The Fighter

Eduardo looked at pictures on his wall of fame and thought, it's a wall of shame. He didn't believe that thought for an instant, dismissed it, laughed at it, swept it under the rug. He wondered why. Aha! The thought had come from his niece, Bianca, a lovely young lady with long black hair, natural elegance, and foolish new ideas.

“All life is sacred,” Bianca had said, “You're murdering these poor animals. You've built a wall of shame!”

“They could murder me too,” he told her, “And anyway, God gave us the animals.”

“That's a stupid idea used to justify barbarism. If God made the animals, it wasn't for your sport! Look into their eyes for once, for Christ's sake. Feel something!”

Bah, it meant nothing! When he looked in the mirror he liked what he saw. Only he knew black dye covered the grey in his hair, the handsome face with its strong chin and angular cheekbones wasn't saggy, and had just a few wrinkles. So what! And his battle scars, like from the horn that went in his ear and made him deaf, didn't show. His doctors were talented.

Eduardo felt good in his trophy room. It steadied him. He'd killed many, would kill more! His pictures showed only the best of his fifteen hundred kills; the most dangerous foes. There were ninety-eight photos, two for each bull, one before the fight, one after. He liked the two together. Living. Dead. He stood in all the death pictures. Pride stirred his breast. All those beautiful bulls slain on the hot sands of the ring, dead, because of him. Such power! The early pictures stretched back in time. Oh how beautiful he was! What success he'd built on those kills! What a fine house, great glory, adulation. His phone rang. “Hello?”

“Eduardo, sit down.” It was his manager, Sophia.

Eduardo didn't rattle, and would sit for no one. “Why?”

“Antonio was coming to see you, no?”

“Yes. I invited him for dinner tonight.”

“Eduardo, I'm so sorry, he won't be coming. Your son has died.”

Eduardo stumbled backwards. He reached behind and grasped at a tall table to lean against. It slowly slid away, and Eduardo stayed sank to the floor. “Antonio? Dead? It can't be. You're pulling a nasty trick on me Sophia.” Oh my God, I invited him to come for dinner!

“It's true Eduardo. I'm so sorry. He was killed on the highway.”

“A car accident?” Antonio? The light of my life who would follow in my footsteps? Antonio?

“Yes. A freak accident. Lumber bounced off a truck and smashed his windshield. The police say Antonio lost control and crashed into a wall. The impact killed him, Eduardo.”

“The impact?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“At the morgue.”

“Oh no!” The phone fell as Eduardo put his face in his hands.

“Hello? Eduardo!”

Eduardo went to the morgue and looked at his son's body. Strange, he thought, there's no marks. “How did he die?” he asked a skinny fellow who had a direct gaze.

“The autopsy says his spine was broken, senor. But he had no drugs or alcohol in him.”

“Do you think my son was a drunk and an addict?” He stared at the man like he stared at a skinned chicken.

“Oh no senor. I'm very sorry. My mistake, completely, but it's common to check such things. I hope you understand.”

The funeral was attended by hundreds of people. The young man was peaceful in his coffin; too beautiful, too gone. Eduardo didn't enter his trophy room to gaze at his photos for some time. There was too much death.

Sophia and Eduardo sat in his living room. The season turned to fall, and a fire burned in the hearth. The flames glinted off Sophia's long legs. She was tall and fine and dressed in an elegant skirt and blouse while a cascade of chestnut hair flowed down and about her shoulders.

“Eduardo,” Sophia said, “You can't pay bills if you're away from the spotlight. You have to fight before the season's done.”

“I know.”

“Good." Sophia said, and sipped her wine. "Look here, I've found a good match in a small ring with a few thousand fans, a fine bull, and a very nice sum of money. You should take it.”

“Where is it?”

“In Fanta.”

“I like Fanta.” Eduardo swirled dark whiskey in his glass.

“Yes and it's beautiful there this time of year.”

“What bull?”

“A four years old Toro Bravo, weighing a little over five hundred kilos.”

“Young and small. Name?”

Sophia searched her papers. “I don't have it.”

"Ranch?"

"Villa Bravo."

“A good ranch. And how much is the prize?”

“Two thousand.”

Eduardo made more money from endorsements, but knew well those came with the fame of fighting. Though his son was gone, Eduardo had to move on. The pain stabbed him again. Death was so final! Even one so beautiful as Antonio couldn't escape it. Eduardo couldn't escape it. Nothing could. Eduardo felt the need to do something, anything. There was too much sitting around, vegging, as his niece Bianca called it. What a foolish American word! And Antonio was dead. Stop it! “It's decent money,” he said, “I'll do it.”

“Magnificent!” Sophia cried “I'll get to work on the arrangements.”

“When's the fight?”

“In one week.”

“So soon? Well, I suppose it will do.”

The weather was perfect for the festival, twenty-five degrees Celsius, blue skies, with a small wind to ruffle his fine black hair and give his red cloth muleta some motion. The fans knew their great luck in getting Eduardo, one of the most revered fighters in all the land. Ole!

