Under an ink-black sky, Danny and Robert sit at a picnic table beside a river. The car is parked a short distance away, its back end facing the table.
They drove all through the evening. Robert phoned his wife to say good night from a petrol station just outside Bordeaux. They left the motorway at Bayonne around midnight and Robert drove inland down a narrow road. When Danny wound down his window, he could smell the sea. It took them at least another fifteen minutes to reach the spot by the river, which Robert said was called the Adour. He told Danny he’d often stopped there on his way to Pamplona. To have a rest and a drink, to light a fire and look at the stars.
A strip of grass lies between them and the water. Beyond the grass, pebbles. The river’s not wide and it flows along gently. Robert has gathered wood and made a fire in the dip beside the picnic table. The flames dance gently in the breeze. On the table is a jar with a candle in it, which Robert produced from one of his bags. Danny looks at the dark sky above the opposite bank. Stars shine above the rippling water, their reflections rocking on the waves.
Danny shakes his head.
Of course you want a drink. Something to eat? How about the pasta the waitress packed up for us?
Robert walks over to the car and comes back with a bag. He takes out two bottles and puts them on the table. Whisky and cognac. Then he produces a big bottle of soda water and says: A good drink and Pamplona go together. Like a fire and a beautiful starry sky.
Small blue flames climb up a piece of wood, rising into the dark night sky. Robert twists the cap of the whisky bottle, pours two measures and adds soda water. The gurgle of the whisky echoes above the babbling of the river. Danny catches the scent of alcohol. Robert presses a cup into his hand. Danny waits for him to say cheers, but he doesn’t. They drink. The soda water fizzes in his mouth; bubbles and alcohol rise up into his head.
Robert says: What’s he like?
Danny puts his cup down on the table. Who?
The other man.
Danny makes circles on the table with his cup. Then he downs his whisky and says: What do you think? He’s a filthy son-of-a-bitch.
Robert blinks as he takes a swig and swills it around his mouth. The wind’s getting up. I’m a bit chilly, he says. How about you?
I’m okay.
Robert stands up. Did you bring anything with you? A coat? A jumper?
No, nothing.
Robert fetches a coat and a thick woollen jumper from the car and passes the jumper to Danny. Danny puts it down on the bench. One sleeve dangles into the grass. Robert walks over to the fire, adds a couple of pieces of wood and pokes the fire with a long branch. The flames flicker. The smoke drifts to the riverbank, then travels inland, against the current.
I could do with a cigarette though, Danny says.
Can’t help you with that.
She smokes in bed, he says. He can picture her lying on the bed in a rectangle of white moonlight, holding her cigarette up at shoulder height. He’s sitting at the foot of the bed, leaning against the slope of the wall. One hand on her ankle. She’s smoking very deliberately, as if in slow motion. If he’d been sitting to one side, he could have seen her thoughts as they crossed her face in the mirror. Then things would never have gone so far. But he couldn’t see her face. And all he could feel was the soft skin above her ankle as he stroked it.
Think that’s what she’s doing now?
No, says Danny. That’s not what she’s doing now.
And what about you? What do you do when she’s smoking?
I watch her.
*
Two small lights glide over the water in the distance, beyond the bridge. A yellow light and a white one. Torches. He watches until they disappear and the water is dark again.
Take a look up there, says Robert.
Danny looks. Hundreds of stars are shining in the sky. There’s no moon.
See that? Robert says. Beautiful. That kind of sight leaves me speechless.
Danny nods.
I reckon just about everything leaves you speechless, says Robert.
Robert pours another one, passes Danny his cup and they drink. I’m going to take a leak, Robert says. He walks over to the long grass. Danny opens the bag, takes out the plastic cutlery, opens the cardboard box. As he twirls the fork in the cold strands of spaghetti and slowly starts eating, he watches Robert hitch up his trousers and walk a short way down the road. He puts his hands on his hips and looks up at the sky. Danny sits there, elbows resting on the table. Then Robert comes back and sits down. He runs his tongue around his mouth, sticks out his bottom lip and says: This spot reminds me of the canal behind our house where we go fishing.
