The Caper of the Golden Bulls

Chapter thirteen

The watering trucks had gone and the breezes in the Plaza del Castillo were fragrant with the clean smell of damp earth and flowers. Lights from the cafés bordering the square gleamed softly on the wet pavements and sidewalks. In the gutters the frothing water was crested with cigarette stubs and artificial flowers and torn bull fight tickets. And down all the drains in steady streams sailed business cards and matchbook covers with addresses and telephone numbers scribbled on them.

Waiters stood at ease in the terraces of the cafés, cheerfully attentive to half-filled tables. No fire-bulls exploded in the streets, no rockets or drums shook the air, and no lines of dancers twisted through the plaza for the week of San Fermin had come to an end.

It was a bitter-sweet moment, a time to forget passion and excitement, a time to return to the matters of a practical world, but passion could not be forgotten so easily, so quickly, and a residue of it seemed to tremble on the quiet air, like the melody of a half-remembered song; but in those faint echoes, fainter with each passing moment, was the promise of the eventual silence, the inevitable loss, that would tend the wake of the death of passion.

“Peter, you must keep one simple fact in mind, and you must cheer up,” Morgan said.

“And what is that simple fact?”

“Well, let me see.” Morgan frowned and stroked his lush blond beard. “It’s quite easy to give way to doubt and confusion. It’s a question of getting off the tracks.” He tapped his forehead significantly. “Up here. I’m beginning to have an uneasy feeling about heretics, Peter.”

Peter was silent. He had no heart for talk; his world lay in pieces at his feet, and he was certain that no one least of all himself could ever make it whole again.

“Well, that’s one way of looking at it, I suppose,” Morgan said. “Heretics, you see, allow the engine of faith to leap, that’s it, leap off the tracks of conviction.” He looked at the sky, frowning. “Yes. To leap off the tracks of conviction — and, yes, plunge, that’s it, plunge into the gorges of error.”

“As it were,” Peter said wearily.

“Yes. As it were. So don’t let that happen to you, Peter. Just remember this one simple fact: She did it all for you. Everything Grace did was for your sake.”

“I once had an enormous talent for self-delusion. I’m praying it hasn’t deserted me. Because I want to believe you.”

They sat at a table on the terrace of the Café Kutz looking out across the dark expanse of the Plaza del Castillo.

“But you must, Peter. You must. Don’t get off the track. She knew Angela didn’t intend to play fair. Those were her exact words. Grace has very strict notions about fair play, you see.”

“Against all the evidence to the contrary, I’m trying to believe that too.”

But no matter how hard he tried, Peter could not believe; he could not even pretend to believe; and there was no logic yet devised or conceived that could brace his spinning thoughts.

For it had not been Angela who had arrived three minutes early at the bank; it had been Grace!

“Fair play means everything to her,” Morgan said, nodding judiciously. “That’s why she ordered the Cabezuda made. That’s why she made me carry it to the bank. Before Angela got there.”

Peter shook his head helplessly. He couldn’t speak.

“I’m quite strong, you know,” Morgan said with a sigh. “It caused a great deal of trouble in schools. Because I had an aversion to things. They used to get at me.” He smiled gently; happy lights sparkled in his eyes. “Then I had to break them up. I broke up the boiler in a school once. It kept making popping noises at me. But that’s all over. It’s people now. Lawyers, heretics, that sort of thing. So cheer up. She did it all for you, Peter.”

The majestic ingenuity of her betrayal, had left Peter without a reed of hope to cling to.

“Then where is she?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“Where are the diamonds?”

Morgan frowned and tapped his forehead: “She was a deep one. Do you remember Quince?”

“No.”

“Grace rather puts me in mind of old Quince. Deep sorts. Afraid of things causing rows. You would have liked Quince. He lives in Wales. Do you think we could find him?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t give a damn.”

“That doesn’t sound like you, Peter. I thought you might want to look up Quince.”

