A bare circle of a stage which suggests the arena of la corrida, a bullring, set against a backdrop of the Spanish hills and a broad, blood-red sky.
Martial, funereal music plays solemnly, which segues into a sung Catholic Mass.
A 45-year-old man, ANTONITO, enters, crosses himself with habitual respect, and carefully lays out a matador’s costume, el traje de luces, a suit of lights, as if he was dressing a corpse: shimmering embroidered jacket, the tight three-quarter-length breeches, the black hat, the crimson cape attached to the muleta stick.
The sounds of the modern street are heard.
ANTONITO: Franco is dead. November 20th, 1975, and Europe’s last Fascist dictator has died. My country of Spain is unsure what to do. Flags are fluttering, apologetically, at half-mast. On his deathbed, Franco, The Generalissimo, said a kind of sorry:
(FRANCO.) I ask pardon of all my enemies – as I pardon with all my heart those who declared themselves my enemy – although I did not consider them to be so.
ANTONITO: Well, I beg your pardon, Francisco Franco Bahamonde, but if we weren’t your enemy, then why…?
(He wipes away an angry tear.)
… But I’ll begin at the beginning shall I?
(The sounds of an old farmyard: horses, cattle, chickens, dogs, pigs, goats etc.)
I was born in a small farmhouse just outside the village of Sauceda on el uno de Mayo – the 1st of May, 1930. Mayday. There was my older sister, Maria – nine years older than me to the day – and Mother, and Father. Just the four of us. We had uncles and aunts and cousins all around, of course – the whole village was like one big family. But we can skip all that. It was another birth about five years after my own that really began it all.
The farm didn’t belong to Father. Hardly anyone owned the land they worked – we just farmed it. It was hard, but I knew little of that. For me it was a magical place to grow up. There were cork forests all around: we’d harvest the cork, cutting it off the trees every nine years – to make corks for wine bottles, of course! For Jerez, for sherry.
We had our little black pigs wandering everywhere too; and dozens of goats for our milk and cheese; and chickens – we were never short of eggs for a tortilla. And we had mules, for bringing the cork down from the hillsides. But mostly it was cows we kept. Not those reddy-brown Rositos you often see out in the countryside. No, ours were black: black and beautiful and brave. My father reared only black bulls. We must have had fifty or sixty of them, counting all the calves. They were magnificent –
(FATHER.) The best in all Andalucía!
ANTONITO: – my father said. As a small boy I’d spend hours standing on the fence, just watching them, marvelling at their wild eyes, their wicked-looking horns, their shining coats.
(As he describes the bulls, he subtly takes on their characteristics.)
They lifted their heads and snorted at me; they pawed the ground, kicking up great clouds of dust and dirt. They were the noblest, the most exciting creatures on God’s earth.
(He struts and stamps and snorts like a magnificent bull. Music.)
At that age I had no real idea why we kept them. They were just out there, grazing in their corrals, part of the landscape of my life – and life seems simple enough when you’re five years old! Then, he came – and nothing was ever to be simple again.
There was a terrible thunderstorm the night he came. Father teased me:
(FATHER.) Are you frightened?!
(ANTONITO.) No!
ANTONITO: – which wasn’t true. Maria laughed:
(MARIA.) Yes you are!
(ANTONITO.) I’m not!
ANTONITO: And I went outside into the storm with Father to prove it.
(Sound: the thunder continues to rumble.)
I followed Father’s swinging lantern across the yard, hoping and praying the lightning wouldn’t see the lantern and strike us dead!
The mother cow was lying down in the barn – and two little white feet were already showing from under her tail! Father crouched down behind her, took hold of the feet, and tried to pull. There was some grunting and groaning – from Father as well as the cow – and then…a calf slipped out into the world! And there it lay, shining black and steaming in the straw, shaking its head free of the clinging membrane.
(FATHER.) Toro. We’ve got a fine little bull.
ANTONITO: Father knelt over him, lifted his head and poked a piece of straw down his nostrils.
(FATHER.) It will help him breathe better.
ANTONITO: The mother was trying to get to her feet – Father moved smartly away, grabbing me to him. She was bellowing at us – she didn’t want us anywhere near her calf. But try as she might, she couldn’t get up. She just didn’t have the strength.
(FATHER.) That calf has to drink, and soon, or he won’t live. And he won’t be able to drink unless she stands up.
ANTONITO: So I joined in:
(ANTONITO.) Get up! Get up! Levánta-te!
(He jumps up and down.)
ANTONITO: But she didn’t. She couldn’t. She was completely exhausted by her efforts.
(FATHER.) Only one thing for it.
ANTONITO: Crouching down beside her, Father stripped some milk from her udder into a bucket. Then he poured it into a bottle with a teat on it, lifted the calf’s head, and dribbled the milk down his throat until at last he suckled.
