rococo gesture of Gomez, for tiie plaza exploded with cheers and awarded him two ears, in this critic's opinion one more than he deserved.
Yesterday Juan Gomez triumphed. He stole Leal's reception for himself and made the intended hero of the afternoon look pompous. I am sure that Victoriano will not tolerate this indignity, and thus each man will drive the other to more dangerous exploits, and in the end, unless sanity prevails, we shall see one of these matadors goad the other to a display that must end in death.
It was this impending murder that I had been sent to Mexico to cover, and in the nine weeks that had passed since Ledesma's first delineation of the struggle, the two matadors had fought together eight times. The perceived wisdom in Mexico was that Victoriano would be the victor because he would be supported in a crisis by the cunning of his father, Veneno, and the skill of his brothers, whereas Gomez could rely solely on his own courage.
I did not buy this easy generalization. I feared that Victoriano was not a complete man, was allowed no mind of his own, whereas Gomez was ferociously self-directed and a veteran of both triumph and despair. But as twilight fell I realized that I knew Victoriano but not Gomez and would have to find out more about this stubborn little Indian.
Chapter 3.
THE RANCHER
BEFORE I COULD get to my typewriter to start my report on the background of Juan Gomez , I was distracted by the noisy approach of men whose appearances reminded me that I had come not only to observe a series of bullfights but also to attend a festival honoring Ixmiq, the founder of Toledo. They were a group of nine musicians dressed in brown suede suits with silver ornaments and flowing green ties, oversized tan sombreros and high-heeled cowboy boots. All were grave of face, especially the three who wore long mustaches, and as they marched slowly toward me they played a rhythmic Mexican music that from the days of my childhood had always evoked visions of festival. They were a band of mariachis from Guadalajara, the home of this uniquely Mexican art, and they had come to earn money at the Festival of lxmiq.
What lively music the mariachis played! The tempo was always fast, and when they sang, the words were full of anguish over love or lost dreams. Besides conventional instruments like guitars, violins and a deep-voiced mandolin, which looked like a bass fiddle, there was also a gourdlike rasp and castanets. They produced a pleasant sound marked by a heavy unbroken beat that gave the music an identifiable Mexican Cast. When the leader saw me he stopped his men abruptly, came over, bowed low, and announced in English, "For our American friend, 'Cielito Lindo,' " and before I could stop them, the mariachis galloped mechanically into this song that I was sure they could not like. It was music for tourists, hammered out in tourist fashion.
At the noisy conclusion the leader tucked his violin under his arm, bowed again and announced, "Another fine song for the norteamericano, 'San Antonio Rose,' " by this flattery hoping to win a few dollars from me. Again the mariachis ground out what they thought I wanted, but before they had reached the first chorus I raised my hand and shouted in rapid Spanish. "Stop that garbage! I want 'Guadalajara'!"
The stolid-faced musicians gaped and the leader asked in Spanish, "You know 'Guadalajara'?"
"Why not?" I snapped. "I'm one of you."
The mariachis grinned and the leader apologized: "We thought you were only a norteamericano." I winced at this pejorative term but said nothing, because I knew that proud Mexicans liked to remind visitors from the north, "Everyone on this continent is an americano, you're a norteamericano. Don': rob us of our name by stealing it for yourselves."
He beat the air twice with his violin bow and the mariachis began to sing, " 'Guadalajara, Guadalajara!' " They pronounced the name Mexican style, which lent the cry an added poignancy: "Wath-a-la-cara."
Yesterday Juan Gomez triumphed. He stole Leal's reception for himself and made the intended hero of the afternoon look pompous. I am sure that Victoriano will not tolerate this indignity, and thus each man will drive the other to more dangerous exploits, and in the end, unless sanity prevails, we shall see one of these matadors goad the other to a display that must end in death.
It was this impending murder that I had been sent to Mexico to cover, and in the nine weeks that had passed since Ledesma's first delineation of the struggle, the two matadors had fought together eight times. The perceived wisdom in Mexico was that Victoriano would be the victor because he would be supported in a crisis by the cunning of his father, Veneno, and the skill of his brothers, whereas Gomez could rely solely on his own courage.
I did not buy this easy generalization. I feared that Victoriano was not a complete man, was allowed no mind of his own, whereas Gomez was ferociously self-directed and a veteran of both triumph and despair. But as twilight fell I realized that I knew Victoriano but not Gomez and would have to find out more about this stubborn little Indian.
Chapter 3.
THE RANCHER
BEFORE I COULD get to my typewriter to start my report on the background of Juan Gomez , I was distracted by the noisy approach of men whose appearances reminded me that I had come not only to observe a series of bullfights but also to attend a festival honoring Ixmiq, the founder of Toledo. They were a group of nine musicians dressed in brown suede suits with silver ornaments and flowing green ties, oversized tan sombreros and high-heeled cowboy boots. All were grave of face, especially the three who wore long mustaches, and as they marched slowly toward me they played a rhythmic Mexican music that from the days of my childhood had always evoked visions of festival. They were a band of mariachis from Guadalajara, the home of this uniquely Mexican art, and they had come to earn money at the Festival of lxmiq.
What lively music the mariachis played! The tempo was always fast, and when they sang, the words were full of anguish over love or lost dreams. Besides conventional instruments like guitars, violins and a deep-voiced mandolin, which looked like a bass fiddle, there was also a gourdlike rasp and castanets. They produced a pleasant sound marked by a heavy unbroken beat that gave the music an identifiable Mexican Cast. When the leader saw me he stopped his men abruptly, came over, bowed low, and announced in English, "For our American friend, 'Cielito Lindo,' " and before I could stop them, the mariachis galloped mechanically into this song that I was sure they could not like. It was music for tourists, hammered out in tourist fashion.
At the noisy conclusion the leader tucked his violin under his arm, bowed again and announced, "Another fine song for the norteamericano, 'San Antonio Rose,' " by this flattery hoping to win a few dollars from me. Again the mariachis ground out what they thought I wanted, but before they had reached the first chorus I raised my hand and shouted in rapid Spanish. "Stop that garbage! I want 'Guadalajara'!"
The stolid-faced musicians gaped and the leader asked in Spanish, "You know 'Guadalajara'?"
"Why not?" I snapped. "I'm one of you."
The mariachis grinned and the leader apologized: "We thought you were only a norteamericano." I winced at this pejorative term but said nothing, because I knew that proud Mexicans liked to remind visitors from the north, "Everyone on this continent is an americano, you're a norteamericano. Don': rob us of our name by stealing it for yourselves."
He beat the air twice with his violin bow and the mariachis began to sing, " 'Guadalajara, Guadalajara!' " They pronounced the name Mexican style, which lent the cry an added poignancy: "Wath-a-la-cara."
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