Mexico by James A. Michener Read Free Book Online Page A

worked out a rule that for this story, which had to be read by people who knew neither Spanish nor bullfighting, I would use only those words that had been adopted into English, as proved by any of the unabridged dictionaries of our language. This rule, known as the Drummond Dictate, allowed me a surprising amount of freedom, as I illustrated in my report to New York:
    I am much relieved to find that I am allowed to use almost every essential word required to explain the various stages of the fight, for this will enable me to write intelligibly. The whole afternoon of three matadors facing six bulls, two each in rotation, is not a fight but a corrida. The entire class of men who do the fighting are toreros. (And although the word toreador has been Englished, any Spaniard or Mexican who used it would be laughed out of the room. It occurs only in Carmen and must be left there.) The glamorous entrance of the toreros is the paseo. The bottom-rung men who run the bull when he first enters are the peons. In the first major segment of each of the six fights the two men "on horseback who try to tire the bull by attacking him with long, steel-tipped oaken lances are picadors. In the second part the colorful sticks are banderillas to be placed in the bull's hump by banderilleros. (Yes, it's in the English dictionary, too.) In the third and most important segment the star of the performance, the matador, performs alone in the faena, a word that means "the job that has to be done." Working with a dangerously small piece of red cloth, the muleta, and the deadly sword, he displays both skill and bravery. If he does well, including killing the bull in an honorable way, he hears cries of "Ole!" Those who love bullfighting are aficionados. Thus the language of an alien sport, legally banned in the United States and England, has insinuated itself into English.
    To return to the story of what happened in the city of Toledo that critical Sunday afternoon in 1891 at the final performance in Mexico of the great Don Luis Mazzantini. He had chosen our plaza for this emotional affair because he wanted to honor his peon de confianza Bernardo Leal, who, some years earlier, had quit working in Mazzantini's troupe to become an apprentice matador on his own. Having done well, he was now eligible to advance to full matador, but this required one of the hallowed rites of bullfighting, the alternativa, or promotion, often translated as "taking the doctorate," as if the aspirant were now a full professor of the taurine art.
    Bringing Leal into the ring with him, Mazzantini waited till the first bull of the afternoon came storming out, one that he would normally fight as the lead matador. Gravely he handed Bernardo his sword, his muleta and his bull, embracing him and whispering: "I've taught you what to do. Now do it," and with that act Leal became a full-fledged matador.
    From contemporary accounts of that day I learned that Leal had performed so brilliantly that adoring Toledanos carried him on their shoulders to his quarters, where, as always, he expected to find waiting for him in his hotel room the pair of beautiful young women who had accompanied him from Mexico City. Instead he was greeted by a stocky man of sixty who had white muttonchop whiskers and steely blue eyes that marked him as a Spaniard.
    "Close the door," he said icily to the matador, who obeyed, thus shutting out a noisy entourage that included two valets.
    "Who are you?" Leal asked uneasily, for the man might turn out to be the father of some girl with whom the matador had had an unfortunate relationship.
    "Change into some proper clothes, then we'll talk."
    When the handsome young matador reappeared in an expensive gray countryman's costume, with shoes of fine leather, a broad-brimmed Spanish rancher's hat and a thin cord tie, his visitor rose, bowed and said, "You look like a true Spaniard. Now, what I have to say I will say briefly. Matador, you waste a noble Spanish life when you fill