Fishing, Danny repeats quietly.
Yeah. I go fishing with my kids every Saturday. You should see them when they get a bite. When the float starts to twitch and when it goes under, and afterwards, when they’re reeling in the fish. They’re scared to death of touching the fish. Just a tiny little roach. Absolutely petrifies them. But still, the next Saturday comes around and they want to do it all over again.
A duck quacks in the distance. The sound echoes over the water and dies away. Danny takes a swig.
I can only really remember one time, Robert says, when I felt that kind of fear. That was when they were born.
Robert plays with the jar with the candle inside. He taps the glass and the flame quivers.
That’s another thing you can’t imagine, he says. It’s something you have to experience for yourself. Do you know what the problem is with childbirth? You can’t do a bloody thing. As a man, you can be there with her, but there’s sod all you can actually do.
He’s silent for a moment.
Or don’t you believe me?
I believe you.
Doesn’t matter. It’s impossible if you’ve never been there yourself. You don’t know what’s hit you. A hundred bulls don’t even compare.
He picks up the bottle, holds it in his hand.
So you just stand there looking. Well, that’s what I did. I didn’t have a clue what to do. With the first one, I held her hand, because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do, and I patted her shoulder a bit. I kept on saying: You can do it, you can do it. Until finally she screamed at me to shut up. With the second one, I just sat by the bed and kept my mouth shut. I thought it’d go more quickly the second time, but there was a problem and it took over twenty-six hours. All that time, you’re just sitting there. And you know what? You’d rather be facing the bulls. At least then you know what you’re dealing with. When you’re sitting there by the bed like that, you might as well be invisible.
Danny leans forward. His forehead comes to rest against his cup. It feels hard and cold and comforting.
Robert holds up the bottle. Danny shakes his head and says: I’m going for a walk.
*
The river lay hidden in the mist. He ran along the water at his normal speed, up to the bridge, and used the steps beside the bridge for some fartlek training. The lampposts on the bridge poked their heads up into the clouds. When he reached the other side, he followed the cycle path between houseboats and a busy street. His breath steamed. A woman came towards him on a bike. As she rode up onto the pavement, she smiled at him. He ran for over three quarters of an hour, at around eighty per cent. When he got back, he went inside, swapped his running shoes for his boxing boots, took his rope from the cupboard, put on his Walkman and started skipping. Even though he was alone, he kept to his usual corner. He listened to the music as the rope swished past his face. The cassette lasted thirty minutes. The Walkman clicked and he stopped, went to the changing room and drank water from the tap.
A man in a checked shirt was standing in the corridor.
Danny?
Yeah, that’s me. You Pavel?
Yes.
They shook hands.
Do you speak Dutch?
I’m learning. You ready to start?
Just having a bit of a rest.
Half hour?
Fine, Danny replied.
Pavel was a thick-set man in his forties. He had deep wrinkles in his face, like seams. Pavel got changed into his training gear and Danny put his gloves on. At three o’clock, they started training in the gym. Pavel stayed in the centre and Danny moved around him. They did some interval work, with series of three jabs, as quick as Danny could. Pavel counted. He didn’t blink once. He made attacking moves with the pads, something Ron never did. And every time he hit Danny, just a gentle tap, he said: Take it and move on. But first, you’ve got to take it.
Half an hour went by. Then they repeated the exercise, this time with series of four jabs, culminating in an attack on the punch bag, the bag hovering at an angle under Danny’s rapid blows. When they were done, they walked to the changing room.
So where did you train, Pavel?
I don’t have any fixed place.
Danny nodded. Do you do much work for Varon?
Now and then. What about you? Who do you normally train with?
Ron Rosenberger.
The big guy?
Yeah.
Any good?
Very.
What does he think of this? Me training you here?
It’s not his call.
Good.
Do you like working for him? Danny said.
Yes. He’s good at what he does.
How many people work there?
What do you mean?
Other than the two of them.
