Bullfighting (19 page)

Seán looked around.

—How many in here would you say have snorted cocaine?

—None, said Gerry.

He was probably right.

—Not according to the news, said Seán.—We're all fuckin' snorting.

—I've never even seen cocaine, said Gerry.—Have any of youse?

They shook their heads.

Some young one, a model, had died, and two other kids in Wexford or Waterford – they'd eaten damp cocaine. The radio was full of it, and the television. Middle-class men, their faces fuzzy and their voices disguised, describing their cocaine hells. ‘It's on the cheeseboard. Every dinner party I've been to.' And hidden cameras, in pub toilets. More fuzzy faces, leaning over cisterns, with rolled-up euros.

—What about your kids? said Ken.

They all had kids, teenagers and older.

Donal shrugged.

—Don't know, he said.—Don't think so.

—How do you know?

—I don't, said Donal.—But I think I would. Gerry nodded.

—How would we know? he said.—Unless they went crazy, or something.

—A swab, said Seán.

—What?

—A swab. Of the cistern, or a shelf. For traces of cocaine.

They laughed. Three of them laughed.

—You couldn't do that in my house, said Gerry.—The jacks is never empty.

—I did, said Seán.

They looked at him. They stared at him.

—You did a – what? – a test? A fuckin' swab?

—Yep, said Seán.

—Did you get a kit or something? Gerry asked him.—Do you not have to be a fuckin' forensics expert or something?

—Not at all, said Seán.—All you need is a cotton bud. I ran one across the top of the jacks. The cistern, like.

—And?

—It was filthy.

They laughed again.

—White particles, said Seán.

—Dust, said Donal.—Talc. The jacks would be full of it. Any room. The air's full of dust.

—Did you have them tested? The white particles.

—No, said Seán.

—So? said Gerry.—What did you prove?

—I sniffed the bud, said Seán.—Snorted it, like. So to speak.

—And?

—I was high as a fuckin' kite.

He was joking.

—Dancing with the fridge. Seriously though, he said.—I've been watching my girls since it got into the news. And they're the same as they've ever been. So they either aren't using cocaine or they've always been using cocaine.

He shrugged.

—They're grand, he said.—The only one that might be snorting is Maeve.

Maeve was his wife.

—D'you reckon?

—It would explain quite a lot, said Seán.

He left it at that. They didn't talk about the wives. They drifted from cocaine to football, and on to the film that Gerry had seen at the weekend and the others wanted to see.

—How was Denzel?

—Brilliant.

And on to international affairs.

—Poor oul' Benazir.

—What a place.

—Mad. Would you have given her one?

—Oh, yeah. Absolutely.

—Too late now, an'anyway.

—She was a fine thing. I liked her headscarf.

—That's the thing though, said Donal.—Women don't wear them here any more.

—Not even at mass.

—They'll make a comeback, said Ken.—Wait and see. Abercrombie and Fitch or somebody will bring back the headscarf.

—Benazir but, said Gerry.—She was a lot better looking than any of the women politicians in this country.

—That's for sure.

—What about Hillary Clinton?

—No.

—A few years back, maybe. Not now, though.

—She'd be saying the same thing about us.

—She hasn't a clue.

—Would you ride Obama?

—Not unless he was a woman.

—I have a dream.

 

That was the same night the idea was planted. They'd go away together, to Spain.

—The four of us?

—Why not? said Gerry.

—Sounds good.

Gerry's brother had a place down there.

—Where?

—Valencia. Near there. A half-hour or so. Inland. No sand or shite. It's great.

There was no decision that night, nothing firm. Donal said nothing to Elaine about it. He waited for Gerry to bring it up the next Thursday.

—Did yis give any more thought to that?

—What? said Ken.

—Spain.

—Your brother's gaff?

—Yeah.

They looked at one another, and shrugged, and smiled.

—Well, I'm going, said Gerry.

—Grand.

They went a few weeks after Easter. A Ryanair flight to Valencia, then a hired car. Donal had driven in France, but in his own car; they'd always got the ferry. They'd been to France four times. Always the same place, camping. The last time was five years ago. The year after that, the eldest, Matthew, said he wouldn't go. They couldn't make him – he was fifteen – and he was too young to leave behind.

They drove into the town. It seemed deserted, and a bit ugly.

—Is this the siesta?

—Suppose so.

It was early afternoon.

Gerry parked outside a bar.

—There's people in there, so they're not all asleep.

They sat outside, with four bottles of beer that cost the same as one bottle at home. Seán took off his jumper.

—That's it, lads. I'm on me holidays.

—Good man.

—How far is the house?

—Three minutes.

—Grand.

—This is fuckin' great, said Donal.

But he was disappointed. It
was
great, a week away from everything. But the town itself was shite. It was dead. Their table was on a street, but it didn't matter because the street was empty. He sat up and looked properly.

—What's that?

—What?

—The wall down there. The curved wall.

—The bullring, said Gerry.

—For bullfighting?

—Yeah.

—Serious?

—Yeah.

—Great.

—No, said Gerry.—It's a pain in the hole. Boring.

—Still, though, said Donal.

—Do they kill the bulls?

—Yeah.

—Cool.

—They, like, release them first, said Gerry.—Let them run through the streets.

