The Saltillo line

Finito de Córdoba vaquilla, picador & author (Photo: Nicolas Haro)

It is an irony that the  injuries sustained during the events described in this post have delayed the writing of it for so long that my memory is rendered incomplete and fragmented, a half-covered mosaic that, in the archaeology of which, I hope to piece together enough tiles of sufficiently vibrant colour to put together a picture. Whether the picture is accurate, I neither know, nor particularly care: l’art est le mensonge qui nous permet de comprendre la vérité, as Picasso put it. (Art is the lie who allows us to understand the truth).
The prologue: I arrived back from an expedition to London to see my restless girlfriend – risk and care, distance and desire: very bad combinations – to Seville for its first bullfight of the year on Resurrection Sunday. However, having made no proper plans and still waiting for the bidding to finish amongst the publishers interested in my book proposal, I had yet to commit to picking up a proper set of tickets. Anyway, I wander down to the bullring in the hope of getting a ticket on the door or a ticket scout outside only to discover that it is packed. The three matadors fighting that day are very popular, the great Morante de la Puebla – a true son of Seville – the reliably workmanlike El Cid (and occasional artist as described in my Prospect magazine essay to be found here), also from a suburb of Seville, and José María Manzanares. However, the bulls are from a breed I am unfamiliar with, Zalduendo. When I can’t find a ticket I retreat to my favourite bar, Casa Matias for a beer. The bartender Francisco is so shocked that I am missing the first fight in his city that he makes a phone call. Before I can finish my glass the stout figure of Manni comes rolling down the street and collects me. I am told not to let him take more than a hundred Euros from me. We go to the bullring and work our way round the doors into the stands, Manni shaking hands, haggling, cajoling, but the doormen of the Maestranza bullring, everyone a trusted friend of his, say it’s more than their jobs worth. Inside, the matadors begin to fight their bulls.

After some time, and the application of a little distraction and coercion, I gain entrance to the ring as the third bull is killed. I’m high up, in the sun, sitting on the steps (a member of the Guardia Civil points out that I can’t sit there when someone else whispers something in his ear and he slaps me on the shoulder and smiles before leaving – I would love to know what he was told). I then sit through three of the messiest, bloodiest and least artistic deaths of animals I have yet witnessed in the ring. I am left wondering what the bloody hell I am doing writing about – justifying, romanticising, whatever – this activity. And it wasn’t only I who thought that. At Casa Matias afterwards I am joined by Manni, my ticket tout and ask what I owe him. He says he was so embarassed by the bulls that he won’t accept a penny. Honour amongst thieves or the smell of a future profit, I’m not sure which, but I buy him a couple of beers and leave. It was not a good day.

However, my next day was. Nicolas, Ignacio and I (see earlier post the Blood of the Duke of Veragua ) set off out of Seville to the ranch of our friend Enrique Moreno de la Cova, a figure of great importance in Seville in both politics and bulls. Enrique is one of Nature’s true conservatives: politically, of historic buildings, of bloodlines and of the Andalucian way of life. A bullfighter as a young man from a family which owned ranches, he now devotes time and money to the restoration of the Saltillo line of bulls, one of the original four bloodlines of fighting bulls along with Murube, Parladé and Santa Coloma.

For a little history: Antonio Rueda Quintanilla, Marqués de Saltillo, purchased the already famous ranch of José Picavea de Lesaca Montemayor in 1854. The Marqués spent the next three decades perfecting and differencing the breed, work continued by his widow, Doña Francisca Osborne and then her son, the second Marquess, Rafael Rueda Osborne at the turn of the century. He sold it to my friend Enrique’s grandfather Felix Moreno Ardanuy in 1918. However, their peak had been before the turn of the century when the bulls, because of their fine physical conformation yet small size, were known as “the sweetmeats of Saltillo.” However, as the preferred style of bullfighting began to change, ‘difficult’ bulls became unfashionable, so that by 1937 the great matador Juan Belmonte was writing in his autobiography, “What has happened to the breeds of Parladé, Saltillo and so many others?”

