The Burden of the Bullfight

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When Rafael woke up at three that morning he was dripping with sweat. It took him a moment to realise that he was back in his childhood room. He had been dreaming about plunging the banderilla into the back of the bull’s neck. The accusation in the bull’s eyes as it lowered its head for the final blow haunted him.

They had all gone to the bar the previous night to celebrate his return. Posters were plastered on the walls outside and inside. They proclaimed that he was the grandson of el famoso, Jose Fernando Martinez, and the nephew of Luis Fernando Martinez.

It was his fate to be related to two of the most famous matadors Spain had ever seen. The nation had mourned after his grandfather had been gored to death in the bullring and a statue had been erected in Madrid at the entrance to the arena. His uncle had followed in his grandfather’s footsteps and his cousin, Jose Fernando, another great bullfighter in the making, had been carrying on the family tradition until he was killed in the car accident. He was from a family of bullfighters and he had been raised on its glory. Not for the first time, the burden of tradition weighed heavily.

He had never bought into the blood and gore, the displays of machismo. He could appreciate the beauty of the intricate dance and the skill of the matador. But was it necessary to kill the bull in such a cruel way, taunting the animal until it charged desperately to its end? The roar of the crowd reminded him of spectators at a gladiator show except here defenceless animals were slaughtered. The bullring even resembled a Roman amphitheatre.

Of course he had done the training, gone to bullfighting school for years, if only to keep the peace at home. In truth, he was happiest sitting with a book in the shade of the olive trees, breathing in the aroma released by the rows of lavender bushes, or sitting under the bougainvillea in the courtyard, the fountain creating cool sounds while he painted.

“Your mother does not want you to be a man! What is all this drawing and painting you do?”

It had been with great relief that he accepted the offer of a place at the art school in Barcelona. His father had thought it was a waste of time, and there had been a terrible fight with his mother. Getting the scholarship had made it easier to leave. Before he had left, his mother had taken him aside.

“Try to understand your father, Rafael. It has been hard for him to lose his father, then Luis and now, Jose too.”

“But I cannot be all those people for him. And why do you let him speak to you like that? Sometimes it is he who reminds me of a bull, raging around the ring!”

“Tranquilo, mi hijo. Your father has worked hard to give us a good life. I will be fine, don’t worry.”

But he had worried about leaving his mother. What was it that made his father so angry all the time? Perhaps it was tradition that weighed him down too. Everyone close to him had died and the Martinez name would no longer be heard around the arena. There had been many passionate debates around the dinner table till late into the night when everyone had had far too much red wine.

“It is not about the bull, not about the killing,” his father maintained. “It is art. Los toros needs grace and style…and bravery.”

Dios mio! In other parts of Spain the bull fight has been banned!”

“We should never have sent you to Barcelona to study. Those Catalans do not even want to be part of Spain! Now that Europe is one you will forget what it is that makes you Spanish.”

“This display is for tourists who think they are seeing the real Spain.”

“Do not speak to me of drunken tourists who run with bulls in Pamplona. They complain when someone gets hurt.  Stupid Americans, think they know it all from an old book. For hundreds of years, Spain has had bullfights. You young people want to change everything.”

“Spain has art and books, music and beautiful buildings, too. What of Picasso, Gaudi, Dali?”

He didn’t understand it. Surely Spain had moved away from all this? After the bloody civil war many people had had little appetite for the cruelty of bullfighting, even less so after Franco’s death.  Bullfighting did not make sense in this century. He and Jose had been close.  His mother had been as devastated by his death as if he were her own son. The flamboyant decorations glinting in the moonlight where the suit hung on the front of the cupboard, seemed to mock him.  It had been made for Jose. It symbolised everything that he was not.

 “Do it this one time, for Jose,” his mother had appealed. He had come home to pay tribute to Jose but he wasn’t sure that he would be able to go through with it. He’d never be able to return home again if he shamed his father in front of all those people.

Of course he was proud to be Spanish. But enough with the fighting!  He remembered seeing Picasso’s Guernica for the first time. He had gone back to the Reina Sofia Museum in Madrid many times to sit in front of the painting, to try to understand its message. To him, the bull in the haunting black and white painting was a symbol of hope, showing the continuity of the Spanish nation after the civil war.  The bull seemed to be protecting the mother.  That’s why he was doing this, to protect his mother from his father’s anger for the son she had raised.

