William McGivern - The Caper of the Golden Bulls

“It’s charming,” he had said. “Where did you ever pick up a thing like that?”

“Oh? It didn’t occur to you that I might have bought it?”

“Grace, you know what I mean.”

“I most certainly do.”

That had been the start of it. He had tried to make amends, to conciliate her, by explaining in generous terms that he didn’t give a damn about her soul any more. That he couldn’t care less about it.

This had caused her indignation to balloon into anger. Then she had begun to weep, which had infuriated him, and from that point on their evening had deteriorated swiftly and disastrously.

There was a tap on the door of the shed.

He rose and let Angela and Phillip in.

“Is it all right?” she asked, glancing at the Cabezuda.

“I won’t know till we try it.”

Her small face was pale and irritable. “Let’s get on with it then.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I feel quite ill, thank you. A goat wouldn’t touch the slops you’re making me eat. The milk tastes like gruel that’s gone bad. The crackers choke me.”

“Okay, Phillip,” Peter said, without quite smiling.

“Yes,” Phillip said, in the tone he would have used in replying to a question.

Angela looked at him sharply, but obviously read nothing in his broad impassive face. She shrugged and swung herself on to his shoulders.

She wore black leotards, a tight black jersey sweater, and patent leather slippers, a costume which so completely stripped her of sex that she looked like a slim and agile boy attempting a balancing trick with an indulgent adult.

Phillip carried her to the Cabezuda.

“All right, Angela,” Peter said. “Behind the lowest curl of the wig there’s a lever. Push it to the right as far as you can.”

“This knob?”

“Yes.”

Angela pushed the knob hard, and one side of the Cabezuda slid open, like the door of a cupboard.

“Get in,” Peter said.

Phillip hoisted her into the air. She crawled into the Cabezuda, squeezed herself into a ball, and pushed the side of the Cabezuda back into place.

“Angela, can you hear me?”

“Yes.” Her voice was muffled but clear.

“There’s another opening in back. See if it works.”

Angela’s face appeared high above them in an aperture in the rear of the Cabezuda. The second opening was only six inches square.

“Okay, Phillip,” Peter said.

Phillip stooped and fitted his head and neck into the yoke under the Cabezuda. The folds of cloth fell about his legs to the ground, concealing all of him but the tips of his boots.

He stood erect and lost his balance. The Cabezuda swayed sideways.

From inside it came a sound like the hissing of a terrified cat.

Peter braced the head with his hands.

“All right, Phillip, try again.”

They practised for an hour. It was an hour in which the big Frenchman attempted stops, starts, and turns; walked backwards and sideways; and managed at last to trot heavily about the little shed, as rhythmically as a draught horse in a circus. It was an hour in which Peter’s spirits rose slightly, When they were ready to leave, Angela touched his hand, unexpectedly, and said, “May I talk to you a minute?”

“Phillip, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Yes. Good night.”

“What is it, Angela?”

“I’m sorry I was rude. It’s just nerves. Would you like to come over to the hotel? I’ll buy you a drink.”

“I have several things to attend to.”

“Well, can we sit down then? I’m exhausted.”

There was a wooden bench against the wall. Angela stretched her legs and arched her back gratefully. The tight black jersey yielded to the thrust of her small, hard breasts. “Oh, that’s a good feeling. It’s strange inside that thing. You lose all sense of direction. I mean, you don’t know whether you’re going forward or backward or sideways. Added to that is a strange feeling I have about Phillip. I think, Peter, that he’d enjoy throwing that big head into the river with me inside it.” She relaxed and put her feet up on a packing case. The white skin of her fragile ankles gleamed between black slacks and slippers; the illusion was a curious one, for in the strong but uncertain light, it seemed as if she were delicately fettered by her own flesh. “Do you have a cigarette?”

Peter gave her a cigarette and lighted it.

“Peter, do you think it’s going to work?”

“I think there’s a good chance.”

She smiled at him. “This is like old times, isn’t it?”

“In a way, I suppose it is.”

“But you know, I’m worried about Francois.”

“Why?”

“Well.” She hesitated and shrugged lightly. “He doesn’t trust you, Peter.”

“We have only two more shots to make,” he said quietly. “On Sunday morning we reach the vault. If he doesn’t have the film with him, I won’t blow it. So he had better trust me; he doesn’t have any choice.”

“I know, I know,” she said irritably. “I’d give you the films tonight, this minute, if it were up to me. But he wouldn’t hear of it.” She turned and stared into his eyes, and for an instant there was such a rosy innocence in her face, such a childish and wistful look about her slightly parted lips, that Peter felt a reluctant twinge of nostalgia for those long-ago days when he had believed there might be something precious, something salvageable, beyond the delicate and exquisite camouflage of her beauty.

“Tell me one thing, Peter,” she said. “Just one thing. Do you think I’m a rotten bitch for getting you into this? Or can you understand that I had to?”

“Let’s not go into that, okay?”

“Do you still feel anything at all for me?” She blew delicately on the tip of her cigarette, a gentle smile radiating from her lips to her eyes. The cigarette flared rosily, and she said, “Anything like that, Peter? Any little spark a chance wind could make warm and beautiful again?”

“Let’s not go into that either,” he said drily. “I see. It’s all for Grace now. Do you love her so much that you can’t spare even a kind thought for me?”

Peter listened to the sounds of the fiesta drifting on the night winds over the river. A rocket went off with a crash. There was a machine-gun rattle of fireworks. Angela was smiling at him, the soft curve of her lips benign and voluptuous. “All right, cut out the act,” he said. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Stop waving your breasts at me. Stop the auld langsyne bit. What’s wrong?”

She sighed. “If I didn’t have that film, I’d be frightened of you. I wish I knew how you did it. It’s Francois. He’s losing his nerve.”

“He was all right this morning. What happened?”

“I’m not quite sure. It was at lunch. A car drove by on the other side of the square from the café we were sitting at. It was a grey Citroen. When Francois saw it, he spilled his wine down his shirt. He told me the driver looked like someone he had trouble with in Algeria. I don’t know about what. It was cards or women, I suppose. But he’s been drinking ever since. I told you he didn’t trust you. Now he doesn’t trust me either.”

“So you thought we might join forces, and kick him out into the cold. Is that it?”

“I’d sleep with the devil for those diamonds,” she said quietly. “Do I have to tell you that?” She looked at him with hard, bitter eyes.

“You don’t want me, that’s obvious. Francois won’t for much longer. Can you imagine how it will be when I’m older? Without money? Saying pleose to drunken students? Saying please to old men who beg you to be naughty so they can beat you?” Her voice was suddenly ragged; an ugly fear glittered deep in her eyes. “Saying please to the whole rotten world? Crying to it for mercy?”