No one else, said Pavel.
Danny looked at his face, at his eyes, but he couldn’t find any clues there.
Danny put on a fresh pair of trousers and a clean shirt. Pavel pulled a checked shirt over the sweater he’d been training in. There was a motorcycle helmet on the bench with his things.
July, wasn’t it?
That’s when it starts.
Then we’ve got enough time.
They left the changing room.
Do you know who you’re up against?
No.
I’ve heard there’s an Argentinean guy coming over, said Pavel. Ramos. He’s in your weight class.
Ramos. You ever seen him fight?
Yes.
And?
Good boxer. Strong. Saw him once back home in Bratislava. He was boxing against a friend of mine.
And Ramos won?
How did you know that?
I can see it in your face.
They went outside. Pavel had parked his motorbike on the pavement beside the boxing school. As Danny looked down the street towards the crossing, he heard the engine revving. A thunderous roar filled the air – the whole neighbourhood must have heard it. The motorbike moved off down the pavement, slowly at first, but then speeding up and rounding the corner with an incredible din.
*
He walks down the tarmac to the bridge, which hangs suspended high above the water, a strange grey arch against the starry sky. The road takes a long curve and Danny climbs up a steep path worn into the grass, with ferns on either side. At the top, he pulls himself over the railing and stands in the middle of the bridge. There’s a campsite on the other side. Silhouettes of tents and caravans run down to the riverbank. Lights are on in a few of the tents and he can see shadows moving around inside them.
He goes down to the riverbank opposite the campsite, where the water babbles softly. Downstream, it foams and hisses over the stones. He walks over rough pebbles to the bank and sits down on a big rock. He sits there for a long time, just watching and listening. Then he hears a sound on the other side of the water. Feet crunching on pebbles. Against the backdrop of the tents and the caravans, he can see a fragile figure. A woman. She has a bath towel around her shoulders. She’s walking gingerly, in a straight line, down to the water. Her back is bent. When she reaches the river, she lays the towel on the stones. She puts on a swimming cap and walks into the water, still tucking long strands of hair into her cap. After just a couple of steps, the water comes up to her knees. She bends down, splashes it onto her arms and chest, takes another few steps and plunges into the water. She swims into the darkness and soon reaches the middle of the river. Her swimming cap bobs on the water, a patch of grey. She turns onto her back and swims against the current, stays floating in almost the same spot. Hands at her sides, her legs kicking slowly, confidently.
After a while, the woman turns onto her stomach and swims in his direction. She reaches the riverbank with just a few powerful strokes. She rises up out of the water and steps over the shingle, keeping the same calm pace, heading for the rock. When she sees him, she stops.
Je ne t’avais pas vu, she says.
Pardon?
Tu ne parles pas français?
No.
Anglais?
Yes, he says, standing up.
Non, non, the woman says. She gestures that he should stay where he is, but Danny steps away from the rock and says in English: Sit down. Please. He points at the rock. The woman hesitates and then sits down.
Merci.
Only now does he notice how old and frail and thin her legs are. There are flowers in the pattern on her swimsuit.
I swim every night, she says. Now that they’ve exchanged a few words, she’s speaking more slowly. She has to think about her English. She brings her hands together in front of her chest and then holds them to her cheeks.
He crouches beside her, his eyes fixed on the river.
Always this late?
Oui. In the dark, before I go to sleep.
Aren’t you cold?
Oh, no. I always have a little rest here. I watch the river and after a while I go back. The river is beautiful at night. Calm.
You can think, she says. When you sit here, you can think.
He nods again.
I have a little house there, on the other side. I come here every summer. Forty years now.
Forty years, he thinks.
She dries her legs. And I still swim. I hope I can keep on swimming for a long time.
Hmm.
Are you staying at the campsite?
No. We’re just stopping for the night.
Are you here with your girlfriend?
In spite of the darkness, he can make out her eyes. Lively old eyes that gleam in the faint light of the stars. He shakes his head. The woman looks at him and he can tell from the way she says she’s sorry that she knows his girlfriend is no longer his girlfriend.
