William McGivern - The Caper of the Golden Bulls

“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.