Page 46 - Sorrow of the Earth: Buffalo Bill, Sitting Bull and the Tragedy of Show Business

the cavalrymen charge again, and, once they’re close to the cabin, some of

them dismount and hide behind the artfully arranged bales of straw. An Indian
falls down dead, then another, and another one still. The soldiers advance
under a hail of bullets. It’s at this point that Sitting Bull—it’s not him, but an
actor—heroically mounts his steed. He does two circuits, performing all kinds
of pointless acrobatics in the stifling heat. Suddenly, hurling himself at the
soldiers, Sitting Bull shoots point-blank and wounds a man in the face. The
fellow collapses. Another fires back. Then the Indian chief is hit and falls off

his horse. He crawls behind a clump of trees, dried reeds woven through a
wattle fence. The I93ndian hides, but everyone can see him. The soldiers
slowly move closer, they don’t know where the Indian is! The crowd shouts.
And whistles. Chins quiver. A bag of chips slips down between the bleachers.
The curtain of destiny has been drawn back, and any minute now it might

close again! A young soldier crawls over to the right, Sitting Bull hasn’t seen
him... Every breath is held. The Indian looks round, he barely has time to
move before the soldier fires. Silence. A second shot hits him full in the
stomach and the Indian staggers. Ah! how people all love him now, or at least
the children do, and even the adults secretly feel that precipitate of
irremediable guilt which ultimately absolves one of everything. The Indian is
dead. The cavalrymen climb back into the saddle and leave the arena. The

crowd applauds and calls for an encore; because right now, what people want
more than anything else is to see the scene again. Yes, just the tragic end, just
that part, the death of the Indian chief. Emotion is geared to arrive on
command; the same episode watched repeatedly, or the looped refrain from a
song, bring tears to our eyes every time, as if a sublime and inexpressible truth
were being repeated unchanged. So the actor stands up again, the dead revive,

the cavalrymen return; and they all perform the finale for a second time. After
doing a circuit of the arena, the Indian once again falls off his horse, once
again he hides behind the clump of trees, once again the crowd shouts out, but
perhaps a little louder, with even more feeling than the first time. A child
cries. It’s so much better than it was a few moments earlier, so much more
powerful, so much truer. Knowing the end doesn’t change a thing. In fact it
adds to the turmoil, as if surprise and frenzy are intensified when they’re

rehashed. But as soon as the Indian chief is dead for a second time, as soon as
he’s landed once more face first in the dust, and the crowd has felt the
tremendous frisson that comes from seeing him die again, everyone gets up
from their seats, their hearts aglow; and they rush to the refreshment stall to