Saturday's Storyteller: Tauromachy
Tauromachy
by Belinda Roddie
I fell in love with a bullfighter while spending my second year in Barcelona, though I had to travel to Madrid to see her. Even though a court had overturned Barcelona's ban on the sport four years ago, not a single ring showed signs of life in that city. Once I was in the Plaza de Toros Las Ventas during the San Isidro festival, it wasn't just the rosquillas and the limonada that was making my heart pound. Seeing her again - an unconventional champion, having defeated the bull for the past seven consecutive Sundays, was to blame for the weekly adrenaline rush.
Celia Molinero - or "La Torbellina," as she was colloquially called - was a real wonder to watch, in her bright red and gold traje de luces, her dark hair woven into strict, conservative braids. She truly was a whirlwind, moving from one side of the bullring to the next so quickly that she was almost a blur. The crowd roared when she approached the toro, and before the faena, she would always dedicate the bull's death to the crowd - never the president. Her sword would pass almost beautifully between the bull's shoulderblades every time, granting it an almost immediate demise. All while the picadores and banderilleros waited nearby, having already done their job with their banderillas and pikes.
My mother detested how much I went to bullfights. Whenever we had a video chat on my worn down laptop in my equally worn down apartment, she lamented the killings of the innocent creatures. She was also unimpresed by Celia, which of course felt like a personal offense to me. Even though La Torbellina refused to be called anything but a toreador or matador - during interviews, she frequently reminded the audience that she despised the feminine bullfighter titles - that was not enough to paint her in a positive light to my mother.
"Find yourself a girl who can dance or sing," she scoffed at me one night after I was still particularly hyped up from another visit to the Plaza de Toros Las Ventas. "Or knows her art history. You can go to the Prado and discuss Picasso."
"Mom, Picasso was an adulterer who molested underage girls," I protested.
"Then go to other festivals," my mother complained. "Find a cook. There have to be lesbians who can cook in Barcelona, right?"
"Mom."
She dropped the topic of bullfighting and potential girlfriends after that. But she never changed my mind about Celia. Celia was beautiful - tall, graceful, bright-eyed, and good with a blade. What kind of nerdy dyke wouldn't love that? But alas, she was a celebrity, and I was not to be any part of her life except from afar, as a drooling fan.
It was probably better that way. I had researched way too much about bullfighting, even learning a hardly used word for it: Tauromachy. It sounded like a form of alchemy you'd perform if your astrological sign was Taurus. Being obsessed was not a good flavor to have in my mouth. And I knew all about the risks of glamorizing a most likely incredibly flawed human being.
But we'd run into each other soon enough, on the last day of the San Isidro festival, while I was stuffing my face with my second rosquilla de Santa Clara of the afternoon. I didn't recognize La Torbellina at first - she was dressed casually, in a hoodie and jeans, her hair down. Her left arm was in a sling. And when she spoke to me, her English sounded better than mine did (of course she knew right away that I was a gringa).
"That looks good," she remarked, pointing at my half-eaten doughnut.
I clumsily swallowed a mouthful of pastry and nodded. "It is. Have you had it?"
"Too many times," she laughed. "I have to be careful about that. Do you like these better than what you have in America?"
I arched an eyebrow. "What makes you think I'm American? I could be Canadian."
"You've got Tim Horton's there."
"Fair enough. I'm from Minnesota, though."
"The land of lakes!" Celia laughed. "I've never been, but my father traveled all over. He always brought back the strangest souvenirs."
It was odd how this woman was being so socially friendly with me, but at that moment, I paid it no mind. She sat down beside me, which would have made my heart explode if I had recognized her, and winced as she readjusted her splinted arm.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Está bien," she replied. "I sprained it in the stupidest way."
"How?"
She sneered. "Washing dishes," she replied. "I had just made paella and was scrubbing way too hard, I guess. You'd think I would've gotten hurt in the ring, but...nope."
Wait. A cook and a bullfighter? The various frayed wires in my brain suddenly lit up.
"Hang on." I stared at her. "Are you...?"
"Celia Molinero, at your service," she grinned. "Want another rosquilla?"
Boom, went my heart.
