Tomorrow Pamplona

by Jan Van Mersbergen

He turns off the torch. Got everything you need?

  I’ll be fine.

  Danny puts down the blanket on the bench beside him.

  I’ll leave the door open, Robert says, walking back to the car.

  Danny wraps the blanket around his shoulders. He rests his elbows on the table, clasps his hands together. His legs are cold and stiff. He wants to take off his shoes and lie down on the bench, but the cold stops him. He drags his shoes through the sand under the table. A thought goes through his mind: Not far now. Just a short drive and it’s time for the bulls.

  He stands up, the blanket slips from his shoulders, and he walks down to the riverbank, where the water is quietly gurgling. He holds his fists up in front of his chest. He puffs as he makes a series of jabs, left, left, right hook. He steps through the grass and jabs again, left, left, right hook. Slowly, the cold drains from his body and his blood starts to pump.

  He starts walking. He stamps on any thoughts that try to free themselves, crushes them among the pebbles on the riverbank. He climbs up the bridge for the second time. The line of foam on the bank stands out against the sand. By the weak light of the stars, he sees small ripples moving over the water. He breathes out, empties his lungs and starts running, first at half speed, then faster. He runs along the verge, around the bend, through long grass wet with dew.

  Panting, he reaches the rock, a solid patch of darkness, the size of the heaviest training balls at the boxing school. He kneels down, wraps his forearms around the cold rock, grits his teeth, tenses the muscles in his thighs and back, and slowly lifts it. He rests it on his thighs. His feet seek a grip in the shingle. He breathes in deeply, breathes out and rolls the rock up to his chest, puts both hands beneath it. Again, he pauses for a moment. Arms trembling, he heaves the rock into the air, its sandy surface rasping his face. With a supreme effort, he straightens his arms. And suddenly he’s standing there on the riverbank with an enormous rock above his head. He waits until one of the lights on the campsite goes out. Then he drops the rock onto the shingle, collapses beside it, rolls over the pebbles onto his back and looks up at the stars. The fine sand that was stuck to the rock feels gritty between his fingers.

  Back at the table, he unscrews the nearest bottle and takes a swig. He sits down, one hand around the bottle, the other to his ear. He hears a voice. Danny, it says. Her voice.

  Something rustles in the grass beside the car. Two rabbits hop through the darkness, stop, sit for a moment, hop some more. They’re scrawny little things. His eyes slowly become accustomed to the darkness, and the animals stand out more clearly against the black grass. He spots a few baby ones sitting right by the car. He picks up the torch, intending to pin them down with the beam, but changes his mind, and runs at the creatures. They shoot off in every direction. He stands on the spot where they were sitting.

  Her voice again. Counter boxer, she says. She strokes his upper arm. He tenses his muscles and a feeling of euphoria climbs up his neck to his head, a soft, warm tingle on the surface of his skin, but only very briefly, because the wind’s picking up and, as he looks over at the deserted river, the warm feeling disappears. He goes back to the bench. He takes another swig, leans back and thinks about the endless horizon of the motorway. Nearly there. He wraps the blanket around his shoulders and lies down on the bench. Cold seeps into him from the ground below. His heart thuds, slow and heavy. His mouth is dry. He runs his hand over his lips. Grains of sand cling to his cheek.

  *

  Pavel said goodbye and pulled on his coat. I’ve got to go into town, he said.

  See you tomorrow.

  Monday.

  Monday then.

  Pavel opened the door, winked at him and disappeared.

  Danny sat on the bench for a while. He drank water from the bottle. Get moving, he said to himself. He took off his T-shirt, pulled his towel from his bag and stood up. He heard a noise out in the corridor. He stayed where he was. The tap of metal on metal. The outside door closed and someone knocked on the door of the changing room.

  Anyone in there?

  Yeah.

  She opened the door and looked into the changing room, first at the bench opposite, then at him. At his chest. She came through the doorway and stopped, holding the door with one hand.

