The Night Of The Bulls. Anne Mather
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breakfast, she drove into the centre of Arles. It was not a large place, but it was a market town and in consequence its mornings were filled with activity. She found herself tempted by the delicious array of sea-foods available on the stalls, but resisted the inducements of the stallholders to buy. Instead, she parked the Citröen and walked round the shops, filling in time until lunch.
She had decided to telephone the Mas St. Salvador at lunchtime in the hope that she would be able to speak to Manoel, who perhaps came home for lunch. She had no desire to speak to his mother, or his father either for that matter. This concerned herself and Manoel, and Manoel alone.
After posting a card to Clarry assuring her of her safe arrival, she found herself becoming increasingly agitated as the morning wore on. It was annoying to feel so emotional about the whole affair, and somehow she must calm that emotionalism before she saw Manoel. It would not do for him to see how stupid she was.
She refused to speculate upon his reactions to her arrival. No doubt he was married to Yvonne now, and had commitments of his own. He might even refuse to see her. Certainly if Yvonne had anything to do with it, he would. And in any case, why should she suppose he might lend her money on the strength of a relationship they had had three years ago, and which he obviously did not consider binding?
She drove back to the hotel soon after twelve and entered the reception hall almost reluctantly. She had noticed a public telephone booth in the hall for use by the patrons and she walked across to it determinedly. She wanted to get the call over before her courage wavered.
Although she had written the number down she could remember most of it without difficulty and with trembling fingers she lifted the receiver and asked the operator for her call. By the time she heard the ringing tone at the other end of the line her palms were moist with sweat and tiny beads of perspiration were standing on her brow.
The receiver was lifted at last and a woman’s voice said: ‘Oui? Mas St. Salvador. Qui est-ce?’
Dionne’s voice cracked, but she managed to say faintly: ‘Madame – St. Salvador?’
‘Non, c’est Jeanne! Vous voulez Madame St. Salvador?’
‘Non, non!’ Dionne’s tone was urgent. ‘Er – Monsieur St. Salvador, Monsieur Manoel St. Salvador, est-il là?’
Jeanne hesitated a moment, and then she replied: ‘Non, mademoiselle, il est en Avignon.’
Dionne’s heart sank to the pit of her stomach. Manoel – in Avignon! For how long? She thought quickly. She could go on asking Jeanne, who she knew to be the old housekeeper, questions, but whether or not she received answers was doubtful. Already she could sense reserve in the old woman’s voice and a desire to know who should want to speak to Monsieur Manoel. With a thudding heart, she said: ‘Merci,’ and rang off, finding to her dismay that she was shaking all over.
Emerging from the phone booth she found the hotel manager in the hall and he regarded her anxiously, noting her pale cheeks and over-bright eyes.
‘Is something wrong, mademoiselle?’ he queried solicitously.
Dionne managed to shake her head with what she hoped was casual composure. ‘No – no, nothing,’ she replied swiftly. ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’
‘Beautiful,’ he echoed, nodding, and she fled up the stairs to her room.
As she changed for lunch into a cotton shift in a rather attractive shade of lemon which Clarry had made for her Dionne tried desperately to assimilate her position. She combed and secured her hair again in the chignon, touched eye-shadow to her slightly olive lids, and applied a colourless lustre to her mouth, but she did all these things automatically. She had somehow not planned beyond the phone call. If she were to ring again and Manoel should not be there a second time, the family would begin to become suspicious of her motives and she dared not risk that. But how else could she contact him? She could not possibly drive all the way to Avignon on the off-chance of meeting him.
She descended to the dining-room with a distinctly hollow feeling in her stomach that had little to do with food.
She ate little, even though the fish soup was delicious, and refused anything more than some fresh fruit afterwards. She enjoyed the coffee; it was invigoratingly strong, and as she sipped it she sought about in her mind for a reason to drive out to the manade itself.
Leaving the restaurant, she crossed the reception area to the wide entrance to the hotel, looking out on the shaded square with thoughtful eyes. There were not many guests staying in the hotel. It was early yet for tourists in Arles. They would come later, in May and June, when the festivals began, when the gypsies gathered for their own particular celebrations …
Dionne pressed a hand to her suddenly churning stomach. It was all so bitterly familiar, and so unfair somehow that she should have had to come back here at this particular time of year. She touched her fingers to her lips feeling again the dryness of salted bread and the thirst for red wine poured from earthenware pitchers. She could hear the excited noise, the music, the uninhibited thrill of being part of a ritual that had taken place for hundreds of years …
With tightly clenched fists she turned back into the hotel. It was no use. She had to go through with it, however painful and ugly it might be. For Jonathan’s sake.
She spent the afternoon in the hotel, much to the manager’s amazement. He had obviously written her down as a tourist, and that she should not be out sampling the tourist’s places of interest was clearly an enigma to him. Several times she caught him watching her from the doorway of the lounge and she deliberately pretended not to notice so that she would not embarrass him.
In the late afternoon, when the shadows in the square were lengthening, she left the lounge and made her way to the telephone booth again. Her knees trembled slightly, and she had difficulty in co-ordinating her movements. But she reached the booth at last and lifted the receiver.
A female voice answered the call again, and Dionne’s spirits sank. But it was not Jeanne. It was a girl’s voice, a voice Dionne vaguely remembered. Manoel had had a sister, a young sister – Louise.
‘Excusez moi,’ she said, hoping her accent would not sound too English, ‘mais je veux parler avec Monsieur Manoel St. Salvador.’
‘Manoel?’ The girl sounded surprised. ‘Qui est là?’
Dionne hesitated. How could she tell the girl her name without creating the kind of situation she most wanted to avoid.
‘C’est une amie de Monsieur St. Salvador,’ she prevaricated.
The girl uttered an exclamation. ‘Mais êtes-vous anglaise?’
Dionne pressed her lips together. She had not thought her accent was so bad, but then it was several years since she had used French. What could she say? If she denied it the girl would know she was lying, and if she agreed her position would be even worse.
‘Ce n’est pas important,’ she replied, and for the second time she rang off, despising herself for her cowardice.
Leaving the booth, she went upstairs to her room and stared at her reflection in the mirror of the dressing-table. Her eyes were troubled now, their green depths haunted by the anxiety she was suffering. What was she going to do?
She was in the process of changing for dinner when there was a tap at her door. ‘Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!’
The voice was feminine and Dionne crossed the room to the door, wrapping her housecoat closer about her. A maid waited outside.
‘There is a telephone call for you, mademoiselle,’ she explained with a smile. ‘Unfortunately, you will have to take it downstairs –in the hall.’
Dionne gripped the door handle tightly. ‘Are – are you sure it’s for me?’ she asked faintly.
‘Mais certainement, mademoiselle. It is a man,