—And that's fuckin' boring, is it? said Seán.

—It is, said Gerry.—Believe me.

—Still though, said Donal.

—It's the fiesta, said Gerry.—The annual festival. Saint something. Or the Virgin Mary.

—They slaughter bulls for the Virgin Mary?

—Wait'll you see it later, said Gerry.—It's good. The fiesta bit. He stood up.

They got back in the car. Gerry took them out of the town, past a field full of solar panels, and behind a small industrial estate. In Dublin, this was where you would dump the body or the fridge. Here it was a row of flatroofed houses, under palm trees.

—Here we are.

It was the last house in the row.

Gerry got out and unlocked the gate. They got out and followed him. They saw the pool but kept behind Gerry as he got the front door open and walked into hot dead air.

—Fuckin' hell.

They hoisted the shutters and opened all the windows. There weren't many; it wasn't a big house. They threw bags on the beds and then they went out to the pool.

—It's nice and clean.

—There's a chap keeps an eye on it for Declan. Declan was Gerry's brother.

—He throws in the chlorine and scoops out the flies and that.

—What's that?

There was a white machine, like a fat pup with a trunk, moving very slowly along the bottom.

—It's a hoover, said Gerry.

—For fuck sake. Is it on all the time?

—Think so, yeah.

—Clever.

—It's useless, said Gerry.—If it's the same one. It just moves into a corner and stays there. So the corner's spotless and the rest of it gets covered in fuckin' goo.

They got into the togs and sat looking at the water and, one at a time, they got in because there wasn't really room for more than one man, the way they swam. They sat with their backs to the industrial estate and let themselves get hungry. They chatted and kept an eye on the sun. The watches were off, thrown onto the beds. They had one more swim, then showered and put on the shorts and T-shirts. The shorts were new. They never wore shorts at home.

—Is that a bruise?

—Varicose vein.

—Lovely.

—You can show it to whatever young one you pick up tonight in town.

—I'll tell yeh. Show a bird your varicose veins and she'll be on you like a fuckin' barnacle.

They waited till Gerry locked the gate.

—Dogs, he said.—Have to keep them out.

—What? said Donal.—Wild?

—Kind of.

—Jaysis.

—It's the one bad thing, said Gerry.—The way they treat the dogs.

And now they could hear them. Dogs howling, baying – whatever it was.

—Are they all wild?

—No, said Gerry.—Just fuckin' miserable.

Gerry showed them the lane that would get them to town. They walked, all four men in a row. The sandals slapped the dust.

They went past the industrial estate and the tied-up dogs.

—What gets made in there?

—Nothing. As far as I know.

—Distribution?

—Maybe. But I've never seen a truck.

—Who feeds the dogs?

—There's an automatic feeder. It releases enough food every day. And water. They all have them. Most of the houses are empty during the week.

—That's terrible.

—Talkin' about feeders, said Donal,—I'm fuckin' starving.

They all were.

—A few scoops, a game of pool and the nosebag. How's that for a plan?

They ignored the bullfighting. It was on the telly, a local channel, in the bar. And it was outside. There were people running down the street, and back up the street. And a marching band, somewhere. Donal wanted to have a look, but Gerry was the local and he didn't even look out the window. And, fair enough, it all looked shite on the telly. There was a bull standing still, outside a church – it looked like. And young lads, all young lads, were walking carefully up to it, and touching it and dashing back. It looked like something anyone could do. The young lads all wore red T-shirts. Trying to provoke the bull, he supposed. But the bull wasn't having any of it. He just stood there, still. Then he was gone, off the screen, in the time it took Donal to bend down at the table and pretend he was sizing up his shot – he hadn't a clue, really. The commentator was going mad but all Donal could see was the door of the church.

They finished the game and went walking. The excitement was still in the street. The young lads, bashing against one another, thumping their chests. There was no sign of the bull, although there was dung in the air and – Donal saw it now – blood on the street. A topic for the phone call home in the morning. The marching band was still marching, but they still hadn't seen it. There were stalls down both sides of the main street, and Donal saw some of the stuff he'd bring home, the small presents the kids used to charge down the hall for when they heard him coming in the door, after he'd been away for a day or two because of work.

They found a place and ate well. Good, big steaks.

—Straight off the fuckin' bull.

The waiter recognised Gerry, smiled at him.

—Irish, yes?

—Yeah; good man.

—How are you? said the waiter.

—Good, said Gerry.—Yeah. How's business?

—You are my business.

He clapped his hands.

—Business is good.

 

They stopped at another bar. Another few drinks, at a table outside. The loud young lads were gone. There were families strolling, proud men pushing buggies.

—It's after one.

—A different world.

—It's very civilised.

—If this was Dublin, we'd be watching the fight.

—We'd be at home.

They walked back to the house at about three.

—A swim?

—Don't be fuckin' stupid.

They slept through the dogs. The room was still dark when Donal woke. But there was a day outside; he could feel it pressing against the shutter. He got out of the bed, and he was grand. No bother. He went out to the hall and looked at his phone. One o'clock. He'd woken up in the afternoon. He couldn't remember the last time that had happened. Long before kids, before marriage. He went out to the pool, and Gerry was there, listening to his iPod.