Destiny Decrees

by Margaret Mann

  Soon after Ricardo had left for his appointment, they set out to explore Lisbon. Coralie forgot her preoccupation in the busy colourful streets, the spread of russet roofs and the flower-filled squares. They strolled along avenues lined with orange trees and African palms where the slower pulse of life lent a touch

  of bygone charm. They mounted the narrow picturesque Alfama streets, where pedestrians took part in a regular dalliance with death, as trams descended suddenly like great golden galleons from the snaking hill-streets. There seemed to be virtually no pedestrian crossings, and Coralie had to duck and weave, skirt and skim the bumpers of cars and buses to make her way across.

  It was after manoeuvring the chaos of one such cobbled street and having sustained the angry hootings of the traffic at her attempts to dash to safety that Coralie's worst fears were realised. It became apparent that she had become separated from her companions among the crowds. A dull despair washed over her at the first realisation of her predicament, for with typical abandon, she had not bothered to take note of the name of the hotel where they were staying—she had vague recollections of its foreign name, but nothing whereby she could indicate its whereabouts to a policeman, or even to a taxi-driver. She ought to have guessed this might happen, but surely the other two would make some attempt to find her. With this reassuring thought that they would never leave her to find her own way back to the hotel, she halted, uncertainly looking to left and right, desperately searching the jostling crowds for a glimpse of them.

  Fearfully thrusting away her mounting panic, and regardless of the hot sun on her head, she began pushing back the way she thought they had come, but it was impossible to be certain, among the swarming Latin crowds. Wiping the perspiration from her forehead, she looked about her helplessly, only to gasp in dismay as she felt hard fingers biting into her shoulders. She glanced round fearfully, to be confronted by an angry dark face looming above her as he swung her round to face him. Relief mingled with fear flooded her entire being as Dom Ricardo gripped her bare arm in fingers of steel.

  ' Dios, Coralie, where on earth have you been?' he demanded harshly. His eyes were unreadable behind the dark glasses, but her nerves were jumping at the

  hard, cruel expression about his mouth.

  ' I've been looking for you.'

  ' Looking for me?' she gasped. W—why? How did you know I was lost?'

  I happened to meet Elvira and Jacques, and they told me that you had given them the slip—how crazy can the English be! Why did you do it? What did you want to see—or where did you want to go that you must go alone?'

  Coralie stared up at him. ' Leave me alone!' she said tightly.

  ' You don't really mean that,' he drawled, his lips curling.

  ' Yes—if you must believe everything you hear about me. Isn't it obvious that I would not purposely wish to become separated from the others in this—this hell on earth?' her words rang out with nerves and anger.

  ' We will leave the post-mortem until later,' he crisped, steering her along as she became aware that people were watching them.

  Eventually they emerged from the side streets into Blackhorse Square, down on the waterfront where they watched the big red-sailed barges tacking up and down the river. .

  ' I thought I had warned you not to be so foolish as to try to escape again.' He was studying her sardonically and she looked at him bitterly.

  ' And what are you going to do about it—take back your distasteful proposal?' She didn't care what he thought. Dom Ricardo's expression darkened.

  ' No,' he replied definitely. I will not do that.. Come, you are pale from too much sun.'

  Coralie had no option but to follow him along the bank of the Tagus until they came to the jetty where the tugs tied up. Soon they reached the wharf where the fishing boats were moored, each of them with a crowd of customers alongside, haggling animatedly over soles, whiting, hake, huge eels and lobsters caught that morning while a whole flock of gulls wheeled overhead. Turning sharp right, they entered the shaded fruit market around cascades of oranges,

  their deep green leaves still attached, past mounds of black and green grapes with the bloom still on them, beside boxes of peaches, apricots and green figs, strawberries and an assortment of mangoes, pineapples, grapefruit and tangerines, all grown in that country. Coralie licked her dry lips while gazing longingly at the fruit stalls.

  ' You would like some fruit, perhaps? It will refresh you.' A moment later an armful of fruit and flowers was thrust upon her. ' Many happy returns of your birthday.' There was a quirk to his lips as he watched her confusion.

