Members of the crowd were by this time looking at one another in uneasy and rather fearful wonder. For the most part they were aficionados of the sport and they knew that what they were seeing was quite unprecedented and this could be no better than sending a man, no matter how brave and skilful a razateur he might be, to his certain death.
The giant bull was now advancing slowly into the ring, at the same time still contriving to make those deep backwards scores in the sand. Its great head was lower than before.
Bowman stood stock-still. His lips were compressed, his eyes narrow and still watchful. Some twelve hours previously, when inching up the ledge on the cliff-face in the ruined battlements of the ancient fortress he had known fear, and now he knew it again and admitted it to himself. It was no bad thing, he thought wryly. Fear it was that sent the adrenaline pumping, and adrenaline was the catalyst that triggered off the capacity for violent action and abnormally swift reaction: as matters stood now he was going to need all the adrenaline he could lay hands on. But he was coldly aware that if he survived at all it could only be for the briefest of periods: all the adrenaline in the world couldn’t save him now.
From the safety of the callajon Czerda licked his lips, half in unconscious empathy with the man in the ring, half in anticipation of things to come. Suddenly he tensed and the whole crowd tensed with him. An eerie silence as of death enveloped the arena. The great bull was charging.
With unbelievable acceleration for a creature of its size it came at Bowman like an express train. Bowman, unblinking, his racing mind figuring out the correlation between the speed of the bull and the rapidly narrowing distance between them, stood as a man would who is frozen with fear. Trance-like, fearful, the spectators stared in horror, convinced in their minds that this mad pierrot’s destruction was only a couple of heartbeats away. Bowman waited for one of those heart-beats to tick away and then, when the bull was less than twenty feet and a second away, he flung himself to his right. But the bull knew all about such tactics, for with remarkable speed in so massive an animal it veered instantly to its left to intercept: but Bowman had only feinted. He checked violently and threw himself to the left and the bull thundered harmlessly by, the huge right horn missing Bowman by a clear foot. The crowd, unbelieving, heaved a long collective sigh of relief, shook their heads at one another and murmured their relief. But the apprehension, the tension, still lay heavily in the air.
The Andalusian bull could brake as swiftly as it could accelerate. It pulled up in a shower of sand, whirled round and came at Bowman again without pause. Again Bowman judged his moment to a fraction of a second, again he repeated the same manoeuvre, but this time in the reverse order. Again the bull missed, but this time only by inches. There came another murmur of admiration from the crowd, this time to the accompaniment of some sporadic hand-clapping: the tension in the air was beginning to ease, not much, but enough to be perceptible.
Again the bull turned but this time it stood still, less than thirty feet away. Quite without moving, it watched Bowman, just as Bowman, quite without moving, watched him. Bowman stared at the great horns: there could be no doubt about it, their tips had been filed to sharp points. It occurred to Bowman, with a curious sense of detachment, that he had rarely encountered a more superfluous refinement: whether the horns had been sharpened or filed to the diameter of a penny it wouldn’t have made a ha’porth of difference: a swinging hook of one of those giant horns with all the power of those massive shoulder and neck muscles behind it would go straight through his body irrespective of the condition of the tip. Indeed, being gored by the sharpened horn might prove the easier and less agonizing way to die but it was a matter of academic importance anyway, the end result would be inevitable and the same.
The bull’s red eyes never wavered. Did it think, Bowman wondered, was it thinking? Was it thinking what he was thinking, that this was but a game of Russian roulette in so far as the terms of probabilities went? Would he expect Bowman to execute the same manoeuvre next time, refuse to be drawn, carry straight on and get him while Bowman had checked to fling himself the other way? Or would he think that Bowman’s next evasive action might not be a feint but the real thing, swerve accordingly and still get him? Bluff and double-bluff, Bowman thought, and it was pointless to speculate: the laws of blind chance were at work here and sooner or later, sooner rather than later, for on every occasion he had only a fiftyfifty chance, one of those horns would tear the life out of him.
