Dancer of Death: A Novel of Manolete

By Jeanne Blanchet

Manolete is a skilled matador trained to kill thousand-pound-plus bulls. Islero is a Miura bull bred to kill men. On August 28, 1947, their paths collide, leaving Manolete gravely wounded. As he lies in a hospital bed and drifts in and out of fitful sleep, snippets of his life, beginning from his early boyhood in Córdoba, flash before him.

Traveling back in time, the superstar relives his first bullfight and early struggles to restore his destitute family’s honor, his successful years at the pinnacle of his profession, his stormy relationship with his feisty mistress, actress Lupe Sino, and finally his heartbreaking descent into depression and alcoholism.

In this colorful yet tragic story inspired by true events, the fascinating life of a Spanish bullfighter unfolds as he reflects on his journey to become a famous matador.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jan 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665716116

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Copyright © 2022 Jeanne Blanchet.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by

any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are

models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-1612-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-1613-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-1611-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021924875

Archway Publishing rev. date: 12/29/2021

CONTENTS

Author’s Notes

Prologue

Part One

The Quest

1     Memories Of The Maestro

2     Young Interlopers

3     The Mother

4     The Wannabe

5     The Reject

6     The Clown

7     The Tienta

8     Camará

9     The Novillero

10   War And Military Service

11   The Matador

Part Two

The Ecstasy

12   The Maid

13   The Actress

14   The Meeting

15   The Mistress

16   The Maestro

17   El Monstruo, Mexico

18   Majorca

19   Morocco

Part Three

The Agony

20   The Rival

21   Anguish

22   Islero

23   Linares

Epilogue

Appendices

List Of Main Characters

Spanish Pronunciation Guide

Frequently Used Spanish Words In This Novel

Little-Known Facts About Manolete

Map Of Spain

Haiku

Acknowledgments

About The Author

Endnotes

This book is dedicated to Eugene Figy and the Spanish people.

They wanted more and more. He had no more to give…but his life. So he gave it to them.

—banderillero Carlos Gómez

AUTHOR’S NOTES

This is a work of biographical fiction. Though the majority of the characters are real, some have been invented. Any resemblance of the latter to real persons, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

In Spain, southern France, Mexico, and several Latin American countries such as Perú, Colombia, Ecuador, and Venezuela, bullfighting is considered an art, not a sport. A skilled matador is as graceful as a danseur, embroiled on a regular basis in a dance of death with a 1,000-plus-pound bull bred expressly to kill. Manuel Laureano Rodríguez y Sánchez, better known as Manolete, was perhaps the greatest among them. Dancer of Death is based on this fascinating man’s colorful yet tragic story.

Although this work parallels Manolete’s life, several episodes are fictitious, such as his Moroccan and Majorcan jaunts with Lupe Sino, his mistress, and certain childhood episodes in the opening chapters. Other liberties have been taken as well, particularly with respect to the timing and locations of minor events. For instance, Manolete joined the comic bullfight troupe Los Califas at age sixteen, not fourteen. Also, he worked as a plasterer’s assistant at the Florentino Sotomayor Ranch outside Córdoba, not at a private villa. Finally, the author chose to ignore the celebrity’s cocaine habit (developed in 1946 during the course of two Mexican tours), focusing instead on his more widely known struggle with alcoholism.¹

In view of the preceding facts, this book is by no means a factual biography. First and foremost, it has been written to provide an entertaining as well as thought-provoking read for the general public.

A brief word about names: In Spanish-speaking countries, a person’s given names are placed first, followed by his or her father’s surname, after which comes a lower-case y (meaning and) followed by his or her mother’s maiden name. In addition, bullfighters—like many authors, actors, and other performing artists—frequently use stage names. (José Franco was known as Gitanillo, for example.)

Some readers may consider bullfights cruel and find much of the material in this novel offensive. For this the author apologizes in advance. Though she attempted to downplay blood and gore, both are, unfortunately, indispensable to Manolete’s story. Bullfighting is not for the faint of heart.

