The Caper of the Golden Bulls

Chapter one

On pleasant mornings Peter Churchman enjoyed swimming in the piscina at the foot of his garden. It was a charming little pool, enclosed by oleanders and a bathhouse crimson with bougainvillaea, but it had been constructed, oddly enough, without a drain; when it was necessary to change the water, Peter’s maids, and some of their friends from nearby villas, kicked off their alpargatas, put on old uniforms, jumped into the pool, and emptied it with buckets.

It was tedious work, but the girls made a holiday of it, splashing about the pool as busily as wrens in a bird bath; and when they were finished they scrubbed the sides and bottom clean with coarse tufts of esparto grass which they twisted from the slopes of the mountain behind the villa.

After all this it took the pool three days to fill. Once upon a time Peter had found this mildly annoying, but that was before his conversion to the philosophical view; after that significant event he had come easily and naturally to the conclusion that a temporarily inoperative swimming pool was a light cross indeed to carry through life.

Most men acquire the philosophical view with a deliberate intellectual effort, or because they have no other choice. Not so with Peter. One morning he had waked with the thought — brilliant and final as a lightning bolt that he had wasted far too much time worrying about things that were never going to happen to him.

All his life all his adult life, at any rate Peter had dreaded only three things: going to prison; losing his hair; losing his keen physical interest in women. Now it seemed fairly obvious that he had escaped and would continue to escape these inhibiting disasters. He had come through that was his phrase for it. He had come through the battle intact.

Of prison, there was no longer any threat at all. And not only had he kept his hair, but it remained black as pitch, except for the silver wings at his temples, and these Peter rather liked. And of the last dread worry, he could snap his fingers at that too, for he was at the moment more ardently and heartily in love than ever before in his life.

With the realisation that he had come through, Peter relaxed, and life became an undiluted joy. He knew that he had not got a big truth by the tail. To understand that one’s fears are groundless may be comforting; but to act on that information was exhilarating. It was a little truth, a little knowledge, but it brought great peace to Peter Churchman.

Rather self-consciously, he began to keep a journal. The first entry read simply: If a man has no goals in life, he can usually find good roads to travel.

Peter was not sure that this was philosophy. But he understood what it meant in relation to himself, and that was what mattered. As the happy peaceful days went by, he began searching for more glitterings of truth. When he found one he brought it back to his journal like a magpie. He never discovered a great diamond of truth, only the ones that were like bits and pieces of coloured glass. But these served their purpose, and in time they provided him many rosy windows from which to look out upon the world. They gave him a picture of things which coincided quite marvellously with his new philosophy.

They enabled him, for instance, to consider with tolerance, if not relish, his astonishing conversation with Grace at dinner the previous night.

At the memory of it Peter dived into the pool without removing his bathrobe.

She had said: “I know you hate surprises. But I must tell you. I have three children.”

Sensibly Peter had put down his fork; otherwise he might have put it in his eye.

“Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me before?”

“While you were making up your mind about me, it didn’t seem fair. To the children, that is.”

“But how about me! Did you think about being fair to me?”

“Oh, Peter. They’re such dears.”

“Now please listen and please try to understand. I don’t like children. It’s not because I’m selfish or insensitive. It’s just a glandular reaction. It’s the same way I feel about sauerkraut or Martinis.”

“That’s very strange.”

“Come on. Lots of people don’t like children.”

“No, I meant about the sauerkraut. Did you ever try it with caraway seeds?”

“Grace! This is serious. Why did you decide to tell me now? On this particular night?”

“Well, my hand was forced, so to speak. My husband wants me to come back to him. That’s why I went to Paris last month.”

“Oh, does he! Tired of his garret and his silly paintings and prostitutes. Now he wants to get back to the fireside, back to all your blue chips.”

She had shaken her finger at him, a tiny gesture of admonition; even in his agitation he had found it endearing.

“No. Guy is very rich. But he has principles. That’s why he wouldn’t give me alimony.”

“He’s a principled tightwad, I’d say.”

“You don’t understand. He feels alimony is demeaning. He doesn’t think a woman should be financially penalised for remarrying. He gave me a million dollars when I left him.”

“Oh. Where are your children?”

“They just arrived this morning. They were in Venice with my mother.”

