Dear Conquistador Page 7

  ‘Well, who cares about geography?’ Bruce Gilford laughed. ‘This is wonderful.’

  Hilary thought so too. Suddenly the day had become alive. Only one thing worried her, and a little while later she was able to confide the worry to Bruce Gilford during a moment when they were alone.

  ‘It’s the corrida,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I dread it.’

  ‘A lot of Englishwomen do. But you don’t have to go.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said slowly. ‘I had no idea that it was on the agenda today - I thought there was just going to be high jinks after dark - you know, dancing and eating and drinking.’ ‘That comes later.’ He grinned. ‘I can see you’ve still got quite a lot to learn yet. When we get back from the corrida there’ll be a tremendous party feast, then the singing and high jinks. It’ll go on half the night.’

  ‘Yes.’ She frowned. ‘But I wish I could get out of the bullfight. It’s horrible.’

  He was silent, and she knew there was little he could do to help her avoid an entertainment she found distasteful. Already she had got off to a bad start with Consuelo; she could not risk giving further offence by refusing to fall in with her host and hostess’s arrangements. Besides, she was bound to accompany Juanita and Joaquin.

  They were preparing to leave now. Already some of the guests were getting into the cars and driving off, and Joaquin and his friends were waiting impatiently, having been promised that they could ride with Bruce in the station wagon.

  Hilary’s faint hope that perhaps Juanita might have wished to cry off was quickly doomed. Juanita seemed to be looking forward to it, judging by the smile of anticipation in her eyes, and Hilary could do nothing but try to repress her misgivings and follow Juanita into the car.

  The plaza de toros radiated its taut, smouldering excitation long before the Navarre party assembled in the tier almost immediately above the barrera. Music blared from the speakers, music as martial and fiery as the blazing colours of the matadors’ suits and the golden sunlight pouring through the slight haze hanging in the air, a thousand voices sounded and made a curious high-pitched babble that stretched like an intangible canopy above the great yellow circle of sand, and a smell compounded of dust, heated human bodies and animals invaded the nostrils to exhilarate or evoke the sickness of revulsion.

  Bruce Gilford was at Hilary’s side for a few moments before the crush at the entrance separated them. He said softly: ‘It’s an excitement you have to experience once in a lifetime - if only to have a sound basis to argue from. You’re not going to let the flag down, are you?’

  ‘I’m not thinking about the flag,’ she said sharply, ‘I’m thinking about the bull.

  He put an arm lightly between her shoulder blades to guide her up the steps. ‘I’ll sit next to you and hold your hand if it gets too much for you,’ he said softly.

  But it didn’t work out that way.

  Joaquin wriggled between them, his young voice shrill and excited, and Sanchia moved nearer, with an elderly man and his son who had been later arrivals at the hacienda that morning. Consuelo was with Don Alonso and his wife, from the neighbouring ranch of which Bruce Gilford was manager, and Juanita was moving on ahead with two other guests. When eventually they were all in their seats, strung in a long row of faces mostly unfamiliar to her, Hilary was sitting between strangers. She leaned forward, saw Bruce sitting between Joaquin and Sanchia about five places along, and then settled back, taking off her dark glasses. Almost immediately she replaced them. They provided a symbolic if frail guard against that which she had no desire to see. Suddenly the music stopped. The crowd was silenced, and Hilary saw the gateway to the toril was opened. The hush in the vast plaza gripped and imprisoned the senses, and the bull ran into the centre of the great yellow circle.

  There was the audible sighing sound of a thousand breaths expelled, and a strange stab of fear and fascination ran through Hilary as the massive black creature wheeled to face its persecutor.

  It began; the play of scarlet and yellow capes, the picadors and the sweating horses, the bandilleros with the tawdry ribbons, the cheers and jeers of the crowd, the rising blood-fever of spectacle and the glittering, weaving, dancing figure of the matador, and the central dominant power of the enraged bull.