The bulls must be killed, and to Spaniards the significance of the kill is crucial. According to Dr. Reza Hosseinpour and others familiar with the Spanish psyche, the majority of Spaniards tend to view death as both a vital reminder and an integral part of the profound suffering the Spanish people have long experienced. Moreover, a good bullfighter evokes the physical and spiritual beauty of a painting or a dance despite the bull’s inevitable, ugly suffering. These opposites serve to intensify the overall effect for many people of Spanish heritage, much like a dash of red or orange in a predominantly somber-hued painting. In most countries bullfighting has been banned—including in the United States, largely due to efforts by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. But abhor it or adore it, la fiesta brava, as bullfighting is known, is what it is, pure and simple.

PROLOGUE

Manolete was a matador trained to kill fighting bulls. Islero was a Miura bull bred to kill men. On August 28, 1947, their paths would collide.…

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Manuel Laureano Rodríguez y Sánchez (Manolete)

PART ONE

THE QUEST

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1

MEMORIES OF

THE MAESTRO

August 27, 1947

Linares, Spain

Ai, yai, the pain! Holy Mother of God, the pain is excruciating! sputtered the dying, bleary-eyed man lying on the hospital’s scantily padded operating room table. I can b-barely see, and my breathing is labored. B-but you said I killed the bull, didn’t you?

Yes, Maestro, you did.

And, oh God, I d-didn’t get anything for it?

Indeed you did, Maestro. You were duly awarded two ears and a tail. You were positively brilliant up until the moment of your goring, but you must rest now, said Guillermo gently but firmly as Dr. Muscatel ordered the room’s overhead light dimmed. Try to go to sleep, please.

But Doctor, aren’t…aren’t you going to examine the wound? said the anguish-ridden patient, feebly raising his head in a futile effort to sit up.

"Mañana. Tomorrow, Dr. Jiménez Guinea, the horn-wound specialist, and I will take care of that. Tonight we need to concentrate on stabilizing your vitals. You have bled profusely, and both your blood pressure and heart rate are dangerously low. Until this moment, in fact, you’ve been in shock. You’ve had a transfusion and now are receiving antiseptic IVs."

Anti-w-what?

Antiseptic intravenous injections. Please rest now; don’t try to talk anymore. Lie back down. Try to sleep if you can.

But the pain—

I have just ordered medication for that.

The wound. The wound. Aren’t y-you—

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. As I said, mañana we will thoroughly examine and treat the wound.

Is it bad?

Unfortunately, yes.

Jesús, María, y José! the gravely wounded matador gasped as he mustered the strength to kiss the silver medal of the Virgin of Macarena, patron saint of bullfighters, which he always wore around his neck.

Thoroughly exhausted by that simple action, he sank back down onto the stark, uncomfortable table. He’d found it extremely difficult breathing in the poorly ventilated room increasingly packed with onlookers, including his manager, Camará, and devoted sword handlers, Guillermo and Chimo.

All through the night, the superstar, whose given name was Manuel but who was known to the world by his professional name, Manolete, drifted in and out of fitful sleep as snippets of his life, beginning from his early boyhood in Córdoba, flashed before him.

His first recollection, which was hazy at best since he’d been only three at the time, was of lying in bed critically ill during the spring of 1920. He’d caught a bad cold that had gone into pneumonia. The woody smell of camphor oil permeated the small room. Running a fever and extremely weak, he had a dry cough, was nauseated, and felt absolutely miserable. From lack of oxygen, a bluish patch suddenly appeared around his lips, causing his mother, Angustias, extreme concern. She was sitting on his bed holding one of his little hands in her reassuring warm ones. Moments later, she began to pray the rosary while his anxious father, himself in poor health, stood at the door with Miranda, his elder sister, looking in, at a loss what to do for his ailing son.

Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.…

Angustias’s praying was fervent. Soothed by her gentle voice, Manuel snuggled against her soft, comforting bosom, his cheeks flushed. As his mother’s voice droned on, he became increasingly drowsy.

Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

Before long, little Manuel lost his battle with sleep and dozed off.

