“Ai, no corrida!”, a yell reverberates around the stadium in the moment of utter silence just prior to the bull’s entrance. The spectators glance around at each other, seeking out the source of the scream, which seems to have come from nowhere but everywhere at the same time.
They turn back to the spectacle at hand, mesmerized by the massive 600 kilogram beast that snorts and stamps its hooves impatiently. Life and death hang in the balance; maybe to live, probably to die. Tension fills the air as each person in every row leans forward collectively, breaths drawn, eyes unblinking, ready for the instant they have been waiting for. The bullfight. A tragic blood sport, yet cloaked in tradition. The rickety wooden gate that separates the bull from the ring seems especially ridiculous now, like a hand held up in order to halt the thrust of a dagger.
A man garbed in commoner’s clothes steps up beside the gate, his hand firmly grasping the latch, ready to release the enormous black bull into the ring. The crowd waits in mute silence, anticipation etched on their faces, hands clasped together, knuckles white. But before the gate can be opened, a young Chinese woman barely clothed and carrying a long red cape leaps forth into the ring. She stands perfectly still, arms at her sides, back arched, staring straight ahead, and then begins to sing. “Ai, no corrida!” is what she says, over and over and over again. And she starts to dance, swinging her one arm around, waving the red cape in wide circles, and leaping into the air. The spectators, the bull, the man in commoner’s clothes by the gate, they all stare intently at this young woman, unsure what to make of her. But they all know one thing. There will be no death today. There will be no corrida. [G.M. Giacomelli]