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“Thank you, Senor.” The gentleman eased down on the hard surface and Bull wished he had a stadium seat to offer him.
“You’re welcome. Do you come here often?” Bull cringed at his attempt to be polite. If he couldn’t talk rodeo scores or the price of a bale of hay, his conversational skills were limited.
“No, not often. Not anymore. Climbing these stairs became more difficult by the year.” He smiled, holding out the program. “This is a special time, however. La Diosa fights today.”
“So, I hear.” Bull didn’t let on he might know her. “I’m B…Benedict Redford,” Bull said, deciding to use his proper name.
“Honored, I’m sure. My name is Jose Mercedes.” They shook hands as a flurry of trumpets broke the silence. “Ah, we begin. Do you know much about the sport?”
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t.”
Jose pointed toward a lower entrance to the interior of the arena. “They will enter from that gate. Bullfighting is a very old tradition and is carried out according to a very strict set of rules and customs. The fights here in Aguascalientes are different than in other locales. Some toreadors come all the way from Spain to train here because there is no age restriction. They also allow the form of bullfighting called recortadore where there are no weapons and the bull is not injured. This form of fighting is what La Diosa prefers. Her place next to the matadors in the parade attests to her skill.”
When Jose mentioned a parade, all Bull could think of was the opening ceremony at a rodeo, where all the participants ride in behind the presentation of the flags. In a few moments, he saw he wasn’t far off the mark.
“The opening parade is called a paseíllo and introduces all the participants in the bullfight,” Jose explained.
Bull leaned forward, anxious to see if he could spot his beauty. Leading the parade were two men on horseback dressed in black hats with feathers, white ruffled collars, and black capes. “Who are those fancy dressed fellows?”
Jose laughed. “Those are alguacilillos and they are wearing 17th century costumes. They uphold the rule of law in the bullring. The president of the corrida will present them with the official keys to the bullpen.”
“And what’s a corrida?”
Jose held up both hands, gesturing to encompass everything. “The bullfight!”
Taking it all in, Bull observed the men parading in a circle, then watched the excited crowd rise to their feet.
“Behind the alguacilillos, come the toreros, the bullfighters. The senior matador is on the left and the more junior ones to the right.” Bull sat up straighter, peering out into the ring. As they drew nearer, he could see the last person in the second row was shorter…a woman.
“I see her,” Bull let out a long breath.
It was her, dammit! He’d felt that body pressed against him so intimately the night before and he’d never forget it. The shape of her neck, the roundness of her shoulders. La Diosa was his beauty. A knot of dread formed in his chest. She looked so small. Despite his apprehension, he couldn’t deny the fact that she was a sight to behold. The clothing the matadors wore was ornate and embroidered, each in a different, brilliant color. La Diosa was dressed in snow white trimmed in gold. She donned the traditional costume of tight pants and a short bolero with the black hat all toreadors wore. He thought she looked more like a princess than a bullfighter.
As Bull followed her progress around the ring, Jose continued to speak, telling him everything from the history of the sport to boring statistics about the matadors. “Behind the matadors are the banderilleros, the men who will tag the beast with sharpened sticks. After them are the picadors on horseback who wield the lances. The others making up the parade are the assistants.”
“La Diosa, she has none of those assistants, does she?” Bull was beginning to get the picture.
“No, she fights alone. Normally the senior matador opens the bullfight, but since La Diosa lets the bull live, she will go first.” He lowered his voice. “Many of her audience refuses to watch any bloodshed, so they leave after her performance.”
“I understand.” The next thing he knew, his beauty was alone on the sand with a huge, black bull.
The spectators jumped to their feet, yelling encouragement. Bull held his breath, every cell in his body compelling him to run down and drag her from the ring. How could this be acceptable?
“Many of the recortadores use acrobatics, Mr. Benedict, performing somersaults over the animal, using its body as a gymnast would use a pommel horse. Not La Diosa, she stands her ground and whispers to the bull, taming the creature as only a maiden can.”
Her position in the ring was very near to where they sat. The animal faced her from the far side, it’s eyes focused solely on La Diosa.
Jose continued to speak, “The beast comes in angry, full of anxiety from being separated from the herd. Watch closely, the banderilleros are about to begin the conflict.” Before they retreated safely behind the wall, several men ran at the bull, causing the beast to advance across the field. La Diosa waited, her cape held out to her side.
The massive arena was deafeningly silent. “Toro! Toro!” she cried, the words flowing over Bull like electric sparks.
From his vantage point right over her shoulder, he could see exactly what she saw. When the massive animal began to charge toward her, his heart rose in his throat. He’d been around these animals enough to know how it felt when one turned on you. As a bull rider himself, he’d been on the receiving end of angry hooves and horns. When one of those monsters looked you in the eye, there was no way a person could be unaffected.
“Fuck, baby,” he whispered as he mentally placed himself in her position. Time seemed to slow down as the nearly one ton bull came hurdling across the ring at full speed.
And yet she didn’t move.
She didn’t flinch.
