Tomorrow Pamplona

by Jan Van Mersbergen

  She lay back. He slid over beside her, leant on his elbow, ran his hand through her hair. She wrapped one arm around his neck and pulled him close. She was less wild this time, but just as focused. Biting her bottom lip, she tugged at his belt. He stood up, took off his clothes. Then he clenched his fists, held them in front of his face. Come on, he said, give me your best shot.

  She laughed. Held her small hands in front of her face. Not fists, but rigid, open hands, like an actor in a kung fu movie.

  Hiii-yah! she said, flashing her hands through the air.

  He shot backwards, ducked, then pounced on her, grabbing hold of her hands and gently biting her neck. She laughed again. She wriggled out from beneath him. He let her go. She kissed his stomach, before moving down to his cock, kissing it long and slow, running her tongue over the tip and then down to his balls, swirling, seeking. He lifted his head and looked down at her dark hair spread over his stomach. Then he slid his arms behind his head and sighed.

  She came back up, sat on his thighs and stuck out her tongue.

  Hiii-yah! she said again, short and sharp.

  Banzai! he shouted back at her.

  His strong arms were around her waist. He laid her down on the pillows, with her head hanging over the edge of the bed, and pushed her legs apart. She didn’t resist. He lay above her, not actually on her, but hovering over her, supporting himself on his fists and outstretched arms, on his knees. He thrust into her and she twisted beneath him, as though he was attached to her and she couldn’t escape. He gazed at her throat with its tensed muscles, her raised chin. He concentrated, listened to her breathing and kept moving until she put her hand on his chest, made him stop for a moment and then pushed down on his backside with her other hand.

  Go on, she said. Go on. And he came and he stayed there, hanging above her, for a long time, until the muscles in his arms began to ache. He rolled off her and said: Right, now you can get back to your office.

  She thumped him on the shoulder. It was a vicious jab. He grabbed her hips, pulled her across the bed, pushed her hands down into the mattress on either side of her head and said: I want you to come up with a few more of those contracts for me.

  She grinned. If you’ll sign them.

  I’ll sign anything.

  He let go of her. They lay together on the bed. The beams cast dark shadows on the ceiling panels. He hadn’t noticed her take her cigarettes out of her bag or even seen where she’d put her bag, but as he lay there beside her she lit up a cigarette. Her face was illuminated briefly by the flame of the lighter.

  So what does your boss think about this?

  About what?

  You tiring out his boxers.

  That’s his problem. She thought for a moment. Then she said: Or maybe yours.

  4

  They race down to the border and cross it without stopping. Robert takes the exit for Pamplona. The sun climbs high above the trees to the left of the road and the land is bathed in a soft yellow glow. The landscape changes, hills become mountains, stones become rocks. The sun climbs slowly, illuminating the sheer walls of rock that they drive past. Small houses and farms cling to the slopes. All he can think about is the bulls. He looks into the cars that they overtake. He sees men dressed in white in some of the cars, with red handkerchiefs around their necks. They wave and gesticulate at Danny. A man blows his horn, pulls up his white T-shirt with one hand and kisses the logo of the football club adorning its front.

  It feels like the day of a fight, seeing the other boxers, shaking their hands, having a quick chat – not about boxing, but about the weather, about mutual acquaintances, about nothing in particular.

  All going to Pamplona, Robert says with pride. He puts his foot down and the car surges forward. The road heads into the mountains. Black-and-white signs on the bends indicate the direction of the curves. They pass through a village. The houses are sand-coloured, the roofs red. It’s like a scene from a postcard. Mountaintops stand out against the sky in the distance, blunt and green, a cloud hugging one of the summits. The road winds again and they climb higher. More rocks and craggy walls. They follow the white line along the tarmac until they get stuck behind dozens of cars. Robert swears and hits the steering wheel. Four men are sitting in the car in front, squeezed in amongst a pile of bags. They’re wearing white shirts too.

