William McGivern - The Caper of the Golden Bulls

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.”

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?”