“I didn’t even know you had a mother.”

“You might have presumed that much.”

“Now please, Grace.” After a long moment he had said: “Darling, let’s not spoil things. Your children, your little dears, do they, well, chatter a lot?”

She had smiled radiantly, “Oh, I do love you, Peter.”

Shaken and dispirited, Peter had gone home to write in his journal: She is tall as a silver beech tree. Bonfires of excitement blaze in her eyes. She is an orchestra of sex. Throbbing drums sounding the charge. Pinwheels of excitement flashing in the tympani. Bugles and trumpets screaming splendid abandonment. Violas (contra-bassoons?) sobbing the final surrender. But she has three children! After a moment of thought, Peter had written: Boarding school? He had underlined this three times, with mounting excitement, and had gone to bed in a fairly cheerful frame of mind.

Peter pulled himself from the pool and removed his dripping bathrobe.

The sun climbed in a white sky. Fresh warm breezes from the sea stirred the flowers and the air became soft and fragrant. You’ve come through, he reminded himself. You didn’t go to prison. You didn’t lose your hair. And you have Grace, from drums to violas. Or contra-bassoons.

He drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders, sustained and enriched by the exhilarating conviction that the worst would never happen; he had come through the battle intact, and the years of peace stretched ahead of him as invitingly as a field of violets on a spring day.

He began his exercises. Once Peter had been rather vain about his physical strength and condition. Now his workouts were brief; stomach exercises, a hundred-odd push-ups, nothing more.

A maid called a name from the terrace, her voice soaring up in the mild air like a flute. The owner of the name came through the opening in the oleander hedge; Antonio Gonzalez y’Najera, the policeman of the village, tidy, stout, cheerful.

He said: “Peter, you’re under arrest.”

Peter collapsed in the middle of a push-up, clutched at his hair.

“I’m sorry, Peter. I’m joking, of course.” Antonio looked at him severely. “But I have a parking summons for you. Yesterday you left your car in front of the burros’ drinking fountain.”

“But just for a few minutes.”

“I’m sorry. It was closer to an hour.” Antonio sat on a bamboo stool, removed his cap, and fanned his face. “You must set a good example for the tourists. You are a permanent resident, a businessman with a bar and restaurant, a man of substance and property.” He sighed.

“Tourists. I live in a village of strangers. Sometimes through the glitter of sports shirts and cameras I see a familiar face. An old man I went to school with. A widow with white hair whom I chased squealing through the olive trees in my youth. They are like ghosts.” He sighed again. “Everything is changing. They are sending our Virgin to Pamplona for the fiesta of San Fermin. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“She has never left the village before. But everything is changing today. The fact that a thing exists condemns it. It must be changed. Regardless of the expense.”

“How’s that?”

“It’s just been announced. All the Virgins from Seville, Malaga, Granada, Cordova, from all the cities are being sent to Pamplona.” He sighed deeply. “One will be named Queen of San Fermin.”

“Like a beauty contest?”

“I think a more tasteful name might be found for it.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said.

“Of course. But the expense. To crate the Virgin, to insure her jewels, poor as they are, to transport her to Pamplona, to make certain she is securely guarded. It’s an enormous expense.”

“I don’t have a cheque-book here at the pool, Antonio.”

Antonio looked at him in surprise. “Why did. you want a cheque book?”

“Well, I’m practically a native son. I’d like to help out. Make a contribution to the Virgin’s trip.”

“It’s not necessary.”

“I’d like to, Antonio.”

“Then I imagine it can be arranged. I’ll stop by later at the bar.” He looked through his pockets. “I can’t find your summons, Peter. I may have lost it. If I find it, I’ll put it in the mail.”

He went away and the maids called Peter to his breakfast.

In shorts and sandals he drank American coffee and ate Danish bacon, items sent to him regularly by Mr. Shahari, the Indian money changer in Gibraltar. The maids chattered around him in high, cheerful voices; of the evils of the egg woman; the perfidies of the bread man, the wood man, the gypsy beggars. They were the epic poets of the village, writing on air the high drama of the drunken fisherman, the burned child, the fifty-peseta note blown from the window sill and lost forever in the sands.