  Long before the second barb was quivering, transfixed, Hilary knew she had to get out or make a fool of herself. The sight of scarlet on the glistening black hide did not induce the feminine weakness of sickness or fainting; it roused in her an anger of humanity and an anger of impotence because she could do nothing to stop the barbaric spectacle. Thankful that she was within a couple of places from the end of the row, she rose and slipped past the knees of her neighbours, murmuring, ‘Perdone ... Siento mucho que ...’ until she reached the gangway and passed the sweetmeat sellers, the favour purveyors, the uniformed duty officials, to reach the comparative peace of the outer grounds.

  There she halted, taking a deep breath and looking about her, before she began to walk slowly in the direction of where the cars were parked. Her head was throbbing with the effect of the heat and the noise and her hatred of a sport to which, despite her wish to understand impartially the many aspects of the Latin temperament, she could never reconcile her hatred of all inflicted suffering. She raised her hand to the soft chiffon bandeau which held her hair drawn tightly back from her face and slid it free, letting it loop over her arm while she ran her fingers through her hair, sighing softly at the release it seemed to give as the soft fair cloud flowed free about her face.

  She slowed to a standstill, the question of what she would do next not yet occurring. Not one of the party had noted her precipitate flight, no startled comment had followed her and no hand reached out to check her, and she was conscious only of thankfulness to be alone and out of it all. Through her distress the first practical thought began to form, telling her of an intense need for a drink, only to be banished by the sound of footsteps. The last voice in the world she expected to hear at that moment said sharply:

  ‘Senorita - are you ill?’

  She spun round and came face to face with the Conde, ‘You!’ she gasped. ‘But I thought you were away!’

  ‘I was, but my business colleague was summoned to deal with a personal emergency.’ His dark patrician features tightened with impatience. ‘You have not answered my question. I saw you leave the corrida. Are you ill?’

  ‘No, just sickened.’ The shock of seeing him was subsiding and anger returning. ‘I couldn’t stand it a moment longer. It’s inhumane. I don’t know how anyone can sit and enjoy, applaud, such a barbaric entertainment. Sport! ’ she cried fiercely. ‘It isn’t sport! It’s an anachronism. It belongs to a medieval mentality, along with bear-baiting, and cock-fighting, and—’

  ‘One moment.’ His dark brows drew together. ‘You are speaking of the corrida?’

  ‘What else? I think—’

  ‘I think you know nothing at all on which to base such sweeping condemnation of something which is not merely a sport. It is an art, and a symbol of man’s supreme courage.’

  ‘Courage?’ She made no attempt to disguise her scorn. ‘Whose courage? Man’s supreme egotism, you mean.’

  ‘Would you care to face one of those creatures?’ he asked, his composure remaining controlled. ‘There is no pretence for the sake of showmanship, and the bull does not always lose. The corrida can mean death, senorita.’

  ‘And that’s why I hate it,’ she flashed. ‘Can’t you see, it panders to the worst element in human nature? People go with the same secret dread they go to a circus. There is always the risk that the trapeze artist will crash to the ring. This is the excitement, the attraction, but very few people will admit it.’

  ‘And this would blind you to the grace and the skill?’

  ‘Yes.’ She took a quivering breath and turned away. ‘But not because I do not admire that skill and courage. I do, and grieve to see it squandered. Man is given the priceless gift of reason, Senor Conde. He can make the decision to squan
der or risk his life, but an animal is not given that choice. It fights, or kills merely to survive, and if man chooses to inflict pain on it then it has no choice but to defend itself. And man calls it sport!’ she exclaimed bitterly. ‘I loathe violence and suffering, whether of man or beast, and there is more than enough of it in the world without deliberately causing any more.’

  There was a brief silence, and the air seemed filled with a curious hush. From a long way off she heard the sound of the crowd within the plaza, and with a dull stab of pain she knew what it signified. El Toro was dead.

  She felt light but firm hands on her shoulders. Slowly the Conde turned her to face him. He said quietly: ‘For a cool little English maid you feel very deeply and with a strange perception, do you not?’