Juan Belmonte

The problem Enrique has found in trying to bring these bulls back, aside from the expected ones of scepticism and intransigency, is that the bullfight has changed since the zenith of the Saltillo reputation. There are many reasons for this which one can point to, but the one man at the centre of this change, stylistically and historically, is Juan Belmonte. Belmonte  (1892-1962) is said to be the matador who changed the fight by caping the bulls closer to his body than had ever been thought possible, mainly because he was not physically capable of doing it any other way – he lacked the strength or speed to fight by moving himself, so he had to move the bull. Belmonte’s health aside (for now), the results of this change were twofold. First, that the physical thrill of watching a bullfight was dramatically increased as both the real and the apparent danger of death for the matador were increased. Second, that the contrast between stationary man and the half-tonne of charging beast vastly increased the dramatic content of the contest. Where once nimble and brave men scuttled around the ring, now the fight was being drawn towards an aesthetic of an irresistable force of nature meeting the immovable object of a human will. However, as many commentators have remarked, this requires a different type of bull. Not a smaller bull (I have seen perfect bulls for this of 450kg and terrible ones of 650kg), but one who gives the charge readily and easily, and then, once committed to the charge, is directed by the cape or muleta without deviation, stopping halfway through, hooking to left or right or any other behaviour which turns them from the ‘billiard ball’-atom of Newtonian physics into something much more complicated and ‘quantum’ in nature. Modern matadors, and modern audiences, are simply not so interested in these sort of corridas duras, hard fights, although some bullfighters like Padilla or El Fundi have made their living from fighting the bulls that no one else will like the Miuras.

It is for this reason that at one of Enrique’s drink’s parties with the great and the good of Seville I put him in touch with Padilla. If anyone can fight them, as Enrique agrees, Padilla can. The day is decided, and I also say – after a couple of glasses of wine and despite the fact that I have still to secure a single lesson with the cape – that I will step in front of these living works of restoration.

On arrival, we find about thirty people at the private bullring – word has spread about the day. Padilla has brought his compadre, the matador Finito de Córdoba, and various novices have gathered with a hope of caping. There’s the usual geniality and introductions. Enrique looks excited and anticipatory that his bulls – or rather his vaquillas, the 2-3 year old mothers of future bulls – are to be tested by not just one but two matadors of note. I say hello to one of the most enthusiastic lovers of the corrida in all Spain, Maria O’Neill and her friend the artist Paloma Gaytán de Ayala and wander off to take a look at the vaquillas.  

Las Vaquillas de Saltillo (Photo: Author)

There are six, divided among three pens, and they are notably more aggressive than those I have seen at my previous tentaderos. At Fuente Ymbro and the Álbaro Domecq finca Las Alburejos, the vaquillas were relatively calm when together, but here they leap up at people who pass above on the walkways and when they cannot reach them they turn on each other. Luckily for them, and for us, their horns have yet to come to proper points. I start thinking about whether or not I really want to get in front of them and mention it to Enqrique. “With these, no.” My pulse slows down a little and I start to enjoy my surroundings more. I can even laugh when Finito’s mozo d’espada (sword-page) asks if I am related to the matador José Tomas (this is not the first time the resemblance has been brought up, including by Álbaro Domecq himself). “Not quite, my friend, not quite.” How little I knew. To be continued…

Author hit by vaquilla (Photo: Maria O'Neill)

The first vaquilla comes in fast and Finito starts caping it. He is an interestingly delicate fighter, once said to be one of the greats although now he seems to be in decline. I remember on my wild night out with Juan José Padilla (described in an earlier post to be found here) we went to find Finito at his hotel in Jerez and there was no answer on his door. Finito now admits he was so worried he was going to be kidnapped for a night’s drinking by his old friend he hid under the bed. His style is gentler and smoother in action than Padilla and he seems tentative. When we come to the second vaquilla I see that Padilla himself is tentative. These bulls have a historical reputation and these vaquillas are larger and older than in my previous tentaderos: 3 years old and well over 200kg in weight. I remember when I mentioned the tentadero to Adolfo Suárez-Illana his answer reply was “Saltillo means danger my friend… I would not recommend you to fight them.” It was only after my last experience in the ring that someone thought to tell me, Maria O’Neill in fact, that vaquillas can be dangerous too. “Si, Antonio Beinvenida, died in a tentadero with vaquillas.” (Bienvenida was a celebrated matador across the era of such greats as Manolete, Antonio Ordoñez and El Córdobes.)

The bulls are indeed fast and strong, although they go for the cape and muleta readily and easily. The day is unfolding well and I am again given a sight of painless (relatively) training side of the world of the bullfight. Padilla now goes to work on his second vaquilla and I watch his banderillero Miguel start the stopwatch to see if the vaquilla has the stamina for a full fifteen minute fight. Padilla capes and capes, completing dozens of passes in a variety of ways, building up linked series and then turning them into new series in a way impossible in a full grown bull whose greater strength comes with the price of greater weight and hence less stamina.

