Below the plaza it is cooler in the shaded patio de caballos and the conversation is subdued. The selected few that have been admitted stand quietly close to the walls and when they feel the need to converse, they speak briefly in whispers and cover their mouths as if not wanting to disturb the rituals that are transpiring in front of them. It is not a time for conversation, there is no hilarity.
The matadors enter separately and appear to be alone although they are accompanied by their banderilleros/assistants and apoderados/managers. The matadors do not greet each other, they do not shake hands or involve themselves in small talk. If their eyes happen to cross, they may nod. Each of them is concentrating, keeping himself locked into his private zone. They try to exclude outside influences, knowing that the time is close for the sound of the clarin.
The atmosphere inside the patio is tense, not unlike being backstage before the opening night of a play. And each corrida, every afternoon throughout the summer is another opening night. Only the patios, the pueblos, the crowd and the toros are different, the matador is always the same, always alone.
Although each of the matadors are trained professionals with years of experience and confident of themselves, none of them know or can predict the events that will happen in the next few hours. During these last minutes, they do not suffer with fear, but from apprehension. Apprehension that causes adrenaline to seep into them.
A young matador is arranging his capote de paseo, his dress cape with the help of his banderilleros. His name is Julian Lopez Escobar but the taurine world knows him by his apodo, his nickname, "El Juli."
Arranging the dress cape is the finishing touch to his traje de luces/suit of lights, the last act before the door opens, the clarin sounds and with a roar from the crowd, the paseillo/parade across the sand begins.
The horses with the alguacils, the judge's representatives who lead the parade, move into the open doorway.
There is now only time for a deep breath as the matador stands alone and watches the alguacils move forward out of the quiet enclosed patio and into the sunlight.
And then, he squares his shoulders and looking at his banderilleros he smiles briefly and says, "Vamonos! Lets go!" And steps forward into the Plaza Real de la Maestranza de Sevilla. With a sudden cheer from thousands of parched throats he is bathed in the warmth of the sun, the corrida begins...
Saludos,
Morgan
