![Last Citadel - [World War II 03]](/res/aob/book1.jpg)
picador withdrew, the arena applauded, and the next stage of the
corrida
belonged to Luis.
He leaped out, shouting
Toro, beh! Toro, beh!
He held his two
banderillas
, barbed sticks wrapped in ribbon, close over his head as though they were his own horns. He mimicked the bull’s pawing foot with his boot, raising dust and wild clapping in the hot, brimming arena. He took his eyes from the bull and glanced into the stadium, the crowd knew he was the son of Ramon. He’d practiced this move on leather bulls for five years, pushcarts in his father’s hands. Finally, this was no barrow with strapped-on horns but a
toro
charging. Luis waited, waited, he felt nothing but the barbs in his raised hands; the
toro
bore down and Luis held motionless. Then he began to run at the bull, at the lowered horns, not dropping his hands and the
banderillas
. Close enough to see into the eyes of the
toro -
they were black and blank with stupidity and rage - Luis vaulted aside, nimble as wind, and drove the sticks into the crimson gash opened by the
picador
. The barbs bit deep, the ribbons unraveled and fluttered and the bull thundered past. Luis thrust his empty hands in the air and galloped away under a canopy of applause. Blood spattered the silver trousers of his
traje de luces
, his suit of lights.
Once the bull was stuck more times by the other
banderillas
, the trumpet sounded again, and Luis retired to the wall to watch his father; for the first time Luis wore the silver while his father wore the gold. Out Ramon came for the
faena
, the last part of the bullfight, to music and shouts, and he butchered the bull. It was the worst performance Luis had ever seen from his father. Ramon de Vega was renowned across Spain for the grace of his maneuvers with the
muleta
, his nearness to the horns, the blood he swiped from the bull onto himself. The cape of Ramon was the passing of the veil of God for the bull, a daring and honorable final act. The
trincberazo
, with one knee on the ground. The
pasa de la firma
, where the
matador
stands in one place and runs the bull around him in a dangerous circle. The
manoletina
, holding the
muleta
behind the body. And the
natural
, where the sword, the
estoque
, is removed from behind the cape to make the cloth a smaller target, tempting the bull to charge at the largest thing it sees in its fury, the
matador
. Luis watched his father hesitate in all these, Ramon failed to engage fully and the bull lost its fury. His father’s passes were mechanical, not the flow of the blood and heat that was Spain and the fame of Ramon de Vega. The bull stopped and the father was left with nothing, the unsure crowd sat on its hands. Ramon dropped the
muleta
, pointed the sword, and waited. The bull glowered at him, exhausted and dumb. Ramon ran at the bull. The animal was done with it and stood detached. Ramon rose and drove the
estoque
between the shoulder blades and the bull stumbled at the pain but did not fall; the blade had missed the aorta. This was a disgrace for a
matador
. The art of the bullring was to live dangerously with the bull, then to reward it with a swift and beautiful death. Boos from the cheap seats in the sun hurtled down like thrown trash and Luis ran into the ring, unsheathing his knife. He approached the bull quickly. He measured the place at the base of the bull’s skull, in front of the golden hilt of the
estoque
wobbling, useless, and plunged his short broad blade as hard as he could to sever the spinal column there. He was sixteen years old and weeping for his father. The bull buckled and fell. Luis left the ring, the bull’s blood sticky in his fist. He found his father inside the
toril
, beside the pen in a corner. The man’s golden suit of lights would not go dim, even in the shadows of the pen. Luis held out the knife and his stained hand and said to him, ‘Father.’
The man’s eyes were as red as the blood on Luis’s dagger.
‘Father, a de Vega killed the bull.
corrida
belonged to Luis.
He leaped out, shouting
Toro, beh! Toro, beh!
He held his two
banderillas
, barbed sticks wrapped in ribbon, close over his head as though they were his own horns. He mimicked the bull’s pawing foot with his boot, raising dust and wild clapping in the hot, brimming arena. He took his eyes from the bull and glanced into the stadium, the crowd knew he was the son of Ramon. He’d practiced this move on leather bulls for five years, pushcarts in his father’s hands. Finally, this was no barrow with strapped-on horns but a
toro
charging. Luis waited, waited, he felt nothing but the barbs in his raised hands; the
toro
bore down and Luis held motionless. Then he began to run at the bull, at the lowered horns, not dropping his hands and the
banderillas
. Close enough to see into the eyes of the
toro -
they were black and blank with stupidity and rage - Luis vaulted aside, nimble as wind, and drove the sticks into the crimson gash opened by the
picador
. The barbs bit deep, the ribbons unraveled and fluttered and the bull thundered past. Luis thrust his empty hands in the air and galloped away under a canopy of applause. Blood spattered the silver trousers of his
traje de luces
, his suit of lights.
Once the bull was stuck more times by the other
banderillas
, the trumpet sounded again, and Luis retired to the wall to watch his father; for the first time Luis wore the silver while his father wore the gold. Out Ramon came for the
faena
, the last part of the bullfight, to music and shouts, and he butchered the bull. It was the worst performance Luis had ever seen from his father. Ramon de Vega was renowned across Spain for the grace of his maneuvers with the
muleta
, his nearness to the horns, the blood he swiped from the bull onto himself. The cape of Ramon was the passing of the veil of God for the bull, a daring and honorable final act. The
trincberazo
, with one knee on the ground. The
pasa de la firma
, where the
matador
stands in one place and runs the bull around him in a dangerous circle. The
manoletina
, holding the
muleta
behind the body. And the
natural
, where the sword, the
estoque
, is removed from behind the cape to make the cloth a smaller target, tempting the bull to charge at the largest thing it sees in its fury, the
matador
. Luis watched his father hesitate in all these, Ramon failed to engage fully and the bull lost its fury. His father’s passes were mechanical, not the flow of the blood and heat that was Spain and the fame of Ramon de Vega. The bull stopped and the father was left with nothing, the unsure crowd sat on its hands. Ramon dropped the
muleta
, pointed the sword, and waited. The bull glowered at him, exhausted and dumb. Ramon ran at the bull. The animal was done with it and stood detached. Ramon rose and drove the
estoque
between the shoulder blades and the bull stumbled at the pain but did not fall; the blade had missed the aorta. This was a disgrace for a
matador
. The art of the bullring was to live dangerously with the bull, then to reward it with a swift and beautiful death. Boos from the cheap seats in the sun hurtled down like thrown trash and Luis ran into the ring, unsheathing his knife. He approached the bull quickly. He measured the place at the base of the bull’s skull, in front of the golden hilt of the
estoque
wobbling, useless, and plunged his short broad blade as hard as he could to sever the spinal column there. He was sixteen years old and weeping for his father. The bull buckled and fell. Luis left the ring, the bull’s blood sticky in his fist. He found his father inside the
toril
, beside the pen in a corner. The man’s golden suit of lights would not go dim, even in the shadows of the pen. Luis held out the knife and his stained hand and said to him, ‘Father.’
The man’s eyes were as red as the blood on Luis’s dagger.
‘Father, a de Vega killed the bull.
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