The Drifters (83 page)

I was not the first to reach Holt as he collapsed on the pavement, but I was among the first. I grabbed one leg and saw blood already streaming down it, but my last image of that ugly corner was of Cato punching the bewildered Frenchman. Two Spanish policemen dragged Cato away and then started punching the Frenchman themselves, more savagely.

We ran down Santo Domingo, past Bar Vasca, where Raquel saw us bearing Holt to the hospital. She started screaming, and several woodchoppers ran into the street to follow us. At the military hospital the doors were already opened, and we rushed upstairs to the operating room, where the doctors took one look at the gut wound and said, ‘Very deep.’ Then they saw the chest scar, which they themselves had made, and one surgeon slipped his hand into Holt’s pants to feel the buttock scar. ‘Ah,
el Americano.
He will be all right. This one knows how to fight back.’ And they began their operation.

When I reached the street I found the three girls waiting at the hospital door. Monica was ashen. Gretchen’s lips were drawn tight. And Britta was sobbing. I went instinctively to her, and she pressed her head against my chest. ‘I love him so much,’ she whispered.

‘He’ll live.’

‘Will he?’ the girls asked.

‘Another might not, but he will.’

As we stood there, Joe and Cato came up. ‘He sacrificed himself to save me,’ Cato kept mumbling.

‘You’re goddamned right he did,’ I snapped. ‘You remember those words.’

‘That was something to see,’ Joe said. ‘One man and a newspaper.’

‘That Frenchman was a beauty, wasn’t he?’ Monica asked.

‘I wanted to kill him,’ Cato said.

‘Mr. Fairbanks,’ Britta whispered, ‘I’d like to go to the church.’ So all of us walked away from the hospital
and up the hill to the church of Santo Domingo. We pushed open the door and descended the two flights of stairs that took us down to the nave where an early Mass was being said, but before we could take our seats, a runner from the hospital arrived to summon a priest.

‘Oh my God!’ Britta sobbed as I went to interrogate the runner. He said, ‘It’s just in case … on stomach wounds, you know.’

I returned to Britta and said, ‘Just a precaution. Now we’ll sit here until we gain control of ourselves.’

And even Cato prayed.

That day was miserable. We had no word from the hospital until noon, when a priest came to Bar Vasca to tell me that I could see Holt, who seemed somewhat stronger after his operation. I hurried down the street, with the young people following me, but at the entrance to the military hospital they were stopped by a functionary in a white jacket. I was led to the second floor by a guide, though none was necessary, for I had been there several times before. Propped up in bed was Harvey Holt, very white in the face but smiling.

‘A pinprick,’ he said.

The attending doctor said, ‘No shock. No complications. Extraordinary man, but of course the other scars prove that.’

‘Where’d he get you?’ I asked.

‘In the belly … but the safe part. Very considerate.’

‘It was quite a save you made.’

‘That Frenchman was a sweetheart … yes?’

‘Cato wanted to kill him. He wants to see you … very much.’

‘Tell Gretchen I’d like to talk with her.’

When I translated this, the doctor nodded, so I sent the guide down to get Gretchen, and when she arrived, nervous and pale, Holt laughed at her. ‘Why the tragedy?’ he asked.

‘You may not know it, Mr. Holt, but it happened right at my feet. I hated that Frenchman!’

‘What I wanted to tell you was … catch that boat at Barcelona.’

‘Mr. Holt, we couldn’t leave while you …’

‘I’m ordering you. Catch that boat.’

‘We’re going to stay here … we’ve discussed it and decided …’

‘Gretchen, the boat is important.’

‘You’re important.’

‘But the boat is important to many people.’

‘Do you think Cato would leave until you’re well?’

‘The last thing I saw before I fainted was Cato punching the Frenchman. That’s his exit visa.’ He closed his eyes and said in a low voice, ‘Tell her, Fairbanks.’

I said, ‘Holt’s right. He’s going to live. There’s no sense disrupting everyone’s plans.’

Then Holt added, ‘One thing, Gretchen. Clive’s a dope. You can do better.’

She blushed, started to say something—and I could see tears coming to her eyes. Her instinct must have told her it would be improper for her to cry before this wounded man, so she said nothing, only leaned over his bed and kissed him. Then she turned and left the room.

