Fate had an inexhaustible supply of booby traps, an infinite variety of sneak punches. She (or was it he?) was always waiting to let you have one in the groin or behind the ear. Cleverness was only half of it; you had to be lucky.
But now Peter's luck seemed to be holding strong. The tinker was on his way, pushing past the customs officer, with all his pots and pans banging a cheerful farewell to the Rock. Peter said a silent prayer and started his car.
And it was then that all the threads of chance began to snap!
A jet flew over screaming like a banshee. Dogs raced away from the noise in mindless circles, eyes rolling, ears flat. The jet banked and a gust of wind intensified the squeal and hiss of ruptured air. A burro brayed deafeningly, broke away from his master, lashed out with his heels at anyone who came near him. He backed up to the tinker's wagon, kicking at it savagely, and one of his bony, rock-hard hooves splintered a stave in the wooden tub bolted to the side of the rig.
Peter watched in horror as water began to trickle from the cracked tub; he could not have been more dismayed if his own life's blood were spilling out on the ground at the custom officer's feet.
The level of the water in the tub dropped slowly and steadily, revealing pots and pans first, then an assortment of knives, and finally the grease-smeared tools he had acquired from Mr. Shahari.
The customs officer looked at them with a frown, more puzzled, it seemed, than suspicious. Peter silently cursed the old tinker who stood frozen with apprehension, a weak and guilty grin flickering through his mossy beard. Move! Go! He tried desperately to catch his eye, but the tinker was staring at the customs officer like a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar.
Slowly, and with an air of surgical fastidiousness, the officer drew off his immaculate gloves and tucked them under his belt. He had not quite reached a decision, he was not thoroughly committed, Peter realised with a flare of hope; his ferret-like instincts had not yet caught a whiff of quarry. He shrugged and glanced at one of his incurious colleagues, inviting the officer's attention to the dully glittering objects in the wooden tub. The second officer frowned and strolled over to the wagon, pulling off his gloves.
Peter sighed and raised his eyes to heaven. A sudden, accelerating roar sounded behind him; and Peter gasped as he flicked a glance at his-rear-vision mirror. "No!" he shouted, vainly and fruitlessly, and threw himself to one side.
There was a bucking, sickening crash. The impact flung him against the dashboard, and he collapsed to the floor as batteries of brilliant lights exploded painfully inside his head.
Dimly he heard squalls of agitation and confusion howling outside his car. There were shouts, screams, brayings, barkings. Someone jerked open the door that partially supported his weight, and Peter fell out of his car on to the concrete ramp of the customs point.
A voice said tearfully: "I must have stepped on the accelerator instead of the brake. I'm so terribly sorry."
"Are you hurt, senora?"
"No, no. But I deserve to be. The fool that causes the trouble always gets off without a scratch."
"You're too hard on yourself, senora. Machinery isn't infallible. It makes mistakes, too."
Another solicitous Spanish voice said: "I believe you've bruised your knee, senora."
"It's nothing. Oh, please see if he's hurt."
Peter raised his cheek from the cold and oily concrete, and blinked in confusion.
Grace stood encircled by a cluster of sympathetic customs officers, dabbing at the pretty tears sparkling in her eyes. One of the men whipped an immaculate handkerchief from his tunic and applied it delicately to the scratch on her knee.
Another officer waved impatiently at the line of labourers.
"Look, move along. There's no need to gape and stare. Old man! Get your wagon moving. You've been cleared, haven't you?"
"Si, si, si, senor Grace sank down beside Peter. "Are you all right, sir?"
Peter watched the old tinker trundling his wagon into Spain, knees and elbows pumping like pistons. Therattle of pots and pans was soft and sweet in the mild air.
"I'm fine," Peter said with a sigh.
Grace put a hand gently but tentatively on his arm, "May I help you? Please?"
There were forms to fill out, statements to sign and Peter's car to be towed back to the garage on the Rock. Grace's Bentley, however, was not seriously damaged. She offered Peter a ride, and this gesture pleased the customs officers. They smiled approvingly, their hearts and fancies quickened by the sweet and logical fashion in which the Lord provided Samaritans with victims to look after.
