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Blood and Ceremony (from

by Kathleen Alcalá

One evening, when Estela returned, weary and hungry from her day at La Escuela de Paciencia, La Señorita had visitors in her parlor.

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"Come join us," called La Señorita as Estela entered the front hallway and removed her hat.

"Forgive me," she said, "but I would like to see my son for a moment."

"Here I am!" said Noé, and stood up from behind the settee where he had been hidden.

"Mamá," he said, and came forward for an embrace.

"It is too late for you," she scolded. "You should be in bed."

"Oh, let him stay just a little," said La Señorita. "I will have Carmela bring you some supper."

"Please, Mamá," he begged. "Señor Anslao was telling us about the bullfight!"

"Well," said Estela, sitting down and pulling Noé into her lap, where his feet dangled almost to the floor, "at least you are in your night clothes."

"Go on," said Noé to Señor Anslao, "and then what happened?"

"And then again, he allowed the bull to pass so close to him, that it practically creased his trousers. He did not even flinch. Did not even change expression."

"They say it is his Indian blood that allows him to remain so calm," said Humberto animatedly. "They say that he does not care if he lives or dies."

"If that were true," said La Señorita, "he would be dead by now."

"Only on the third pass," Anslao went on, "did he plunge the sword into the bull’s back, as smooth as butter. The bull did not even buck. It looked up once, as though looking into his tormentor’s eyes, questioning his fate, and slumped to the ground. The crowd was on it’s feet, throwing hats and cushions. They gave Ponciano two ears and a tail."

Estela had never attended a bullfight, but she had seen the bloody broadsheets that extolled the virtues of the matadors. Noé, of course, had seen them, too.

"And will Ponciano fight again soon?" asked Noé. "I would love to go."

"No," said Estela. "You are too young."

"Listen to your mamá," said Anslao, "not to the ravings of an old man." He looked up at Estela. "Don Porfírio, of course, does not approve of the bull fights, but allowed them to be reinstated because they are so popular with the masses."

"He disapproves so much that he is often there," said Humberto.

"Forgive me," said La Señorita. "This is La Viuda Quintanilla de Carabajál, director of the school. Estela, this is Señor Enrique Anslao Gomez. He is an official in the Ministry of Justice."

Anslao rose and greeted Estela, who smiled politely. Carmela brought her dinner on a tray, and set it to Estela’s right on a low table. Noé slid to the floor to allow her to eat.

"Señor Anslao is a friend of mine from school," said Humberto. "We have known each other for many years."

"Yes," said Anslao, "and I am very interested in La Señorita’s work with the women of the City. She tells us that you have been a godsend to her, that she could not do this work without you."

"I’m sure that she could," said Estela. "She was doing much before I arrived."

There was someone at the door, and a servant hurried to answer. Someone spoke, and although she could not hear what was said, Estela recognized his voice.

"It is time for you to go to bed," she said to Noé.

"But Mamá. . . ."

"It is already late. You have had enough of a treat, and you have school tomorrow. Say goodnight to everyone!"

Noé took his leave reluctantly. "Will you come back again?" he said to Anslao. "And tell more stories about the bravery of Ponciano?"

"Absolutely," said Anslao. "And other matadors, as well."

"There will be other nights with more stories, we promise," said La Señorita with a smile.

"I wil be there soon," said Estela, "to say goodnight."

At the door to the parlor, the visitor said hello to him. The boy mumbled a greeting, already fading, before being led off to his room.

"Ah, Dr. Carranza!" said La Señorita, smiling brightly. She stood and welcomed him. "I believe you know Señor Anslao, Humberto, of course, and Señora Carabajál?"

"Yes," he said, nodding to all. "Hello." He sat in a chair near Estela, the coolness of the night air still fresh on his clothes.

"Hello, Doctor," said Anslao. "In fact, didn’t I see you today? Wasn’t that an amazing spectacle?"

"You attend the fights?" asked La Señorita.

Carranza shrugged and smiled. "Once in a while."

"Both sides are always full," said Anslao, "the side in the sun, and the side in the shade."

"We, as Mexicans, can’t seem to get enough of this bloody spectacle," said Humberto smiling. "I suspect that Señora Carabajál does not approve."

Estela smiled. "I think I understand the need for theater, for the pageantry of it. I’m not sure that I understand the mania for bullfighting in particular."

"Even the señoritas from the best families attend," said Anslao. "Sometimes the matadors dedicate the bulls to them."

La Señorita tossed her head. "Then there are the matadors. The newspapers are as full of their exploits outside of the arena as in it."

