The Female Matador

I met Joel and Katie in Barcelona as they began the first leg of their two week anniversary where they were to start here in the city before touring the countryside. Having been inseparable friends since school I immediately changed my backpacking route when I heard of their travel plans. Together we three ex-pats took to the city for a weekend immersed in sights and culture in an attempt to relive the days of Hemingway and the Fitzgeralds as they traveled across Europe. The first day began with a walk down the Ramblas Market where street performers gestured for coins and workers passed out fliers for restaurants and clubs among the many handlers of live animals and peddlers of local wares all vying for a moment of a tourist’s attention. Later we basked in the beauty of Gaudi Park and his unfinished cathedral rising toward the sky like spires of champagne. That night it was tapas and alcohol and smoking as only vacationers do. I admit I had difficulty finding sustenance in the meager meal portions or the light and simple beers having recently indulged in the rich heartiness that Ireland, Scotland and Germany had offered but I enjoyed the company and the change in culture and the feeling that we would always be this young and adventurous in my mind. At the end of the night while taking in a Flamenco show on the courtyard we decided our last day would be spent watching one of Spain’s most proud and significant traditions; a bull fight. We had seen posters earlier for one happening at a coliseum not far away and though Katie winced at the idea of the violence she relented to join us and so we retired to our separate rooms to sleep off the night and begin fresh in the morning.

I awoke accustomed to my traveling hangovers and headed out into the morning light to search for breakfast. On a steep hill of the opposite street struggling downward was an old woman tilting a cane. She called to me in her native tongue as if I were a local. I had no idea what she was saying but I came to her side where she immediately took my arm and guided me on an unplanned walking trip to the bottom of the road, me her unsuspecting guide and she a woman far too old to care about etiquette or permission. At the bottom of the road she released my arm and headed on her way and if she gave thanks I either didn’t catch it or didn’t understand it. I smiled to myself at the experience and walked back to find my friends.

We walked around the coliseum admiring the age and architecture. As we approached the main gate we saw a large gathering and immediately worried if we would be able to purchase tickets or if the event had already sold out. As we walked closer we realized that the vast majority of people standing outside the stadium were protesters holding signs in a foreign language suggesting abhorrent violence and cruelty to animals. We were shocked that something so entrenched in a country’s culture could also be so hated by that same country. We talked among ourselves and decided to go forward with our original plans and pushed lightly by the protesters who were all passionate but peaceful about their cause. If they hurled any insults at us they fell on ears deaf to their language. We purchased our tickets and made our way through the dark tunnels of the interior and out into the sun beating down on a circular structure that looked like it was struck from a gladiator movie set. We sat on the hard concrete and watched as people entered and picked their spots but by the time of the first match the place was hardly a quarter full. We weren’t sure if this was because of the protests or if this event wasn’t deemed a serious or important one. We poured over the program given to us but couldn’t find the specifics among the Spanish writing. We were able to piece together that the day would consist of three different fights and that the second one would be done by a 19 year old woman. We tried to gather more details from locals sitting by us but only one man would speak to us in English and he would only tell us that the previous month one of the matadors was arrested when he cowardly fled the arena during a fight. There was much pride on the line and much seriousness was devoted to the entire affair. When asked about the protesters and cruelty to animals he merely waved his hand and said that many of the bulls were old and would soon be dead and that this was a much grander death for them.

When the matadors entered it was to a flurry of roses thrown at them and each were flanked by men mounted on horses who wore about them heavy armor that covered the entirety of their bodies so that you could not see their legs or heads but merely the idea of horses standing stoic beneath their riders. The matadors would twirl and pose, spinning and kneeling like a beautiful dance to the music of the audience.

As the first match began we did our best to gather the rules and customs to the bout. The matador would wave a red cape to enrage the bull and make him charge to which the crowd would cheer with each near miss. The riders on horseback would charge in and stab a skewer into the bull between the shoulder blades. As the bull ran these skewers would shake violently but stay firmly in place. The skewers weakened the muscles and as more skewers were applied to the hide it became groggy and slow and the matador could step in closer to try and place a sword deep into the heart for a clean kill. The first matador failed to do this three times and the crowd grew angry and impatient and began to boo him. Though there was a cruelty to the sport there was also an honor in making a quick kill so that the animal mustn’t suffer. Once he finally found the correct spot he walked off hand held high but no roses fell for him.

Katie appeared nauseous to the whole affair and we began discussing if we should leave early but the prospect of seeing a 19 year old woman doing what we had just seen was too incredible and enticing to pass up. We talked about how 19 year old women in America were working or studying or having children far too early in life or discovering themselves or lost entirely or fixated on finding the easiest way to be famous. Here entering the stadium was a woman of absolute beauty and power who was about to undertake in one of the most impressive spectacles we had ever witnessed. She would go face to face with a bull in an absolute matter of life and death.

Her name was Concepcion and there was a great applause when she entered. She walked around soaking in the cheers and readied herself. When the bull was released she spun her red cape to draw his attention. He charged and in a single fluid motion the cape slid over his charging horns and down his backside and held there fluttering beneath his churning hooves until he had passed and Concepcion stood poised much like the statuesque street performers we had seen in the Ramblas the day before. In came the mounted horses and spiked the bull’s back until he turned and attempted another pass. To this we witness the same bloody ballet, the bull charging and failing to connect and Concepcion standing there, her hair fluttering towards to passing bull as if he had left his tail there caught in the wind. More skewers embedded the bull and after a few more passes he stood groggy and dripping blood onto the ancient dirt like leaking oil. Pools developed below him in black holes opening up the earth. His breath kicked up large plumes of dust around his lowered head. She ceremoniously drew her sword and approached it fearlessly and with one perfect thrust she plunged the tip of the sword through the hide and drove it deep into the animals breast until it found the heart. It that moment I was struck in the eyes with every possibility of beauty and ugliness swirling throughout the ages and stopping here to combine in one explosive act. The strength of the matador, the grace of the bull, the beauty of the woman, the unbearable finality of the kill. As if to mark this moment in my mind and thin gout of crimson sprayed across the air like an exposed faucet and created an arc that crossed the ground, stopped to attach itself to Concepion’s attire then continued to the ground on her opposite side so that without the matador existing in that space the pattern upon the earth might confuse anyone who came across it.

Katie covered her eyes and turned her head. Joel held his mouth as if he didn’t know what to say. I could only watch. As the crowd cheered she walked over to the corpse of the bull and began to perform with her sword in the dark recesses of its body. When she came up she held aloft something soft and lolling in her hand. She had severed the bull’s ear and was holding it like a trophy. I wasn’t certain if this was normal but the crowd suddenly erupted and it felt as though the nearly empty stadium was full with a roar that echoed around the coliseum and down the tunneled halls. Roses fell upon her as red as any blood she had spilled. From my vantage I could see the bull’s face, smeared with a muddy mixture of blood and dirt, the nostrils settled in death.

There was one more match but we all agreed we had seen enough. Joel walked Katie out of the coliseum and I followed behind with an uncertain feeling about what I had just witnessed. Both dark and beautiful, competitive and cruel, I couldn’t fit it into any box in my mind. I only hoped that I would never again be so conflicted by the things we see and do throughout our lives.