ABSTRACT

Carlos my matador, was a remarkable man. He had spent twenty years in the plazas, written poetry, and had toured Spain with Manolete. Long retired after an uneven career—he had not courted empresarios and had organized the toreros’ union in Mexico—he lived by journalism. He knew everyone in the ambiente, and he was training me for my first public corrida. We spent hours together every morning for almost a year, but I was never once bored in his company. Monday through Saturday I would pick him up at his apartment at six in the morning, then we would drive to Plaza Mexico or to El Toreo and work out until eleven or twelve. On Sundays we would meet in time for the sorteo at noon, have a glass of beer and a sandwich, attend the dressing of one of the toreros, and go to the corrida. Sometimes we would sit together in the barreras, at other times Carlos would connive a photographer’s pass to the callejon for me. I would then take Carlos’ camera, although I hated photography, and shoot an occasional 253shot just to keep Carlos honest. Carlos’ Idea of what my education in toreo should be was as elaborate as Castiglione’s in The Courtier. Education meant not only a cruel amount of early-morning work on the dry horns and the carretilla; it also meant waiting around for a chance to cape the novillos that the rejonea-dors were practicing on, wangling invitations to ganaderias, and observing corridas from the callejon.