The thought of that fifty-fifty chance prompted Bowman to risk a quick glance at the barrier. It was only ten feet away. He turned and sprinted for it, three steps, aware that behind him the bull had broken into its charge, aware ahead of him, in the callajon, of the figure of Czerda with the red flag over his arm, but the gun beneath clearly hanging downwards. He knew, as Bowman knew he knew, that Bowman had no intention of leaving the ring.
Bowman spun, back to the barrier, to face the bull. Pirouetting like a spinning top, he moved swiftly away along the barrier as the onrushing enraged bull hooked viciously with his right horn, the sharpened point brushing Bowman’s sleeve but not even tearing the material. The bull crashed into the barrier with tremendous force, splintered the top two planks, then reared up with his fore-feet on top of the planks as he tried furiously to climb over. Some time elapsed before the bull realized that Bowman was still in the same ring though by this time a prudent distance away.
By now the crowd was clapping and shouting its approval. Smiles were reappearing and some were even beginning to enjoy what had originally appeared to be a ludicrously one-sided and suicidal contest.
The bull stood still for a full half minute, shaking its great head slowly from side to side as if dazed by the power of its head-on collision with the barrier, which it very probably was. When it moved this time, it had changed its tactics. It didn’t charge Bowman, it stalked him. It walked forward as Bowman walked backward, slowly gaining on him, and when it abruptly lowered its head and charged it was so close that Bowman had no room left for manoeuvre. He did the only thing open to him and lept high in the air as the bull tried to toss him. He landed on the bull’s shoulders, somersaulted and came to the ground on his feet: although hurt and badly winded he miraculously succeeded in retaining his balance.
The crowd roared and whistled its admiration. Laughing in delight, they clapped one another on the back. Here, below that pierrot’s disguise, must be one of the great razateurs of the day. The great razateur of the day. Some of the spectators looked almost sheepish at having worried about the capacity for survival of so great a master at this.
The three manacled prisoners on their bunks, the two girls and Masaine watched in some trepidation as Le Grand Duc paced restlessly up and down the length of the caravan, glancing in mounting irritation at his watch.
‘What in the devil’s name is taking Czerda so long?’ he demanded. He turned to Masaine. ‘You, there. Where have they taken Bowman?’
‘Why, I thought you knew.’
‘Answer, you cretin!’
‘For the key. For the money. You heard. And then to the bullring, of course.’
‘The bullring? Why?’
‘Why?’ Masaine was genuinely puzzled. ‘You wanted it done, didn’t you?’
‘Wanted what done?’ Le Grand Duc was exercising massive restraint.
‘Bowman. To get him out of the way.’
Le Grand Duc laid his hands on Masaine’s shoulders and shook him in a no longer to be contained exasperation.
‘Why the bullring?’
‘To fight a bull, of course. A huge black Spanish killer. Bare hands.’ Masaine nodded at Cecile. ‘If he doesn’t, we’re going to kill her. This way, Czerda says, no suspicion can fall on us. Bowman should be dead by now.’ Masaine shook his head in admiration. ‘Czerda’s clever.’
‘He’s a raving maniac!’ Le Grand Duc shouted. ‘Kill Bowman? Now? Before we’ve made him talk? Before I know his contacts, how he broke our ring? Not to mention the eighty th
ousand francs we haven’t got yet. At once, fellow! Stop Czerda! Get Bowman out of there before it’s too late.’
Masaine shook his head stubbornly. ‘My orders are to stay here and guard those women.’
‘I shall attend to you later,’ Le Grand Duc said chillingly. ‘I cannot, must not be seen in public with Czerda again. Miss Dubois, run at once – ’
Cecile jumped to her feet. Her Arlésienne costume was not the thing of beauty that it had been but Lila had effected running repairs sufficient to preserve the decencies. She made to move forward, but Masaine barred her way.
‘She stays here,’ he declared. ‘My orders – ’
‘Great God in heaven!’ Le Grand Duc thundered. ‘Are you defying me?’
He advanced ponderously upon a plainly apprehensive Masaine. Before the gypsy could even begin to realize what was about to happen Le Grand Duc smashed down his heel, with all his massive weight behind it, on Masaine’s instep. Masaine howled in agony, hobbled on one leg and stooped to clutch his injured foot with both hands. As he did so Le Grand Duc brought down his locked hands on the base of Masaine’s neck, who collapsed heavily on the floor, unconscious before he struck it.