  ' How did you know it's my birthday?' she gasped in surprise, burying her nose in the heavenly perfumed blooms.

  I make it my business to know these things,' he drawled.

  She felt her blush deepen at his slow smile. She knew he was laughing at her, but she kept her eyes steady, looking directly at him.

  ' Thank you,' she said her lips quivering. ' They're beautiful.'

  Come now, they didn't cost a fortune!' His eyes again dwelt on her with some challenge.

  It isn't the cost of them—it—it—' she broke off as he brushed her cheek with the back of his hand.

  You need not put it into words, pequena, your eyes are more than eloquent.' Was he remembering that other day, only a few weeks ago, she reflected incredulously, when destiny had decreed that they should meet, down along this same waterfront? But already his expression was preoccupied.

  Come,' he said, possessing himself of her elbow, ' it is almost lunch time. We will take a taxi back to the hotel.'

  ' Oh—no—please, senhor,' her eyes danced suddenly, ' couldn't we take a tram ride back instead?'

  He raised an amused eyebrow down at her childish whim.

  You want a fun trip, eh?'

  Oh, please! ' she exclaimed, her eyes reflecting the

  green shimmer of the water.

  ' Well, if you insist on a bone-shaking ride—seeing that it is your birthday, come along,' he conceded. The look he slanted her caused a flutter of excitement inside her, and she gave him one of her most radiant smiles.

  The antiquated tram, painted scarlet outside, and cushioned inside in button-backed, padded green brocade, thickly carpeted and draped with red curtains, and patterned with roses and advertisements, amused and delighted her as they clang-clanged their way through the city, but the imp of mischief that glinted in her eyes was at the look of mock sufferance on the lean, handsome face of the man seated beside her.

  ' For no one else would I undergo such humiliation,' he leaned towards her and spoke directly into her ear.

  Laughter bubbled up inside her. ' I do believe you are enjoying it despite yourself, senhor—and after all, it is my birthday,' she twinkled. Though his eyes were inscrutable, a wry smile twisted his lips and Coralie felt that this must be the closest she was ever likely to come to the man behind the handsome impenetrable mask.

  It was blue dusk when activity stirred behind the dried-blood coloured walls of the Campo Pequeno bullring, an eighty-year-old colosseum. By four o'clock they were in their seats watching the crowds of men and women, children and toddlers, laughing and squeezing themselves on to the hard tiers of seats.

  Dom Ricardo's party were more fortunate, Ricardo having procured a box for his guests. There was a curious timelessness about it all, thought Coralie uneasily. The audience at the gladiatorial shows of the Romans probably gathered in the same cheerful mood. Coralie could not repress a shiver of apprehension despite the oppressive warmth. Her sympathies were all with the bulls, though there was no denying the strange, primeval fascination of the atmosphere. The conversation was vivacious. Seated on his left, with

  Elvira on his right. Ricardo had not missed the tremor that coursed through her. He addressed her in his deep voice, his eyes merciless in the proud, high-boned face.

  ' Portuguese bullfighting, let me explain for our animal-loving Anglo-Saxon, is more of an elegant parade of skill and horsemanship than the deat
h-and glory epic that you would seem to imagine, Miss Grey.' He appeared to enjoy her fear and wide-eyed horror. What are you thinking, senhorita? That we are of a barbaric nature to enjoy such a traditional sport? Portuguese people who go to bullfights are not sadists. They do not go there to see cruelty. They do not wish to see men gored. Naturally they would not go if the danger of death ceased to exist, since it is exactly that danger which makes the fight the great experience.'

  You insisted on bringing me here, senhor, but you cannot make me enjoy your pagan pleasures,' Coralie bit her words off hating his unshakable arrogance. He merely laughed, his voice low and musical. She held her body tense with suspense and hatred.

  ' Are you so afraid now you are here?' he mocked. She turned a look of scorn on him. ' Afraid? No, senhor, not for myself.'