Grace came on to the terrace through the living-room doors. In a white dress and golden sandals she drew all the colour from the flowers, all the light from the sky; to Peter she seemed the glittering centre of the universe.

“Darling, I’ve brought you a little surprise. Debby, say hello to Mr. Churchman.”

The child at her side said, “Hello, Mr. Churchman.”

“Now what a pleasant surprise!” Peter said rather too heartily. “How old are you, Debby?”

“I’m eight.”

“Still in grade school I expect.”

“Yes.”

“Would you like some cookies? A glass of milk?”

“She’s had a huge breakfast, Peter. Debby, be a good child. Go off and find something to play with. I’m sure there are cats.”

The child went away and Grace sat down opposite Peter. She looked at him with splendid loving eyes and said, “I don’t think it’s violas or contra-bassoons. Cellos maybe?”

“Grace! You’ve been in my journal.”

“It was on the table in the hall. Like a guest book. I looked at a page, which began, ‘She is tall as a silver beech tree’ so I knew it was about me. It was lovely, Peter. Bonfires of excitement. Bugles and trumpets. But it made me very sad.”

“Why?”

“I have another surprise for you, I’m afraid. I’m pregnant.”

The child came on to the terrace and said: “Mommy, I found a cat.”

“How nice, dear.”

“It made a mess on the floor.”

“Well, tell the maid, dear.”

“How? I can’t speak Spanish.”

“Tell her elgatto aquaed on the floor.”

“I don’t think he aquaed.”

“Dear. Well, just tell the maid. She’ll cope.”

The child went back into the living-room. Peter took Grace’s hand in his, and smiled at her indulgently.

“You can’t be pregnant, darling. I’m sure of it. Trust me.”

She withdrew her hands. “It’s not you, for heaven’s sake. It’s my husband. Guy.”

“How fortunate he wants you back.”

“Oh, how cruel you are. I see what satisfaction this gives you!”

“Now, Grace! Don’t try to put me on the defensive.”

“How could I do that? Unless it’s where you belong!”

From the living-room they heard shrill and righteous exclamations from a maid; the defiant snarl of the cat; the swipe of a broom; the slam of a door; the sloshing of water on the floor.

“It was last month, when I went up to Paris. I hardly knew you then, Peter.”

“I see.”

“In France, we are still technically man and wife. It’s some legal, religious arrangement with Mexico.”

“How interesting.”

She sighed. “I was prepared for anything. Anything but provincial sniffs. Well. I see you’ve made up your mind about me.”

They went into the long, sombrely furnished living-room, dark and cool after the sunny terrace.

“Come on, Debby. We’ve got to be going.”

The child lay on her stomach looking at an American magazine. She was really quite small, Peter thought; slim white arms and legs, neck no thicker than a banana.

“How much does she weigh?”

“What an odd question! Were you thinking of roasting her or something?”

“Well, no. Is she the oldest?”

“Yes. Why?”

Face the violet fields of peace gratefully, Peter told himself; remember you came through the battle intact.

“Well, if you packed them all together figuratively speaking, I mean they’d hardly displace one normal-size adult.”

“Pack them? In what? A trunk?”

“Don’t be idiotic. I know they’re distinct individuals. With private paths to travel, with immortal souls to save, with dreams as distinct as their fingerprints.” He wondered fleetingly if he believed this, decided it didn’t matter, pressed on. “I’m not a brute. But, Grace, in a physical sense, in a manageable sense, they’re more like one person than three. Bulkwise that is.”

“You’re just playing around with words. To make it all right.”

“Well, of course.”

She looked at him tremulously, meltingly, and touched his cheek with the back of her fingers. “Do you wonder that I love you?”

“Mushy stuff,” the child said frowning.

Peter thought of boarding schools in northern climes. Train stations shuttered up, airfields socked in, Christmas carols sounding in draughty dormitories. Great educational freezers full of trapped children. Cheery wires to snow-bound kiddies: Chins up, see you in the spring.

Grace said, “Peter, what are you grinning at?”

“Just at how wonderful it’s going to be.”

“Mushy stuff.”

“True, true,” he said, smiling at the child.

At Peter’s bar in the central plaza of the village, an American girl named Cathy Clark pleaded with Mario for a drink. She was nineteen, intense and nervous, with a slim figure, curly brown hair, neat wrists and ankles, and a surprisingly pleasant voice. When Peter arrived she sighed with relief and took her appeal to this higher court.