‘Swiftly, Miss Dubois, swiftly!’ Le Grand Duc said urgently. ‘If not already gone, your friend may well be in extremis.’
And in extremis Bowman undoubtedly was. He was still on his feet – but it was only an exceptional will-power and instinct, though fast fading, for survival that kept him there. His face was streaked with sand and blood, twisted in pain and drawn in exhaustion. From time to time he held his left ribs which appeared to be the prime source of the pain he was suffering. His earlier pierrot finery was now bedraggled and dirtied and torn, two long rips on the right-hand side of his tunic were evidences of two extremely narrow escapes from the scything left horn of the bull. He had forgotten how many times now he’d been on the sanded floor of the arena but he hadn’t forgotten the three occasions when his visits there had been entirely involuntary: twice the shoulder of the bull had hurled him to the ground, once the backsweep of the left horn had caught him high on the left arm and sent him somersaulting. And now the bull was coming at him again.
Bowman side-stepped but his reactions had slowed, and slowed badly. Providentially, the bull guessed wrongly and hooked away from Bowman but his left shoulder struck him a glancing blow, though from something weighing about a ton and travelling at thirty miles an hour the word ‘glancing’ is purely a relative term. It sent Bowman tumbling head over heels to the ground. The bull pursued him, viciously trying to gore, but Bowman had still enough awareness and physical resources left to keep rolling over and over, desperately trying to avoid those lethal horns.
The crowd had suddenly become very quiet. This, they knew, was a great razateur, a master mime and actor, but surely no one would carry the interest of his art to the suicidal lengths where, every second now as he rolled over the sand, he escaped death by inches and sometimes less, for twice in as many seconds the bull’s horns tore through the back of the doublet.
Both times Bowman felt the horn scoring across his back and it was this that galvanized him to what he knew must be his final effort. Half a dozen times he rolled away from the bull as quickly as he could, seized what was only half a chance and scrambled upright. He could do no more than just stand there, swaying drunkenly and staggering from side to side. Again, that eerie silence fell across the arena as the bull, infuriated beyond measure and too mad to be cunning any more, came charging in again, but just as it seemed inevitable that the bull must surely this time impale him, an uncontrollable drunk lurch by Bowman took him a bare inch clear of the scything horn: so incensed was the bull that he ran on for another twenty yards before realizing that Bowman was no longer in his way and coming to a halt.
The crowd appeared to go mad. In their relief, in their unbounded admiration for this demigod, they cheered, they clapped, they shouted, they wept tears of laughter. What an actor, what a performer, what a magnificent razateur! Such an exhibition, surely, had never been seen before. Bowman leaned in total exhaustion against the barrier, a smiling Czerda only feet away from where he stood. Bowman was finished and the desperation on his face showed it. He was finished not only physically, he had come to the end of his mental tether. He just wasn’t prepared to run any more. The bull lowered its head in preparation for another charge: again, silence fell over the arena. What fresh wonder was this miracle man going to demonstrate now?
But the miracle man was through with demonstrations for the day. Even as the silence fell he heard something that made him spin round and stare at the crowd, incredulity in his face. Standing high at the back of the crowd and waving frantically at him was Cecile, oblivious of the fact that scores of people had turned to stare at her.
‘Neil!’ Her voice was close to a scream. ‘Neil Bowman! Come on!’
Bowman came. The bull had started on its charge but the sight of Cecile and the realization that escape was at hand had given Bowman a fresh influx of strength, however brief it might prove to be. He scrambled into the safety of the callajon at least two seconds before the bull thundered into the barrier. Bowman removed the pierrot’s hat which had been hanging by its elastic band down the back of his neck, impaled it on one of the sharpened horns, brushed unceremoniously by the flabbergasted Czerda and ran up the terraces as quickly as his leaden legs would permit, waving to the crowd who parted to make way for him: the crowd, nonplussed though it was by this remarkable turn of events, nevertheless gave him a tumultuous reception: so unprecedented had the entire act been that they no doubt considered that this was also part of it. Bowman neither knew nor cared what their reactions were: just so long as they opened up before him and closed again after he had passed it would give him what might prove to be vital extra seconds over the inevitable pursuers. He reached the top, caught Cecile by the arm.