She looks at the water and smiles, a smile meant only for herself.
I met the love of my life in this place.
At the campsite?
Non. Here by the river. The woman shivers. She places her hands on the rock. I was swimming and he walked by. That’s how we met. What about you? Who are you travelling with? A friend?
He hesitates for a moment. Yes.
That’s good.
He nods.
Nice speaking to you.
She stands up and walks back to the water.
What about your husband? Is he here too?
She turns around, takes a step towards him and says: No, he’s not. He was my first love, a whole summer long, but after that summer he went back to Paris. That’s where he lived. I never saw him again.
Never?
Never. Not a letter, not a postcard. Nothing. But I return here every year.
Her eyes sparkle against the dark sky, as though there’s moonlight reflected in them, but there is no moon. Her eyes are sparkling all by themselves.
She says good night to him and walks to the water. He hears the quiet splashing of her feet. She lowers herself into the water, calmly swims to the opposite bank, steps out of the river, crosses the shingle to her towel and walks through the dark campsite with it wrapped around her shoulders. Her shadow disappears among the tents.
He sits there for a long time, listening to the gentle gurgling of the river. For a moment, he thinks he can hear the sound of the swimmer, but the river is dark and empty. He stands up and looks at the rock. He bends down, puts his hands around it, shifts them, wraps his forearms around the rock and tries to lift it. It doesn’t budge.
*
On the way back, the bridge proves an obstacle. When he gets to the top, he looks down the river to where Robert should be. He can’t see anything, not even the glow of the fire. He walks along the parapet and, when he spots the path between the dark ferns, he climbs over the railing and heads back down. Long grass brushes against his trousers. He reaches the road and sees two headlights approaching. He lets the car go by and then starts walking along the tarmac. Before long, he reaches the picnic table. The fire’s died down to an orange glow, hidden in the earth. Robert’s sitting with his back against the table, his legs out in front of him. When he hears Danny, he turns around.
You’ve been gone a while.
Danny sits down in the same place as before. Beside the jumper. He can smell fish. There are two tins on the table. One of them is open, its lid bent upwards. A small fork is sticking up out of it. The tin opener is lying beside a piece of baguette.
Robert turns around, pushes a cup over to him. Danny drinks. The whisky takes his breath away.
Someone was out there swimming, he says.
At this time of night?
Yes, a woman.
That’s why you were gone so long. Robert says with a laugh. Peeping Tom.
It was an old woman.
That doesn’t matter, says Robert. Kim Wilde’s getting on a bit too.
It wasn’t her.
No, that’d be something, eh?
It was a French woman.
Ah, une française.
Yeah, whatever.
Robert pushes the open tin to the middle of the table. Want some fish?
Tuna in tomato sauce. Danny identifies a pea in the mush. No, he says.
Robert picks up the tin, has a few mouthfuls, and puts the fork down on the table. He shakes his head and chuckles: Kim Wilde. She really was something.
Danny nods.
You ever seen the video for ‘Cambodia’?
Don’t think so.
It begins with her tossing around in bed and, if that’s not enough, she goes off and starts crawling through the jungle. That bit’s really great. She’s down on the ground and she just keeps looking at you. With those eyes, you know.
Danny looks at him.
Robert laughs. That was a really great video.
Really great, Danny echoes coolly. He thinks about her and he thinks about Cambodia.
They sit there for a while and a dog comes running up to the table. It sniffs at Robert’s leg.
Sod off, he says, pushing the dog away.
The dog walks around the picnic table to Danny, who holds out his hand. It’s a big old black sheepdog with a friendly face. It pushes its shoulder against Danny’s leg and licks his hand. Robert watches. Can’t stand them, he says. Dogs. Specially not big ones like that.
The dog lies down in the grass at Danny’s feet. He strokes the dog’s head and its back and as he runs his hand through the long fur he looks at the road to see if the dog’s owner is coming. He can’t see or hear anything. He strokes the dog. Its stomach is warm and its legs are wet. It’s been in the river. He talks to it quietly.