“I want Grace. I want to know, once and for all, how great and blind a fool I’ve been.”

Had it all been a charade? Had she been using him from the very start? Was nothing true and real? And where in the name of God was she now? Seated in the first-class cabin of a jet thundering towards Melbourne or Lima? Warming the stewardess with a radiant smile? While one slim hand rested lightly on a valise filled with diamonds?

Peter knew that he, too, must now start thinking in terms of jet aeroplanes and distant places. For in the morning, ten hours from now, the doors of the Banco de Bilbao would be opened, and, within minutes, rockets would go screaming up from every police bureau in Europe. The chase would be on!

Angela and Phillip had long since gone their separate ways. She had accepted Francois’s death realistically. And so had Phillip, although the nature of that death had caused him to muse with grim satisfaction on the infinite complexity of God’s justice.

Peter had talked to Angela before she left Pamplona. She had been bitter but philosophical about the loss of the diamonds, and the loss of her hold on him; but Peter knew her far too well to be reassured by this seemingly stoic acceptance of defeat. Inside she was roiling. He had sensed there was only one thing Angela couldn’t abide that he might escape the destruction she and Francois had planned for him.

The sword of her vengeance hung over him by a single, silken thread, but he didn’t have the heart to care one way or the other; he longed for only two things, which now seemed hopelessly incompatible Grace and truth.

“Please tell me everything one more time,” he said to Morgan.

“Yes, but remember to stay on the track. Don’t go plunging off. Well then. She knew Angela wouldn’t play fair. I’ve mentioned that, I think. So she ordered a Cabezuda from the same chap who made yours. A twin, so to speak. Now then. Do you remember the log-chopping contests? Well, she arranged for one of those Basques to carry the Cabezuda.”

Dear God, Peter thought, more black mystery. “You didn’t tell me that before,” he said.

“Didn’t!” Morgan frowned faintly. “Odd. Well, in any case, she decided to let me help. Fair play again, you see. I’d mistaken you for a lawyer, and caused all sorts of trouble, so she gave me a chance to make it all right again.”

Peter sighed. “Did she happen to mention aeroplane schedules? Or whether she might need a parka where she was going? Or just a bikini and sun lotion?”

“No, but there is one other thing. She said this would be a bit of a shock to you. She asked me to explain it very gently. Fair play again, you’ll notice.”

Peter sighed again. “Well, the sentiment does her credit, I guess.”

A stout, uniformed figure came hurrying across the plaza. Antonio, the policeman, mounted the steps of the terrace, his short legs churning with a sense of urgency. He sank breathlessly into a chair at Peter’s table, removed his hat and fanned his flushed face.

“Antonio! Are you all right?”

“Yes. No.”

“What’s the matter?”

Antonio tried to smile, but the effort only emphasised the anxiety in his eyes. He drew a deep breath and said: “Peter, this is probably a joke. Maybe we can have a good laugh about it later.” He took an envelope from the inner breast pocket of his tunic, and Peter sighed faintly as he recognised the writing on it. Antonio removed several sheets of folded stationery from the envelope, shook them open with fluttering fingers.

“Of course, I know this is all nonsense,” he said, smiling nervously at Peter. “Sheer nonsense. Forgive me for seeming to take it so seriously, but I must have your assurance.” He stopped and drew another deep breath. “This note was left at my hotel several hours ago. I just received it. There is no signature, of course. People who make such reckless charges seldom have the courage to sign their names to them. But we must discuss it, Peter. Purely as a matter of routine. You understand, of course.”

“Of course,” Peter said, and waited for Angela’s sword to fall.

Antonio put on his glasses and studied the sheets of paper. Then he shrugged. “This is ridiculous. It says that you bought blasting equipment at the Terremoto Construction Company in Malaga last week. Which would be a simple matter to check. It also says that you acquired certain tools and equipment from Mr. Shahari in Gibraltar, and smuggled them into Spain. With the help of a tinker, whose name isn’t given. A convenient oversight. Well, here’s the last of it. Whoever wrote this irresponsible drivel claims you blasted open the vault of the Banco de Bilbao this morning.” Antonio laughed.