Waving and smiling, they watched the Bentley roll on to Spain.
***
In the car Grace said quietly: "Are you angry with me?"
"I'd be a fool if I were. What did you do? Go to Mr. Shahari?"
"Yes."
"He told you what I was up to?"
"Oh, no. But there was a bill on his desk with your name on it. I can read things upside down quite well. Can you?"
"Yes."
"Well then, I knew what you were trying to do." She smiled nervously. "You didn't answer my question, Peter. May I help you?"
He sighed. This was what she wanted, what she relished, what her soul was cut and shaped for; why should he cavil at using her, any more than he would hesitate to use the deadly and functional tools he had acquired from Mr. Shahari?
"On one condition," he said quietly. "That you do exactly as I tell you. Will you promise me that?"
"Yes, I will, Peter."
"Very well then. Listen."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Peter stared intently at the shining tips of massive horns. The horns swung searchingly from side to side, sunlight dancing on their black and ivory shadings.
"Toro?" Peter cleared his throat. "Toro?"
"No, no, no, Peter. You sound as if you're coaxing a kitten to take its milk." Don Miguel stamped a booted foot on the ground.
"Toro! Huh! Toro! Like that, Peter. Toro. You don't crook your finger and say, "Nice Toro, come here, little Toro."
Peter stood on hard-packed sand in the middle of the bullring at Malaga, holding a heart-shaped, heart-coloured piece of flannel in his hands, and facing sleek, murderous horns mounted on the front of a wheelbarrow.
"Try again," Don Miguel said, nodding at the boy who stood by the wheelbarrow. "And Peter. Don't jerk the mulcta away from the horns. Think of a sail going taut on a long jib. Filling slowly and powerfully. Think of your wrists as that jib, holding and controlling the mulcta as it swells with the horns of the bull."
"Well, yes," Peter said.
The circular stone tiers in the plaza were empty. It was a hot and dusty morning, and the sun on the yellow sand hurt his eyes.
Perspiration blistered his forehead, and his shirt was plastered damply to his back and shoulders.
The youngster raised the handles of the wheelbarrow and waggled the big horns at Peter.
"Toro!" Peter said. Then he said, "Ouch."
"Rest a minute." Don Miguel stood against the barrera a smiling old man with hair that was still black, and eyes that were bright as live coals in his lean, tough face. His features were coarse and weathered, as if they had been hacked from a rock that had faced the storms of the world from a mountain-top. Don Miguel, who was still called the Sword of Malaga by the Press, wore a black suit, a wide-brimmed, flat-crowned grey hat, and brown leather boots. Around his neck hung a goatskin of wine. In his mouth was a thin, green-flecked cigar. He unslung the bota and offered it to Peter. "Take it, You need it."
"Thank you."
Peter raised the goatskin above his head, opened his mouth, and pressed the bag until the air was gone from it and a jet of purple wine shot out and struck the back of his dry throat with a satisfying splat. He swallowed three mouthfuls of wine and handed the bota to Don Miguel.
The old man said, "Peter, there is eternal springtime in your heart, of course. But the green days and warm nights were bought by the silver at your tem
ples." He regarded Peter with kindly amusement. "This is nonsense. Why do you want to know about the bulls?"
"I'm going to Pamplona to-morrow."
"Ah, and you want to run in front of the bulls during the fiesta?"
"That's it."
"Well, why didn't you tell me? It's the simplest thing in the world. You don't need to bother with the cape and mulcta. In any event, Peter, you'd be arrested if you tried to use them in the streets. It's against the law. The bulls learn too quickly. But listen, what you do is this: Find a place in the front of the crowd. Take to your heels when you hear the first bomb. You can't stop for a nap, but if you run fast you'll be safe in the bullring well before the bulls."
"Don Miguel, I intend to run with the suicideros."
"Then you must be crazy."
"I can't explain. But I must do it."
"You mean once?"