The subsequent episode, which the wounded maestro recalled far better, had taken place the following year, also in his native Córdoba. His father, an ex-matador, had taken him to see his first bullfight.

Well? said Manuel Senior, clasping his son’s hand while elbowing them both forward in the sea of spectators exiting the bullring. "What did you think of your first corrida, eh? Pretty impressive, no? Surely you enjoyed it, didn’t you, my boy?"

No response.

Didn’t you hear me, Manuel? Bullfights are truly amazing spectacles. You had a good time this afternoon, I take it.

"Actually, I did not."

Not? You mean you didn’t like the corrida? How come? What was the matter? I thought the bulls were exceptionally brave and the matadors this afternoon superb, especially Domingo González.

No response.

I did notice you were sitting slouch-shouldered with a sour look on your face some of the time. Was there a problem? I thought maybe you weren’t feeling well again and tried my best to make you comfortable, buying you those Valencia oranges. Furthermore, I spent more than I could really afford so we could have seats on the shady side of the arena. Are you feeling sick? I’m sorry. You should have told Papa.

I’m feeling okay.

What was the matter then?

I just told you. I didn’t like the bullfight; that’s all. It was bloody and gory—terrible, really.

Terrible? Impossible! What was so terrible?

Most all of it, especially the part with the horses, the boy sniffled, his hazel eyes misting. I feel so sorry for those animals.

Manuel, the mounted picadors have an important part to play, his father explained, still hurrying his son along in the boisterous, jostling crowd now nearing the portal bottleneck. It is essential for them to goad the bull with their lances to tire him a bit and to force his head down so he won’t be as apt to injure the matador later.

That’s painful though!

Don’t worry. The bulls don’t feel pain.

They don’t?

No. In the heat of the corrida, they are totally immune to it. Besides, fighting bulls aren’t benign, cuddly farm animals sent out to graze in a pasture all day to grow lazy and fat. Far from it. They are mean, dangerous beasts bred to kill a man on the spot if cut even the slightest bit of slack.

Maybe. But the horses have feelings, and they get badly hurt. I saw it. The entire spectacle almost made me throw up, made me want to cry. I hate it!

"Stop whining! Boys don’t do that, at least no boy of mine. And don’t you ever say anything bad about bullfights again, do you hear? Bullfighting is how my father, my uncle Pepete, and I all made our livings. It’s what put food on our tables and clothes on our backs. It’s a noble, glorious profession. I would be in that ring today myself were it not for my deteriorating health and eyesight, which forced me into early retirement. Bull business is in our family’s blood…yours too, incidentally. Someday you will be a torero just like the rest of us."

Never, resolved young Manuel to himself. Never, never, never! I will never be a bullfighter. I hate bullfighting!

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Never! sputtered the dying man.

What? What did you just say, Mata’or? Did you say, ‘Never’? You need this second transfusion. It’s essential. Relax, please, said Dr. Guinea, leaning over his groggy patient in an attempt to hear him better.

Ugh. No. It’s all right. I, er, it was just a vision, a m-memory from my early boyhood. Must have been about four. I—

Drifting back into semiconsciousness, Manuel dozed only a few more moments before another episode, an emotional, heart-wrenching one, surfaced from his youth.

His father had died that day, and he had been made to sit with Angustias and his sisters beside his father’s casket during the visitation, which went on for what seemed an eternity. The air was heavy with incense. Young Manuel began to choke. At six, he was just old enough to comprehend the finality of his father’s passing. Overcome with sorrow, he struggled to hold back the tears that continually welled up and tried to force their way from his reddened eyes. Candles had been placed throughout the room, their tiny flames dancing about their wicks, appearing to mock his grief. Flickering candles. Candles and more candles.

Stop dancing! Stop! Stop, I say!

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Death: zo horrible.

Death? What are you saying? You’re not going to die, at least not if we can help it, Manolo. Now for goodness’ sake, rest! said Dr. Guinea.