  Where are the others?

  They’re not coming in until this evening.

  She nodded. That include the grumpy one?

  Yes, he replied.

  She came into the changing room, shut the door and leant against it.

  I’ve got to take a shower, he said.

  She didn’t react, just looked at him.

  I’ve heard you’re training hard.

  I’m doing my best.

  That you’re training harder than certain other people.

  That’s their lookout.

  She laughed. Exactly, she said.

  Danny slid forward over the bench. The planks felt hard and cold. He had to force himself not to look at her. He looked at his shoes, at the laces snaking across the tiles.

  I heard you’re going up against an Argentinean.

  Yes.

  And you’re going to give him a pounding.

  Who said that?

  Someone who knows what they’re talking about.

  She came closer, sat down on the bench and crossed her legs. She opened her bag, took out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Danny looked at the cigarette. The filter was red with lipstick.

  They say you’re a counter boxer.

  Danny leant against the wall and then bounced back and rested his elbows on his knees.

  Yes, that’s what they say.

  Is it true?

  Depends on the opponent.

  Didn’t look like it when you were fighting that Bulgarian.

  But he was waiting too. So I attacked.

  What happens when your opponent goes on the attack?

  Then I counter.

  Ragna took a drag of her cigarette and dropped it on the tiled floor. The cigarette wasn’t even half finished. She crushed it under her heel. Sliding across the bench towards him, she brushed his biceps with her fingertips.

  Counter, she said, looking at him. She glanced down and then looked up again, into his eyes, with a different expression on her face. A shock ran up Danny’s arm. She withdrew her hand for a moment, and then rested it on his upper arm again before moving it and gently stroking his chest.

  I need to take a shower.

  Go ahead.

  Danny gave her a grin. Then he stood up in front of her and tensed his stomach muscles. She looked at his abs, then up at his face. Still looking him in the eyes, she got up and came closer. And closer still. She kissed him on the mouth. Danny tried to keep looking into her eyes, but she’d closed them. He put his arm around her and she swiftly moved his hand down.

  Well, she said.

  Her buttocks were small and round and they felt smooth through her trousers. She kissed him wildly. For just one moment, her lips left his and she looked him right in the eye and gave him a smile that seemed full of meaning. He wanted to say something. That she didn’t waste any time. Or that she knew what she wanted. But all he could do was smile back at her, watch his gaze reflect in her eyes and repeat what she had said.

  Well, well.

  She kissed him again, stroked his back and hips, pulled down his shorts, slid her hand into his underpants and took hold of his cock. He squeezed her buttocks, picked her up, turned her around and pressed her shoulders against the wall. Then she was standing above him on the bench. He pushed up her top, tugged her bra over her beautiful little breasts with his teeth and kissed them, licked her nipples. She undid her trousers and let them fall to the floor. He pressed his face into her stomach and listened for a moment to the beating of her heart or maybe his own. She dropped down from the bench, turned him around, pushed him down and sat on his lap. Her hand guided his cock. She slid onto it. She made him keep his legs still while she did all the m
oving. She kept her eyes shut, held her face to his chest, then higher, over his shoulder, until her forehead was resting on the wall and they were moving together, moving faster. She breathed in his ear until he came, without making a sound.

  She sat there for a while. Then she lifted herself off him and turned and sat on his lap, one hand on his chest, his heart.

  Counter boxer, she said.

  He nodded.

  Didn’t you want a shower?

  Danny nodded and went for his shower. He turned on the tap and let the water flow over his head. Smoke from her cigarette drifted in from the changing room.

  *

  In the jerky image that’s slowly coming into focus, he sees Robert rummaging around in the car.

  I’ll be off soon, he says.

  In the east, on the other side of the river, a narrow strip of blue hangs beneath the black sky. Danny’s feet are numb, his arms and legs are stiff, and his body feels as hard and stiff as the bench he’s been lying on. The blanket’s still around his shoulders, damp and clammy. He stands up, tries to bend his knees. It feels like he has wooden splints strapped to his legs.