(FATHER.) We’ve got a brave one here. I’ll hold him, Antonito. You feed him.
ANTONITO: And he handed me the bottle.
(ANTONITO.) There you go. Good boy. You’re a beauty you are. You’re going to be the finest bull in all of Spain!
ANTONITO: He sucked and sucked and sucked, and as he sucked, his eyes looked into mine…
…and mine looked into his…
…and I loved him.
(ANTONITO.) Let’s call him Paco.
(FATHER.) That’s a fine name. And he’s a brave bull!
ANTONITO: I could see Father was becoming more and more anxious about Paco’s mother. And it was only a couple of hours before she breathed one last sigh… In that same night I witnessed my first birth. And my first death.
Paco was soon up and on his feet. I crouched in the corner, and watched his first staggering steps. Every few hours after that I would go to the barn to feed him. I wasn’t tall enough and I had to get on to an upturned bucket, otherwise he couldn’t suck from the bottle properly. I’d stand up there, wave the bottle at him and call him over to me.
(ANTONITO, whistling encouragement.) Paco! Hey, Paco!
ANTONITO: He’d suck so strongly that it was all I could do to hold on to the bottle.
To begin with, Maria would always be there with me.
(MARIA.) It looks easy. Let me have a go.
ANTONITO: Paco went wild and butted her up the bum! … Maria never asked to feed him again.
Those days playing mother to Paco were the happiest of my life. Paco followed me everywhere. I’d tie a rope round his neck and take him for walks up into the cork forests. He just seemed to follow along naturally. He kept nudging me to remind me he was there, or to remind me it was feeding time – again. The two of us were inseparable. Then one breakfast, Mother smiled at me, sadly:
(MOTHER.) You’ve done a fine job, Antonito. Your father’s very proud of you, and so am I. No one could have given Paco a better start in life, no one. But if he’s to make a proper bull, then you mustn’t handle him any more. No one must. We’d be gentling him too much. He’s got to grow up wild. It’s what he was born for.
ANTONITO: I had no idea what she was talking about. But I could tell that they were going to take Paco away from me. I began to argue – but Mother interrupted:
(MOTHER.) And besides, he’ll be better off with a cow for a mother. There’s one that’s just lost her own calf. She’ll have the milk to spare.
(ANTONITO.) But she’ll know Paco’s not her calf. She won’t feed him!
ANTONITO: Father chewed on his bread. Mother looked at Father. Father looked at me:
(FATHER.) We’ll flay her dead calf and dress Paco in the fresh hide. She’ll take to him soon enough.
(ANTONITO.) But Father!
(FATHER.) From now on, Antonito, you keep away from Paco, you understand? Or else he’ll be of no use to anyone. Keep away!
ANTONITO: I cried and cried and cried – and for two days refused all food. I hated Father and Mother and I made up my mind that I would never speak to them ever again. Maria saw how I felt. So she slipped me outside to see Paco in the corral.
(MARIA.) Look at him. Doesn’t he look happy?
ANTONITO: He was frisking about with his nurse mother in his borrowed skin.
(MARIA.) If he’s happy, then you should be happy, Antonito. That is what you want, isn’t it?
(He nods.)
ANTONITO: I guessed it wasn’t the end of the world after all. And I decided that I could see Paco if I wanted to – but in secret! I’d wait until the coast was clear, then steal out to his corral. Maria could keep watch and I’d stand on the fence and call him over.
(He whistles.)
I thought he might have forgotten me – but he soon came trotting over – and licked my hand! I think he must have liked the salty taste of it. It didn’t seem to matter to him that no milk came out. Then his nurse mother came wandering over and shook her horns at me, but I kept on my side of the fence and she soon lost interest.
Maria worried that we’d be discovered, and kept urging me to come away. But luckily, Father and Mother never did find out about our secret meetings – not then; not ever.
Paco grew fast in his first year. He grew horns, and he played at fighting with the other yearlings, mock battles which he always won.
(He acts this out.)
He was sleek and fast. Sometimes I would help Father move the herd to fresh pastures. Even then, when the bulls were running together, you could pick out Paco easily. He was the finest and noblest bull-calf in the herd. He would be at the front with the big bulls, the five-year-olds – nearly as old as me.
I never spoke of him to anyone but Maria. She warned me over and over again not to become too fond of him.
(MARIA.) All animals have to die, Antonito.
ANTONITO: But I was six years old, and death meant nothing to me. I never gave it a second thought. It only happened to old people, old animals. Paco was young. I was young.
I was walking back home from school one day when I saw some bigger boys hanging about by the well in the village. A couple of them were playing at something in the street, egged on by the others. It was a game I hadn’t seen before, so I stopped to watch.
