Blood and Sand

by Vicente Blasco Ibáñez

A crowd of rough boys and dishevelled girls ran after the carriage as fast as their legs could carry them, as if they expected to find something extraordinary at the end of their mad career.

For an hour previously the Calle de Alcala had been a stream of carriages, between banks of crowded foot-passengers, all hurrying to the outskirts of the town. Every sort of vehicle, ancient or modern, figured in this transient but confused and noisy migration, from the pre-historic char-a-banc, come to light like an anachronism, to the modern motor car.

The trams passed along crowded bunches of passengers overflowing on to their steps. Omnibuses took up fares at the corner of the Calle de Sevilla, while the conductors shouted "Plaza! Plaza!" Mules covered with tassels, drawing carriages full of women in white mantillas and bright flowers, trotted along gaily to the tinkling of their silvery bells. Every moment could be heard exclamations of terror as some child, threading its way from one pavement to the other, regardless of the rushing stream of vehicles, emerged with the agility of a monkey from under the carriage wheels. Motor sirens shrieked and coachmen shouted. Newspaper sellers hawked leaflets giving a picture and history of the bulls which were going to fight, or the portraits and biographies of the famous toreros. Now and then a murmur of curiosity swelled the dull humming of the crowd.

Between the dark uniforms of the Municipal Guard rode showily dressed horsemen on lean miserable crocks, wearing gold-embroidered jackets, wide beaver sombreros with a pompon on one side like a cockade, and yellow padding on their legs. These were the picadors,[33] rough men of wild appearance who carried, clinging to the crupper behind their high Moorish saddles, a kind of devil dressed in red, the "Mono Sabio,"[34] the servant who had taken the horse to their houses.

The cuadrillas passed by in open carriages. The gold embroidery of the toreros flashing in the afternoon sun seemed to dazzle the crowd and excite all its enthusiasm. "There's Fuentes!" "That's El Bomba!" cried the people, and pleased at having recognised them, they followed the disappearing carriages with anxious eyes, just as if something were going to happen and they feared they would be late.

From the top of the Calle de Alcala, the whole length of the broad straight street could be seen lying white under the sun with its rows of trees beginning to turn green under the breath of spring. The balconies were black with onlookers and the roadway was only visible here and there amidst the swarming crowd which, on foot and in carriages, was making its way towards La Cibeles.[35]

From this point the ground rose between lines of trees and buildings and the vista was closed by the Puerta de Alcala outlined like a triumphal arch against the blue sky on which floated a few flecks of cloud like wandering swans.

Gallardo sat in silence, replying to the people only with his fixed smile. Since his first greeting to the banderilleros he had not uttered a word. They also were pale and silent with anxiety for the unknown. Now that they were amongst toreros they had laid aside as useless the swagger that was necessary in the presence of the public.

A mysterious inspiration seemed to tell the people of the coming of the last cuadrilla on its way to the Plaza. The group of ragamuffins who had run after the carriage acclaiming Gallardo had lost their breath and had scattered amongst the traffic, but all the same, people glanced behind them as though they felt the proximity of the famous torero and slackened their pace, lining the edge of the pavement so as to get a better view of him.

Women seated in the carriages rolling along turned their heads as they heard the tinkling bells of the trotting mules. Dull roars came from various groups standing on the pavement. These must have been demonstrations of enthusiasm for many waved their sombreros whilst others greeted him by flourishing their sticks.