Raymond Benson - Doubleshot

Bond looked around the place with interest. Ever since he had met Javier and learned a thing or two about bullfighting, he genuinely enjoyed the spectacle. It was already an assault of colors, noise, and expectation—and the bullfight had yet to begin! He noted that the flags of Spain, Andalucía, and Málaga’s local provincial government hung over the puerta de cuadrillas, where the procession of matadors and their teams would enter. Banners or advertisements, prominently displayed during concerts and other events, were prohibited at bullfights.

He didn’t notice Hedy Taunt taking a seat in one of the sections above him. She could get a good view of Bond with a pair of opera glasses she had brought.

“I see him, Heidi,” she said into her microphone. “So far, nothing unusual.”

Bullfights, miraculously, always began on time. At exactly 6:25, Domingo Espada walked out to the center of the ring, carrying a microphone, ready to make the most of his five minutes. The crowd immediately gave him an ovation. Espada smiled broadly and waved, then raised the microphone to his mouth and began to speak.

“My friends, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Málaga’s Plaza de Toros. I will not take up too much of your time, for we have an exciting corrida today. You probably know that I am scheduled to go to Gibraltar tomorrow morning to meet the Prime Ministers of Spain and Great Britain, and the Governor of Gibraltar. I have pledged the remainder of my life to raising public consciousness regarding the Gibraltar issue. I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, but I am asking any able-bodied men to come with me and join my security force. The pay is very good. We have nearly two thousand men already. My goal is to increase the size of the force to twenty-five hundred. I need to show the other side that Domingo Espada’s party is powerful and has the will of the people behind it. You will find recruitment centers located at the exits. If you are over eighteen years of age, please, I would love to have you work for me. If you want to see Spain become a major force in the politics of the world again, you will support my cause. I need you. The people need you. Spain needs you.

“And now, I salute the brave men facing the bulls tonight!”

This brought a loud cheer from the stands. Espada waved again and began walking toward the fence. Bond noted the man’s natural charisma that carried even at this distance. If he was as articulate and intelligent as he was supposed to be, Bond could see why so many people wanted to follow him.

At that point, a strikingly attractive woman with long black hair moved into the aisle and sat down in the seat next to Bond’s. She was dressed in a green traditional flamenco dress with a yellow and orange flower pattern.

“Hello,” Bond said.

“Hola,” she said, not smiling. She settled into the chair, then looked out over the heads as if she were looking for someone. Bond glanced at her every few seconds, but she seemed to be ignoring him.

“You’re not Spanish,” she said, finally, still not looking at him.

“No, I’m not,” Bond answered. At last. He was getting somewhere.

“Where are you from?”

“Britain.”

He saw the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Bond was fascinated with her face. She had classic Spanish features, but there was something very cold in her dark eyes. The woman exuded a worldliness that was immediately attractive. She had exquisite poise, as if she had stepped out of a painting.

“My name is Margareta Piel,” she said. “What is your name?”

“John Cork.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cork. Do you enjoy bullfighting?”

“Yes, I do. I find it fascinating.”

“I’m surprised,” she said. “Most people who are not Spanish do not like it.”

“It’s because they don’t understand it.”

“Quite so,” she agreed.

The band suddenly struck up the pasodoble and the bullring gate swung open, right on time.

A corrida always begins with a paseo, or procession, of the three matadors who are fighting, followed by their cuadrillas, the teams made up of banderilleros, picadors, and mulilleros.

Javier Rojo, as the senior matador, was walking in the middle. He would fight the first and fourth bulls of the corrida. All of the men, grouped together in their colorful costumes, made a spectacular vignette on the field.

After the procession, the field was rapidly brushed by men wielding rastrillos, the wooden brooms used to smooth the dirt.

Bond felt a twinge of anxiety as he watched Javier prepare for the entrance of the first bull. One never knew if a matador would live or die in the ring. It is a far more dangerous “sport” than most people realize, although it is no sport to the Spanish. Javier assumed his position near one of the shields in front of the fence. The music ceased and the crowd grew quiet. The moment at which the bull entered the ring was among the most dramatic in a bullfight. It was then that a matador could see exactly how brave and strong the bull was.

The gate swung open and a huge, black beast thundered into the ring. The first act, the tercio de varas, had begun. With the help of his banderilleros, the bullfighter would now test the bull by having him charge at the capes. One of the banderilleros called to him, waving a cape. The bull immediately charged the target, but the man stepped inside a shield in the nick of time. The bull’s horns slammed into the wood. The crowd cried, “Olé!”

Another banderillero called to the bull and waved the bright red cape. The bull turned, snorted, and rushed toward him. Again, the man stepped inside a shield, barely escaping injury.

At last, it was Javier’s turn. He stepped out into the ring and called to the bull. Much of the appeal of a bullfighter was the way he carried himself. The more arrogant and egotistical he was, the more popular he would be. There was a great deal of posing and grimacing involved in being a matador, but even that required skill. Javier did it well, simultaneously displaying pride, honor, and a demand for respect.

Somehow, the bull knew that this was the man who was his true enemy. The bull pawed the dirt in front of him, then charged. Javier performed a neat verónica and sidestepped the bull. The crowd went wild.

“This matador is one of the best,” Margareta said. “Have you seen him before?”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Bond said.

The picadors entered the ring on horseback. It was their job to wound the bull with lances called varas without causing injury to the horses, even though coverings made of cotton and steel mesh protected the animals to some extent.

At this point, Domingo Espada and two men entered the stands and sat down in their seats not far away from Bond and the girl.

“He’s also quite an orator,” Bond said.

“And very popular with the people,” Margareta agreed. “At one time he was a great matador. Now he is a great politician.”

“It sounds as if you admire him,” Bond said.

“I have to. I work for him.”

“Do you? Why, I’d really like to meet him. As an interested expat, of course.”

“Of course,” she said. “I can arrange that. After the bullfight.”

“I’m beginning to believe that our rendezvous was no coincidence,” Bond said.

“You might be right,” she said seductively, as she rubbed her leg against his.

Out in the ring, the bull had been stabbed twice with lances. A good deal of blood was streaming down the animal’s side.

Before the third lance, Javier spent several minutes in the middle of the ring, taunting the bull. The bull would rush him, but the matador deftly countered with the cape in a series of maneuvers. His movements were pure and smooth as he stood, feet together and back arched. Bond could appreciate that a matador’s dance with the bull was very sexual; it was no wonder that bullfighters were considered sex symbols. It was almost as if the matador was seducing the bull. As Javier had said, the two living things—man and beast—had become one in the ring. With the cape, the matador had molded the animal’s wild charges into something of beauty.