The Scent of Candles

The Scent of Candles

Manuelo was only 32 years old when he retired, but even at that age he was thought to be the best of his time and that, with health and luck, perhaps the best of all time. Not that his name was famous in the entire World; but it was famous in the mundo taurino, the world of bullfighting, in which he was revered and acclaimed as being a young matador without equal.

But luck and health deserted him in the ring at Ronda when he faced a young, unpredictable Miura, that fierce and much feared breed of bull raised for the corrida by the legendary Don Eduardo Miura Fernandez. In a brilliant performance, Manuelo had seemingly worn down the frustrated bull with a succession of classic and dangerous passes, working the bull ever closer to his jewel encrusted “suit of lights” as the crowd in the arena roared in admiration of every pass. At the climatic Volalie (the “pass of death”) Manuelo lined up facing the beast, sighted down his sword and, in a rush, dove over the bull’s right horn and planted his sword at the point in the bull’s shoulders where it would strike vital organs for a quick and merciful kill. It was a fatal stroke, but as the sword plunged to its hilt the bull suddenly wrenched its head to the right and its horn sliced into Manuelo’s groin. The bull died, but Manuelo almost did as well, and only his youth and the arena’s skilled surgeon saved his life.

The wound left Manuelo with a noticeable limp and, in the eyes of the public, an honorable reason to retire and end his career.

But for Manuelo, it was not the injury. It was something else.

Recovering after weeks in the hospital Manuelo was visited by Luis Porto, his lead bandillaro, and Sanchez, the stout picador of his team.

“How could you let that son of a cow whore slice you up?” chided Porto. “You had him by the balls, but you hesitated just a fraction before you went for the kill and gave the bastard his opening.”

Manuelo didn’t laugh at Porto’s attempt at gallows humor.

“I’m not a religious man, Luis, but I know when God is talking to me,” said Manuelo. “Remember as we were lining up for the parade into the arena at the start of the corrida, I asked if you smelled the scent of wax candles and you said, “sure, we’re surrounded by churches.” But it was not that. It was a scent like at a funeral.”

“And today was not the first time,” Manuelo continued. “Five years ago, when I was on the card with Pacheco, marching behind him in the parade, I smelled the same scent, and, if you remember, Pacheco was killed in the arena by his last bull, also a Miura. Three years ago, I visited Lorca in his cuadrilla as he was dressing for his fight in Madrid, to wish him luck; but as soon as he put on his hat and opened the door to the arena, the same overwhelming smell of candles stopped me at the door. Three hours later, Lorca took a Miura horn in his chest and was nearly torn open.”

Manuelo asked Sanchez to light a cigarette for him and took a slow drag. “I’m not superstitious, and I’m not afraid of the unknown or any animal, even a Miura; but I am afraid of God’s voice.”

“But you are alive! God has not taken you,” said Porto.

“No,” said Manuelo. “I was afraid, and I moved. God won’t miss me the next time. I will not test Senor. I will not fight again.”

Although Manuelo left the arena, he did not leave the business of bullfighting. Wealthy from his success, he bought a ranch in his native Cordoba to raise fighting bulls. His fame drew many boys and young men to work at the ranch and, like Manuelo did when he was a boy, many played at being matadors with the calves, using pieces of bedsheets for muletas and sticks for swords. Most would grow up and eventually leave work at the ranch but, much like it had been for Manuelo when he was a boy, one of the workers, a 15-year-old named Estaban, showed courage and promise. With no son of his own, Manuelo took the boy under his wing.

Working daytime festivals, illegal nocturnals in empty fields, and small rings in small towns, Estaban developed skills and a reputation beyond his years. In barely three years Manuelo judged him ready and arranged for his debut in Cordoba’s Plaza de Toros. Estaban was sensational there, and was quickly in demand in arenas throughout Spain, and the fame of El Nino de Cordoba filled every arena where he performed

The climax of his acclaimed second year on the bullfighting tour was to be Estaban’s featured performance at La Maestranza, the legendary bull ring in Seville. Manuelo accompanied his protégé to the arena and prevailed on Porto and Sanchez, who were still the best in their trades, to join Estaban’s team for his momentous appearance.

On the morning of the fight, Estaban asked Manuelo to come with him to the yard where the bulls for the day’s event were being held, to judge their fighting worth. “What do you think?” Estaban asked his mentor as Manuelo surveyed the bulls. They were ordinary, except for the one Miura in the group.

“Very regular, good size, active. Take your pick, but for your debut in Seville, make it easy on yourself. The big bull pawing the ground should make a good show. Leave the Miura for another day.”

Estaban’s face flushed with some anger. “I’m sorry Don Manuelo,” he said, “No disrespect to you, but I want no one to question my courage on this big stage. I will choose the Miura for my last kill.”

Manuelo was about to protest his protégé’s bravado, but he was stopped by the sweet smell of burning wax candles that suddenly filled the air.

Manuelo seized Estaban’s shoulders and turned him so the two were face to face. “Do you smell the candles? Tell me you smell candles!” he pleaded.

But Estaban just turned away, looked at the bulls and smiled.

“I don’t smell candles,” said Estaban. “All I smell is the bulls’ sweat and la mierda.”

Estaban put his arm around the shoulder of the old matador. “Don’t worry, Don Manuelo,” said the confident, young Torero. “I will make a trophy for you of the Miura’s ear when the day is over, or die trying.”

Manuelo had the honor of sitting in the President’s box for the day but left it and moved instead to the Capilla de los Toreros, the bullfighters’ chapel when Estaban, flanked by Porto and Sanchez, entered the ring. He rested his head on the padded alter rail in the chapel and prayed for the life of Estaban. He felt a pain in his chest as he listened to the roars of the crowd, until finally, a roar greater than all the others rose from the arena. Was it a spectacular kill? Or was it tragedy in the ring?

Porto and Sanchez returned to Estaban’s dressing room after he sent them searching for Manuelo.

“Did you find Don Manuelo,” a jubilant Estaban cried. “Was he pleased with my work?”

“He is in the chapel,” said Porto.

Estaban, still wearing his jeweled waistcoat, bounded out of the dressing room, pausing only to grab one of the two bull ears the President awarded him, and sprinted to the chapel. The chapel door was open, and from the doorway Estaban could see Manuelo’s head resting motionless on the alter rail. Estaban happily called to him, but the old matador did not move. Estaban entered the chapel and, as he approached his mentor, he became aware of the strong scent of burning candles.