A moment later there was a scuffling at the door and Cato burst in. The guide followed, trying to grab him, but the doctor said it was all right. Cato came to the bed and said in hesitant manner, ‘You’re lying there … not me. I want you to know …’

‘Son, I told you that when you run with the bulls, anything can happen.’

‘What I wanted to say was that my father … in all his life … not once has he ever acted like a man. Perhaps if he had …’

‘Perhaps you people run with tougher bulls.’

The two antagonists looked at each other in silence, then Cato said, ‘The bulls I run with, Mr. Holt, have horns as big as this bed.’

‘They always look that big … always.’

‘I’ll never forget you risked your life for mine.’

‘Who keeps score?’ Holt asked, and Cato left.

Holt was weaker than he pretended, the loss of blood having been considerable, and when Cato was gone he fell back on his pillow.

‘Was it a rough one?’ I asked.

‘No. You felt yourself trapped in those powerful arms … the poor Frenchman was terrified and totally irrational. What the hell could you do? I remember feeling a sense of satisfaction that the bull wasn’t going to hit
Cato, pinned against the wall. I remember thinking that it was much better for him to come at me, because I had people behind me who would yield a little when the horn struck. That’s what happened.’

‘It was sensational to see,’ I said.

‘It’s sensational to be here,’ Holt replied. The doctor indicated that I had better go, but as I reached the door. Holt said again, ‘Make sure the kids catch that boat.’

At the entrance Britta asked if she could go up, but the guard said,
‘Nada más,’
and we walked up to the main square, where all the regulars gathered around us to hear a first-hand report. The German girl whom we had met the first night said, ‘They told us the priest had been called and that he was dead.’

‘He’s sitting up in bed, laughing,’ I said.

‘Have you seen the photos?’ she asked.

Britta, surprised that they should be available so soon, rushed us to the camera store, where we saw the linked series showing the fall of the bull, his charge back toward town hall, and the goring of Holt, but the photograph that would live permanently in the minds of all who had seen the incident showed Harvey Holt, newspaper in hand, citing the bull from a distance of perhaps eight feet. It was a portrait of courage and grace, of a lone man doing what had to be done.

The young people sat in the sun discussing whether they ought to skip the fight that afternoon and give up their plans for Moçambique, out of respect for Holt, but I told them, ‘The essence of Pamplona is that you run with the bulls in the morning, then see them fought in the afternoon, and if the doctors at that hospital aren’t watchful, you’ll see Harvey Holt sitting beside me this afternoon. He’s done it before.’

At two o’clock we trailed back to Bar Vasca and had a lunch of
pochas
, in honor of Holt, and after lunch Britta returned to the hospital, but again she was refused entrance.

I insisted that they pack the yellow pop-top so that they could leave immediately after the fight. ‘It’s a long haul to Barcelona, so if you want to make that boat, get cracking.’ Britta had tears in her eyes as she packed her duffel, but I assured her that Holt would be all right and that she could write to him at the military hospital, but later at the arena, when I looked back toward where the young people
were sitting, I saw that she had not come to the fight. At one intermission I went back to ask where she was, and Monica told me, ‘She wants to say goodbye to Holt. Shell meet us at the car.’ Clive was occupying her seat.

When the fight was over, the last wild fight of this year, and the bands were gathering in the arena for their final march through the city, the young people hurried through the crowd to where the pop-top was parked, and there stood Britta, her duffel bag on the sidewalk. ‘I cannot go with you,’ she said, and I was astonished at how casually everyone accepted this decision.

‘
Poste restante
, Lourenço Marques,’ Gretchen said. ‘Tell us how he is.’

Cato shook hands with her and said, ‘I’ll see you in the States … or Norway … or somewhere.’

‘So long, Mr. Fairbanks,’ they shouted, and while a huge red sun was still visible in the west, the pop-top headed for the coast.

Britta and I started for the central square. I offered to carry her duffel, but this she would not permit, and after a few blocks we were mired in an enormous throng of people seeking to march with the bands on this special night. While struggling to free ourselves, we became part of the mob behind one of the noisiest bands and were swept along for a block or more, unable to break free. The noise was tremendous, hypnotic, the glorious end of a feria, and for a moment Britta forgot her anxiety over her own future and Holt’s and entered into the abandon.