‘I just love your sense of timing,’ he said. His voice, like his breathing, was hoarse and gasping and distressed. He turned and looked behind him. Czerda was ploughing his way up through the crowd and not leaving any newly made friends behind him: El Brocador was moving on a converging course: of Searl he could see no sign. Together they hurried down the broad steps outside the arena, skirting the bull pens, stables and changing rooms. Bowman slid a hand through one of the many rips in his tunic, located his car keys and brought them out. He tightened his grip on Cecile’s arm as they reached the last of the changing rooms and peered cautiously round the corner. A second later he withdrew, his. face bitter with chagrin.
‘It’s just not our day, Cecile. That gypsy I clobbered – Maca – is sitting on the bonnet of the Citroën. Worse, he’s cleaning his nails with a knife. One of those knives.’ He opened a door behind them, thrust Cecile into the changing room where he himself had robed before his performance, and handed her the car keys. ‘Wait till the crowd comes out. Mingle with them. Take the car, meet me at the southern end – the seaward end – of the church at Saintes-Maries. For God’s sake, don’t leave the Citroën anywhere near by – drive it out to the caravan park east of the town and leave it there.’
‘I see.’ She was, Bowman thought, remarkably calm. ‘And meantime you have things to attend to?’
‘As always.’ He peered through a crack in the door: for the moment there was no one in sight. ‘Four bridesmaids,’ he said, slipped out and closed the door behind him.
The three manacled men were lying in their bunks, quietly and seemingly uncaring, Lila was sniffing disconsolately and Le Grand Duc scowling thunderously when Searl came running up the steps. The apprehensive look was back on his face again and he was noticeably short of breath.
‘I trust,’ Le Grand Duc said ominously, ‘that you are not the bearer of ill tidings.’
‘I saw the girl,’ Searl gasped. ‘How did she – ’
‘By God, Searl, you and your nincompoop friend Czerda will pay for this. If Bowman is dead – ’ He broke off and stared over Searl’s shoulder, then pushed him roug
hly to one side. ‘Who in heaven’s name is that?’
Searl turned to follow Le Grand Duc’s pointing finger. A red-and-white-clad pierrot was making his way at a lurching, stumbling run across the improvised car park: it was evident that he was near total exhaustion.
‘That’s him,’ Searl shouted. ‘That’s him.’ As they watched, three gypsies appeared from behind some huts, Czerda unmistakably one of them, running in pursuit of Bowman and covering the ground a great deal faster than he was. Bowman looked over his shoulder, located his pursuers, swerved to seek cover among several caravans, checked again as he saw his way blocked by El Brocador and two other gypsies, turned at rightangles and headed for a group of horses tethered near by, white Camargue horses fitted with the heavy-pommelled and high-backed Camargue saddles which look more like ribbed and leatherupholstered armchairs than anything else. He ran for the nearest, unhitched it, got a foot into the peculiarly fenced stirrup and managed, not without considerable effort, to haul himself up.
‘Quickly!’ Le Grand Duc ordered. ‘Get Czerda. Tell him if Bowman escapes neither he nor you shall. But I want him alive. If he dies, you die. I want him delivered to me within the hour at the Miramar Hotel in Saintes-Maries. I myself cannot afford to remain here another moment. Don’t forget to catch that damned girl and bring her along also. Hurry, man, hurry!’
Searl hurried. As he made to cross the road he had to step quickly and advisedly to one side to avoid being run down by Bowman’s horse. Bowman, Le Grand Duc could see, was swaying in the saddle to the extent that even although he had the reins in his hands he had to hold on to the pommel to remain in his seat. Beneath the artificial tan the face was pale, drawn in pain and exhaustion. Le Grand Duc became aware that Lila was standing by his side, that she too was watching Bowman.
‘I’ve heard of it,’ the girl said quietly. No tears now, just a quietness and a sadness and disbelief. ‘And now I see it. Hounding a man to death.’