One of the boys, my cousin Morelo, was pushing a strange-looking contraption. It had a single wheel and two handles, like a wheelbarrow, but with horns sticking out at the front: bull’s horns. I’d seen pictures in the village café of matadors with the big capes, of bulls charging them. I’d always thought of it as some kind of dance. Cousin Morelo was running at cousin José with the bull machine, and, at the last moment, José sidestepped neatly, so that the horns passed him by and charged only into his swirling crimson cape. Each time everyone cried:
(He performs the manoeuvre, balletic.)
ANTONITO: I was entranced. Then José had a stick in his hand, and the chant went up:
(BOYS) Stick-it-in! Stick-it-in! Stick-him-with-the-banderilla!
ANTONITO: They were all jeering and laughing and clapping, it was nasty – I turned and ran all the way home, tears pouring down my cheeks. I found Maria collecting eggs.
(ANTONITO.) It’s a dancing game isn’t it? Tell me it’s just a dance.
ANTONITO: She kissed away my tears.
(MARIA.) It’s all right, Antonito. Like you say, it’s a game, just a dancing game.
(ANTONITO.) And will Paco have to play it?
(MARIA.) Animals don’t think like we do, Antonito. Animals are animals, people are people.
(ANTONITO.) What do you mean?
(MARIA.) Don’t be silly, Antonito.
(ANTONITO.) You’re the silly one, not me – you’re a silly cow!
ANTONITO: Maria mooed at me and charged me, and I charged her back. In the scuffle we broke a lot of eggs… Mother was furious.
But the next day we had news that Tío Juan, Uncle Juan was coming to stay and the smashed eggs were quickly forgotten.
Juan was the most famous person in our whole family. I could only remember having actually seen him just once before at a christening: tall and strong. Wherever he was, people crowded around him – El Bailarin, they called him:
The Dancer. He was a matador, a real bull-dancer. He lived in Malaga, miles and miles away over the hills. I’d never been there, but I knew it was a big and important town, and that my Uncle Juan had danced with the best bulls in Spain in the bullring there, and in Ronda too.
He arrived late the next evening.
(Sound: cicadas.)
We put up the long table outside, and gathered chairs and stools and benches wherever we could find them, and then everyone came. There must have been twenty of the family there, cousins – Morelo and all – all feasting on our giant paella – the slowly cooked rice, delicious with onion, conejo, chicken…
(A traditional Andalucían food song.)
I couldn’t take my eyes off Uncle Juan, though he never once smiled at me all through dinner, even when I caught his eye – his eyes seemed to look right through me. The talk was all of the corrida in Algar the next day.
(JUAN.) It will be crowded – you’ll have to be there early to find a place.
ANTONITO: Suddenly Uncle Juan put his hand on my shoulder:
(JUAN.) And Antonito will come too. It will be his first corrida. He is old enough now. He may be little, but he’s a little man, mi pacito – my little man!
ANTONITO: And everyone clapped and I laughed, and I loved it. Juan smiled. And his eyes twinkled in the gathering darkness. The wind sighed through the high pine trees and the sweet song of the cicadas filled the air.
Everyone spoke earnestly now, their faces glowing in the light of the lanterns. And the talk was of war, a war I had not even heard of until that night.
They spoke in hushed voices, leaning forward, as if out in the night there might be enemy ears listening, enemy eyes watching. All I understood was that some hated Generalissimo from the north, was sending soldiers from the Spanish Foreign Legion into Andalucía in the south, to attack us, and that our soldiers – Republicans they called them – were gathering in the hills to fight them.
The argument was simple enough even for a six-year-old to understand. To fight or not to fight. To resist or not to resist. They talked in raised whispers. Father wasn’t sure:
(FATHER.) If we go about our lives as usual, they’re bound to leave us alone.
ANTONITO: Then Uncle Juan finally spoke, and everyone fell silent:
(JUAN.) It is all about freedom. A man without freedom is a man without honour, without dignity, without nobility. If they come, I will fight for the right of the poor people of Andalucía to have enough food in their bellies, and I will fight for our right to think as we wish and say what we please.
ANTONITO: It was very late. I was getting cold. So I crept back into the house and upstairs. As I was passing the room we had prepared for Uncle Juan, I noticed that the door was open. A moth was flitting around the lamp, its shadow dancing on the ceiling. All Juan’s clothes were spread out on the bed – his matador’s costume, el traje de luces, a wonderful suit of lights, glittering with thousands of embroidered beads; and beside it his shining black hat, and his crimson cape. The costume was very heavy, but I managed to shrug it on. It swamped me, and the huge hat rested on the bridge of my nose. Now the muleta, the crimson cape. I whirled it, I swirled it, I floated it and I flapped it, and all the while I danced in front of the mirror.