  She could not reply or look up to the hot revealing light of the sun. All the anger was purged from her now, leaving sadness, and a feeling of being alone and without defence in an alien sphere. There was only the outline of the man who towered above her, the dark brown tie of fine silk with the narrow bar of gold glinting level with her eyes and blurring a little against the oyster silk of his shirt. A movement blotted out the glint of gold, and a hand tipped at her chin, warm round the delicate bone structure that protested obstinately against the light pressure.

  He studied the small set oval with the flush of apricot tinting the soft roundness of her cheeks and with one long curved forefinger he brushed lightly at the single big sparkling diamond of moisture that had escaped the lowered veil of lashes.

  ‘I think you have something in your eye, chiquita. A speck of dust, perhaps. If you blink hard against this handkerchief it may come out. ’

  The soft white lawn feathered below the shielding lashes and the big sparkling drop vanished. She blinked, and her chin tilted proudly without any further assistance. ‘Thank you, senor. It has gone now.’

  ‘I am glad.’ His dark head inclined slightly to one side. ‘I think perhaps this is not the moment to continue our discussion of the finer ethics concerning the corrida. Permit me, senorita.’

  He placed an escorting hand beneath her elbow and turned towards the long line of cars. Automatically she walked forward, then stopped, turning a puzzled glance up to the dark chiselled profile. ‘But the others, senor? Should we not wait for them?’

  ‘I think not. It will be some time before the corrida is over.’

  ‘Yes, but the children. I should...’ She still hesitated.

  ‘I have instructed Ramon to ensure that they remain close to the party. Do not worry, senorita, all will be well.’

  ‘But - don’t you wish to return to the corrida? You were there, weren’t you?’

  ‘So many buts!’ The Conde snapped his fingers and a small urchin appeared as though by magic. While the Conde produced car keys and in a leisurely manner opened the passenger door and handed Hilary into the interior the urchin went into action with duster and leather on the windscreen. The Conde flipped a coin and the urchin grinned a perky, ‘Gracias, senor’, as he caught it neatly.

  The luxurious American limousine purred into action and the delicious coolness of its air conditioning began to fan gently against Hilary’s flushed face. She wondered where he was going and stole a discreet glance sideways, but the coolly arrogant profile was remote, intent on the driving scene, and she stayed silent. For a fleeting space she allowed her gaze to rest on the hands which held the car in effortless control. They were well-shaped, as immaculately kept as a woman’s, but there any effeminate comparison ended. There was too much suggestion of supple steel in their lean lines and a dexterity that would not fumble at whatever skill their owner might command of them, whether it be of craftsmanship or control - or the finessing of a woman.

  She must have sighed, for he said, ‘You are feeling recovered now?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She relaxed, a wry smile curving her mouth. Why did he have the power to disarm her so easily? Even as he left her in no doubt as to who held complete mastery, no matter what the situation. Somehow it wasn’t fair!

  In a very short time she recognized the outskirts of the city and wondered if for some reason he was returning to the villa. But he drove directly into the city centre, eventually pulling up outside the Hotel Bolivar. He turned to her, and now there was a hint of devilish amusement in his eyes.

  ‘I believe I detected the first trace of a little nostalgia this afternoon, a certain anoranza, which I must deal with. ’

  ‘Oh ...’ she bit her lip, taking in the facade of Lima’s premier hotel and suddenly conscious that she must be looking anything but her best. ‘Senor, I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but—’ she gave a soft rueful laugh, ‘I feel dreadfully untidy to go in there.’

  ‘Nonsense. You look charming.’ With arrogant eyes he surveyed her. ‘And I am sure the powder room mirror will not have the effrontery to contradict me.’

  She steeled herself to remain unconvinced in face of this blatant Latin chivalry and slipped from the car. The Conde escorted her into the hotel as gravely as though she were a princess and paused. ‘I will await you in the main lounge -but please do not argue too long with that mirror, senorita.’ Small tremors of excitement started to bubble up within her as, outwardly calm, she quickly dealt with dust and stickiness. The day had come right again; it held anticipation again - pleasurable this time.