I am admiring this work, lost in contemplation of it, as the fifteen minutes draw to a close. It is then that I hear Padilla shout across the ring, “Alex!” And time stands still. Surely not. “Alex. Es para tu?” Shit. Well, there’s no way out really is there. My pulse begins to climb at an epic rate. Someone hands me a muleta and Padilla wanders across the ring to hand me his caping sword. And again it happens, more noticeably this time. All the almost painful worry I had experienced on the journey to the ring in the car, worry equally divided between what the vaquilla will do and the idea of caping badly in public because I am untrained, had disappeared when Enrique said I was not to get in front of an animal today. However, this returned a hundredfold when Padilla called my name, and yet when I walk in front of the animal this falls away to nothing. Or rather it is burnt away to nothing by the incredible focus a violent, horned animal three times your body weight brings to your mind. I would like to say it is like walking on stage as an actor, and perhaps it is for the very best, but for me there is always self-awareness in all but a few precious moments of strongest passion in my acting. Other times, my head is stronger than my heart. Here, in the ring, there is no distinction between the two; both are churning in unison – one calculating, the other pumping – in the common cause of self-preservation.

Finito de Córdoba, Juan José Padilla, author & vaquilla (Photo: Nicolas Haro)

And so begins my caping. I notice immediately that this vaquilla is considerably faster than the one I had caped at Fuente Ymbro. Heavier, yes, but with muscle that gives it a greater capacity for both acceleration and change of direction despite the fifteen minutes spent making Padilla sweat.

Vaquilla & author (Photo: Nicolas Haro)

Vaquilla & author (Photo: Nicolas Haro)

My first few capes appear, according to the following photos, to have come off as well can be expected. However, as I relax into the idea I try to bring the animal closer to my body with the inevitable result shown here.

Vaquilla, Finito de Córdoba & author (Photo:Nicolas Haro)

Being hit by a charging animal in the ring is an interesting experience to a writer, although more so in retrospect than at the time. Obviously, parts of your body are moving at a rate which requires taking your brain out of the equation. Your hands grab at horns to prevent penetration. The moveable weights of your torso and legs, now hinging on where the animal has caught you, are used in a vain attempt to maintain an upright position so you can fight or fly. The actual impact is not felt, only an visceral anxiety over loss of balance, and ten years of schoolboy rugby don’t allow me to keep even that. When I hit the ground, though, and the vaquilla comes after me with its horns, I find that other instincts kick in, literally, along with the sturdy Tony Mora gaucho boots which have been my preferred footwear for a decade and a half.

Finito de Córdoba, vaquilla & author (Photo: Nicolas Haro)

They were truly put to the test until Finito stepped in and gracefully caped the danger away with his empty hand, Padilla running up in the background. What I cannot explain at all is why both Padilla and I are laughing in the photo; a shared dark sense of humour perhaps? Few memories with any sense of accuracy remain…

Finito de Córdoba, Vaquilla, author & Juan José Padilla (Photo:Nicolas Haro)

When I get up again, Finito and Padilla begin to instruct me in the proper use of the muleta and I get in a few passes which even I can feel proud. I am unaware at the time, but as Maria says later, you just can’t pay for a lesson like that.

Author & vaquilla (Photo: Nicolas Haro)

Eventually, the vaquilla and I tire of one another, and it is taken away to replaced by another.

The rest of the day is something of a blur. I remember Enrique’s young wife, the elegant painter Cristina Ybarra (sister-in-law of Maria), arriving and asking if I had been in the ring and then being a little (just a little impressed) when I said I had. I also remember both Padilla and Finito stripping down to their shirt sleeves to cape on, the sweat running off them as they got more and more pure in their movements, particularly Finito who developed his muleta to a level of fine-line work, the like of which I had never previously seen. When it was all over and we retreated back to the palace Enrique and Cristina are restoring nearby at Las Palmas de los Rios, I remember good company, good food, good service, but most of all Cristina giving me a glass of rum. The next day when I woke up, the pain I had not felt that day expressing itself vividly, especially in the hand that had caught the horn with its hairline fracture.

Alexander Fiske-Harrison – 2,800 words