deflected by bone and David found that at last he had power in his
voice, and he screamed:Stop it! You filthy bastards. Twelve times the
man in the centre tried with the sword, and each time the sword flicked
out of his hand, and then at last the bull fell of its own accord, weak
from the slow loss of much blood and with its heart broken by the
torture and the striving. It tried to rise, lunging weakly, but the
strength was not there and they killed it where it lay, with a dagger in
the back of the neck, and they dragged it out with a team of mules its
legs waggling ridiculously in the air and its blood leaving a long brown
smudge across the sand.
Stunned with the monstrous cruelty of it, David turned slowly to look at
the girl. Her companion was leaning over her solicitously, whispering
to her, trying to comfort her.
She was shaking her head slowly, in a gesture of incomprehension, and
her honey-coloured eyes were blinded with weeping. Her lips were apart,
quivering with grief, and her cheeks were awash, shiny with her tears.
Her companion helped her to her feet, and gently took her down the
steps, leading her away blindly like a new widow from her husband's
grave.
Around him the crowd was laughing and exhilarated, high on the blood and
the pain, and David felt himself rejected, cut off from them. His heart
went out to the weeping girl, she of all of them was the only one who
seemed real to him. He had seen enough also, and he knew he would never
get to Pamplona. He stood up and followed the girl out of the ring, he
wanted to speak to her, to tell her that he shared her desolation, but
when he reached the parking lot they were already climbing into a
battered old Citroen CV. loo, and although he broke into a run, the car
pulled away, blowing blue smoke and clattering like a lawn-mower, and
turned into the traffic heading east.
David watched it go with a sense of loss that effectively washed away
the good feeling of the last few days, but he saw the old Citroen again
two days later, when he had abandoned all idea of the Pamplona Festival
and headed south. The Citroen looked even sicker than before, under a
layer of pale dust and with the canvas showing on a rear tyre. The
suspension seemed to have sagged on the one side, giving it a rakishly
drunken aspect.
It was parked at a filling station on the outskirts of Zaragoza on the
road to Barcelona, and David pulled off the road and parked beyond the
gasoline pumps. An attendant in greasy overalls was filling the tank of
the Citroen under the supervision of the muscular young man from the
bullring. David looked quickly for the girl - but she was not in the
car. Then he saw her.
She was in a cantina across the street, haggling with the elderly woman
behind the counter. Her back was turned towards him, but David
recognized the mass of dark hair now piled on top of her head. He
crossed the road quickly and went into the shop behind her. He was not
certain what he was going to do, acting only on impulse.
The girl wore a short floral dress which left her back and shoulders
bare, and her feet were thrust into open sandals. But in concession to
the ice in the air she wore a shawl over her shoulders. Close to, her
skin had a plastic smoothness and elasticity, as though it had been
lightly oiled and polished, and down the back of her naked neck the hair
was fine and soft, growing in a whorl in the nape.
David moved closer to her as she completed her purchase of dried figs
and counted her change. He smelt her, a light summery perfume that
seemed to come from her hair. He resisted the temptation to press his
face into the dense pile of it.
She turned smiling and saw him standing close behind her. She
recognized him instantly, his was not a face a girl would readily
forget. She was startled. The smile flickered out on her face and she
stood very still looking at him, her expression completely neutral, but
her lips slightly parted and her eyes soft and glowing golden.
This peculiar stillness of hers was a quality he would come to know so
well in the time ahead. I saw you in Madrid, he said, at the bulls.
Yes, she nodded, her voice neither welcoming nor forbidding.
You were crying So were you. I Her voice was low and clear, her
enunciation flawless, too perfect not to be foreign.
No, David denied it.
You were cryin& she insisted softly. You were crying inside. And he
inclined his head in agreement.
Suddenly she proffered the paper bag of figs.
Try one, she said and smiled. It was a warm friendly smile. He took
one of the fruits and bit into the sweet flesh as she moved towards the
door, somehow conveying an invitation for him to join her. He walked
with her and they looked across the street at the Citroen. The
attendant had finished filling the tank, and the girl's companion was
waiting for her, leaning against the bonnet of the weary old car. He
was lighting a cigarette, but he looked up and saw them. He evidently
recognized David also, and he straightened up quickly and flicked away
the burning match.
There was a soft whooshing sound and the heavy thump of concussion in
the air, as fire flashed low across the concrete from a puddle of
spilled gasoline. In an instant the flames had closed over the rear of
the Citroen, and were drumming hungrily at the coachwork.
David left the girl and sprinted across the road.
Get it away from the pumps, you idiot, he shouted, and the driver
started out of frozen shock.
It was happy fifth of November, a spectacular pyrotechnic display, but
David got the handbrake off and the gearbox into neutral, and he and the
driver pushed it into an open parking area alongside the filling station
while a crowd materialized, seeming to appear out of the very earth, to
scream hysterical encouragement and suggestions while keeping at a
discreet distance.
They even managed to rescue the baggage from the rear seat before the
flames engulfed it entirely, and belatedly the petrol attendant arrived
with an enormous scarlet fire extinguisher. To the delighted applause
of the crowd, he drenched the pathetic little vehicle in a great cloud
of foam, and the excitement was over. The crowd drifted away, still
laughing and chattering and congratulating the amateur firefighter on
his virtuoso performance with the extinguisher, while the three of them
regarded the scorched and blackened shell of the Citroen ruefully.
I suppose it was a kindness really, the poor old thing was very tired,
the girl said at last. It was like shooting a horse with a broken leg.
Are you insured? David asked, and the girl's companion laughed.
You're joking, who would insure that? I only paid a hundred U. S.
dollars for her. They assembled the small pile of rescued possessions,
and the girl spoke quickly to her companion in foreign, slightly
guttural language which touched a deep chord in David's memory. He
understood what she was saying, so it was no surprise when she looked at
him.
We've got to meet somebody in Barcelona this evening. It's important.
Let's go, said David.
They piled the luggage into the Mustang and the girl's companion folded
up his long legs and piled into the back seat. His name was Joseph, but
David was advised by the girl to call him Joe. She was Debra, and
surnames didn't seem important at that stage. She sat in the seat
beside David, with her knees pressed together primly and her hands in