(ANTONITO. Dancing as he has described.) Olé! Olé!
ANTONITO: Someone began clapping behind me – I daren’t turn around.
(JUAN.) You dance well, Antonito. No bull would catch you, not in a million years!
ANTONITO: Uncle Juan was grinning in the mirror.
(ANTONITO.) I have a bull of my own. He’s called Paco, and he’s the noblest bull in Spain.
(JUAN.) Your father has told me of him. One day I may dance with him in the ring in Ronda.
ANTONITO: He took the black hat off me, and the beautiful costume, and the cape. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I was an ordinary six-year-old again, not a matador any more, just Antonito.
(JUAN.) You want to help me practice?
ANTONITO: He stood up straight and tall, nearly touching the ceiling, and stamped his feet, flapping the crimson cape:
(JUAN.) Toro! Toro!
ANTONITO: And I charged. Again and again I charged, and each time I was swathed in his great cape and had to fight my way out of it.
(He performs this.)
(JUAN.) We dance well mi torocito, my little bull. But now we must both be off to bed. I have some serious dancing to do tomorrow. Wish me luck. Pray for me.
ANTONITO: I woke up early next morning, and we set off, riding in the cart. The road was full of horses and mules and other carts all going to Algar for the corrida.
La Corrida.
The bullring was a cauldron of noise and heat, the whole place pulsating with excitement.
As the trumpet sounded, Uncle Juan strode out into the ring, magnificent in his embroidered costume. There were other men behind him, banderilleros and picadors. When I asked Maria what they did, she didn’t seem to want to tell me. Instead, she took my hand, held on to it tight and would not let go.
All around the ring the crowd was on its feet and applauding wildly. Uncle Juan stopped right in front of us and lifted his hat to us. I felt so happy.
(Second Trumpet.)
A second trumpet – and there was the bull trotting purposefully out into the centre of the ring, a glistening giant of a creature, black and beautiful in the sun. Then he saw Uncle Juan and the dance began.
(The Dance of the Toreador. Third Trumpet. The crowd roars. JUAN dances with the bull.)
Then came the third trumpet and the mounted picadors ride in, their horses padded up, and the bull charges – the first banderilla goes in, deep into the bull’s shoulder, and he charges again, and again, and there’s blood down his side, a lot of blood, and the crowd is baying for more, he feels the pain, but he knows no fear: he’s a brave and noble bull. The banderillos tease him, maddening him, decorating his shoulders with their coloured darts, leaving him standing there defiant, his tongue hanging in his exhaustion, in his agony.
(Another Trumpet. Then Silence.)
(Whispers.) Uncle Juan steps forward and takes off his hat. He stands before the bull, his crimson cape outstretched.
(JUAN.) Toro! Toro!
ANTONITO: And the bull charges him – once, twice, three times, and each time Uncle Juan draws the bull’s horns harmlessly into the cape, a dance of precision, the faena of El Bailarin. It seems now that the bull no longer has the strength to do anything but stand and pant and wait. I see the silver sword held high in Juan’s hand, produced like a magician from under his crimson cape. I see it flash in the sun – and then I see no more because I bury myself in Maria’s shoulder –
(ANTONITO.) Take me out! Take me out!
ANTONITO: We struggle our way through the crowd and I catch a last glimpse of the bull – his carcass dragged away by the mules, limp and bleeding. And Uncle Juan is strutting about the ring, soaking up the applause, catching the thrown flowers.
(ANTONITO is sick.)
(ANTONITO.) It’s what will happen to Paco, isn’t it?
(MARIA. Wiping his face.) Yes. But Paco doesn’t know it. It will be just a few minutes at the end of his life. It’s all over so quickly.
(ANTONITO.) Never! I won’t let it happen to him, Maria, I won’t! I’m going to run away with him and I’ll never come back!
ANTONITO: I meant what I said. But there were other distractions, and as time went by…well…
The war was no longer just talk around a family paella. Just a few weeks after the bullfight in Algar, the first soldiers came to the village: our soldiers, Republican soldiers. Some were wounded – on crutches, or with their heads bandaged, sitting in the café. There was talk of others hiding in the houses in the village or up in the cork forests. Mother explained:
(MOTHER.) The war is not going well for them – for us. We have to feed the soldiers. It will give them the strength to fight again.
ANTONITO: Almost daily now Mother would send Maria and me into the village with eggs and bread, jamón, cheese for the soldiers. We delivered it to the café, and sometimes they’d be singing and smoking and drinking. I knew they were our soldiers, but they looked rough all the same and I was frightened of their eyes, even when they smiled at me.
