“More nerve than I’d have,” Laura whispered.
The bull tore a splinter from the fence with a swift, irritable hook of his right horn and then backed off and looked up at them, the muscles in his shoulders drawing up in a flaring crest.
“He’s beautiful,” she said slowly. “It seems a shame he has to be killed.”
“He’ll give someone a lot of trouble before that happens,” Beecher said. “I think we’d better go now. We’re worrying him.”
They spent the evening in a crude, dirt-floored bodega in Málaga, a gamy and smoky place with ancient, black barrels standing in rows behind the bar, and a waiter who kept count of their drinks by chalking numbers on their slate-top table. They ate ham and cheese, strong, goaty manchega, and tiny birds cooked in garlic and oil. The place was a favorite of Beecher’s, and he was happy and pleased that she liked it. The smoke became very thick as the night wore on, and the bar was crowded three-deep with laborers and fishermen, most of them in their bare feet, and with heavy growths of beard on their pleasant, impassive faces.
An accordionist stopped at their table and played for them. He played the fiesta music from Pamplona, “Uno Jenero,” and Beecher sang the words along with him. An old man sat down and told Beecher a long and possibly true story of having been swept from a fishing boat ten miles from shore. Without stars or wind to guide him, he had chosen a course blindly, trusting to God that he was making for Spain and not for the open sea. At dawn, with strength and faith deserting him, he had seen the square towers of Málaga’s cathedral standing out against the mountains. And he still went out every night with the boats, he added, and kissed the back of his thumb. He was considered a lucky omen; everyone was happy and confident when he was in the boat.
When he went away after several glasses of wine, Beecher told the story to Laura.
“I believe it,” she said. “I don’t care if you’re smiling at it. I believe every word of it. I want to believe everything tonight.”
Later, when the fishermen had begun to sing, she put her head against his shoulder. “Why are you making me so happy?” she said gently.
It was very late when they got back to her hotel. She was almost asleep on her feet. But she smiled when he kissed her on the forehead, and she was still smiling when she walked into the elevator. There were a million stars in the sky and a great wind coming off the mountains, as Beecher drove back to his villa.
8
The next day was fine, and the bullfight was a very good one. Everything seemed vivid and gracious in the brilliant sun, the flags and bunting on the railing of the president’s box, the Spanish women with mantillas and flowers, and the matadors performing like golden mannequins with six handsome bulls from the ranches of Don Angel Arisco. Ears were cut, wineskins and bouquets showered the ring, and the band played gay, triumphant music. Beecher saw Lynch in a barrera seat, applauding vigorously, and the Frenchman, Maurice, in the company of an American with a long cold face. Neither of them saw him; he had chosen seats high in the sombra to spare Laura the details of the pic-ing and killing.
Afterward they drove up the hills behind Málaga to a restaurant which overlooked the city and the sea. From their table they could see the bullring, empty now, a small brown bowl half filled with light from the setting sun.
“Well?” Beecher asked with a smile.
“I loved it. There’s a reaction setting in, I think, but I loved every minute of it.” She wore a slim black dress with a red flower pinned to her shoulder, and she looked exquisitely lovely, Beecher thought, with the excitement in her eyes and face, and the wind brushing her smooth blonde hair.
They ordered a simple dinner, sole amandine and artichokes with lemon mayonnaise. They decided against dessert, but had coffee with sol y sombra, “sun and shade” — anisette and brandy. They talked through two pots of coffee and when Beecher paid the bill the night was dark and cool and a crescent moon was riding above the sea.
They drove down the winding road with the mountain wind blowing against the sides of the car.
“Would you like to go swimming?” Beecher asked suddenly.
She shivered. “I’m blonde and Nordic, but I’m no polar bear.”
“I meant in my pool.”
“Well, that’s different.”
“We’ll stop at your hotel for a suit.”
“That seems like a lot of bother,” she said.
“How can you swim without a suit?”
She looked at him and laughed. “Would it embarrass you if I swam nude? The moon isn’t full.”
“If I had a heavy-handed touch, I’d say, ‘More’s the pity, my dear.’”
“Well, thank goodness you don’t.”
Beecher changed into trunks in his bedroom, and Laura undressed in the thatched bathhouse beside the pool. When he started down the garden path, carrying a tray of hot tea and a bottle of rum, he saw that she was already in the water, her blonde head smooth and bright under the soft moonlight, and her arms and legs shimmering and unreal beneath the green water.
“Come on in,” she called to him. “It’s perfect.”
Beecher put the tray on a table between two reclining chairs. He had no robe to offer her, but he had brought down towels, and a terry-cloth shirt which would probably hang to her knees.
The water was fresh and cleanly cold. Beecher swam several lengths to warm himself, and then let his body rock lazily with the miniature waves surging back and forth across the pool.
“Not too cold?” he asked her.
“It’s wonderful.”
They said nothing after this, and there were no sounds around them but the murmuring splash of water against the sides of the pool. But Beecher was tense with the awareness of her presence. He couldn’t help but be; the pool was very small. They were both trying not to be self-conscious, he thought, pretending this was as casual as swimming in the sea in bright sunlight; but they were avoiding each other scrupulously, keeping far apart to minimize the chance of even an innocent contact.
Finally she swam swiftly toward the ladder. Beecher waited until she had dried herself before joining her. She sat in the reclining chair, his terry-cloth shirt tucked around her knees and her slim calves bare and shining in the moonlight. “Cold?” he asked her.
“Yes, a little.”
Beecher put the towel over her legs and tucked it around her feet and ankles. He poured hot tea, added a splash of rum, and handed her the cup.
Beecher saw that her eyes were unhappy. He sat down and took her hand. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know. Nothing.”
But he knew that her mood had changed. He smiled at her. “Come on, we’re friends, remember?”
“Everything seems so unreal here.” She turned and looked at him steadily, and he could see the shine of moonlit water in her eyes. “You don’t care so much about things you thought were important. It’s like waking up and finding that you’re a child again. Does Spain do that to everybody?”
“I don’t think you can blame old Spain. People find out about themselves by accident, as a rule.” He studied her shadowed face, trying to guess at her thoughts. “That can happen in a garden of palm trees or a telephone booth or a poker game.”
Beecher turned from her as he heard footsteps hurrying down the garden. It was Encarna, her white apron fluttering palely in the darkness. “There is someone to see you, Señor,” she said, in an unmistakably disapproving tone. “Señorita Ilse. Don Willie’s friend.”