“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?”
“Where is Francois?”
“In the Castillo, drinking. He wouldn’t stay alone at the hotel.”
“Let’s go.”
She smiled ironically. “I see how touched you are by my problems.”
“You’re worrying about the future. That’s a luxury I can’t afford.”
“You may wish you had, dear.”
Peter filed the remark away in a compartment of his mind, which he thought of as a repository for ticking bombs. Then he turned off the lights in the shed and they walked up the bank of the river towards the Plaza del Castillo.
Francois said: “So what have you two been cooking up?” He was drinking brandy. “Or were you strolling about the town like sweethearts?” He smiled coldly at Angela. “Did he tell you your body was made by glassblowers and magicians?”
“Shut up,” she said.
“I will not shut up!”
They had found him at a table on the terrace of the Café Kutz, seated with his back to a wall, a half-dozen saucers stacked before him. Peter glanced at the drink Francois was holding.
“I’d advise you to make that a nightcap.”
“When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.”
The plaza was boiling with noise and excitement. Fireworks erupted from the small park in the middle of the square. Red and white Roman candles raced towards the sky with huge whooshing explosions, and disintegrated into a billion gaudy patterns high in the darkness. The streets and sidewalks were thick with reeling tourists and Spaniards, all slung with goatskins of wine. Weaving snake lines of dancers clogged traffic. Dozens of Cabezudas swayed high above the heads of the crowd. Some were made up as devils and witches, others as clowns and bishops and gypsies. Fire-bulls, toros built of papier-, belched flame from their nostrils, shot sparkling puffballs of smoke from their hollow horns. The incessant pound of explosives mingled with the brassy thud of marching bands.
This was the sound of San Fermin, rhythmic, huge, incessant. It was as if rubber truncheons were beating against the underside of the earth; the sounds seemed to explode underneath the feet, and go rocking and blasting up the legs and spine, to burst inside the head.
The terraces of all the cafés ringing the plaza were jammed with tourists. Tables were thick with bottles and glasses and saucers.
Everyone was calling for drinks. The waiters squeezed themselves tortuously through the crowds, flushed and sweating, trays balanced precariously over their heads.
Snippets of talk rustled about Peter’s ears like scraps of paper in a gale.
“If you drink that I’m going back to the hotel.”
“Hemingway said Cagnacho was yellow. Look it up, Old buddy, look it up.”
“It’s a goddam shame the way they spoil these places—”
“...didn’t come here to sit in a hotel and watch you write postcards—”
“...I didn’t say he was yellow, Hemingway did.”
“Left Bank, the Dome and Select, even the Village, they’ve spoiled all of it.”
“...lot he knew.”
“...sure, Chicago used to be a good town.”
“...you shouldn’t have done that, dear. Waiter? You really shouldn’t.
Just remember to tell Dr. Abrams about this little indulgence. Don’t conveniently forget it, dear. Waiter!”
“...then why did he shoot himself, buster?”
Francois ordered another brandy. He wore sunglasses and a cap pulled down low on his forehead, but Peter sensed that his eyes were flicking intently and nervously about the terrace of the café.
“I have been very trusting, very co-operative,” Francois said in a thick, angry voice. “Good Francois. He lies in the sun, not a worry in his head. Tell him this, tell him that, he nods and smiles and does what he’s told. But I’m not a fool.”
“Who said you were?”
“How do we leave the bank Sunday morning?”
“I told you twice. The old storm drains run under the bank. They’re dry this time of year. We will follow them to the river.”
“Then why do we give the things to her?”
“Because there’s an elbow of the drain that’s only fourteen inches wide.”
“I’m tired of your clever plans. I’m sick of hearing how smart and formidable you are. You’re doing this for nothing but honour? And Phillip? He takes a little money, but very little. And he’s not the least curious about what we’re after. And your woman, that great iceberg, she is working for nothing too. Just like that crazy old bullfighter. I’m smothered by this philanthropy. I ask myself why you’re so good to me, so charitable.”
“Francois, this is no time for trouble,” Angela said quietly.
“No, good faithful Francois mustn’t make trouble! I must do what I’m told, like a well-trained dog. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of being ordered about by this clever, dangerous thief, the famous Black Dove.”
Peter gripped the neck of the brandy bottle. “Listen, Francois,” he said very quietly. “If you don’t shut up now, I’m going to knock all your front teeth down your throat.”
“But—”
“I said shut up.”
A roar like a mighty wave washed over the plaza. From the balconies, floodlights swept across the crowds in the streets, cutting so swiftly and blindingly through the darkness, and in such intricate and dazzling patterns, that the effect was as fantastic and impressive as great swords swinging in the hands of giants.
Everyone was standing, climbing on to chairs and tables.
To a roaring drumbeat, the Virgins of Spain were entering the Plaza del Castillo, borne on massive and dazzlingly decorated floats by hundreds of proud attendants.
Angela stood on tiptoe, straining to see, and the glitter in her eyes was no less vivid than the blaze of the jewels on the arms and throats of the Virgins.