J uan del Alamo is a goner, I'm sure of it. It's hard to see beyond the huddle of matadors and medics clustered around his body, which is splayed on the fine dust of Las Ventas Plaza in Madrid, but he doesn't seem to be moving. The bull that tossed him around like a bag of laundry stands a few meters away, blank-faced and panting, a bouquet of blood-soaked banderillas sprouting from between his shoulder blades.
But after a few minutes, the torero is helped to his feet, the right side of his head a bloody smear. The woman sitting next to me watches through barely parted fingers. Del Alamo waves off his entourage, straightens his tobacco-colored "suit of lights," and picks up a sword to finish what he started. The blood seeping through his spangly costume isn't his -- it's the bull's.