At home, Father was troubled:
(FATHER.) Fighting an invader – I can understand that. But Spaniard against Spaniard, cousin against cousin? Civil war? It is un-civil. It is wrong, wrong.
Mother interrupted:
(MOTHER.) But they are defending us, defending freedom, and we must help them.
ANTONITO: In all this time, I began to think again about Paco and how he might escape. I lay awake at night, thinking it over. My idea wasn’t clever, but it was simple. I knew that to separate Paco from the herd, to release him on his own, would be impossible; even if I succeeded, sooner or later he would nose out the others and come running back to them. So, I would have to release them all, all of them together, and drive them as far as I could up into the cork forests where they could lose themselves and never be found. Even if a few were caught, Paco might be lucky. At least he stood some chance of freedom, some chance of avoiding the horrors of the corrida.
I lay in bed, forcing myself to stay awake. I waited until the house fell silent about me. The sound of Father’s deep snoring was enough to convince me that it was safe to move. I was already dressed under my blankets, and I had a rope. I stole out of the house and across the moonlit yard. The dogs whined at me, but I patted them, soothed them, and they didn’t bark. I headed down the farm track, out of sight of the house, and then out over the fields.
The cattle shifted as I came closer. They were nervous, unsettled by this strange night-time visitor. I opened the gate of their corral. They stood looking at me, snorting, still, shaking their horns a little.
(ANTONITO. Whistling softly.) Paco! Paco! It’s me. It’s Antonito!
ANTONITO: He walked slowly towards me, his ears twitching and listening all the time as I sweetened him closer. Then, as he reached the open gate, the others began to follow, shuffling through the open gateway. Then they were trotting – then jostling…then galloping, charging past me, stampeding.
Sound: the galloping herd of bulls.
I was knocked senseless – and when I awoke Paco stood over me, looking down at me. All the other cattle were gone.
I got slowly to my feet. I was a little bruised, my cheek was cut – I could feel the blood, sticky under my hand when I touched it – but I was not badly hurt at all. Paco stared at me. I had the rope, but I didn’t need it. We would go as far as we could, as fast as we could, before dawn. Where? I had no idea. As we climbed the tracks up into the hills, I felt a surge of triumph. Paco was free, and now I would keep him free! I didn’t stop to think what it would mean to Father to lose his precious herd of cattle – all that mattered was that Paco would not suffer that terrible death in the bullring. I had done it!
We climbed on, higher and higher into the early morning mist, until the last of the night was gone and a hazy white sun rose over the hills. We came suddenly into a clearing. On the far side was a stone hut, in ruins, and beside it a small, circular, stone corral. There were several like this scattered through the cork forests, built for gathering cattle or sheep or goats. Paco followed me in and I shut the sturdy gate behind us. He nuzzled the grass. I lay down in the shelter of the wall, and fell asleep.
The warming sun woke me – that or the cry of vultures. They were circling above us in the blue. The mist had all gone. Paco lay beside me, licking his nose. I lay there for a while, listening to the breeze and to Paco chewing the cud.
(Sound: drone.)
I heard the sound of distant droning, like bees, like thousands of bees. I thought I must be imagining things, but then Paco was on his feet and snorting. The vultures were suddenly gone. The droning was coming closer, closer, until it became a throbbing, angry roar that filled the air.
(The throbbing roar is thunderous.)
Then I saw them, flying low over the ridge towards us, dozens of them – airplanes with black crosses on their wings. They came right over us.
(He curls up in terror, covering his ears.)
Paco was going wild, circling the corral, frantic, looking for a way out. The planes passed overhead and, when I thought it was safe, I climbed up onto the wall. That’s when they started diving, their engines screaming, diving on Sauceda, onto the village, diving on my home.
(Sound: distant crunch of the air raid.)
I saw the smoke of the bombs – and then I heard the crunch of the distant explosions. Father and Mother and Maria were down there, somewhere in all that smoke and fire. And then the planes were gone. And it was silent. I went out of the gate and closed it firmly behind me.
(ANTONITO.) I’ll be back, Paco. I’ll be back, I promise.
ANTONITO: The last I saw of him he was looking over the gate, tossing his head, pawing at the ground – and then I was gone, down into the woods and out of his sight. I could hear him calling me, his bellowing echoing all around the hills. Below me the smoke drifted along the valley, as if a new mist had come down, and I ran faster and faster towards home.
(A blood-red light – the fierce crackle of fire.)
I stood in the yard and watched my home burn, the flames licking out of the windows. I could hear anger in those flames, the roaring, crackling, spitting. I did not call out for Father or Mother or Maria. No one could survive that inferno.
How long I stood there I don’t know. I saw the dogs. They were lying dead, all of them, near the water trough. The flames died down – they had nothing more to burn. Only the walls of our farmhouse remained, charred and smouldering.