"No, every day."
"Your troubles are so great that death is preferable?"
"No. Running will keep me alive."
Don Miguel looked at him thoughtfully. "We had better be more serious then. Listen, and I'll tell some things you probably already know. The trick is to remember them when you're facing a bull. When they run with the oxen, they aren't dangerous. As bullfighters say, they are on tracks." Don Miguel smiled. "Tales of youthful bravado are a bore, I realise. The bulls become larger with every year that passes. But let me tell you what we used to do at San Fermin. To start with, we drank all night. At dawn we managed it in one fashion or another to reach the Estefeta. Maids from our villas spread linen tablecloths in the street, set out china and plate, and served our breakfast. But not coffee and bread and butter! It was a feast. Cocido, roast pigs, porrones of wine. You know the porrones? They're like this goatskin, only made of glass. You tip them up and open your mouth and swallow until you can't hold any more. Well then we sat in the streets and ate and drank. The bombs would sound and the bulls would start running. But we continued eating and drinking. We never moved." The old man laughed. "There are pictures of this in my villa, I'm not making it up. We sat in the street and let the bulls run over us. Some of us were knocked over, but the bulls seemed glad to get away from us. Maybe they knew we were crazy. That is what it's like when they run with oxen."
He drank more wine. Peter did too.
"But a bull alone is different, Peter. Remember this. Sometimes a bull will trip and fall. The encierro pounds away down the streets. And the bull that is left alone now looks for something to kill. If this happens, you must stand still. If you move, he will charge. He may charge anyway, of course. Listen. I remember when bull-breeders gave banquets in their private bullrings. We sat at a long table in the middle of the arena. After many courses and many bottles of wine, a trumpet would sound, a toril gate would swing open, and out would trot an uninvited guest." Don Miguel smiled nostalgically. "Yes, a fighting bull. It was good to be quite drunk, then, or to have been born without nerves. The bull would circle the table, looking and waiting for someone to move. It was very difficult to hold a glass an inch from your lips and stare at his horns. And do you know what happened to the first man who lost his nerve and bolted for the barrera?"
"No."
Don Miguel laughed heartily. "He had to pay for the banquet. Yes, he had to pay for everything. When are you leaving for Pamplona?"
"Tomorrow morning."
"Go with God, my friend. He will take care of you. If I were younger …" Don Miguel's voice trailed off. He looked thoughtfully at the tips of his boots. "Of course, God, Himself, is hardly a child any more."
"What do you mean?"
Don Miguel smiled warmly and gave Peter a pat on the shoulder. "It was nothing, my friend. Nothing but the irreverent rambling of an old man. Good-bye, Peter."
***
That evening Peter completed the last of his preparations. He stopped at the offices of the Terremoto Construction Company in Malaga and told them (truthfully enough) that he would like to open up a cove for small shipping on a piece of property he owned on the coast of north Algeciras. He needed dynamite; plungers and wire; dynamite caps. After a discussion of the technical aspects of the problem and a glass of Anis Peter drove off with the things he needed in the trunk of the car he had rented from the garage in Gibraltar.
The sun was dropping swiftly into a pale green sea. Pink and lemon lights coated the mountain peaks, but the road was already dark, and the fields of sugar cane that stretched away on either side of it seemed without detail or texture, as smooth as softly swelling waves.
Peter experienced a sense of resignation that was like a false peace.
The outcome of this adventure was out of his control now, for in spite of all that human nerve and resolution might accomplish, success or failure was dependent on the whimsical threads of chance. His plans were masterful and sound, but one error, one miscalculation, one bad break, and they would all crash fatally about their heads.
***
That night he wrote decisively in his journal: Worry about the real, the weighable, the measurable world: your life, the life of your friends. To hell with her soul.
The consignment was inadvertent. Oh no, he thought unhappily. No…
***
Antonio Gonzalez y'Najera, the policeman of the village, hailed Peter in front of his bar the following morning. Peter was busy loading a suitcase into the trunk of his car.
