The Night of Fire by Jim DeLillo
Fires are burning all over the city. I cannot glimpse an intersection that is not ablaze. Bombaderos , firemen dressed in black turnout, stand by just waiting with tanker trucks full of water, and portable pumps. I inhale the acrid smoke with gusto, awakening the latent pyromaniac within. My heart races as I turn left and head down Calle De Trafalgar. An elaborate archway of carnival lights, designed like the onion tops of a Russian Orthodox Church, frames the narrow entrance to Falla Parotet. The ninot at the end is smaller than most, but it has not been set afire. I push my way assertively through the crowd. I want a front row seat. I want to feel the burn. I am in La Nit del Foc, the night of fire.
An unseen hand tosses a burning carton at the base of the twenty-foot high purple-clad mermaid. The pack cheers and jostles forward. It is only minutes before the whole statue is in flames. The inferno makes my face feel sun burnt as I stare into the fluorescent orange serpent. It engulfs her blonde hair, revealing a timber skeleton. She bends forward, and then summarily crashes to the ground. The nearest spectators flinch from the sparking embers. With a whoosh, the collapse sends its dragon breath, a foehn wind, rushing past me down the alleyways. The crowd stays late, watching as the fire withers into embers, the dark of the night sneaks in and covers what once was a roaring inferno.
I arrived in Valencia, Spain the day before hoping to get to Plaza del Ayuntamiento by 2:00 p.m. when the daily mascletas are lit. At the bullring, Plaza de Toros de Valencia, I join the mob. It carries me along shoulder-to-shoulder like a molecule in the ocean. Seemingly without my feet touching the ground, I am swept along by this human wave moving towards the plaza. I hear the pops, then the echo and rumble of large firecrackers, mascletas. I am still six blocks away. Hundreds detonate at once, and then silence. I am too late.
The press of flesh is already dispersing. I escape the last of the horde on the next side street past the Estació del Nord. In front of the Farmacia, a rotund bride carrying off a drunken, skinny husband faces me. Cupid makes sure there is no mistake. It is a silly sight. They are here for Las Fallas, a five day festival in honor of St. Joseph. Celebrated each March 15th , paper-mache ninots like the bride and groom are sacrificed at the end of the week in a blaze called cremà.
As I dive further off the main plaza, I discover the Casals faller, the individual neighborhoods. Each one creates their own paper-mache effigies; some traditional, some irreverent, and some politically satirical. All compete for best-in-show and notoriety.
In one, a mutt mounts a coiffed poodle from behind in a strict interpretation of screw-the-pooch. The mixed-breed has its eyes crossed and tongue hanging out in an obvious grimace of pleasure.
Another tableau depicts a gay couple holding hands, getting confirmed in matrimony- a slight bearded fellow with parsnip pointed nose and goatee is paired to a chubby older fellow with rouged cheeks.
Grids of twine crisscross the streets, and I realize that each casal has there own mascleta celebration. The secret to Las Fallas is spurning the main plaza and probing these little enclaves.
I return to the casal early the next day. The Caballeros FX (pyrotechnicians)