Then I cried, cried out:
(ANTONITO.) Mama! Papa! Maria!
ANTONITO: I called for them, called for them, until my throat was raw. I knew it was hopeless to go on, but I called and called some more.
Then I hear voices. Soldiers. Hundreds of them, moving up the valley towards the farm, towards the village – not our soldiers, but other soldiers in different uniforms. I dart inside the barn, looking for somewhere to hide, anywhere. The voices, the enemy soldiers are coming closer. I scramble up the rickety ladder into the hayloft, burrow myself deep into the hay, and lie still. I could hear them outside in the yard now, laughing. I hated them, but I gritted my teeth to stop myself from crying out. I heard heavy footsteps in the barn below me:
(SOLDIER 1.) Let’s burn this barn down.
(SOLDIER 2.) No, Later. Vámanos.
ANTONITO: As the soldiers went, I lay absolutely still, silent, and only when I was sure it was safe, I crept out from under the hay, down the ladder and out into the yard.
The whole farm was deserted again. I hared across the yard, ducked under the fence and sprinted across the field towards the hills and safety.
When I looked down into the valley below, I saw the smoking ruins of Sauceda beyond our farm. And then the shooting began.
(Random, prolonged rifle fire, faint screams. Then silence.)
That was when the survivors of the bombing – all my Uncles and Aunts, all my cousins, Morelo, José, all the good people of Sauceda – that was when they all were massacred.
(He hides his head in his hands.)
The sound of that shooting still echoes in my head all these years later. I had no mother, no father, no sister, no family, no friends, no home, no village. All gone from me in one day.
But I still had Paco.
It was dusk before I reached the clearing and the stone corral again. I called for Paco as I approached the gate –
(He whistles.)
– but he did not come. He did not come because he was not there. There was a gaping hole in the stone wall: Paco had burst his way through and was gone.
Exhausted, I lay down to sleep. When I closed my eyes I saw Mother’s face, and Father’s, and Maria’s, and our home on fire. I heard the shooting and the crackling of flames. When I awoke, I was relieved it was morning. I was hungry. It gnawed at my stomach. I had to find food. I chewed on acorns – better than nothing. I drank water from the streams – when you’re hungry, even water seems to fill you up – for a while, at least. I slept on the forest floor, under the canopy of the trees, wherever I could find shelter. I always kept to where the forest was thick and would hide me.
I don’t know how many days – or weeks – I wandered the hills. My head swam, I was overcome by weakness, by drowsiness. Then one day I fell and just could not get up again. I lay there looking up at the waving branches, at the shifting clouds. I heard the wind sighing through the forest and remembered, long long ago it seemed, a lantern-lit dinner outside the farmhouse, the time when Uncle Juan came, the day before the bullfight. I remembered his words:
(Sound: subliminal cicadas.)
(JUAN.) A man without freedom is a man without honour, without dignity, without nobility…
ANTONITO: I could hear his voice speaking to me. I could see his face. I must be dreaming. He is smiling as he did in the corrida, lifting me up as he’d done when I’d danced the bull-dance with him at home. Now I can feel him carrying me. He is talking to me:
(JUAN.) You’ll be all right, Antonito. You’ll be all right. I’ll look after you now.
ANTONITO: I reached out and touched his face…
* * *
I am lying in a cave. I can smell smoke –
(He momentarily panics.)
– cooking. I can hear people talking, men and women and children.
(WOMAN.) It’s Juan’s little nephew, from Sauceda. Poor little thing. He’s dying, you know.
ANTONITO: And I cried out inside:
(ANTONITO.) No, I’m not! I am not dying. I won’t let myself die. I want to see Paco again. I want to find him.
ANTONITO: And so my fever died down, and I started to eat, and very slowly I regained my strength.
There might have been fifty people living up in the cave. Perhaps half were freedom fighters, like Uncle Juan. The rest were refugees, hiding out in the hills, terrified to return home for fear of the soldiers, or the police, the Guardia Civil. Food was scarce; we had only what was brought up to us at night from the villages, or gathered from the forest around.
I didn’t have to tell Juan about the bombing of Sauceda. He knew about it. Everyone knew about it. I was the only survivor, and only I knew why that was. If I hadn’t chosen that night to set Paco free, then I would have been dead in the ruins of the farmhouse, or shot down trying to escape.
The more I thought of it, the less I felt I had a right to have survived, to be alive. I was there because I’d been committing a dreadful crime, releasing all Father’s bulls into the wild, his whole pride and joy, robbing him of his lifetime’s work. When I cried now, it wasn’t from hunger or grief – but from shame.