  Once they’re over the mountains, they cross a plateau. Robert takes the opportunity to overtake as many cars as he can. The grass on the verge lies golden yellow in the morning light. The sun was shining through the window on the driver’s side before, but it’s higher now. It’s moved round to the windscreen and is shining in his eyes. Danny takes off the jumper and throws it in the back. Robert pulls down the sunshade and they hurtle towards the ball of fire.

  Almost half six, says Robert.

  The road rises one last time. When they’re over the final hump, he sees a river in the valley below. A cliff rises up on the left bank, and reservoirs lie in the dip on the other side of the road, like big round swimming pools, full of vibrant blue water that gleams against the rocks and the river’s twisting course. In the distance, two cathedral towers jut up into the sky.

  Cars make their way towards the town centre, pouring into the funnel. When Robert and Danny reach their destination, they find hundreds of vehicles lining the roadside. Robert leans over the steering wheel. It’s around here somewhere, he says. Smaller streets climb up along both sides of the road, lined by low buildings, tin sheds, workshops. A garage. A timber yard with huge stacks of wood behind a fence. They drive over two roundabouts. The road’s so busy that they have to go at walking pace. The centre’s closed to traffic, so Robert parks in a side street. I parked somewhere around here last time too, he says. The road ends in a low fence with the river beneath. He finds a spot beside a tree at the end of the street and parks at an angle to the concrete pavement.

  Perfect, Robert says as the engine falls silent. It’s not far from here.

  The car is practically up against the tree. Danny can’t open his door. He has to climb over the gearstick and get out on Robert’s side. The sun’s down behind the houses, but the air’s already warm, even this early in the day. The shutters of the houses are closed.

  I’ll just grab a few things, says Robert. Then find somewhere to take a leak and we’ll be off.

  Danny walks over to the water. There’s a residential area on the other side of the river. The river curves away on his left. He can see the cathedral beyond the water, stretching high above the rooftops. He wanders back to the car and looks down the street. Men in white shirts are walking down the main road towards the town centre. Robert finishes pissing against the tree. Then he puts a bottle of water in his rucksack, fishes out a red handkerchief from somewhere and drops it into the rucksack. The two men dissolve into the white procession, all heading towards a common goal.

  *

  The bridge over the river runs at an angle to the banks and seems endless. The river curves beneath them and they find themselves walking almost parallel to its course.

  Down there, says Robert, nodding in the direction of the old town centre, where the houses huddle together along narrow streets. The crowd shuffles along the pavement as the procession works its way into the town. Once they’re over the bridge, they follow a wide road to the left and soon reach the town centre. Robert says: That way. He steers Danny onto the pavement and into a side street where there are fewer people. They walk around a block of houses and down alleyways lined by high buildings with small balconies and metal railings, before coming to a square where the white crowd has gathered. They hear shouting, singing, music. A drum beats incessantly somewhere nearby, while a deeper-sounding drum thuds slowly in the distance. Robert takes Danny by the arm and pulls him past groups of Spaniards and straight through a gang of laughing Americans with glassy, drunken eyes. He can smell the alcohol on their breath. On the other side of the square, Danny sees a sign on the wall: Plaza del Castillo. Robert drags him down a narrow a
lleyway. They reach halfway before finding they can’t move backwards or forwards. Bloody gawpers, Robert mutters, pushing people aside. Danny follows him until they bump up against a heavy wooden fence. Through the slats, he can see the long straight street that the bulls are going to run down.

  That’s the Estafeta, says Robert.

  Which direction do the bulls come from?

  Robert points. He climbs onto the fence. As Danny puts his hands on the slats, Robert lifts his legs over the top, one at a time, and drops down on the other side.

  You can wait here if you like.

  Danny climbs over. There are a few men dressed in white on the other side of the street. Otherwise, it’s quiet here, compared with the square, but still the air is buzzing with excitement. They sit down on the pavement, their feet in the gutter. White lines are painted on the street in a grid. There’s a chemist’s shop in the building opposite, with neon letters over the door and people standing on the balconies above.

