by Peter Ross

At 8:00 AM, his cell, set to an old-time ring, jangled Jack out of a deep slumber induced by a late night, polished off with a chilled bottle of Petit Chablis. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Recumbent, he activated the speaker and annoyedly juggled the phone to his chest. The 10/10 calling rule was strictly enforced in San Miguel.

"Whoever this is, it better be good!"

"Raoul."

"Like I said, make it good."

"It's not."

"What's not?"

"Come … Now! … No, not later … Now!"

"For what? Why me?"

"You'll see for yourself."

"See what? …. Where?"

"Oriente Plaza."

"For Christ's Sake! The corrida is tomorrow. Why would I want to go to the ring today at 8:30 in the morning? … Tell you what, I'll see ya tomorrow after the fights."

"Ain't gonna be any fights mañana."

Jack paused to considered a myriad of implications.

"Damn it … Shit…OK … So, whatever it is, I'll see you in 30 minutes."

Whatever 'it' was.

Jack groaned out of his berth, cold-showered, donned jeans and one of his trademark crisp white shirts, tail out, cuffs meticulously rolled up inside, slipped on huaraches and headed upslope on Calle Terraplén toward the ring. The Plaza, Colonial in style, is one of the most ancient bullfighting arenas in México. Positioned in Centro, it was erected at a nexus of four arroyos: El Atascadero, Las Cachinches, La Canadita and El Obraje.

A crimson-painted arch horseshoes two oak doors – carriage width. Usually secured by an antiquated iron bolt, this morning they were open. Begrudgingly, Jack slipped the latch and strode purposely up the ramp, passing bronze plaques commemorating historic corridas. Entering the freshly-whitewashed stable, his senses absorbed a familiar palette. Hitching rings lined two walls footed by feed cribs and water troughs. Along fifty feet of the far wall, a wooden framework jutted out supporting various saddles and leather tack adorned with silver, along with petos used to protect the picador's horses – colourful, patterned, mattress-like, heavy-quilted horse armor. The livestock had arrived the previous day – one day earlier than usual. Seven bulls had been transported from a distance and the criador de toros, the breeder, wanted them to have a day to settle. Six were scheduled to fight and one in reserve. They would remain in the dark corridor of stalls adjacent to the ring door until the next morning, when they would be spurred into glaring light onto the albero or crushed rock of the ruedo – the open space of the ring.

These ancestors of wild bulls from the Iberian Peninsula once battled gladiators in the Roman Coliseum and en España were fought from horseback to train the newly formed militia of Rhonda. The most famous descendant of these massive Toros Brava was the legendary El Toron. From the El Cerrito Ranch in Northern México, as a youngster, this bull was viewed as smart, brutal and bloodthirsty. In 1938, he fought an epic fight in Monterrey, facing three matadors in one day, goring two before finally being dispatched. Although saddened that day, the hands back at the breeding ranch celebrated the life and glorious death of El Toron, and while they did, it is a fact that the herd escaped into the foothills and up into a peak in the Sierra Madres now known as Bull Mountain. For 100 years they have thrived, feral and free, amongst bears, bobcats, lions and venomous snakes. These progenies, through wild natural selection, have become the apex of the species. With virtually no predators at hand, these giants die of old age, often seeking out the peace and quiet of a cave or abandoned mine in which to lay down and pass.

The opposing wall displayed two three-foot by six-foot canvas posters flanking a six-foot tack work table. One, of Portuguese, Diego Ventura; the other of Spaniard, Pablo Hermoso de Mendoza – two of the greatest living rejoneadors to perform in the Plaza. Owning a ranch outside of San Miguel, Mendoza is especially revered by local afficionados.

Jack paused mid-stable, 360'd and inhaled a mélange of aromas – the tack, various polishes, softening oils, pungent horse manure and bull dung softened by the sweet smell of horseflesh. Alfalfa hay punctuated the lingering, faint tang of sweat and blood.

Two wooden stools, one overturned, fronted the tack table, on which rested an almost empty bottle of Heradura Reposado and three beaten-copper, five-ounce vessels. One rested on its side.