  Four of the five minutes she had mentally allowed herself had elapsed when she had applied touches of fresh make-up and combed her hair into sleek shining order. Instinctively she delved in her bag and swore softly under her breath when her missing hair band failed to come to light. She must have dropped it outside the plaza de toros - unless she’d dropped it in the car. She would have to leave her hair loose and remember to look on the car floor afterwards...

  But long before she stepped back into the car she had forgotten the bandeau. The certain emphasis behind the Conde’s observation earlier about nostalgia took on fresh meaning. As though with a wave of a wand he transported her from the sultry hot colour of sub-tropical Latin America to the peaceable leisure of tea in an English spa hotel. The English tea-room in the Bolivar recaptured it very aptly. Pink and white marble, flowers, waitresses wheeling trolleys of delicious cakes, scones and strawberry jam, real English tea from a silver teapot, the buzz of chatter in the background, and the Conde at his most urbane; elegant, a faultless host and companion, superb as only he could be...

  Hilary was silent with content when it was time to leave. Her eyes smiled as he put her into the car, and there was the tiniest suggestion of laughter lilts at the corners of his mouth as he took his place at the wheel. They lingered there for quite a while, until the city limits had been left behind and the spread of the city lay like a Cubist serration of white concrete and glass outlined against the great backdrop of the Andean foothills.

  The Conde was the first to break the silence. Without allowing his attention to flicker from the road he observed calmly: ‘You see now that we do not entirely neglect the more restful aspects of life.’

  ‘Yes,’ the smile still softened Hilary’s eyes, ‘I see also, senor, that you never do things by halves.’

  ‘By halves? In what way, senorita?’

  ‘By half-measures.’ Her voice was cool, giving no indication of the small bubbling tremors that were beginning to effervesce again. ‘You do not do things in a careless way as we sometimes do, agreeing or taking a half-hearted course of action because it’s less bother than refusing.’

  ‘Ah, you mean that we are more positive in our reactions? Or more obvious in our approach?’

  ‘Not exactly. Positive, yes,’ she said carefully, ‘but obvious

  - no.’ She watched a large flock of birds flying in darkening waves across the sunset and thought that ‘obvious’ was the last epithet to apply to the enigmatic Romualdo de Pacquera y Zaredopenas.

  The dark flight of the birds diminished in the westering sun, and the silence in the car seemed to wait for Hilary to break it. Suddenly she was uncertain o
f herself - and her autocratic companion. Had she offended? She had been extremely outspoken after the corrida; only now in the cooler realm of retrospect could she realize how outspoken. But he had been aloof rather than angry, almost patronizing had he not too ingrained a courtesy ever to betray such a lapse of behaviour. And he had taken her to tea, during which not for one single second had his impeccable manner wavered - nor the mocking charm with which he had masked her giveaway emotion. Something in her eye! None of it added up to the behaviour of someone angry or offended, or both. Unless ... An appalling possibility suggested itself and filled her with horror. What if he had been teaching her a lesson in manners? When in Rome...

  She turned her head to seek the gravely composed profile, fully expecting to read there some unguarded indication of what he really thought.

  As though in response to the small silent seeking, one dark brow lifted.

  ‘ So you believe you are beginning at last to understand us?’

  She skimmed her gaze back to the road ahead, a strange sense of relief coming now that it seemed she had let her imagination run riot. She said carefully: ‘No, I don’t think I would presume to understand anyone, not after too brief an acquaintance, senor.’

  ‘Is that how you think of us - of me? As an acquaintance?’

  His tone had changed. She knew she had not imagined the clipped note that had entered it and she said hastily: ‘I - I wasn’t defining it specifically - not as any one person. Certainly not yourself, senor.’

  There was a silence. The Conde slowed behind a cart heavily laden with cotton bales and waited until he had pulled out to overtake before he remarked coolly: ‘I find that rather interesting.’

  She restrained the obvious little prompting when he paused, and waited.

  ‘It confirms something that I have long suspected of the English,’ he continued in the same cool tones. ‘You will never commit yourselves emotionally to strangers, or acquaintances, except in anger. ’