Trumpeters blew a blast from their golden horns. A mounted bailiff in an ancient costume cantered across the ring, the tall white feather on his felt hat fluttering gaily. He doffed his hat to a bejewelled dignitary who returned the favour, then waved a white lace handkerchief. The trumpets blasted. The fight began!

Bright music of a spirited paso doble rang off the walls of the ring as mounted bailiffs entered followed by Eduardo, and two other matadors resplendent and confident in their golden suits of light. The matador's banderilleros strode in, back's erect, heads high, followed by picadors on large horses. The dignitary threw a key to a bailiff. The combatants retreated behind wooden walls where the bulls couldn't reach them. The bailiff used the key to open the gate to the bull's pen.

A great black bull charged along a long hall towards the suddenly open circle of light it viewed as escape from the torment of its pen, only to find itself in the ring. The bull stopped, looked around, pawed the ground, was skittish in the light after the dark of its stall, anxious from the noise, and confused by the walls. Dust rose, and the crowd knew; this bull didn't want to fight. It was a coward.

The banderilleros moved in, lured the bull around the ring, offering it passes with their red capes. Eduardo studied the bull's moves. This one was shifty, weaving when you thought he would lunge, giving the banderilleros a scare, and the fans a thrill. The bull found its querencia, the spot in the ring where it felt safe. Eduardo would have to coax this one from its spot. He felt something; it didn't want to die. Neither did Antonio. Stop it! Eduardo would kill this bull like he'd killed the others. Thoughts of Antonio surged within, made him weak. He was saved by brave trumpet blasts announcing the picadors and their armoured horses.

The picadors worked the bull, slashing its neck muscles three times so its head would droop, preparing it for the killing thrust from Eduardo. Eduardo heard someone in the crowd yell, “Anton is a cowardly bull!” He gasped as if he was being slashed. Antonio! Anton? Eduardo almost dropped to his knees, yet did not. It was time to step into the ring. The three matadors used their red capes to entice Anton away from the picadors. It was Eduardo's bull, and he caped first. His grace elicited, “Ole,” from the crowd as he made his passes. Eduardo relinquished his place to the other matadors who made their passes, each competing to get closest to the bull's horns. “Ole, ole.”

Eduardo saw something in the bull's eyes as it rushed by, something questioning, injured, something about loss, yes, seen in the body by its bloodied neck, and yet, in its eyes! Did all bulls look like that? Eduardo had never looked. Stop it! His heart hammered and his breath came fast. Anton!

A trumpet blast announced the banderilleros again in their blue and red suits of light, this time armed with steel tipped sticks. Black clothes wrapped on the sticks showed a cowardly bull, and its farmer was embarrassed. They ran at the bull and again stabbed Anton's neck muscles so his head would droop. The trumpets blew yet again and Eduardo stepped before the dignitary, doffed his cap and spun to all on his toes to dedicate the fight to the crowd. He tossed his cap to the ground. It settled crown down, causing the superstitious to gasp; the matador would be gored!

Eduardo shook his red muleta at Anton, controlled the speed and direction of the bull, feeling his small cloth shudder in the bulls horns as it passed close enough to feel its hot wind. Anton retreated to his quernecia and refused to come at Eduardo, even as he watched Eduardo approach, the long glittering sword up, ready to stab the bull's heart, and end its life. And Eduardo stopped.

Anton's head hung low, yet his soft, brown eyes gazed up at Eduardo. They were the eyes of Antonio, deep and caring and hurt. The moment froze. Anton's looming death jumbled itself into Antonio's death as the awful timber crashed through the car window to smash Anton's heart and sever the aorta, to kill him instantly. So it would be. Unless Eduardo's sword missed. Then Anton would die a slow death, tormented and wounded, like Antonio.

Eduardo sank to his knees before Anton and cried in front of the thousands who understood nothing of his torment. Yet many did know about Antonio; blood lust made them forget. Eduardo heard their jeers. He was a coward. He knew not one of them would enter the ring; cowards all! Cowards know cowards well.

A trumpet blast warned time to kill Anton was running out. Eduardo retreated to a wall. Anton followed. Another trumpet sang and the crowd booed. They'd come to see six bulls die. Some secretly hoped for a seventh; a man's. None would be denied! Anton followed Eduardo, step by step, his head barely supported by his awful, bloody neck. Eduardo leaned on the hot wall. The crowd screamed invective. Anton nudged Eduardo with his great wet nose, offering what comfort the doomed had to give. Eduardo's vision blurred. Anton! Antonio! A final call from the trumpeter signalled Eduardo's failure, and he dropped his killing sword.

Anton was shepherded from the ring to meet his death and dismemberment, for food. Seat cushions and boos rained on Eduardo. He left the bullring, oblivious to the insults. He would not kill his other bulls that day, would not be paid. There's too much death. They don't understand. Eduardo took his suit of lights and placed it in a dark box. He covered his swords, pulled down his wall of shame and fed the photos to a winter's fire as he settled into a great chair, a whiskey by his side, to think about the sacred within, even within bulls.