  I’m not waiting, says Robert.

  Danny takes a few steps. Slowly the blood flows back into his feet, into his toes. He can feel them tingling inside his shoes. He hands Robert the blanket and walks around the car. The air is fresh, the grass is wet, the sand is dark with dew. Robert picks up the things from the table and takes them back to the car, where he packs them in amongst the bags. He climbs in and opens the other door for Danny. As Danny’s sliding in, Robert starts the engine and presses the button beside the radio. Warm air blows onto his trousers. Danny holds his hands up to the vents, twists the flaps, directing the air flow towards his upper arms. Robert doesn’t switch on the radio.

  They drive back to the motorway. It’s getting lighter as they approach the border and they see a sign for a truckers’ stop. Robert says he needs some coffee. And another tasty waitress, if that’s not too much to ask. He takes the exit. Three lorries are parked beside the entrance. Bodega Domeño, reads a sign above the door. Robert parks in one of the bays. Danny follows him into the café. Robert goes over to a big table by the window, sits down and looks over at the bar and at the door that must lead to the kitchen. Even though there are lorries outside, there’s no one else in the café. When Danny’s sat down, a man comes out of the kitchen and smiles at them.

  Está abierto? Robert asks.

  Porqué no?

  Un café, por favor, says Robert. Y podemos comer algo?

  Sí, claro.

  Robert orders a large black coffee, an omelette with bread and a glass of orange juice. Same for me, says Danny. The man nods a few times, takes the dishcloth from his shoulder, wipes his hands on it and heads for the kitchen.

  Bet he keeps his daughters hidden away in there, says Robert. Looks like we’ll have to make do with the old codger.

  From where they’re sitting, he can see a pointed hill on the other side of the motorway, yellow and parched on top, with scrubby undergrowth around its base. A few small houses lie in the sunlight on the southern slope. The scent of coffee wafts in from the kitchen. Soon the man brings two big bowls of coffee to their table. Robert says: Gracias. Danny picks up one of the bowls and sits completely still, staring at the hills. Robert sits opposite him, his head against the wall. He doesn’t move either. The man comes out with the orange juice and then brings the omelettes. They watch him as he works. He says: Aquí tiene y que aproveche.

  When they’ve finished their breakfast, he comes back and asks them if everything was to their liking. Robert says it was. The man stands there beside their table, as if he’s waiting for something.

  Vamos a Pamplona, says Robert.

  Ya me lo había imaginado.

  Para las fiestas, Robert continues. Para el encierro. Para los toros.

  Está bueno, the man says after a brief silence. He wipes his hands on the dishcloth again. Robert blinks.

  What did he say? Danny asks.

  Just talking about the bull running. Says it’s fantastic.

  Don’t you speak Spanish? the man says in English. He has a strong accent.

  Danny shakes his head.

  The bull running is beautiful, says the man. But for people who are not from here it can be dangerous.

  Silence.

  Robert says: You mean people who aren’t prepared.

  The man thinks for a moment. Some years ago, an American boy died. The horn of a bull went into his chest and he died on the way to the hospital.

  He presses his index and middle fingers into his chest. Then he continues: He fell and did not know that you must stay on the ground. So he got up again.

  Robert shakes his head. Todo el mundo lo sabe, he says.

  Exacto, says the man.

  What? Danny looks at Robert.

  That American guy got back up, Robert replies. Everyone knows that if you fall over you should stay down.

  Yeah yeah, says Danny.

  What’s the problem?

  Nothing.

  Have I said something wrong?

  You don’t need to repeat everything, Danny says quietly.

  You asked, didn’t you?

  I got that bit though, about getting up and staying down.

  So why did you ask?

  Because I didn’t understand all that Spanish crap.

  The man smiles at Danny and says in English: Everyone knows, except that American.

  Were you there? Danny asks.

  Me? No.

