On the Mexican side of the bridge was another border station, but there no one ever asked about anything. There, true enough, near a booth stood a saffron-faced man with a dirtyish neck, dressed in a dazzling uniform of dark-coloured khaki, with gold pipings. But on the face of the Mexican border official was utter contempt for the duties imposed upon him. On his face was sketched: " Yes, a sad fate has obliged me to wear this beautiful uniform, but I will not soil my graceful hands by looking over nasty scraps of paper. No! You will never live to see that done by the honourable Juan Ferdinand Cristobal Colbajos!"
We, who were not provided with Mexican visas because of the absence of diplomatic relations between Moscow and Mexico, were very glad that we had come across such an honourable hidalgo, and quickly walked down the main street of Juarez.
Having become accustomed after considerable time to the odour of petrol, which reigns in the United States, we were rather embarrassed by the odours of Juarez. Here were the smells of fried food, burned oil, garlic, red pepper—strong and heavy odours.
A multitude of people filled the streets. The idle unhurried pedestrians moved slowly. Young men with guitars passed by. Despite the glitter of their orange shoes and new hats, they appeared to be rather poor. Cripples begged loudly for charity. Fine-looking, black-eyed, and snot-nosed children ran after foreigners, begging for pennies. Hundreds of tiny boys ran with brushes and shoe-shining boxes. It seems to be a rule that the poorer a southern city is, the more importance is attached to shoes that shine like mirrors. A detachment of soldiers passed—ugly-mugged, spruced up, the leather straps of their fighting equipment creaking—a detachment of scandalously secure bruisers.
As soon as we appeared in the streets of Juarez an unhappy young man with sideburns on his thin face approached us. He wore green trousers and a shirt with an open collar. He asked that we buy from him cigarettes, tickets for today's bullfight, smuggled tobacco, and a thousand other articles. He offered to sell everything that a salesman could possibly sell to a customer. Noticing that we were yielding, he became busier than ever and led us to the building of the amphitheatre where the bullfight would take place;
The outer walls of the amphitheatre were covered with large advertisements of American whisky. We could not manage to get inside. At the moment there was in progress a meeting of a worker-peasant union directed against former President Calles, who was trying to seize power. The entire square around the amphitheatre was filled with people, red and green ribbons in their lapels (emblem of the union). Inside, an orchestra was playing, orators talked hoarsely, while at the entrance stood the military detachment we had already seen today. The cries that reached us, the crowd that listened to it, standing on an unpaved square, the wind which carried the hot prickly dust and straw, the determined and stupid faces of the soldiers—all of it created an alarming, explosive frame of mind.
We went to the market-place, where food was being fried, baked, and cooked, the kind of food the mere appearance of which produced unquenchable thirst. People sat at the stands. They took the food off the plates with their hands.
Then we visited a church. At its entrance crowded impudent paupers with the dirty, inspired faces of prophets and wise men. A service was going on in the church, and women in black wept over their bitter, unhappy, insecure Mexican life. The church was narrow and long. Several lighted candles scarcely dispelled the gloom. The women sat on wooden benches with high backs. A small organ bleated.
During Prohibition Juarez was an alcoholic oasis for the suffering Americans. Even now the city has several large restaurants built exclusively for foreigners. All of them are located right at the bridge across the Rio Grande.
The bullfight was set for three o'clock, but it began forty minutes late. Time and again we managed to examine the arena and the small crowd which gathered here. Judging by the deafening "Sure!" which from time to time resounded not far from us, there were several Americans in the audience.
The arena was surrounded by a beautiful but crudely built amphitheatre without a roof. It was a simple public building utterly devoid of decoration. The spectators who were afraid to catch cold on the cement seats could rent flat straw pillows in striped covers. A large orchestra of boys dressed in dark coats, green neckties, caps with large peaks, and grey pantaloons with white stripes, blew Spanish marches loudly and falsely out of their horns. The round arena was strewn with clean sand.
At last a movement began behind the wooden gates, and about eight or ten people appeared. Ahead of them walked two girls in the costumes of toreadors. Today was an unusual fight. Of the four bulls indicated in the programme, two had to be killed by the two sisters who had come from Mexico City. The band thundered in full blast. After the girls came the men, likewise in shabby costumes edged with gold. They looked as if they knew their business, and replied to the greetings of the public with slight bows. The girl matadors were excited and bowed very low. The procession ended with a pair of horses in harness. The horses were there to drag away the slaughtered bulls.
Up and down the aisles walked salesmen, carrying in buckets, bottles of fruit water, and small flasks of whisky.
A meagre little black bull ran into the arena. The game began.
Right under our seats in a special wooden enclosure stood a very thin Mexican with a sword which he was wiping on a cloth rag. This sword is handed to the matador before the decisive blow. Not being experts or devotees of obloquy, we choose to refrain here from using special terms, particularly since they are unknown to us.
The first bull was a long time being killed, and badly.
The spectacle was tormenting from the very beginning, because at once the desire of the bull to get away from the arena became evident. He clearly understood that here someone wanted to do him harm. He did not want to fight. He wanted to go home, to his pen, his grazing field. He wanted to pluck the coarse Mexican grass and not to fling himself upon people.
In vain was he being irritated by means of hooks with coloured ribbons that were plunged into his neck. The bull had to be tormented a long time before his anger was aroused. And even when he finally became infuriated, even then he quickly calmed down the moment he was let alone.
The most depressing part of this entire spectacle was the fact that the bull did not want to die and was afraid of his opponents. Nevertheless, he was roused to anger, and he attacked the girl. She scarcely managed to turn away, when the bull pushed her several times with a powerful sideswipe. The girl made grimaces of pain, but continued to wave the red cape before the bull's eyes. He pushed her with his horns, flung her on the sand, and passed over her. The bull's attention was diverted by calm and experienced men. In the meantime, the girl rose and, rubbing her injured spots, went off toward the enclosure, where the keeper of the sword was in readiness. Now we saw her closely. She breathed heavily. Her velvet vest had burst at its seams. On one cheekbone was a scratch. She took the sword from the hands of the Mexican, walked away from the barrier a bit, and, turning around to face the balcony where the officials of the city sat, took off her little hat. In the balcony someone waved a handkerchief, and the girl, taking a deep childlike breath, walked up to the bull.
The decisive moment had come. The girl aimed and shoved the sword into the neck of the bull, right behind his horns. The sword, when deftly aimed, enters sufficiently deep and kills the bull. It is said that it is a glorious sight. One blow, and the bull falls at the feet of his vanquisher! But the girl did not know how to kill the bull. She stabbed him weakly and incompetently. The bull ran away, carrying on his neck the swaying sword. The girl had to live through several humiliating moments when the banderilleros chased the bull in order to pull the sword out of him. That was repeated several times. The bull was tired, and so was the girl. A pink foam appeared on the bull's snout. He wandered slowly around the arena. Several times he walked up to the closed gate. We suddenly heard a peaceful pastoral mooing, distant, and foreign to what was going on in the arena. How did a cow get in here ? Why, yes, the bull! He made a few more wandering steps and began to descend to his knees. Then a hefty man in civilian clothes appeared m the arena and killed the bull with a small dagger.