Paco felt the taut, hard confidence within him. This was one of ten thousand beasts. This was a true and noble bull of great courage and he deserved the best that any man could bring to the fight.
He heard the indrawn breath of the crowd as he went in toward the bull in the tremendously dangerous pass natural. The bull stood with head lowered, eyes glowing, breathing hard. Paco Solis stood erect, his right side toward the bull, the sword in his right hand pointed down toward the sand, the cape held low in his left hand. His body was a bigger target and was closer to the bull than the cape.
He flicked the cape and said, “Toro!”
The bull charged the cape, rounding quickly to charge again and again, excited by the new nearness of the man. Paco made each pass with iron courage, staying in so close to the horn that it ripped the embroidery across the belly of the uniform, and he was stained with the blood from the bull’s pic wounds.
He sensed when the animal had made its last charge in the series. When it wheeled to face him and stopped, he turned his back on it, walked slowly away, trailing the muleta. Seven thousand people were close to hysteria.
He turned, went slowly back, moving so close to the bull that the enticing cape nearly flapped its nose. He held the sword in his right hand along with the muleta and started the series of natural passes to the right. The bull and he were in such accord that Paco had the half-hypnotic feeling that they were partners in a strange dance. Each time as the bull passed him, he thrust against its flank with his left hand, turning it more rapidly to attack him again, slowly increasing the tempo of the passes, the cadence of the resounding “Ole!” that split the hot still air.
He talked softly and constantly to the bull and he knew that in these moments he was at last becoming a torero. He no longer thought of correct foot positions, of the opinion of the crowd. He was blinded to everything but this magnificent animal, and he felt pain in his heart as he wondered if ever again he would fight such a creature.
He brought the animal in close, closer, and more threads were frayed from his tarnished embroidery, more blood rubbed from the bull’s side.
And then at last the bull stood in the perfect position for the kill. Paco sighted along the blade, shook his head against the tears that stung his eyes.
He went in with three quick steps, leaning in over the deadly horns, the muleta held low in front of him in his left hand, swinging it slowly out to the left as the bull charged, so as to clear his legs with the low-held horn. The blade sank cleanly.
The bull charged, and as its legs crumpled, the momentum carried it onto its side, still trying, in the moment of death, in the moment of truth, to expend more of its store of miraculous courage.
Slowly Paco Solis became conscious of the crowd once again. He looked slowly around and saw the sea of white as the handkerchiefs were wildly waved for him to receive the highest honor that can be given a torero. The Juez de Plaza made the signal of approval and the puntillero cut from the dead animal one ear and the tail and awarded them to Paco Solis.
Then the crowd roared, “Toro! Toro!” A sign of recognition of a brave beast. The mules were brought in and the dead bull was dragged on a slow circuit of the bull ring before being taken out to be cut up and given to the poor.
Paco Solis was embraced by the other toreros, and then, to the huge standing roar of the crowd, he made two slow circuits of the bull ring, carrying the ear and tail held high, his eyes swimming and misted with tears, while the gifts rained down on him — the clothing and the poor jewels of these people and anything at hand of value which, in the excess of their love for this brave man, they could throw down to him. Those who walked behind him threw the garments back up into the crowd.
The third circuit he made by himself, running in the traditional manner.
When at last he returned, he went over to where the girl sat, and his hat was handed down to him. He saw that in it were the flowers she had worn in her hair and he felt no disappointment, because somehow it was perfectly fitting and right that the hat should contain only that. It was only when, smiling, he had lifted the flowers to his lips, he saw the folded bill underneath.
Back in his correct position behind the barrera, as Pepe Redondo was awaiting the arrival of his bull into the ring, Juaquim came up to Paco Solis.
Juaquim’s voice was husky. He said, “I saw Belmonte four times. He did not do better.”
Paco Solis said, smiling, “It is a small place for this to have happened, no?”
“But word of this will go all over Mexico, Paco. A thing like this is never hidden. You will soon be booked in Mexico City. In the crowd I have seen several of the ones who have followed their darling, Pepe, down here. And saw you. They are influential.”
Paco slowly straightened his shoulders. He looked out over the crude wooden bull ring. He said, almost too softly for Juaquim to hear, “I have another bull this afternoon. I will fight him as well as I can. That is all that is important.”