This was a Creative Writing/Fiction exercise that we worked on over a few sessions with novelist, Consuelo Roland, who presented us with this picture of a bullfighter and cautioned us not to search for it on the internet before writing. I since discovered that it was not all it was made out to be. Read more here

Divine Visions

My neighbour goes to the supermarket pretty regularly, because it’s there she sometimes sees the face of God…

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…or so she swears. She has been known to have moments of Divine visitation. Like the time that she heard angels singing in the attic of our house and kept finding excuses to come round. It took a while to figure out why we were suddenly on the receiving end of the many trays of foil-wrapped lasagnas and chicken a la kings accumulating in the fridge, as if some family member had died and we needed consoling. She was the only one who could hear the singing though.

I am never quite sure what to make of these sightings. She comes back from the encounters glowing, words tripping over each other as she describes her latest vision. The first time it happened I remember clearly that I was trimming the hedge which divides our properties. “You’ll never guess what happened,” she shouted through her car window, not even waiting until she had parked and gotten out.

That time she was convinced that the bergie who helped her wheel her trolley of groceries to the car had had a special aura, perhaps some modern-day prophet who might reveal himself to the first person who treated him well.

“She means well,” says my wife. “No harm done. Wouldn’t be such a bad thing if we all saw the face of God occasionally. The last bit aimed at Mr Harris who lives opposite and who wouldn’t give any of us the time of day.

It’s not all good though. There was the time that she was convinced that the student who had answered the advert for the single bed that she had for sale was channeling angel Gabriel. That didn’t turn out so well when she offered him board and lodging and he disappeared with all her jewellery one Wednesday evening while she was at a fundraising meeting for the SPCA…

This is another Creative Writing/fiction exercise given to us by Christopher Hope:  we were given the first line and had to write 350 words. 

Roger’s affairs

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There were 97 New York advertising men in the hotel, and the way they were monopolizing the long-distance lines, the girl in 507 had to wait from noon till almost two-thirty to get her call through.  She had been using the time well. She had packed her bag, sweeping the hotel shampoo and conditioner bottles into her vanity bag (she had paid for it, after all) and had made up her side of the bed.

There had been the inconvenient bit of blood on the pillow but she had popped it down the laundry chute which happened to be just outside her door.  Luckily there had been a spare on the top shelf of the cupboard and she had put it on the bed. She had washed and dried the glass she had used and placed it on the tray on top of the little fridge. She had even checked the little bin in the bathroom to make sure that there was nothing of hers in there.

Before that she had put her hair up into a few curlers to set while she took a bath. She had made her face up carefully and brushed out her hair. She was now wearing the pale blue skirt suit that Mother had made her pack. Her white hat and gloves were on the chair at the door next to her handbag and little suitcase. As soon as the call was made she would be on her way.

When the phone rang she decided to take it in the bathroom and, clearing her throat, perched on the edge of the bath. Her mother’s voice boomed down the line.

Gloria! We have been worried sick about you. Your father has a bad heart, you know. We haven’t heard from you since you left on Sunday. You did say you would call as soon as you arrived.

Mother, the hotel is packed…some sort of a convention…I told you that it may be a day or two before I had a chance to call.

How is Roger behaving? We can’t believe that you still agreed to go away with him after Muriel told you about the affair he’s been having, and with your best friend at that. I must tell you that nothing good will come of this. Once he has strayed it will just be a matter of time before he runs after the next skirt that catches his fancy. You know I only want what is best for you.

If she didn’t cut her mother short now she would drone on and on.

Mother, you know I can take care of my own problems. Roger will be no trouble from now on. See you soon. Goodbye.

She put the phone down, picked up her bags and gloves and looked around the room one last time.  Roger looked like he was sleeping peacefully. She had crossed his arms over his body on top of the bedspread. She opened the door and hung the “Do not disturb” sign up outside.

Roger would not be having anymore affairs. She closed the door and hurried towards the elevator.

This was a Creative Writing/fiction exercise we were given in a workshop by author Christopher Hope: We were given the first sentence and had to write a short story.