This week's prompt was inspired by the title, which is a word I learned just today from working on a crossword puzzle.
by Belinda Roddie
I fell in love with a bullfighter while spending my second year in Barcelona, though I had to travel to Madrid to see her. Even though a court had overturned Barcelona's ban on the sport four years ago, not a single ring showed signs of life in that city. Once I was in the Plaza de Toros Las Ventas during the San Isidro festival, it wasn't just the rosquillas and the limonada that was making my heart pound. Seeing her again - an unconventional champion, having defeated the bull for the past seven consecutive Sundays, was to blame for the weekly adrenaline rush.
Celia Molinero - or "La Torbellina," as she was colloquially called - was a real wonder to watch, in her bright red and gold traje de luces, her dark hair woven into strict, conservative braids. She truly was a whirlwind, moving from one side of the bullring to the next so quickly that she was almost a blur. The crowd roared when she approached the toro, and before the faena, she would always dedicate the bull's death to the crowd - never the president. Her sword would pass almost beautifully between the bull's shoulderblades every time, granting it an almost immediate demise. All while the picadores and banderilleros waited nearby, having already done their job with their banderillas and pikes.
My mother detested how much I went to bullfights. Whenever we had a video chat on my worn down laptop in my equally worn down apartment, she lamented the killings of the innocent creatures. She was also unimpresed by Celia, which of course felt like a personal offense to me. Even though La Torbellina refused to be called anything but a toreador or matador - during interviews, she frequently reminded the audience that she despised the feminine bullfighter titles - that was not enough to paint her in a positive light to my mother.
"Find yourself a girl who can dance or sing," she scoffed at me one night after I was still particularly hyped up from another visit to the Plaza de Toros Las Ventas. "Or knows her art history. You can go to the Prado and discuss Picasso."
"Mom, Picasso was an adulterer who molested underage girls," I protested.
"Then go to other festivals," my mother complained. "Find a cook. There have to be lesbians who can cook in Barcelona, right?"
"Mom."
She dropped the topic of bullfighting and potential girlfriends after that. But she never changed my mind about Celia. Celia was beautiful - tall, graceful, bright-eyed, and good with a blade. What kind of nerdy dyke wouldn't love that? But alas, she was a celebrity, and I was not to be any part of her life except from afar, as a drooling fan.
It was probably better that way. I had researched way too much about bullfighting, even learning a hardly used word for it: Tauromachy. It sounded like a form of alchemy you'd perform if your astrological sign was Taurus. Being obsessed was not a good flavor to have in my mouth. And I knew all about the risks of glamorizing a most likely incredibly flawed human being.
But we'd run into each other soon enough, on the last day of the San Isidro festival, while I was stuffing my face with my second rosquilla de Santa Clara of the afternoon. I didn't recognize La Torbellina at first - she was dressed casually, in a hoodie and jeans, her hair down. Her left arm was in a sling. And when she spoke to me, her English sounded better than mine did (of course she knew right away that I was a gringa).
"That looks good," she remarked, pointing at my half-eaten doughnut.
I clumsily swallowed a mouthful of pastry and nodded. "It is. Have you had it?"
"Too many times," she laughed. "I have to be careful about that. Do you like these better than what you have in America?"
I arched an eyebrow. "What makes you think I'm American? I could be Canadian."
"You've got Tim Horton's there."
"Fair enough. I'm from Minnesota, though."
"The land of lakes!" Celia laughed. "I've never been, but my father traveled all over. He always brought back the strangest souvenirs."
It was odd how this woman was being so socially friendly with me, but at that moment, I paid it no mind. She sat down beside me, which would have made my heart explode if I had recognized her, and winced as she readjusted her splinted arm.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Está bien," she replied. "I sprained it in the stupidest way."
"How?"
She sneered. "Washing dishes," she replied. "I had just made paella and was scrubbing way too hard, I guess. You'd think I would've gotten hurt in the ring, but...nope."
Wait. A cook and a bullfighter? The various frayed wires in my brain suddenly lit up.
"Hang on." I stared at her. "Are you...?"
"Celia Molinero, at your service," she grinned. "Want another rosquilla?"
Boom, went my heart.
This week's prompt was inspired by the title, which is a word I learned just today from working on a crossword puzzle.
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