  The man holds the dishcloth. He beckons to them and, without saying a word, walks over to a corner of the restaurant. Robert looks at Danny. They get up and follow the man. He shows them a framed photograph that’s screwed to the wall.

  This is Esteban Domeño.

  It’s a portrait of a man with a dark moustache. He’s wearing a black jacket and a hat.

  Esteban, the man repeats. He sniffs. They even took his name from him.

  What do you mean?

  His name. Esteban Domeño. An American wrote a book about the fiesta. He described Esteban’s death, but in the book he was called Vicente. They gave him a different surname too. But his real name was Esteban Domeño.

  There’s fire in the man’s eyes. Robert waits for that fire to subside a little before he asks who Esteban Domeño was.

  Esteban Domeño was my grandfather. He had a wife and two children. The Americans wrote about his death. God knows why they gave him a different name. They made the fiesta famous all over the world, but our family’s name is forgotten. Why is that?

  Robert holds his breath.

  The man’s expression softens. He asks: Why do the Americans come here?

  That’s a question you’d have to ask them, says Robert.

  The man laughs. I already have. They are crazy drunks. And they talk crazy talk about adrenaline. But the fiesta’s about more than drinking and smoking that junk and chasing a bit of adrenaline. That’s what the Americans made it. The man sighs. But yes, without the Americans the fiesta would have been forgotten long ago. They write about it, make films, take photographs, print T-shirts. They keep the fiesta alive and at the same time they kill the fiesta. That is what they do, these Americans.

  The café owner falls silent, looks at each of them in turn.

  Don’t do anything crazy, you two.

  All they can do is nod.

  Go to the bull running, says the man. Do it. Everyone goes to the bull running and they all know the name of Vicente Girones. No one knows the name Domeño. No one knows the Bodega Domeño.

  He sighs again. He rolls up the dishcloth and lets it dangle against his thigh. I know how powerful the Americans are. They are so powerful that I am standing here in my own bodega, speaking English.

  Danny nods at the photo. How did your grandfather die?

  He fell and got back up again.

  Him too?

  Sí. He knew he was supposed to stay down, but he got up.
r />   Why?

  The man shrugs. Only he knows that. And God. He was your age. Can you imagine?

  Danny wants to nod, but manages to keep his head still.

  He left a wife and two children. A little girl and my father.

  Then the man throws the dishcloth over his shoulder. Más café?

  Sí, por favor.

  The man disappears into the kitchen. Robert and Danny go back to their table. High above the café, a bird sits on a power line, gently swinging to and fro. The man brings the coffee and the bird flies away. Robert says he’d like to pay. The man takes his banknote, fetches some change, says goodbye to them and returns to the kitchen, flicking his leg with the dishcloth as he goes. They finish their coffee, which tastes a little strange. Then they push the cups away and go back to the car. Robert spots the fly sitting on one of the vents beneath the windscreen. It’s not moving. He takes a piece of paper from his seat, puts it on top of the fly and presses down.

  *

  They walked together to his house. He opened the front door and followed her up the stairs. Two of the four stair lights were broken and he watched her legs as they moved in the semi-darkness. At the last step, he put his hand on her left buttock.

  First door on the left, he said.

  Even before they were inside, she said: Nice.

  He stopped in the doorway and saw that she was looking out of the window in the stairwell, at the dark courtyard below. Her beautiful face was reflected in the glass. He stood behind her and put his hands on her hips. She rested the back of her head on his chest.

  Do you know what I thought?

  What?

  When you came to the boxing school?

  No, I don’t know.

  That you were there for Sando.

  She turned around. Sando?

  The guy in the photo.

  That black bloke?

  All of the women who show up at the boxing school are there because of him.

  She laughed. Not me, she said, and kissed him.

  Come on in, he said.

  He led her to his bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and slid off her shoes. He turned on the bedside lamp and sat down next to her. Her skin had that same soft copper glow that he’d noticed the first time he’d seen her, not even that long ago.