“Yes. That’s what it says. And that you stole the Flutes of Carlos. And the Net and Trident which adorned the Virgin of Seville. I’m embarrassed to repeat such absurdities. But I must, Peter. For only one reason: to hear your denial.”

Peter stared at the back of his hands.

Antonio’s smile became uncertain; then it faded slowly from his lips.

After a moment, he said: “Now I must ask you a question, Peter.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Is any of this true?”

“It’s all true, I regret to say Antonio looked away and blinked his eyes. “I am a policeman, but I find that I don’t care whether it’s true or not. Strange, eh?”

“We were friends.”

“We are friends.” Antonio blew his nose. “I can’t judge you. But you realise what I must do, Peter. I must ask you to come with me to the Administration of Police.”

“I understand.”

The policeman’s eyes were sad. “We can walk across the square like old friends taking a stroll after dinner. Chatting about something that happened when we were young. Something amusing, eh?”

“Yes. Do you remember the time when the burro got drunk in my bar?”

“Yes, yes. That was very funny. He butted the priest, didn’t he?”

“That’s right.”

“Are you ready then?”

Peter nodded and climbed slowly to his feet.

“It’s only a short walk,” Antonio said.

A distant drumbeat sounded on the air, and a single flute drew a lovely looping line through the clear mild night. At the opposite end of the plaza there were strange flashes of light, and faint cheers that rose towards the sky like jubilant prayers.

Antonio put a hand on Peter’s arm. “Shall we go?”

A lighter hand touched Peter’s other arm. “Oh, darling, I’m so terribly sorry,” Grace said.

Peter closed his eyes. He knew this was a hallucination, a sensory malfunction engineered by his subconscious. But it gave him the strength he needed. In his mind there was a vision of Grace at his side, her head golden against the night, her eyes luminous with tenderness and love. And in this curious trance, he believed a lie, believed that everything had worked itself out serenely; they had nothing to fear any more, nothing to do but love one another for the rest of their lives. And Peter realised that as long as he kept his eyes shut, he was safe from harm; as long as her dear face blazed radiantly in his thoughts, he was free for all time, intact and invulnerable.

The cheering was louder now, but the drum and bugle soared triumphantly above it. There was a stir in the great square.

“Darling, please look at me.”

Peter opened his eyes. Grace stood beside him, her head golden against the night, a tender, anxious smile on her lips. “Where the hell have you been?” he said sharply.

She raised her voice to make herself heard above the cheering. “Please don’t be angry.”

“Why did you run out on me? And why in God’s name did you come back? We’re finished. Angela’s blown the whistle!”

“Please, my darling, I hated worrying you. But I had to do it this way. When the guards were gone for dinner. When she was all alone. It was our only chance.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“Look. There.”

Peter turned and blinked his eyes. “Good God,” he said shakily.

From the balconies ringing the square, floodlights crisscrossed in blindingly brilliant patterns. On the terraces of the cafés, people stood clapping and cheering.

The small statue of the Virgin of Santa Maria was making a last triumphant tour of the Plaza del Castillo. She swayed rhythmically with the lurching strides of the smiling men who supported the float, her blank, girlish eyes shining in the glare of the floodlights.

In her slender rigid arms glistened the Trident of Diamonds. The golden mesh of the Net of Diamonds was pinned to her smooth plaster brow like a wedding veil. And at her feet blazed the diamond Flutes of Carlos. The wild flowers scattered about the float, the poppies and daisies, the fragile blue iris, glowed softly in the radiant reflections of the gems.

Antonio moved like a sleepwalker to the edge of the terrace, his mouth hanging open, his eyes going blankly from the figure of the Virgin to the sheets of writing paper in his hand.

“It was our only chance,” Grace said quietly.