Manuel’s fourth recollection took place in 1926. He had been sent downtown on an errand by his mother and was focused on his mission, minding his own business, as he walked briskly along a crowded street. Rounding a corner, he passed the city’s main hotel. In front of it, a throng of adoring aficionados had surrounded matador Juan Belmonte and his manager, who practically had to beat the people off while making their way to the fancy Mercedes-Benz waiting to take them to the arena for the afternoon’s corrida.

Sunlight filtered down between the fancy wrought iron balconies of the buildings on either side of the quaint thoroughfare, illuminating the superstar’s embroidered, sequined suit of lights so brilliantly that he could have outshone Apollo himself. Excited fans of all ages clamored up to their dazzling hero to shake his hand and get his autograph. Meanwhile, rose petals thrown by adoring ladies from their second-story balconies gently cascaded down upon him, perfuming the air with their rich fragrance.

"Buena suerte! Buena suerte! Good luck today!" Juan’s aficionados shouted.

Manuel couldn’t believe all the fuss and wondered what it was all about. At the time, he didn’t even know who Juan Belmonte was. What’s going on here? Who’s the bullfighter with the protruding jaw who’s getting into that big, foreign automobile? he asked.

A bystander instantly replied, "Why, don’t you know, sonny? That’s the great Juan Belmonte, el número uno among matadors. Number one!"

Hell, he’s not number one, interjected a superannuated codger standing next to the first man. "Belmonte’s a Sevillian. Phooey! We have much braver toreros right here in Córdoba. We are in the heart of bullfighting country, in the very soul of Spain.

Say, young lad, you look familiar, he went on, suddenly noticing Manuel and bending down to scrutinize his face. Aren’t you Manuel Rodríguez Junior, the great-nephew of the renowned Pepete?

Pepete? Sí, señor. My father often mentioned that.

"Thought I recognized you! Pepete was something, all right. Now there was a memorable matador, brave as they come. Large and a bit ungainly perhaps, but a true genius nonetheless. I remember as a small fry one time when I’d snuck past the ticket booth into the arena with some other boys to see him fight. No sooner had we sat down on some vacant seats high in the stands than we witnessed a frisky bull tear the cape right out of his hands. Everyone could see he was in big trouble. But what did he do? He nonchalantly grabbed a small bandana he’d tucked inside his vest and completed his passes with it! That’s right…at least four passes with no more protection than a tiny kerchief, mind you!"

He did? I never heard that story. Papa just told me that he got killed.

Not that day. Shortly afterwards in another fight he did.

So? The end was the same: he died.

"Ah, yes, but he died with honor. That makes it all worthwhile. You see, in that corrida a picador was downed and about to be gored. And what did Pepete do? He immediately rushed out from behind the barrier fence where he’d been standing and ran up to save him, fending the bull off by grabbing his horns with his bare hands, no less!"

Wow! Was he able to save the fallen picador?

Thankfully, he was, but in the process, he himself was gored three times, the last time right through the heart.

Ugggh, how awful!

"But did that stop him? No! The amazing matador held onto his bleeding ticker as the life was ebbing out of him and managed to stagger all the way back to the gate, where he smiled and took a bow before finally collapsing and succumbing.

"I tell you, there was a man! His blood courses through your veins too. You can be proud, kid! It’s a pundonor, as we say—a matter of intense honor and self-respect. Always remember that."

Suddenly, the blast of a car horn interrupted their conversation as Juan’s Mercedes pulled away from the curb, his clamoring, adoring fans still shouting their accolades. As the celebrity’s chauffeur slowly maneuvered the vehicle though the narrow street swarming with people, children running behind it chanted the popular matador’s name: "¡Belmonte, Belmonte! ¡El número uno! ¡Viva, Belmonte! ¡Viva el número uno!"

Manuel watched, mesmerized. Soon afterwards, the crowd dispersed.

