Mexico by James A. Michener Read Free Book Online

suppose you will never see Seville again, for if you play with real bulls in that manner, sooner or later they must kill you."
    Toledo, 1891. Before I explain the significance of this unusual day in the life of Victoriano Leal, who wasn't even born till forty-two years later, I must explain why, in my reports to Drummond in New York, I shied away from using Spanish words in describing the specific acts of the bullfight. Since Spanish was my first tongue, it would have been natural for me to utilize Spanish words when attempting to describe anything relating to the Spanish world. For example, when I was trailing President Eisenhower through South America I found myself repeatedly falling into using a Spanish vocabulary. Fortunately, at the other end in New York I had a Spanish specialist who knew when to keep my words and when to translate them, but in this bullfight story I could not rely upon such a specialist. Drummond was in charge of features, like this duel of the matadors, and he insisted that stories be kept as simple as possible. I could therefore sympathize with his reactions when he received the following copy from me:
    Drummond, you might want to describe briefly old Bernardo Leal's initial appearance in Mexico City in 1886. As banderillero in the cuadrilla of the espada Mazzantini, Leal placed a great pair uno al sesgo, but the toro embisted quickly from the medios, the banderillas dangling perfectly from his morilla, and viciously lunged at Leal, who was already acknowledging the oles. The crowd gasped and this warned him of the toro's approach, so with four swift strides he struck the estribo, vaulted over the barrera, and intended landing nimbly in the callejon. But the toro was too quick, and with his left cornupeta caught the banderillero in the seat of his pants, lending him an additional impulse that carried him clear over the tablas, landing him uninjured in the tendidas, where he looked up in surprise to find himself seated among the spectators, who applauded loudly. Wit h p erfect composure he bowed, then descended calmly to the ruedo.
    About two hours after filing this I received spirited reaction from New York, and from the unusual time of its arrival I knew that something had gone wrong. Before I opened the message I thought, "Damn, they're dragging me off this bullfight thing." And I did not want to give up the story because I was hooked on it. My earlier friendship with Victoriano and my immersion in the taurine world now reminded me of the exciting days of my youth when my father would say, "Let's see what's happening at the bullring today," and we would see Luis Freg or Juan Silveti, or even the great Gaona, who was Mexican and the best in the world. Bullfighting had been bred into me. I was therefore relieved to read the telegram:
    Your account of the grandfather's being hoisted into the stands by a mad bull makes fascinating reading. But why so many Spanish words? Are you trying to impress a bunch of beatniks in some San Diego pad? Cut the enchiladas. They are pretentious and useless.
    I restudied my dispatch about the grandfather's debut in Mexico City and had to confess that I had used rather more Spanish words than were required, but it was also true that I had used some that could not be avoided if one wanted to narrate accurately what I was trying to describe: the moves of life and death in a bullring. Accordingly I wired back:
    Thanks for your criticism regarding elimination of excessive Spanish, which I confess can be a weakness, but Spanish also produces accuracy, flavor, color, style and the essence of Mexico. Therefore I shall continue to use it discreetly.
    This time I received my answer even more quickly than before. The cable read:
    I appreciate the thoughtfulness of your response regarding Spanish and after restudying the problem must acknowledge that philosophically you are entirely right. However if you use one more Spanish word you are fired fired fired repeat fired.
    So we