  Robert takes the bottle of water from his bag, unscrews the top and drinks. Wiping his mouth, he hands it to Danny. While he’s drinking, Robert takes the red handkerchief out of the bag and ties it around his neck.

  If you change your mind, you can always climb back over the fence.

  I’m not going to change my mind.

  I’ve only got one handkerchief.

  Do you have to wear one?

  You don’t have to do anything.

  The Spaniards are singing their lungs out. The sound echoes around the walls. The monotonous drumming starts up again in the square.

  Danny reads the Spanish words on the metal manhole cover beside him and runs his hand over the large, smooth cobbles. He hasn’t had a minute to think since they got here. Now that he’s sitting on the kerb and the sun’s coming up, Ragna’s back again. He sees her sitting on the edge of his bed, running a comb through her hair. Sunlight falls through the skylight, making her black hair gleam.

  Robert taps Danny on the arm. I’m going that way. You coming?

  He’s pointing north. They get up. Danny looks left and right. Robert checks his watch. An hour to go, he says. We’re still okay to move around.

  They head down the street. Men and boys in white shirts are sitting and leaning against the walls. Some nod at them. A man in a T-shirt with a picture on the front yells something at them. Danny doesn’t understand what he says. The man comes over and stands in front of him.

  I see it in your eyes, he says in heavily accented, drunken English. The picture on his T-shirt is a bull’s head. The man says something else about his eyes. Robert comes over and stands between them. Come on, let’s go.

  Where are you going? asks the man.

  That way, Robert says quickly, pulling Danny with him. The man stumbles after them.

  Thank you, he says, placing his hand on his heart. Then he disappears.

  The long street leads to a wider one, Calle Mercaderes. It’s busier there. They can’t hear the music from the square now, but there’s a group of men kneeling on the cobbles, singing a cappella. They carry on walking and come to another square with a large, ornate building. People are sitting on every step of the building and other spectators are leaning out of the windows of the houses in the next street. A brass band is playing, men in blue uniforms with gold trim on the sleeves. The bull runners fill the streets, holding their red handkerchiefs aloft, the material stretched between their fists. Robert and Danny make their way to the start of the route, down a street called Santo Domingo, which has high walls on both sides.

  See those doors?

  The street descends to two sturdy metal doors.

  That’s where the bulls are. Behind the doors.

  Most of the people on the street look young, maybe even in their teens. They’re singing and shouting and killing time by taking it in turns to run into the street, towards the doors, challenging the bulls. They run back and slap one another on the shoulders, on the back. A little Spanish boy rests his forehead on a man’s chest. The man places his hands on both sides of the child’s head, kisses it, like a blessing.

  Quarter past seven, says Robert.

  She’s still asleep, thinks Danny. He leans against the wall. He’s determined not to think about her. At the same time, he knows that he will think of her, only her, for the next three quarters of an hour, and a few seconds after that.

  Robert pushes the bottle of water into his hands. He drinks without thinking. The sun shines on the top of the wall and the line separating light and shade slowly sinks.

  Cuarenta minutos, someone calls.

  The people on top of the opposite wall are black shadows, moving slowly within a nimbus of soft light. Danny puts his hands to his forehead, warm and damp with sweat, and thinks: It’s all a mistake. This entire journey. This town, all this shouting, it’s all a mistake. If you knew I was here, what would you say? Would you come and fetch me? Take hold of me, shake me, force me to climb over that wall? Over that fence? And then we can be together again and you’ll put my head on your lap and run your hand through my hair. I’ll lie there and hold you tight until you promise to stay with me.

  Robert’s over by the wall, talking to someone. Danny gets up. He’s about to reach out his hand to help her to her feet, as though they’re strolling through the town together and he doesn’t need to say anything to her, nothing at all.