It’s a French dog, says Robert. It can’t understand a word you’re saying.
Dogs understand everything.
Robert bends down and looks under the table at the dog. Seems to like it here, he says. I don’t know what it is with these creatures, but they’re so dumb. It’s humans who have made them that way.
They need people.
Exactly, says Robert.
Danny rubs the dog’s head.
And obedient, says Robert. I think that’s what gets me the most. They’re so damned obedient. Chasing after balls, fetching sticks.
He gave you a fright though, didn’t he? Suddenly standing there beside you.
Don’t you speak too soon. Let’s see what you do when those bulls are coming.
The dog hears something. It lifts its head and then lies back down.
Dozy creature, Robert mumbles. He scratches behind his ear and his earring twitches and gleams dimly in the candlelight.
In the distance, they hear a man shout something in French. The dog sits and pricks up its ears. The voice shouts again in the distance. Danny looks at the river, but there’s nothing to see. He pats the dog and says: Go on. Go and find your owner.
Another shout and Danny taps the dog on the back. It walks towards the river, disappearing into the darkness. Soon he hears it barking and, a little later, there’s a series of gunshots.
Hunters, says Robert. He spits on the grass. Getting a dog to do their dirty work, he says. It’s cruelty to animals.
You go fishing, don’t you?
Not with a gun.
Danny expects to hear more gunshots, but the night is silent. It’s colder now. He pulls over the jar with the candle in it, cradles it in his hands.
Why don’t you put on that jumper?
Danny takes the jumper and pulls it over his head. It has a big collar with a zip. He does up the zip and folds down the collar. Robert blinks and nods approvingly.
*
He was standing at the door of the boxing school, waiting for Ron. He watched the cars and bicycles passing the building and the people walking along the pavement on the other side of the road. He stood at the door for a long time. He paced to the corner of the building and back again. Ron came down the street and raised his hand. He was carrying a sports bag in his other hand.
Thought you’d be here earlier.
Yeah, that was the idea.
Lot of traffic?
Yeah, that was it.
They headed inside and got changed. Danny opened the door for Ron and they walked to the lockers together. They said hello to a young trainer called Khalid, who was working with a group of boys. All of the children had dark hair except for one red-headed boy. They were standing in a row with their fists up to their faces. The boys all looked over at Danny.
Hey, I’m over here, said Khalid. The boys looked back at their trainer. Ron went over to the punch bag in the far corner, put his hand on it, gave it a gentle push, waited for it to swing back and said: Just the usual routine, mate?
They warmed up and Danny did the same exercises he’d done with Pavel, but not as many and not at the same pace. Halfway through the session, he looked at Ron. Ron nodded to say that everything was fine.
After an hour, they sat down on the bench for a rest. The boys had got changed and then stood in the doorway watching for a while. Now they shyly came down the steps towards Danny.
Are you fighting in another competition? asked a boy with short dark hair. The biggest and the heaviest of the young boxers, he was squeezed into a red T-shirt with the name of the boxing school on it.
Yes, Danny replied.
Who you fighting?
An Argentinean. He’s called Ramos.
Is he any good?
Of course he is.
The boy thought about this. Then he said: I think you’re going to win.
Thank you.
One of the other boys said: I think so too.
Now run along home, said Ron. Tell your dads you have to pay by the end of next month. And your mums.
The boy with the short dark hair held his fist out to Danny and Danny bumped it with his own. The others copied him.
They trained for about another half hour after that. When the bell went for the last time, Ron pushed the button on the timer, fetched a bottle of water from his bag, had a drink and passed the bottle to Danny.
I’m done in, he said.
Danny poured the water into his mouth through the sports cap. He held his hand under his chin to catch the water that missed his mouth and then splashed it over his face.
What do you think?
Nothing. Too shagged to think, said Ron.
They went out into the corridor. As they reached the changing room, the outside door opened and someone pushed a bike inside. The handlebars got stuck on the door handle and it took a while to free it. It was Ragna. Ron went and held the door open for her. She leant her bike against the wall.
