Eagle in the Sky - Smith Wilbur (бесплатные версии книг .txt) 📗

The bull's legs shuddered and he passed a dribble of loose liquid yellow

dung that fouled his back legs.  It seemed to David that this was the

final humiliation, and he found he was whispering aloud.

No!  No!  Stop it!  Please, stop it! Then the man in the glittering suit

and ballet shoes came to end it, and the point of the sword struck bone

and the blade arced then spun away in the sunlight, and the bull heaved

and threw thick droplets of blood, before he stood again.

They picked up the sword from the sand and gave it to the man and he

sighted over the quiescent, dying beast and again the thrust was

deflected by bone and David found that at last he had power in his

voice, and he screamed:Stop it!  You filthy bastards.  Twelve times the

man in the centre tried with the sword, and each time the sword flicked

out of his hand, and then at last the bull fell of its own accord, weak

from the slow loss of much blood and with its heart broken by the

torture and the striving.  It tried to rise, lunging weakly, but the

strength was not there and they killed it where it lay, with a dagger in

the back of the neck, and they dragged it out with a team of mules its

legs waggling ridiculously in the air and its blood leaving a long brown

smudge across the sand.

Stunned with the monstrous cruelty of it, David turned slowly to look at

the girl.  Her companion was leaning over her solicitously, whispering

to her, trying to comfort her.

She was shaking her head slowly, in a gesture of incomprehension, and

her honey-coloured eyes were blinded with weeping.  Her lips were apart,

quivering with grief, and her cheeks were awash, shiny with her tears.

Her companion helped her to her feet, and gently took her down the

steps, leading her away blindly like a new widow from her husband's

grave.

Around him the crowd was laughing and exhilarated, high on the blood and

the pain, and David felt himself rejected, cut off from them.  His heart

went out to the weeping girl, she of all of them was the only one who

seemed real to him.  He had seen enough also, and he knew he would never

get to Pamplona.  He stood up and followed the girl out of the ring, he

wanted to speak to her, to tell her that he shared her desolation, but

when he reached the parking lot they were already climbing into a

battered old Citroen CV.  loo, and although he broke into a run, the car

pulled away, blowing blue smoke and clattering like a lawn-mower, and

turned into the traffic heading east.

David watched it go with a sense of loss that effectively washed away

the good feeling of the last few days, but he saw the old Citroen again

two days later, when he had abandoned all idea of the Pamplona Festival

and headed south.  The Citroen looked even sicker than before, under a

layer of pale dust and with the canvas showing on a rear tyre.  The

suspension seemed to have sagged on the one side, giving it a rakishly

drunken aspect.

It was parked at a filling station on the outskirts of Zaragoza on the

road to Barcelona, and David pulled off the road and parked beyond the

gasoline pumps.  An attendant in greasy overalls was filling the tank of

the Citroen under the supervision of the muscular young man from the

bullring.  David looked quickly for the girl - but she was not in the

car.  Then he saw her.

She was in a cantina across the street, haggling with the elderly woman

behind the counter.  Her back was turned towards him, but David

recognized the mass of dark hair now piled on top of her head.  He

crossed the road quickly and went into the shop behind her.  He was not

certain what he was going to do, acting only on impulse.

The girl wore a short floral dress which left her back and shoulders

bare, and her feet were thrust into open sandals.  But in concession to

the ice in the air she wore a shawl over her shoulders.  Close to, her

skin had a plastic smoothness and elasticity, as though it had been

lightly oiled and polished, and down the back of her naked neck the hair

was fine and soft, growing in a whorl in the nape.

David moved closer to her as she completed her purchase of dried figs

and counted her change.  He smelt her, a light summery perfume that

seemed to come from her hair.  He resisted the temptation to press his

face into the dense pile of it.

She turned smiling and saw him standing close behind her.  She

recognized him instantly, his was not a face a girl would readily

forget.  She was startled.  The smile flickered out on her face and she

stood very still looking at him, her expression completely neutral, but

her lips slightly parted and her eyes soft and glowing golden.

This peculiar stillness of hers was a quality he would come to know so

well in the time ahead.  I saw you in Madrid, he said, at the bulls.

Yes, she nodded, her voice neither welcoming nor forbidding.

You were crying So were you.  I Her voice was low and clear, her

enunciation flawless, too perfect not to be foreign.

No, David denied it.

You were cryin& she insisted softly.  You were crying inside.  And he

inclined his head in agreement.

Suddenly she proffered the paper bag of figs.

Try one, she said and smiled.  It was a warm friendly smile.  He took

one of the fruits and bit into the sweet flesh as she moved towards the

door, somehow conveying an invitation for him to join her.  He walked

with her and they looked across the street at the Citroen.  The

attendant had finished filling the tank, and the girl's companion was

waiting for her, leaning against the bonnet of the weary old car.  He

was lighting a cigarette, but he looked up and saw them.  He evidently

recognized David also, and he straightened up quickly and flicked away

the burning match.

There was a soft whooshing sound and the heavy thump of concussion in

the air, as fire flashed low across the concrete from a puddle of

spilled gasoline.  In an instant the flames had closed over the rear of

the Citroen, and were drumming hungrily at the coachwork.

David left the girl and sprinted across the road.

Get it away from the pumps, you idiot, he shouted, and the driver

started out of frozen shock.

It was happy fifth of November, a spectacular pyrotechnic display, but

David got the handbrake off and the gearbox into neutral, and he and the

driver pushed it into an open parking area alongside the filling station

while a crowd materialized, seeming to appear out of the very earth, to

scream hysterical encouragement and suggestions while keeping at a

discreet distance.

They even managed to rescue the baggage from the rear seat before the

flames engulfed it entirely, and belatedly the petrol attendant arrived

with an enormous scarlet fire extinguisher.  To the delighted applause

of the crowd, he drenched the pathetic little vehicle in a great cloud

of foam, and the excitement was over.  The crowd drifted away, still

laughing and chattering and congratulating the amateur firefighter on

his virtuoso performance with the extinguisher, while the three of them

regarded the scorched and blackened shell of the Citroen ruefully.

I suppose it was a kindness really, the poor old thing was very tired,

the girl said at last.  It was like shooting a horse with a broken leg.

Are you insured?  David asked, and the girl's companion laughed.

You're joking, who would insure that?  I only paid a hundred U.  S.

dollars for her.  They assembled the small pile of rescued possessions,