  He smiled ironically. ' Then spare your tears for the man, senhorita. His death would be his own fault. He chooses to be a torero, a professional bullfighter, and come the moment of truth, the odds on the man and the bull are almost equal. It is a combat in which a man voluntarily faces death. Only skill will save him. Once the bull is in the arena, the matador must kill or be killed.'

  Quite the Greek tragedy.' Her lips tightened in derision.

  ' I think it is the most cultured festival that exists anywhere in the world.'

  Coralie turned her back to him. She could no longer withstand his arguments.

  Relax, child,' he said with a Latin shrug.

  You have no feelings,' she lashed at him.

  ' I wouldn't take a chance on that,' he drawled wickedly. Startled, she turned her eyes to search the fine-boned face. In the dim light it had taken on a more dangerous fascination. She tilted her chin and fought to look composed in the half-veiled eyes so sardonically aware of her tension.

  The sun beat down on the newly raked sand of the arena. The Praca was now jammed with friends and relations, aficionados and tourists, talking, shouting and fanning themselves; drinking wine and eating nuts and ice-cream. With a mixture of fear and fascination, Coralie felt her spine prickle as a bugle sounded, heralding the carnival of colour and splendour performed in the old-fashioned Portuguese style. In the sudden silence, the great doors opened and the procession entered the arena.

  From golden carriages stepped the matadors to mount their delicately stepping thoroughbreds. Impeccably dressed, dazzling in their embroidered silks, blue and silver, apricot and gold, and at the throat the black tie of mourning; their ceremonial capes held tightly in a sling round one arm, they bowed elegantly to the President of the fight, and side-stepped their horses round the arena. What magnificent animals they were—proud, glossy, aristocratic, quite without fear. Courtesies over, ceremonial capes were unfurled and slung to friends and admirers, or girls who draped them proudly over the stone edge in front of their seats.

  In the deathly hush that followed, Coralie's upswept glance caught a look of pagan pleasure on Ricardo's face as he gazed down into the arena. He wasn't just enjoying the spectacle, she realised. For him it was a passion with roots deep in his Iberian soul; the fierce obsession of the corrida was in his blood. Her heart beat quickly as she awaited the commencement of the corrida.

  A second blare of bugles announced the arrival of the bull. The torn gate was opened, the bull was in —a fast brown brute, blinking dazedly in the sudden light, then staring fixedly at the barrera. A cape was

  flickered to draw his attention, and the horseman started across the ring to challenge him. The bull wheeled charging round the arena after the horse, but expertly the cavaleiro manoeuvred him, raising the banderilla, poised delicately at an angle to the ground. A shout ' Hoi, toro!' the horse and the bull moved in a swift pattern of defiance, the bull's horns uncapped and ready to pierce to the bone his assailant, a slim black-haired, dark-skinned youth. He looked almost a boy, Coralie thought with a mounting sense of panic. What followed she never really knew, but the next minute the grave beautiful youth was being beaten to death! As the bull passed him, he had swirled the cape and in a high yellow circle round his body, but as the bull twisted and checked, a gust of wind caught the corner of the cape, and the youth tripped. Quick as light the bull was on him, battering him to pieces against the barrera.

  Coralie closed her eyes, feeling a sudden darkness blotting out the sun. A sickening nausea swept over her.

  ' No!' she sobbed, the breath choked in her parched throat. As Ricardo's arms gathered her in supreme urgency, she swooned at the strength that could have crushed her fine bones as surely as the wild beast in the arena was crushing the life out of the brave, fated youth who had so lately taunted him.

  Moments of oblivion can seem like hours, and Coralie revived slowly from her dead faint, to find that she was no longer within the walls of the Campo Pequeno bullring. Her mind still clouded, she felt the pounding of cloven hooves in her head. It was the frenzied pounding of a bull thundering with lowered horns across the sun-baked sand. A sharp twinge of horror pierced her clouded memory. A stifled scream escaped her parched lips, and a flash of feminine fear invaded her eyes.

  ' Hush, child, you have nothing to fear.' The deep voice held a note of impatient authority.