"Good morning, Peter. Off to Pamplona, eh?"
"Yes, Antonio."
The policeman smiled and rocked on his stout boots.
"Peter, I have some strange news. The police in Pamplona are suspicious of you. They called to make inquiries last night."
Peter was bent over, his head hidden from view by the lid of the trunk.
He tried to straighten up, but couldn't; shock streaked through his body in rhythmic, paralysing bursts.
"Yes, the chief of municipal security called in person. Peter. Imagine! My wife answered and very nearly fell over in a faint. Are you all right, Peter? Are you stuck?"
"No, no. It's just a twinge in my back."
Peter managed to stand erect, and, with considerably more difficulty, managed a mildly puzzled smile.
"You were discovered prowling about the rear of a building adjoining the Banco de Bilbao, Peter. The policeman reported the incident to his superiors."
Peter laughed, a sincere laugh. He didn't need to fake it; his laughter was genuine and honest, for this was too calamitous a pratfall to take seriously. It was like the playful kitten battling loose the electric socket attached to an iron lung… the eager sprinter shot dead by the starter's gun… the skis falling off at the proud arc of the jump… At such hotfoots of Fate, you could only laugh until you wept…
"The policeman had an accurate description of you, Peter. Since there were few tourists in town, the police were able to check the hotels and find out who you were and where you lived. This took a day or so. Then they called me." The policeman's eyes twinkled. "To inquire of your habits and character. You can't blame them. They must take these precautions."
"Oh yes," Peter said. "Yes indeed."
"Of course, I was delighted to put them at ease," Antonio said smiling. "I told them, quite simply, that you are my friend. That you are a distinguished, amiable, and, hopefully, a permanent resident of our village. That you are a businessman of honour and acumen; an aficionado of sympathy and knowledge. I mentioned you had been awarded the Order of the Blue Star by the Administration of Malaga for your work during the floods two years ago, and that you had contributed most generously to the expenses of our Virgin's trip to their fiesta. At the end of this, Peter, they were quite apologetic, I assure you. But still puzzled, Peter. Still puzzled."
"About what?"
The policeman smiled. "They are northerners, after all. Efficient but overly civilised. The plain explanation always eludes them. I said to their chief of security, "Senor, I'm only a provincial policeman. But if I surprised a man seeking privacy in a deserted lane or passageway, I wou
ld not automatically assume he was a criminal. No, I would guess he had taken an extra glass of beer or so with his dinner, and had misjudged the distance from the cafe back to his hotel" Antonio grinned and clapped Peter's shoulders. "They hadn't thought of that! Can you imagine?"
Peter smiled too; he felt giddy with relief.
"Now they are waiting for you with open arms," the policeman said.
"They're what?"
"After the things I told them, they are eager to treat you with distinction, with special attention."
"But that's the last thing I want, Antonio."
"Don't be so modest. Call on them for anything at all, Peter. Let them provide you with an escort. Seriously, they are most anxious to look after you. As you would say in English, they want to keep an eye on you."
They shook hands. Peter got into his car. People stood up on the terrace and waved good-bye to him. Someone raised a glass.
He drove into the sun, towards the mountains, towards the sky, towards Pamplona.
CHAPTER NINE
At four o'clock in the morning Peter and Francois walked quickly through the dark streets of Pamplona. It was seventh July, the day of San Fermin, and the city was like a huge bow drawn to the breaking point; trembling and eager to release its gathered energies.
Every hotel and pension in the town was packed to the walls; every table in every restaurant in the city had been booked solid for weeks.
In two hours the bombs would sound, the bulls would break for the streets, and the fiesta would explode into life; it didn't start or commence in any normal or predictable fashion, Peter remembered, at one second it wasn't; the next second it was a sudden, roaring fact.
They turned into the Calle de la Estefeta and walked towards the plaza that spread in a semi-circle about the building of the Ayuntamiento.
Francois wore a dark suit. Peter was dressed in a heavy brown sweater and grey slacks. They both carried suitcases.
The Caper of the Golden Bulls Page 11
