The Hemisphere: The Man from C

The short, slight Spaniard stepped from the plane at Tijuana, wearing dark glasses and a grey suede jacket, his brown hair sprouting like hay from beneath a maroon-banded straw hat.

Clamoring promoters, elbowing newsmen and shrieking fans crowded around Manuel Benitéz, 26, known as El Cordobés, the newest sensation of the bullfight world. He has been a professional less than three years, was not even a full-fledged matador until last May. But this year he will appear in close to 100 corridas in Spain and Latin America— and make about $1,000,000, far more than even Manolete in his prime.

From the airport, El Cordobés and entourage drove to a motel to rest. At noon, while 16,000 fans filed into the nearby arena, he was awakened from his nap. His companion, a platinum-blonde waitress from Los Angeles, came in but was gently pushed into a bathroom while the bullfighter dressed.

Barnaby Conrad, author of Encyclopedia of Bullfighting, had flown down from San Francisco for the fight and dropped in to say hello, wearing a sweatshirt adorned with a picture of Manolete. At last, El Cordobés put on his sequined jacket of violet silk, and the blonde emerged from the bathroom, where she had been softly crying. He flipped her on the behind with a towel, and she smiled. Then someone shouted, “Ay, Matador!” and it was off to the Plaza in a roar of police motorcycles.

Courage & Cornadas. El Cordobés’ many critics consider it sacrilege to mention him in the same breath with Manolete, Belmonte, Domenguín, Ordóñez, or Paco Camino, whom experts regard as Número Uno today. They call El Cordobés a novice, sneer at his clumsy work with the capote, the large cape, and his limited repertory with the smaller muleta; they say he is a hacker with a sword, killing slowly and without style.Far from being Número Uno, says one Mexico City expert, “he is a little clown, a tourist’s bullfighter.” But one thing everyone agrees on is El Cordobés’ courage. No one ever worked closer to the bull, no one has ever exhibited such disdain for the horns—and few have been gored more often in such a short career. El Cordobés counts twelve severe cornadas.

It may not be classic bullfighting, in which the object is grace as well as guts, but it electrifies the crowds.

The son of a peasant, he was born in Cordoba, the Moorish city in southern Spain,and picked it for his matador’s name. At 15 he entered village amateur events, determined, as he recalls it, to do or die for his widowed mother: “I told her, ‘I will dress you in mourning or I will buy you a house.’ ” In 1960, his first professional season, he killed 72 young bulls—and ragged though he was, won 90 ears, 31 tails, 13 hoofs for his heart-stopping brushes with death. The next year he fought 109 bulls and was the idol of shopgirls and peasants. He had five pasodobles composed for him, played himself in a movie of his life, called Learning to Die.

“I never learned from a master,” he says. “The bull taught me.” Closer, Always Closer. At Tijuana’s Plaza Monumental last week, El Cordobés hardly seemed interested in the bull during two-thirds of the first fight.

He made a few simple passes with the big cape, quickly led the animal to the mounted picador, who weakened its shoulder muscles with his lance. He did not place the dartlike banderillas himself—he is not very good at it. But then came the faena, the final “act,” in which the matador exchanges the big cape for the small, red muleta, and slowly leads the charging bull back and forth as close to his own body as he dares.

The passes were uncomplicated—the derechazo, to the right, and the natural, to the left. Again and again, El Cordobés led the charging animal past his loins, drawing it ever closer. Some bullfighters move their feet ever so slightly; others lean back as the bull charges past. El Cordobés remained rooted, controlling the muleta with his arms and wrist. Not enough that the bull charged him, he now charged the bull, dancing forward with tiny steps, calling and cajoling. One of the banderillasgot in the way: El Cordobés boldly yanked it from the bull’s shoulder as it rushed by. On each pass now, the animal’s bloody flanks brushed the matador’s suit, staining it dark red.

The kill was faulty; the first thrust failed and El Cordobés had to dispatch the animal with a second sword. But no matter. An official presented him two ears—too much, in the judgment of purists, but just right for the cheering crowd.

In Quito, Ecuador, last month, troops had to be called out to protect El Cordobés from his frenzied fans. He finally escaped, dressed as a priest.