Uncle Juan held me tight:
(JUAN. Wiping ANTONITO’s tears away with his thumbs.) They were terrible things you saw, Antonito. So cry, cry all you want. But when you’ve done crying, then be brave again, be my brave little bull, mi torocito. Evil, Antonito, must be fought, not cried over. You understand me?
(He smiles at ANTONITO and laughs.)
We are few, but we are strong. Even the beasts are on our side, do you know that? Have you heard about El Fantasmo Negro de Maracha, The Black Phantom of Maracha?
(ANTONITO.) El Fantasmo Negro? The Black Phantom?
(JUAN.) This is not just one of my tales, Antonito, this is true. There are patrols out in the hills – soldiers, the Guardia Civil looking for us. Don’t worry, Antonito, they won’t catch us. We ambush them; we fight them; we send them running like rabbits. But when they sent out a patrol from Maracha – maybe twenty of them, from the Guardia Civil – they thought they saw something move in amongst the trees. They started shooting – and out of the trees he comes: the Black Phantom! You know what he is, El Fantasmo Negro?
(ANTONITO scarcely believes what he’s hearing.)
A nobile, a young fighting bull. He came charging at them. And what did they do? They dropped their rifles and ran! But one of them who didn’t run fast enough, got himself tossed in the air. When the others turned to look, the bull had vanished, like a phantom. It was as if he had never been there. And yet there were hoof prints, the hoof prints of a young bull.
ANTONITO: Paco! It had to be Paco! Paco was alive! He was out there, somewhere. He was looking for me!
I had so much to say, so much I was longing to tell Uncle Juan, but I couldn’t say anything without confessing to what I’d done. So all I said was:
(ANTONITO.) That bull: he must be the bravest bull in the whole world.
(JUAN.) You’re right, Antonito. And if he can be brave, then so can you.
ANTONITO: The story of the Black Phantom lifted our spirits. There was the sound of laughter again; and when the children got together to act out the drama, I got up and joined in. I was the nobile, the young bull. I was Paco.
(He paws the ground, tosses his head, and then charges.)
They all screamed and ran away – just like rabbits, just like the patrol in the forest at Maracha.
(Shooting echoes about the hills – the game instantly stops – then silence.)
(JUAN.) We have to move deeper into the hills. The Guardia Civil are getting nearer every day.
ANTONITO: So began our long march. We only had a pair of mules, and they were needed to carry what few blankets, what little food we had, as well as the youngest children. The food soon ran out.
(Sound: rain – ANTONITO looks up into the sky, blinking back the rainfall.)
And then the rains came, turning the tracks into streams, into quagmires. We could only go as fast as the slowest amongst us – two old ladies, twin sisters, from Algar.
(JUAN.) You both should ride instead of the children.
(TWIN SISTER.) No, Juan. It is the young that must live. And besides, we have our sticks.
ANTONITO: One morning, after yet another cold night in the open air, we were getting ready for yet another day’s march when I noticed that the two old ladies hadn’t moved. They were lying together under a tree, hugging each other for warmth, their sticks lying by their side. They lay so still, so absolutely still, one with her forefinger on her lips as if willing the world to hush.
We buried them where they lay. Juan never smiled again after that. His great heart seemed to have broken. But we all needed him, willed him to bring us through somehow. He was the one person who gave us hope. He led us on, deeper into the hills, and from the top of every pass we saw even more hills, higher hills lost in the clouds. And still the rain poured down. And on we trudged. And as we went, others joined us, more freedom fighters, more refugees, till our fifty became two hundred.
One dawn, as we came out of the woods into a narrow valley with a cheerful river running through it, the rain stopped and the sudden sun warmed our backs. And we sang.
(He sings an Andalucían folk song with a Republican flavour.)
Ahead of us, we saw a cluster of farmhouses in a clearing, apparently deserted. But as we sang, from out of the houses they appeared, one by one at first, then in twos and threes, in their dozens, fearful, bedraggled, pale. As they recognised that we were like them, their faces lit up, and they came running. We were greeted like conquering heroes. Stranger hugged stranger. We wept out of sheer joy that we were together, that we were alive.
I made my way through the crowd of people, down to the river for a drink. There was an older girl there, a young woman, really, standing in front of me, gaping at me, wide-eyed.
(MARIA.) Antonito!
(ANTONITO.) Maria?
ANTONITO: We clung to each other, clung on for dear life.
(ANTONITO.) And Mother? Father?
(She shakes her head.)
(MARIA.) When you couldn’t be found, I was sent out to look for you, and then the planes came, and the farm was bombed, and I ran back, and the house was on fire and I couldn’t get near it. I looked for you everywhere, called for you, and the pigs and the goats and the chickens were running everywhere in a wild panic, and all the time the planes were screaming, screaming down on the farm and bombing. All I could think of was getting away, so I ran and ran, and I wandered the woods for days – before meeting a charcoal burner, who fed me and brought me here to hide up in the hills with all the others. We’ve been here for weeks and weeks. There’s very little food to go round and we’re all terrified that the soldiers might come.