  Coralie stared upwards, her eyes suddenly focusing on a set of hard, brooding features that might have

  been carved from bronze. The eyes held hers intently beneath black brows, reminding her with a stab of emotion of a reckless youth, hoof-trampled on the lonely sands of an arena. She shuddered as the blue-black head came down so close that she half feared the passionate lips would sear her with their fire. Already she was ashamed of that cry, yet her eyes filled with tears, shock weakening her defences, and helplessly she wept in front of him.

  Hard fingers gripped her shoulders. Do not cry, pequena.' His voice sounded a shade more kindly as Coralie gave him a wordless, appealing look, her eyes wide in her pale face. Your hero did not die. He was in fact unhurt, for he was caught between the bull's horns, and tossed by its forehead. He was merely shaken, so spare your grief.'

  He's alive?' she gasped unbelievingly.

  He nodded. The brave Diamantino lives to fight another day.'

  Bleakly she had to face the fact that her pity had been in vain, to a man of the Senhor's calibre mere feminine exhibitionism. No wonder he looked at her as at an over-emotional child. If only she had kept her head, she would also have kept her pride. She had a sudden recollection of yellow and magenta capes flickering urgently round the boy as he had fallen.

  ' B-but if the capes had not been there to fend off the beast Diamantino would have died.' Tiredly she rested her head against the upholstered couch on which she lay.

  With an infuriating purr of mockery, he replied, ' I thought your sympathies were all with the bulls, yet you are broken hearted when you suppose his persecutor vanquished.' he taunted, his hands releasing her. He lounged back against the wall and lighting a thin cigar regarded her with the narrowed eyes of a panther stalking its prey as the smoke played about his chiselled features.

  Her tears had given way to temper. ' You make me wild, the way you like to humiliate me ! ' her green eyes flashed defiance.

  ' Ah, that's the spirit, much better than tears—and a little colour has returned to those pale cheeks.'

  You must feel you are wasting your time on me.' Coralie stirred her slim body, suddenly restless, hugging her knees to her chin like a child.

  ' Is that a question, or a statement of fact?' he countered.

  Well, I seem to have been nothing but a-a parasite, since you took it upon yourself to-to " mother " me.' Coralie looked up in time to catch Don Ricardo's level stare at the still, white oval of her face, his black eyes mocking.

  ' You're a sensitive, highly strung creature, Coralie, but at no time would I describe my concern for your welfare as motherly ! His eyes were watching her with a dangerous glint. You have such a charming air of innocence that I am tempted to awaken your awareness of what life is all about,' he taunted.

  His words alarmed her and s
he was beginning to be afraid of being alone with him. He had roused her from her lethargy, and for the first time, she glanced about her.

  Where are we?' she asked in some alarm.

  This is a taberna where aficionados like yourself,' he gave her a mocking bow. ' come to refresh themselves after the fight. The patrao kindly put this room at our disposal when he saw you lying still as Snow White in my arms. I have arranged that Elvira and Jacques will join us here later.'

  ' Y-you carried me all the way from the bullring?' she asked shyly.

  ' You do not suppose that I hired a helicopter merely to transfer your featherweight frame from just across the road?' he drawled.

  There was a knock at the door, and the patrao appeared, an old man with a rustic air about him. He beamed his admiration at Dom Ricardo, regarding him with genuine awe. He gave Coralie a puzzled look, for it was clear that the patrao expected a very different kind of woman to be the object of the Senhor's attentions.

  ' Everything is almost ready for dinner, Your Excellency.' Coralie's delicate eyebrows winged upwards in undisguised astonishment at the title with which the old man had addressed Dom Ricardo, yet his suave countenance remained unmoved.

  Meanwhile perhaps Your Excellency and the senhorita would care to come and taste the wine.'

  ' This taberna is famous for two things,' Ricardo informed her. ' Its hams and its wines.' Following his glance, Coralie saw where great smoke-blackened hams hung from rafters. ' And so this evening we will sample both specialities.'

  The patrão then asked them to follow him to the dining room, which they reached by a flight of wooden stairs. Coralie was acutely conscious of Ricardo's strong arm supporting her as her legs trembled from weakness as they climbed up into a room with a remarkably elaborate ceiling of panelled wood, elegantly carved.