Already finished?
We’re going to carry on in a bit, when the others get here.
Okay, she said. I was just passing.
We don’t usually let anyone watch, said Ron. He went off to the toilet. She pointed at her bike and said to Danny: My lock’s broken.
Danny could feel the cold from outside. He looked at Ragna. She was wearing dark red lipstick.
Did it go well? The training?
Yes, he said.
Her mouth changed and so did her expression. It felt like ages before she said: I’ll come in the afternoon next time.
She fetched her bike. Danny held the door open and she disappeared outside. He waited until he could no longer hear her footsteps and then let the door close with a bang.
Isn’t she staying? Ron said when he came back.
Not if you’re going to talk to her like that.
Like what?
Yeah, said Danny. Like what?
They drank water and when the other boxers got there they trained with them for a while. After the session, Danny pulled off his T-shirt, took his towel out of his bag and went to the showers. He turned on the taps. He took off his underpants, hung them on a heating pipe, gave the cold tap another twist and stood under the shower. The water was hot. He washed his hair. Then he held his face beneath the pulsating stream, closed his eyes and put his hands over his face.
As he was drying himself, he heard Ron talking to someone. He went back into the changing room and found Ron dressed and sitting on the bench with Aaron. The two men fell silent when they saw him.
Don’t let me disturb you, Danny said.
Neither of them replied.
Danny got dressed and they headed outside together. Aaron cycled off and Danny walked with Ron to the tram stop. They waited in the shelter.
You really want to win this fight, don’t you, mate?
Yeah.
The tram was approaching in the distance. Ron switched his bag over and shook Danny’s hand. See you tomorrow.
Yeah, tomorrow.
I’ll be on time.
Danny smiled. I’ll hold you to that.
Ron turned away.
What was all that about just now? said Danny. That little chat with Aaron?
Nothing.
Ron stood there in silence, just looking down the tramline. You see the way she was looking at you?
What about it?
That’s the way women usually look at Sando. Just before they ask if his knob’s really as big as they’ve heard.
Piss off.
Danny turned away. So she works for Varon? he heard Ron say.
Yes.
Since when?
I don’t know.
Ron sighed. He tilted his head. Two black guys came and stood beside them. Then they looked at Danny and moved to the next shelter. The tram reached the stop and the doors opened.
She been round before? said Ron. He was standing on the step of the tram, holding onto the pole.
Once.
What a bloody mess.
What do you mean?
Ron looked at him.
Before Ron could answer, the tram doors slid shut.
*
Above the gentle noise of the river comes the occasional crack of a plastic cup, the glug of a bottle, the sound of Robert putting the bottle back on the table and slurping his whisky.
Danny lets Robert pour him a drink. The whisky warms him and makes his thoughts flow smoothly. He says: You sleeping in the car?
There’s room for two. Or would you prefer to sleep outside?
I don’t know.
It could get cold, says Robert. He hesitates. You’re not scared to sleep in the car, are you?
A cold breeze blows across the small of his back. He tugs down the jumper.
I’m not scared.
Or would you rather snuggle up under the sheets with that old biddy?
What old biddy?
The one who was swimming.
No way.
Robert rubs his forehead. Then he blinks at Danny and says: If you want to sleep under a tree somewhere, go right ahead.
Robert stands up and walks over to the car. Danny rests his head on the tabletop and thinks about the bulls. The breeze blows through the grass, accompanied by a quiet humming. Robert repeats the tune three times. Then he comes back to the table and hands Danny a rolled-up mat. Here, he says, you can sleep on this. I’ll go and get you a blanket.
Robert bangs and clatters around in the back of the car and comes back with an old blanket and a torch. He turns on the torch and a powerful beam illuminates the riverbank and part of the river. The water splashes and sparkles in the light.
You could use that to catch rabbits, he says, putting the torch on the table. The wood lights up. Something for that pheasant shooter, he adds.
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 moving. 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.
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.
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?
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?
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.
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.