"Yes, it is not clear which behave more poorly-those from Spain, or those from Mexico," said Humberto. The men laughed. "Except for Ponciano, of course. Everyone knows that he is pure. He dedicates every bull to his mother."

"But really, it is the only sport which all-los de abajo y los de arriba-enjoy in common," said Anslao. "It is the great equalizer."

"What do you think, Doctor?" asked La Señorita.

Carranza finished lighting his pipe. "I think to miss it is to miss something . . . essentially . . . Mexican."

"Blood and ceremony," said Humberto.

"Yes, blood and ceremony," said Anslao. "Is that Spanish, or Indian?"

"Both, clearly," said Carranza.

"Yes," agreed La Señorita. "But don’t you think it makes the Europeans look down on us?"

"I see them looking down from the side in the shade!" said Anslao, and all laughed again. "No, really. They look down on Ponciano and his fans, because he fights in the Mexican style. The Europeans and the upper-class prefer Mazzantini, who is clean-shaven, and who kills volapié, by running at the bull. People get very heated over these differences."

"But how are we to better ourselves if this is how we spend our time?" asked Estela. "Why does our national pastime have to be a blood sport?"

"That is our national public pastime," said Humberto. This was followed by knowing chuckles from the men.

Estela did not understand, and looked to La Señorita, who was smiling broadly. "The bed, they say, is the opera of the poor."

Estela blushed.

"Well, the better of us, like yourself, spend our time more productively," said Anslao. "Please, I’m sorry I returned to that subject. Please tell us of your work."

"Well," said Estela, looking again at La Señorita, "We have about a dozen women living at the school right now. We also have their children, and a number of children without mothers, or mothers who are completely perdida." She looked sad for a moment, then sat up. "But La Señorita has had a wonderful idea, a wonderful way to train some of the women."

All looked to La Señorita, who had relaxed again along her divan. "Music, unlike bullfighting, to soothe the savage beast."

"You propose to teach them music?" asked Carranza. Estela had not dared to look directly at him since he had been seated.

"A Profesor Murillo has graciously offered to put together an orchestra, providing that we can find instruments for it."

"An orchestra? Do you think you have any women with the . . . aptitude?" asked Anslao.

"We are a very musical people," said La Señorita. "Everywhere I go, I hear people singing, playing music in the streets. Every fiesta is based as much in song as in spectacle."

"But an orchestra," said Anslao. "You mean of European music?"

"Certainly. The Profesor is convinced that this is a reasonable and beneficial endeavor. It teaches discipline and cooperation. The mere exposure to classical music should be an uplifting influence."

"My wife likes music," said Carranza. Estela stared at her hands.

"That is splendid!" said La Señorita. "She will have to attend our first concert! We shall start a list," said La Señorita, now addressing Estela, "of patrons of the musical arts."

"Yes," said Estela, "I will see to that. I think I am tired, now," she said, standing, "and must say goodnight." She smiled at everyone in the room, not daring to linger on Carranza, who had a bemused expression on his face.

"I am so pleased to have met you," said Anslao, jumping to his feet. "May you rest well."

"Goodnight."

As she walked past Carranza, Estela saw his hand lift towards her from his lap, turning to expose the palm. She could not tell if it was a gesture of entreaty, or in response to the conversation around them.

Estela went up the stairs to bed, checking to see that Noé slept soundly. His room, next to hers, was light and airy. La Señorita had arranged to have a mural painted that went all around the upper walls, a foxhunt, with the fox hiding in a huge tree directly over the bed. Estela stepped over toy soldiers and horses to kiss the dark widow’s peak on her son’s forehead.

She went to bed vaguely irritated. As Estela undressed and brushed out her hair, she realized that she had been completely tense from the moment Victor Carranza had entered the room. She was irritated with La Señorita, who would stay up late talking with the men, and with Victor Carranza, for mentioning his wife. He seemed so natural around her and other people, so cool, while she herself felt that, at any moment, they would be exposed. At the same time, she was upset that he did not try to acknowledge her once in any special way, unless that is what he was doing, the upturned hand, partly shielded from the others, as she passed. Estela could not be sure of this, as she had barely looked at him once.

Also, she was surprised to learn that he attended the bullfights. He had never mentioned this. She brushed her hair more vigorously. He probably assumed, and assumed correctly, that she would not approve. She remembered the description of the matador, fearless in the face of death, as though he did not care whether he lived or died. Was she missing something essentially Mexican? Estela decided that her life, at this point, was essentially Mexican enough.