“It won’t work, darling.”

“It must. You wanted to give yourself up. I knew that. But you can’t.”

Peter blinked again, for he had noticed something else about the Virgin; a diamond tiara sparkled on her head; a lovely little crown he had last seen shining like a corona above Grace’s golden hair.

“Why did you give it to her?”

“I don’t know. It was a way of getting at my soul, I think. With a pail and brush. It’s so strange, Peter. It may have worked. I feel wonderful. It’s like a miracle.”

“Oh quite,” Morgan said, heaving himself to his feet and nodding approvingly at the approaching figure of the Virgin. “A miracle, no doubt of it.”

The word trembled on the air. A priest standing nearby crossed himself, far from casually. Waiters exchanged glances.

“Yes, yes,” Antonio said, but he seemed quite agitated as he looked at Peter. “Did you do this because.” He stopped and started over again.

“Peter, did you take my cynical attitude seriously? Did you think our poor little Santa Maria would be humbled and slighted because He shook his head helplessly. “What I’m trying to say is this: Did you steal these things, borrow them, that is, so that our Virgin might enjoy this one moment of glory?”

Morgan smiled ominously at him. “Don’t get off the track. Don’t let the engine of faith plunge—” He frowned at Peter. “Where did it plunge?”

“Into the gorge of error.”

“Quite. Keep that in mind,” Morgan said. “It’s a miracle, no question about it. I should hate to meet a heretic in Spain, of all places.”

“I share your view. Naturally.” Antonio blew out his cheeks. “Why should I be stubborn? I have the option of believing my friend is a thief, or believing in the power of Almighty God to work miracles. Why should I refuse to believe what’s before my eyes?”

They were all insane, Peter thought sadly. For this would never work... The waiters had passed out rolls of streamers, and opened fresh boxes of confetti. And soon these were sparkling and flashing through the air, twisting about the figure of the Virgin, falling in serpentine loops on the carpet of wild flowers at her feet.

“We must contribute in our own fashion,” Antonio said, and ripped Angela’s letter into three, roughly equal sections. He gave one to Grace, another to Peter, and kept a section for himself. This he proceeded to tear into bits. At last he had a handful of paper scraps, decorated gaily but improbably with meaningless fragments of Angela’s handwriting.

He cheered and threw them into the air.

“How pretty!” Grace delicately ripped her section of the letter into pieces, and let the wind sweep them off the palm of her hand.

Insane, Peter thought wearily. Insane.

“What are you waiting for, darling?”

Peter looked at Antonio. “There are still some practical considerations,” he said.

“Yes?”

“The open vault in the bank, for instance.”

Antonio shrugged. “They will blame it on the good thief, Saint Dismus.

Or a good thief. It hardly matters. Peter, nothing has been stolen.”

“But listen to me. Don’t you realise that—”

Antonio interrupted him. “Peter, the north of Spain wanted a bit of our southern mystery and romance to mingle with their excellent hotels and practical plumbing. Well, we have obliged them. How they adjust to it is no concern of ours.”

St. Dismus, the good thief, Peter thought, and smiled as he remembered the last line of an old poem, “—a thief to the end, who, with his last breath, stole Paradise.”

He had spoken aloud, and Morgan nodded, and said: “As it were.”

Peter tore the last of Angela’s letter into bits, and let them drop to the ground at his feet. Then he put an arm around Grace, and they walked into the plaza with Morgan and Antonio, to join the crowd following the sparkling figure of the Virgin into the night.

Grace put her cheek against his arm, and smiled up at him, and Peter knew that he had come through once again, but finally and forever this time.

“Darling, the tiara isn’t really valuable. The diamonds are paste. Do you suppose that matters?”

“Well, no. The gesture is what counts, I should think.”

“Oh, Peter, you’re such a solid man.”

He held her closer and they went smiling through the beams of the floodlights, under a sky that was as soft and dark as the wings of a black dove.