The Caper of the Golden Bulls

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 temples.” He regarded Peter with kindly amusement. “This is nonsense. Why do you want to know about the bulls?”

“I’m going to Pamplona tomorrow.”

“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 would 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 café 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.