(ANTONITO.) You won’t have to worry any more. Uncle Juan is here with his soldiers, and they’ll look after us.
(MARIA.) What were you up to when the planes came? I looked everywhere.
ANTONITO: Should I lie? Should I tell the truth?
But just then, Uncle Juan came to us.
(JUAN.) I’ve decided. You take a mule and you both go tonight, you go now.
(ANTONITO.) Why?
(JUAN.) Because we are too many here. There’s not enough food to go round. Because sooner or later we’ll be discovered and we’ll have to fight. We will fight, and fight as well as we can. But we are few and they are many. I don’t want you to be here when it happens.
(MARIA.) No, Uncle Juan, we’re staying with you –
(JUAN.) No arguments, Maria. It’s the only way. I want you to go to Malaga, to my mother’s house – kiss her for me, Antonito. Look after her. Be a son to her. Will you do this for me?
(ANTONITO.) Yes.
(JUAN.) Follow the river down into the valley. You’ll join the road there. The Guardia Civil won’t harm you. You are children. They have children of their own.
ANTONITO: He led us to where the mule stood, white in the moonlight. He held us for a moment, kissed us both on the forehead, then lifted each of us up onto the mule.
(JUAN.) Vaya con Dios. Go with God.
ANTONITO: We kept turning in the saddle to see him, until the darkness took him from us and we were alone.
We did see soldiers, lots of them, but they ignored us. Several times the Guardia Civil stopped and questioned us. Maria told them truthfully:
(MARIA.) We are visiting our Great Aunt in Malaga.
ANTONITO: And each time they nodded us through. Wherever we stopped for the night people fed us and gave us shelter. If I learned one thing on that last long journey, it is that men and women have as much kindness in them as they do evil, more kindness, much more.
When at last, after many days’ travel, we reached Malaga and Juan’s house, I did just what he’d told me. I kissed his mother and, in time, I made myself a son to her. Together, Maria and I looked after her. I think she knew all along that her real son, Juan, would not be coming home.
We never did discover what happened to him. Like so many thousands of others in the Civil War, he just disappeared, desaparecido. Gone, but he’s not forgotten.
In my new school, in Malaga, the children spoke with awe about El Fantasmo Negro. There were stories of how he’d been seen wandering the streets at night in Cortes; or spotted by a shepherd in the hills outside Jerez; even in the castle at Gaucin. He had surprised a column of soldiers, one hundred strong; and chased a Guardia Civil officer through the streets of El Colmenar. I knew the stories couldn’t be all true – though I hoped they were. But the tales of El Fantasmo Negro kept hope alive even when the war was lost. I hoped that I might see Paco again one day; but as time passed it became only the faintest of hopes, based on a story I only half believed.
Quite a few years later – I was nineteen, nearly twenty by now – I had a job cutting cork in the forests near Maracha. I was on my own, and tired after a long day’s work. I make myself a small fire, and after supper I lie down beside it.
The mules hobble nearby. I fall asleep easily, and I dream. I dream that Paco is lying there beside me, chewing the cud, licking his nose. He is so close I can smell his milky breath.
(Sound: bull noises.)
I wake up suddenly –
(He looks around expectantly – but is disappointed.)
Paco isn’t there. Of course he isn’t. It was a dream.
I get to my feet – and then I notice the grass nearby – it has been flattened. I feel it. It’s warm. Then I see the hoof marks, the hoof marks of a massive bull. Paco had found me.
(A faint whistle echoes.)
For years after that, whenever I worked in the cork forests, I always looked out for Paco, even though I knew it was quite impossible he could still be alive. But it didn’t matter. I was a happy man.
(The sounds of the present, November 1975, return.)
And today I am a happy man… Sad too. Not sad that an old man has died. Not sad for Franco, but sad that it’s taken this long for me to apologise, to face up to the truth – that I ran away with Paco, and let my mother and father and family and friends and my village die: the tiny village of Sauceda, destroyed by the world’s first deliberate air attack on civilians, a bombardment that soon bred the destruction of Guernica, and then of Warsaw, of London, of Dresden, Hiroshima, and all the air-raids on ordinary people in all the wars ever since.
But I am happy, because there is hope. Today there are no clouds: the sun shines down on us from our vast Spanish skies. And as long as we’re truthful, and honest, and brave – as brave as a bull – there will be a future.
He struts the bull-dance one last time.
Toro! Toro! – Toro! – Toro!
The lights brighten – a trumpet of the fiesta blasts – as the stage fades to black.