  *

  It was March and the nights were freezing, but Danny and Ragna didn’t give the sheets time to get cold. He didn’t sleep much, didn’t really need much sleep. Training was going well. One Saturday morning she asked if he wanted to come into town with her. To the shops.

  Fine, he said.

  They walked to the luxury shopping street, watched the big, expensive cars driving past, one after the other. Looked in the shop windows, at the clothes, hats, gold jewellery.

  I’ll buy you a necklace like that one day.

  Like that? You’re crazy.

  As they walked past a café, he heard someone call his name. He recognized Chester, an Irishman who’d trained at the boxing school for a few months, back when Ron and Richard’s dad was still around. He was with two other men who Danny didn’t know. They were sitting at a table outside, having a beer. Chester stood up and shook his hand.

  Long time no see. How’s it going?

  Yeah, hi. Pretty good, thanks.

  Keeping busy?

  Yeah.

  Chester was watching Ragna out of the corner of his eye. Danny wanted to introduce her, but she’d walked straight past the table, glanced down the road and said: I’m just going to take a look at that place over there. She walked over to the shop next to the café and looked in the window. Danny saw her go into the shop. Chester gestured to him to join them, so he sat down on the empty chair.

  Chester introduced him to the other two men, who were visiting from England. He told them Danny was the best boxer in the area and for miles around.

  The men looked at him. The smaller one raised his glass and grinned, revealing crooked yellow teeth. He nodded at Danny and took a swig.

  Want a drink?

  I’m not stopping.

  Oh, have a quick one. He pointed at the beers. Or are you on the juice?

  I’ve just had a beer, thanks.

  You still training with the Rosenbergers?

  Yes. What are you up to?

  Oh, you know, this and that, said Chester. He glanced over at the Englishmen. The smaller one had a faded tattoo on his arm.

  I know that woman from somewhere.

  Probably from those fights in Germany. Gerard Varon.

  That’s her, is it?

  Yes.

  Thought so. And you’re with her?

  Yes.

  To keep an eye on her?

  What do you mean?

  Chester shifted his gaze to the shopping street. Nothing, he mumbled. A big car with dark windows drove past.

  Danny asked: You ever worked for Varon?

  The occasional thing. An old mate
of mine sometimes used to box in Germany and Austria, but that’s a while ago now. What about you? You boxing for him?

  Yes.

  I thought you wanted to give it up.

  Decided to carry on for a year or two.

  Chester drank some beer and put down his glass. The Englishmen drank too.

  You sure you don’t want a drink?

  I’d better be off.

  He waited for her to come out of the shop. She stopped to look in the window again. Then she headed underneath the awning and into the next shop. Danny stood up. He said a cool goodbye to Chester and nodded at the two Englishmen, before pushing his chair back in and walking over to the shop. Ragna was standing by a tall display cabinet of jeans at the back. There was only one pair of jeans on each shelf. She took a pair, unfolded them and held them up for him to see.

  What do you think? she asked.

  Not bad.

  He looked at the door and the big windows. There was no one in sight.

  Shall I try them on?

  If you like.

  No, I don’t think so, she said. They left the shop. Outside the café, Chester was talking to one of the Englishmen. The other one had disappeared.

  They came to a shoe shop. Ragna looked at the shoes, which were displayed on large white blocks in the window. She pointed at one pair and then they carried on walking. A woman came towards them, with three bags on one arm and a telephone held up to her ear. Danny spotted a coffee house on the next corner in the busy cross street that the trams ran along.

  Want to stop for a drink?

  She looked at her watch. Just a quick one, she said. They went inside. She ordered an orange juice, he had a water. They sat at a low table next to the window and watched the traffic. Some workmen were digging up the street and the cars had been diverted over the tram tracks. Cyclists wound their way between the cars.

  Where do you know him from?

  You know, from fights, from before.

  She had crossed her legs and was sitting at an angle on her stool. She took a gulp of juice, pulled a cigarette from the packet she’d put on the table and lit it. She spun the wheel of her lighter. It squeaked.