her jaw dropped. The matador’s saber shimmered as he posed himself again. His feet grounded and his body unwavering.

“Qué está haciendo?” Constanza looked at me. Her face flushed and her lips trembled. I patted her hand.

The bull rushed once more. The muleta waved, taunting, distracting, hiding, warning… El toro rushed right through. The matador’s saber pierced through the beast’s head and red dust swirled around the man in the arena. Constanza curled into mi pecho. She quivered and cried uncontrollably, and guilt consumed me.

“Lo siento, I didn’t realize-“

“Cómo pudo? That poor animal…”

I wrapped my arms around her and realized that she was absolute. It was cruel and here we sat, cheering and laughing at the spectacle. I had never really thought about the beast. How confused or scared it must have been. I had never noticed the fragility of its life and how it was much like my own, until I held Constanza. Her heart crushed and her spirit drowning. Remorse poured from her eyes, and she pleaded for forgiveness in her cries.

“I’m sorry, mi amor. I will never allow you to hurt, ever again.”