Then suddenly, on a signal from nowhere except the hearts of those who were saying farewell to a riotous week, the music stopped, the singers fell silent, the noise halted, and even the whispers of the crowd ceased. All in the street fell upon the paving blocks and began knocking their foreheads on the stones. From the silence came one voice, then many, singing the traditional song for this solemn moment:

Britta, forced to a prone position by those around her, looked at me as I lay on the stones, and I saw that she was transfigured by this unexpected experience. Grief was walking the streets and giving itself visible form—her grief, and she was part of it. Tears came into her eyes and she pressed her hand over her mouth. She looked away and knocked her forehead against the stones.

Then, again with no visible signal, the bands simultaneously returned to their wild tunes, whereupon the fallen thousands sprang to their feet, and the cacophony resumed, but louder than before. When we had passed through three cycles of lament and exultation, I took the duffel bag from Britta and told her, ‘You should march with the mourners,’ and she did.

Toward midnight, as I was lugging her gear back to Bar Vasca, I happened to catch sight of the procession as it passed down a narrow street, and there was Britta, falling to the stones and knocking her head, and I knew it was not in grief for the passing of San Fermín but for that inconsolable anguish that sometimes overtakes young people when they unexpectedly face death, or the loss of their illusions, or a glimpse of the deadly years that lie ahead. She did not see me, nor did she seem to notice those who marched and mourned beside her. She walked like a ghost, eyes blank, through the beloved streets that had brought her so much happiness.

At two o’clock, when the marchers still faced four hours till dawn, she left them and sought me out at Bar Vasca, where I sat with the woodchoppers.

‘Mr. Fairbanks, you must take me to the hospital. Now.’

‘At this hour!’

‘Tell them I’m his wife … just in from Madrid.’

I accompanied her down the dark street to the military hospital, where I told the sleepy guard, ‘The injured American’s wife.’

‘Tell her to come in the morning.’

‘But she’s just arrived from Madrid.’

Protesting, the man in the white smock said, ‘All right, if she’s his wife I’ll go tell him.’

Motioning us to wait, he started upstairs, but I forestalled him by grabbing Britta’s hand and leading her along. When we got to Holt’s door the guard peeked in to see if he was sleeping, but Harvey was awake, so I
pushed the door wider and shoved Britta into the room.
‘Su esposa está aquí,’
I said, and the guard departed. I started to leave, but both Britta and Harvey wanted me to stay.

It was an astonishing conversation, and if I had not heard it I would not have believed reports, had any reached me.

Britta went to the bed and took Harvey’s hands. ‘We prayed for you … in the sunken church,’ she said.

‘I told them you were to catch the boat.’

‘The others will.’

‘You should have, too.’

‘Mr. Holt, I’ve been walking behind the bands with the marchers. “Poor me, poor me,” they’ve been singing. “Poor Mr. Holt,” I’ve been chanting under my breath.’

‘I’m all right.’

‘No. You’re not all right. You’re an unhappy, lonely man. It’s ridiculous. A man your age … cheap one-night stands with college girls.’

‘She was older than you are,’ Holt said defensively.

‘And when the years go by you’re going to be even more unhappy and more lonely. Mr. Holt, I want you to marry me.’

Harvey’s mouth dropped open, and I was afraid he might have a relapse of some kind, but it was only his astonishment at her words. All he could do was repeat, ‘I told them you were to catch the boat.’

‘I’m not catching any boat, Mr. Holt. I’m going to stay here with you. And as soon as you can walk again, you’re going to marry me.’

‘That’s crazy!’ Holt finally said.

‘I cannot live a life of loneliness, and neither can you.’ When she saw the consternation on Holt’s face she added softly, ‘I can work, Mr. Holt. I can bring in money to help us along, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

Holt closed his eyes. He had nothing to say. Britta saw him wince and guesesd that he was in as much spiritual pain as physical, for she said, ‘I’m not going to leave you, Mr. Holt. ‘I’m going with you even to Ratmalana.’ She hesitated, then looked at me imploringly. ‘Where is Ratmalana, Mr. Fairbanks?’

‘It’s an airport somewhere.’

‘Where is it?’ she asked Holt.