The man who’d informed him about Pepete’s heroic feats had also departed by then, but his words remained with the impressionable boy, moving him profoundly. For the first time in his life, the puny, sickly nine-year-old felt proud of his impoverished but apparently still greatly admired family. Up until that moment he’d loathed bullfighting. Worse yet, after his father’s death, he had become a mama’s boy and a loner, who rarely even played soccer with his classmates at school. Taciturn and distant, for the past several years he had spent nearly all of his free time at his mother’s side, sketching on a small pad he carried most everywhere he went.

That moment, however, something changed inside him. The old man’s words had sparked in him an extraordinary sense of pride, which would steadily grow into an intense flame. Manuel puffed out his chest as he headed back home. In a few years, he would be a man, and the men in his family all had fought bulls and had been idolized like Juan Belmonte! Perhaps that’s what he should do also, especially since bullfighting was virtually the only way a poor Spanish boy like himself could climb out of poverty. Though he’d never liked bullfights, the idea of becoming a torero suddenly seemed less offensive and at least worth his reconsideration, especially since he wasn’t particularly good in school and had few, if any, other promising career prospects.

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Yes, indeed. H-how well I remember that day! It was…the day that…changed my life, Manolete mumbled, gasping for breath.

Maestro? What is it? What did you just say?

Oh, n-nothing. Merely another random vision from my childhood. They’ve been popping up…all evening. Now they appear…to be slowing down and becoming longer, merging into a detailed, complete story of my life f-from the time I was about eleven, he said as he lapsed out of conscious thought once more.

2

YOUNG INTERLOPERS

Córdoba, Spain

The life drama unfolding in Manuel’s brain resumed with an incident that had taken place in 1929 at the Florentino Sotomayor Ranch outside of Córdoba. It was 2:00 a.m. The spring air was crisp, and billions of twinkling stars studded the heavens. Everything was still, the scene appearing like the epitome of serenity, akin to a Monet painting. Scattered wispy clouds scuttled along, alternately concealing then revealing a near-full moon as three young would-be bullfighters stealthily slipped over the ranch’s stucco fence, wantonly about to defy the law for the rare chance to practice their capework with live animals. Manuel was among them. Guillermo, the oldest, who’d organized the foray, led the way. Manuel followed close behind with Isidro, one of Guillermo’s other pals.

There was a sudden screech as an owl flew by. After that, everything was still once more. In the soft glow of the moonlight, the trespassers easily spotted several young bull calves in the pasture. They crept up closer, then closer still. Riveting his attention on the nearest, Guillermo momentarily halted. Manuel and Isidro stopped too, remaining in place as Guillermo gingerly ventured another step toward his target.

Sneaking into ranches to cape calves was taboo, of course. But the lads had few, if any, chances to practice bullfighting with live animals aside from jumping into the bullring during a corrida and attempting a few passes before being apprehended and disciplined.

Well, here goes, Guillermo uttered to his pals as he stepped up even closer. The other boys watched, wide-eyed. Edging along, their leader then flung out the tattered red rag he’d brought, which substituted for a cape, and called out, "¡Toro, torito!" in an attempt to induce the animal to action. His makeshift cape, of course, would appear gray in the night, but even inexperienced boys knew that bulls were colorblind and charged because of the cape’s movement, not its color. Guillermo was just about to make a second attempt to get the calf to charge when a loud, piercing sound broke the evening’s silence, startling all three lads.

What was that?

Uh-oh, a whistle! Someone’s spied us! cried Isidro.

Ai, yai! The cops or ranch’s night guards! called out Guillermo. They might have dogs…or even shotguns. We’ve got to get out of here, or we’ll end up spending the night in the local lockup, and our folks will have to come and bail us out!

With what? thought Manuel, freezing in panic, knowing his mother hadn’t a single peseta to spare.

Run like the devil! Make for the fence! Quick! shouted Guillermo.

The boys scrambled as a flashlight trained on them, casting their long shadows across the field and onto the barbed wire-topped stucco fence. Manuel scrambled into action with the others, managed to scale the fence, and was in the process of leaping down to safety on the other side when he snagged his knickers on one of the barbs. Trying to release the barb as he jumped, he heard them tear. In the process he also cut the palm of his right hand and began to bleed heavily. But