Half a dozen steeds encircled him. Three stocky picador horses – a mix of Breton or Percheron - faced three purebred Percherons. Two were a matching pair trained for carriage work and removing dispatched bulls from the arena. From Marcial Guerrero's Tupi Ranch stock, they were magnificent. Bred in the 17th century in the Western French Province of Perche's Huisne River valley as feudal knight war horses, they later toiled as heavy haulers and stagecoach teams. Subsequently bred with Arabian blood, these well-muscled caballos fought once again in WWI.

Jack respected them not only for their rugged beauty but as well for their intelligence and determined work ethic. Heads with a straight profile, broad forehead, large eyes, small ears, 16 or 17 hands high and 2,000 lbs. of rugged power.

Oddly, the third Percheron was in single-horse pulling tack. As he sidled up toward the ring Jack glanced into the modest chapel. The small altar supported a three-foot crucifix and two candlesticks. Both held candles, the tops of which felt pliable, recently lit. A prayer had been recited. Right of the altar, a wall niche housed a statue of the Virgen de Guadalupe and opposite resided St. Michael the Archangel. Might as well cover a few bases.

Proceeding in semi-darkness to the ring, he peered into stalls holding the four-year-old, corn-fed, 1400-pound bulls – ominously quiet. They were destined for death the coming afternoon and subsequently to be butchered and prepared as ragout de toro de lidia – slow-cooked fighting bull served on a bed of lightly-truffled parmentier. Some chefs hold that it is the most ecological bovine meat in the world – with no forced diet for unnatural growth, they had roamed and grazed in a natural environment on 2,500-acre spreads.

Through his eyes, not the glazed look a taxidermist displays, but with a look of destiny, the largest of the Miuras spoke to him.

"I was bred for this and will ascend to a higher place."

"Compadre, looks like you're going to get a reprieve."

Through a portal, Jack veered right and ascended 12 concrete seating rows that circled and rose to the top of the ring. Capacity 2,800. Behind him was the rowdy section – standing room only. Gazing directly across, he recognized a patently impatient Raoul Hernández accompanied by his one detective, Roberto Chávez.

Spreading hands on the cool cement of the half-wall, he surveyed a tableau celebrating the hallmarks of the corrida. It was a surrealistic gallery. The ring had been gloriously prepared. The freshly white-painted, five-foot high barrera circle of boards created the callejón or narrow alley into which the torero and banderilleros could retreat to study the movement and temperament of a fresh bull. On the burladeredos or wooden shields fronting its four gates, stylized Picasso-esque images depicted the salient aspects of the corrida – toros, matadors, banderilleros, horses, picadors, carriages. The granular surface of the 40-yard diameter ring, raised one foot in the centre, was illustrated with an ornate, full-colour sand mosaic of the Parroquia and adjacent Jardin. The effect was breathtaking. The centre piece horrifying.

Jack was transfixed, stupefied, mesmerized. Prostrate on the sand montage, head positioned at the holy gates of the church, face to the rising sun, the matador lay arms outspread, palms up, legs together and crossed at the ankles. Erect 25-inch banderillas, one red, one green, penetrated each palm. A crucifix. The executioner had performed an estocada; the act of thrusting a flat-bladed sword, curved at the tip, to dispatch a bull in the last act of a fight. The sword, an estoque, rose almost three feet from the penetrated heart – v-tipped, Toledo carbon steel, four channels, hammer-forged, a simple cross hilt with a knuckle guard wrapped in red cloth. An instrument solely of death. The estoque centered a 12-inch diameter blood stain.

"Jesus Wept."

**************

P.W. Ross, a Toronto-born Canadian, had spent much of his life on the lakes and in the bush of Northern Ontario and the high country in Mexico. He is a father, sportsman, traveler and former business executive who at one time ended up in the book business. At one prescient moment in his career, crafting and executing marketing endeavours, he finally turned to the novel as the outlet for his imagination, historical approach, insightful research and creativity. He currently spends his time between San Miguel de Allende and in Canada at his retreats in Collingwood and his beloved cabin in Temagami.

Discover Lokkal:
Watch the two-minute video below.
Then, just below that, scroll down SMA's Community Wall.
Mission

Visit SMA's Social Network

Contact / Contactar