HYPE IN THE AFTERNOON

Simon Courtauld on Seville's

obsession with the ageing bullfighter, Curro Romero

AT LA CONSULA, their villa near Mala- ga in southern Spain, Bill and Annie Davis used to keep open house for an assortment of gamblers, writers, layabouts — and an occasional bullfighter. Ernest Hemingway spent some time there in the 1950s, result- ing in his posthumously published account of the rivalry between the matadors Anto- nio Ordonez and Luis Miguel Dominguin during the 1959 season. When I went to La Consula in the summer of 1963, there was no disputing that Ordoliez, a friend of both Hemingway and Davis, was numero uno. But much of the talk was also of another famous bullfighter, Curro Romero, who had been badly gored four times the previous season, and was to come to lunch the following day.

I recall little of the occasion, except that a few of the party, including Senor Romero, played poker during the after- noon and I tried unsuccessfully to explain to him the 'high-low' version of the game. Arriba abajo did not quite seem to cover it but, as I remember, he played — and bluffed — with aplomb. Curro, I was told, was a purist in the ring: he did not often give a good performance, but the few were worth waiting for. He was the bullfighters' bullfighter.

I never saw him fight during those years, indeed had all but forgotten the name of Curro Romero — until a few weeks ago, when I was in Seville and saw that he was due to fight on two consecutive days. It was worth checking first that this was the same Curro Romero. No doubt of that: he may be 58 years old but he is still Seville's favourite son and no feria can take place without him. He is, according to the man- ager of the Maestranza bullring, insustitu- ible.

It is hard to find a comparison for the kind of adulation that Curro Romero enjoys in Seville. It is partly to do with respect for age: like the 56-year-old Lester Piggott, he is still at the top of a physically demanding profession (though neither makes many appearances these days). But he also receives something more akin to pop-star treatment. Curro's fans, who include every Sevillan who goes to the bullfight, are known as curristas; they are part of the cult of currismo; and many wear a sprig of rosemary (romero) in their buttonholes. Curro's credentials, too, are impeccable: as an Andalusian with no doubt a good dose of Moorish or gypsy blood in his veins, he is known as El Feraon de Camas — a reference to his supposedly Egyptian style and to the vil- lage of his birth. A gypsy is said to have told him, 'I hate your fear, which is my fear; I love your art, which is my art. Sun and shade of a passionate relationship.'

I went to the second of Curro's appear- ances in the Seville bullring, also attended by the Queen Mother, Dona Maria de las Mercedes, la Condesa de Barcelona. The whole corrida was disappointing, principal- ly due to the weakness of the bulls, but when the maestro once attempted a few passes, lasting about 15 seconds, the ring erupted with shouts of 'Ole Currrrrr-o!'

In a street bar afterwards, a policeman enquired whether I had seen the 'great art of Curro' in those passes, and a waiter tried to reproduce them with his drying-up cloth. And what about yesterday? How could I have missed it? Curro was estupen- disimo.

What had I missed? The accounts in the Seville papers raved on, for column after column, about the maestro's triumph. The inspired art of Curro was like the famous light of Seville,' was one headline. The way in which he fought his second bull 'will leave in its wake a light which will shine at least until the year 2000'.

It was irresistible stuff, from which one might have expected that Curro would have been given the bull's ears (awarded by the president of the bullring for an out- standing performance), if not the tail and one or two hooves as well. However, he received nothing, as he had failed to kill the bull cleanly. Matador means 'killer' and this, after all, is what the bullfight is about. Yet, according to one less than impartial reporter, 'in the case of Curro it doesn't count'.

I consulted Michael Wigram, one of the most respected and objective of bullfight critics, who writes a column for the Madrid magazine, Seis Toros Seis. He had been at that first corrida and did not share his col- leagues' views. 'You missed nothing,' he told me. 'There were middle-aged men screaming with excitement all around me, but Curro did nothing more than make a few easy passes with a bull that had been crippled by his picadors. It was a ridiculous exhibition.'

Wigram used to be a currista in the Six- ties and Seventies, when Curro was a great artist, even though increasingly rarely seen at his best. But he is now no more than a caricature. In Madrid, he sometimes leaves the ring protected from the missiles of an angry crowd by riot police covering him with plastic shields.

But in Seville he is a legend. Perhaps the Sevillan newspaper critics do not need to indulge in quite such a surfeit of hyperbole, but they would not keep their jobs if they started being critical of Curro. Even when he does nothing, he is described as doing it 'with dignity and grace, at his own inim- itable pace'. The taurine correspondent of the tabloid ABC in Seville, Vicente Zabala, is one of those who appreciate the impor- tance of being cutrista. Were he not, he might lose not only his job but the friend- ship of the Duchess of Alba and the valued invitations to her private box at the annual fair.

Curro's influential followers are not con- fined to Seville. Joaquin Vidal, the senior bullfight critic of the influential Madrid newspaper El Pais, takes the view that Curro Romero is one of the very few lights in the ever-darkening world of modern bullfighting. Vidal is a curious case, for whom the corrida can only be justified as an art, as occasionally or formerly exhibited by Curro. Most other matadors are dis- missed by Vidal as 'professionals'.

A book published in 1987, The Enigma of Curro Romero, was dedicated `to those who have never seen him fight'. It is arguable

whether they would want to having read passages such as this: 'Cum Romero is a landmark, a singular and profound phe- nomenon in the history of bullfighting because he is, perhaps, the matador who with the greatest rigour places fear against art, love against hate, the instant against memory, technique against miracle, exis- tential concepts against aesthetic concepts, ethical concepts against philosophical con- cepts.'

More perceptively, the authors also write that 'people go to see Curro Romero for much the same reason as they buy lot- tery tickets'. I wonder how often he has provided the big pay-out over the last three decades, and whether he is capable of it any more. Part of the enigma is how Curro has built and maintained over this period a reputation which, at least in the capital city of the south, has assumed cult status. Undeniably, the old boy still has great style, which I was glad to have wit- nessed, if only for a few moments, when he brought the Maestranza alive — even if he had done more than other matadors to weaken the bull and arrange the odds in his favour.

Perhaps the real enigma of Curro Romero is how he can go on getting away with it. As recently as 1989 he was badly gored in the thigh and scrotum, but at 55 he was not yet ready to retire. There is also the matter of reward: Curro will be fight- ing again in Seville this summer, probably also in Madrid (where he was last awarded an ear seven years ago), and he will receive around 8 million pesetas (£45,000) for each afternoon's work. Since he does little with the cape these days and invariably kills badly, that is a lot of pesetas for the outside chance of a few passes with the red cloth. It is rumoured that Curro may announce his retirement at his last fight this season, in Seville on 12 October. This will probably ensure an even larger fee — and his return to the ring next year.

Thirty years after that game of poker, Curro seems to be now, more than ever, the master of bluff.