William McGivern - The Caper of the Golden Bulls

“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.

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.

On their way to the plaza they passed labourers, a policeman, and a group of seemingly bewildered young Danes also carrying suitcases.

There were nods, smiles, salutes. Peter and Francois turned off the Estefeta and were alone once again, swinging on briskly through the darkness.

When they reached the plaza, Francois put down his suitcase and studied his watch. Peter went into the narrow passageway that led to the warehouse behind the bank, and knelt before the clusters of iron grille work covering the basement windows. It was quieter and darker in the passageway, with a chill bite in the damp air. He opened his suitcase and removed a transistor-powered chain-saw, which glittered dully in the gloom. It was ten inches long, and looked as if it had been designed for children, but its fine teeth were capable of gnawing through anything but processed steel plate.