One of my mementos is an old piece of beautiful fabric, shaped
like an unusually long scarf, a camaband perhaps. It has vivid stripes of red,
yellow, blue and white, and a fringe of gold at either end. I believe it is
made of silk, and these days it feels old and fragile. It belonged to my
mother, and as long as she was alive she never wore it. It stayed in her bottom
drawer, carelessly wrapped in crinkly, aged tissue paper. There was always a
delightful smell around it, a faint reminder of mother’s perfume.
When I asked her about the scarf she tended towards
obfuscation – dismissing the topic without delivering a clue as to how she got
it, or who gave it to her. I gathered that it belonged to a bullfighter in
Spain, and she got it from a time before she married my father, in 1940. That would make the scarf at least 75
years old, and I doubt it was new when she got it.
So I have been left to imagine the details. I see a
beautiful woman with raven black hair and aquiline features. She is visiting
Spain with her father as chaperone, and she falls for the splendor and
excitement of the bullfight. Every time she attends a bullfight there is color,
trumpeting music, and the thrill of danger in the air. Before the fight the
bull is tested for ferocity, and is allowed to snort his stuff by rocketing
around the bullring, kicking up dust and stirring the audience’s emotions. The
matador shows off his finery – tight embroidered pants, a short jacket, with a
splendid camaband around his waist, tied with perfection. He wears a grand black
hat, the spectacular maroon cape embroidered in gold and silver. He carries his
highly decorated sword. He preens like a fighting cock, building his courage
and becoming ready for the fight.
My beautiful mother catches the eye of the bullfighter. She
waves her handkerchief when he passes by her seat, and he accepts it when she
gives it to him. This signifies that he is dedicating the killing of the bull
to her. Now the thrill is electrifying, and the audience is roaring
encouragement and support for the bullfighter. The fight begins, and each time
the matador makes a good move the crowd shouts ¡ole! He survives the fight with gallantry and grace. The crowd
roars even more as the bull sinks to its knees, clearly defeated. The
bullfighter comes back to where my mother has been sitting and presents her
with his camaband. She falls in love with the bullfighter, bullfights, and
Spain, though she never had occasion to return to the land of spectacle, color
and excitement.
I now have the camaband in my scarf drawer and have never
worn it. In due course I will give it to my daughter, and she will give it to her
daughter after her – a mystery to hand down through the generations.
Mariana Hewson
Saturday, September 20, 2014
