The Old Bullfighter

     The bus bounced to a stop outside of the arena in Tocumen, twenty-five kilometers outside of the capital. Several people filed off, including Joaquin. He followed the crowd to the main entrance. The roar of the audience pulsated through the thick walls. The stadium was old, rebuilt on top of the ruins of the original, surviving over a hundred years of Pacific wind and rain. It could hold fifty thousand aficionados, but on a day like today, not even that was enough. He paid his two balboas, passed the food and beer vendors, climbed a flight of crumbling concrete stairs and entered the stadium itself. It was a sea of faces all watching one thing—el toreador. There was no place to sit, so Joaquin leaned against a wall. He randomly looked around for anything out of the ordinary. His eyes were pulled uncontrollably to the field of action. The man in the ring was Señor Nestor Camacho, a Spaniard on the last leg of his last tour.

     He was an icon that had survived against all odds. Nestor was only thirty-five, but because of the number of times he had been in front of the working end of a bull, it was miraculous he was still alive. His friends told him to get out years ago and he said he would. But the lure of the crowds, the danger, the money, and the women always drew him back into the ring.

     Camacho was dressed in a beautiful traje de luces, a silk jacket, completely embroidered in Spanish gold. His black, skintight pants were also embroidered. His montera bicorne sat squarely on his head.

     The bull was a giant black beast brought in from Spain at Nestor’s request. He taunted the monster with a large magenta cape. It rushed forward, aiming both horns at the target. Camacho did a verónica, allowing the bull’s body to graze his own. The animal turned and charged. After a dozen passes, the brute stopped to rest. Its endurance was incredible. Only a toreador with the skills of Camacho could handle such a powerful creature.

     Without warning, the bull charged. Camacho stood his ground. There was no time for him to run to the wooden barrier. He was going to be impaled and everyone knew it. The noise of the crowd stopped as they held their breath, knowing they were about to witness death—and history. Camacho would join the long list of those martyred before him. The mortal blow would be painful—yet glorious. Some shielded their eyes. And just as suddenly, Camacho stepped away from his own execution with a suerte that would be talked about by aficionados for years.

     “Fantastic,” Joaquin said under his breath, shaking his head in awe.

     The crowd jumped to its feet, yelling and patting each other on the back as if they had made the move themselves.

     Camacho was bleeding. It didn’t look like much—a slash across his abdomen. Yet, with the afternoon heat and more than double the dodges performed during a normal fight, he was beginning to look weak and near total exhaustion. The air was still, hot and heavy.

     A picador galloped out on a Panamanian mountain horse. It was smaller and quicker in the ring than its European cousin, and covered the distance to the bull in three seconds. The picador plunged his lance into the animal’s massive shoulder muscles just as it turned. The bull threw its right horn like a punch from a boxer cornered against the ropes. It glanced off the picador’s steel leg armor and into the side of his mount. The padded amour was the only thing that saved the horse from being mauled, but the blow knocked the rider into the sun-baked earth.

     The toro charged. With a loud shriek, a second picador raced out and expertly thrust his lance into the right shoulder. The president of the bullfight nodded his approval from his stand. A trumpet belched over the loud speaker. Three banderilleros advanced on foot with brightly adorned barbed sticks. Their silver jackets reflected the rays of the late afternoon sun as it lowered closer to the height of the walls. They danced and hooked their barbs into the shoulders and neck of the great bull. The trumpet blew again, signaling the last phase was about to begin.

     Camacho replaced his work cape with a killing cape. It was a simple piece of serge cloth draped over a sword. He approached his prey carefully. He knew as well as any fighter that although it was weakened, it was also warier and more savage than ever. This is when gorings occurred.

     Joaquin studied the bullfighter’s sweaty face. Camacho looked completely tranquil. Only his eyes belied the focused fear he had at an infuriated half-ton beast of pure muscle and primitive instinct. This is why Camacho was still considered the best on both continents. Only a handful of men in the world could face danger with such grace.

     The master worked the crowd into a frenzy, performing one trincherazo after another, increasing his risk with every pass. He was beautiful, reminiscent of the great Spaniard Manuel Sanchez. He had the skill of a ballet artist and the nerves of an assassin.

     The crowd roared with anticipation. The passes were coming faster now. Camacho prepared for the moment of truth—lining up the thin steel blade between the bloody shoulders. It had to be done from the front, directly over the bull’s horns while it was charging. He had to precisely anticipate when both feet would be planted together. That was the only way to hit between the withers and into the aorta. The target was small with no room for error. Try too soon, or too late, and you’d become a hood ornament.

     The bull charged, somehow knowing this was its last chance. It pounced forward with such ferocity that it caught everyone off guard. Camacho had misjudged its speed. For a second time that day, el toreador was sure to meet a violent death. So quickly did Camacho move that all the crowd saw was a flash of sunlight glinting off steel as he plunged the blade downward in one quick, fluid motion. The monster crumbled to its knees, its head falling on Camacho’s dusty shoes, one horn stuck in the dirt. The crowd jumped to their feet with an explosion of clapping and cheering.

     “Magnificent,” Joaquin said. Secretly he thought to himself that if Camacho could face a bull in the ring, surely he could face his own demons.