“Peter, please explain to Mario I’m not drunk. I’m heartbroken, demoralised, shattered, but I’m not drunk.”

“Maybe a nap is what you need.”

“I’m not sleepy. I couldn’t sleep. And I don’t really want a drink. I just want to talk to someone.”

“Okay, come in my office.”

Peter glanced at his mail while Cathy told him about someone named Morgan. From his desk he had a view of the barroom and the terrace facing the plaza. The tables were filling up with bearded young Americans, families of French people, Britishers taking a whisky or sherry before setting out to tramp about the mountains.

“He pushed me down the stairs, and said I shouldn’t be allowed to have children. He said I should be inoculated, so I couldn’t contaminate people with my selfishness.”

Peter picked up an envelope and glanced casually at the handwriting.

The letters swam abruptly before his eyes; he felt shock going through his body in steady, rhythmic beats; a cold knot of tension gathering painfully in his stomach.

“Dear God,” he said.

“Yes. And he told me that if I had a soul it would have dollar signs on it.”

The envelope bore the name and crest of the Pez Espada, a smart hotel a few miles down the coast. Peter’s name, in dreadfully familiar, back-slanted handwriting, gleamed in purple ink (also dreadfully familiar) on the snowy face of the envelope, which bore no stamp. Peter ripped open the envelope, pulled out a single sheet of paper. There was his name again; a room number, 401, and another name, also dreadfully familiar Angela written in a flourish which terminated in a pair of mocking exclamation points.

“No!” he said, and put a hand to his racing heart.

“It’s true, Peter. Every word of it.”

“Get out of here.”

“What?” The word was a startled bleat.

“Get out of here. Wash your face. Get some sleep, you silly child. Stop dumping the dustbins of your psyche in my office. Out.”

She glowed under the rebuke; she believed that men masked passion with exasperation and boredom. “Yes, Peter,” she said gratefully. “I understand.” And crept from his office.

Peter closed the door and dialled the Pez Espada. “Pepe, this is Peter Churchman. I need some information. Who is in room four-o-one?”

“One moment. I’ll see. Ah. Yes. Monsieur and Madame Francois Morel.”

“What’s she like?”

“Pale, dark-haired, petite. Once she must have been very pretty. Like a kitten.”

Christ, he thought; there was no mistake; it was Angela.

“And her husband?”

“Handsome, slender, carries himself well. He seems used to good things.”

A flicker of hope warmed Peter’s breast. Perhaps she had landed a fat one. Perhaps his alarm was premature; she might want nothing but a drink, a toast to the old days. But Pepe’s next words doused this feeble flame like a jet of ice water.

“But he’s not used to paying for them, I think.”

“Listen carefully. They may ask you if I called. Say no. If they offer you money, I’ll go one thousand pesetas over their best offer. Okay?”

“That’s not necessary, Senor Churchman.”

“I don’t want our friendship to work a hardship on you.”

“If you put it in those terms, I can only accept. Thank you.”

Peter left his office and hurried to the bar. Greetings sailed towards him from a half-dozen tables; invitations for elevenses; for golf; for fishing. Peter’s presence turned on smiles; in six years he had become a popular fixture in the life of the village.

He called Mario to the end of the bar and showed him the letter from Angela.

“Who brought this?”

“A man, a Frenchman.”

“Tell me about him, Mario,” Peter said, and the urgency in his tone brought a co-operative frown to Mario’s plump face.

“He’s tall not as tall as you though and slender. He walks well. He may have been an officer. He’s about forty. Dark hair, quite handsome. He wore a blazer, flannel slacks. His manners are good, but I have an impression Mario rocked a hand judiciously that he acquired them by observing. Not at home. Not at school.”

Peter matched Mario’s description against various index cards in his mind, and drew blanks. Someone new then. Not Bendell. Not Canalli.

Not the Irishman.

Wearily he said, “Please give me a double vodka, Mario.”

Mario raised his eyebrows. “Is something wrong?”

“Now whatever gave you that idea?”

Peter drummed his fingers on the bar. Mario shrugged and poured him a double vodka.