The Bullfighter
How do you explain to someone
you haven’t seen for 44 years the depth of the footprint they left on your
life? Especially when you only have 15 seconds in which to do it and they
haven’t the faintest idea who you are!
This happened to me last week .
. . but first let me take you back to 1965. . .
The place is Marbella, a sleepy
fishing village on the southern coast of Spain. An 18-year old English girl is
taking an extended vacation from her boring job, capricious friends and controlling
parents.
She escaped to Spain because
when she was nine, on holiday in Alicante, the girl had an epiphany: she was
taken to see her first bullfight. Mesmerized by the passion, drama and raw
courage of a man prepared to place himself – unprotected save for a piece of
cloth – in front of a wild and raging bull, she became fascinated by the savage
beauty of this ancient art.
Over the next few years, the
girl researched the culture, studied the language and learned to dance flamenco.
She longed to spend more time in her beloved Spain, her greatest wish being to
see more bullfights.
Her grandmother muttered: Be
careful what you wish for . . .
The girl enjoyed her first few
weeks away, but her money began to run out, so she looked around for something
to do. Sitting at a sidewalk café
one afternoon, she got talking to an American – a journalist. He’d been commissioned to write the
life story of the world’s most famous bullfighter, Manuel Benítez El
Cordobés! He
needed assistant and interpreter! The girl could not believe her luck! They set
off next morning for Córdoba.
I was that girl and over the
next few months, I travelled the length and breadth of the Iberian Peninsula as
part of the matador’s entourage. Manolo – as he was known – was the craziest,
most charismatic person on the planet.
He’d begun life as a feral, gypsy orphan boy and had achieved, through
sheer bravery and determination, adulation and global stardom – the
quintessential ‘rags to riches’ story.
The title of the book “. . . or
I’ll Dress You in Mourning” was taken from what Manolo said to his sister on
the morning of his first fight.
“Tonight, Angelita,” he told the
fretting woman as he left the hovel where they lived, “I will buy you a house
or I’ll dress you in mourning. . . ” Angelita got her house and then some.
Although initially banned in
Spain due to its references to the Civil War and supposed disrespect for the
dictator, Franco, it went on to become an international best seller.
The problem with Manolo was you
couldn’t just take him or leave him – you had to get
involved. Women threw themselves at him wherever he
went. Young, old, married, single
– he was The One they all wanted to know.
Even nuns in convents campaigned
to have TVs installed so they could watch their hero fight, twitching no doubt
later, in the privacy of their cells, in places no man had never been. He was a
modern hero with an added twist: he faced death every afternoon.
Although I found him magnetically
attractive, I kept my feelings well hidden. I was, after all, working – doing a
serious research job. He wasn’t an
easy man to resist, but resist him I did. . .
Over time we developed a very
special relationship. Unlike the other women he’d known, I wasn’t after him for
what I could get and so he was relaxed and comfortable in my company.
On rest days, we’d spend lazy
afternoons at his ranch, hanging out with his friends and family, sharing al
fresco lunches and flamenco-fuelled dinners or buzzing
around Andalucía in his Piper Aztec plane.
On fight days, we’d travel
across country in his chauffeur-driven limo, him asleep with his head in my lap,
me tenderly stroking his forehead, my heart melting with silent love for him as
I kept vigil on the long road through the night.
The international press soon
picked up our story. They called him ‘the English girl Wendy’s personal Peter
Pan’ and wrote that ‘El Cordobés had a British fiancée and was
learning the language of Shakespeare’! In truth, his parish priest travelled
alongside us teaching him to read and write. A scholar of the Bard he was not!
One afternoon, in the middle of
his hectic season, he dedicated the life of his noble bull to me – a high
accolade and display of affection of a very public nature. The animal, however,
did not share this affection and tossed him mercilessly until his pants were
ripped to shreds, his buttocks exposed for all to see.
He raked his fingers through his
floppy hair and changed hurriedly into a pair of jeans. Then he went back on
the sand and showed that toro who was boss. He displayed such
valour and artistry that he was awarded the trophy of an ear.
To further compliment his dedication
to me, he lobbed the severed appendage straight into my outstretched hands. As
I caught it in a clap, warm blood splattered all over my dress. Boy! Was I proud of that! I never
washed it off and later, if anyone asked me where the stains came from, I
bloody well told them!
That night, persuasion overcame propriety and I allowed him the sword thrust
he had so often sought. . .
To be continued…
Blood On The Sand by Wendy Salisbury is
out soon.
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