Every Night's a Bullfight Read online

  Every Night’s a Bullfight

  John Gardner

  © John Gardner 1971

  John Gardner has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in the UK in 1971 by Michael Joseph.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Extract from The Liquidator by John Gardner

  ‘...“Swordsmen thrust through, and dying in their blood on the arena sand; bulls goring, horses disembowelled, made a meeker vision for the public — a milder condiment for a people’s palate — than Vashti, torn by seven devils...”

  Now Charlotte Brontë had never seen a bullfight in her life. But I know exactly what she meant; it was a right instinct that made her seek a similitude where she did. Other plays and other actors evoke for me, the same response; especially Othello, a dramatized bullfight if ever there was one, with its hero the courageously blundering bull, lured to his death by the matador Iago and that maddening handkerchief. Irving was aware of the parallel.’

  Bull Fever: Kenneth Tynan

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cyprus, goats and monkeys, of course, that’s where he should have gone. At least in Cyprus he could have done a little research between lazing. Inevitably he would direct Othello one day. Othello by William Shakespeare. Directed by Douglas Silver. From one-hundred-and-one ideas provided, over the years, by such eminent directors as Tyrone Guthrie, Anthony Richardson, Franco Zeffirelli and the Race Relations Act.

  In Cyprus he would have gained just a tiny piece of background knowledge: the feel of the place, its smells; in its villages, the pace of life would not have altered much.

  But Douglas Silver was here, in the moist heat and dust of Malta, lying on the bed in this ludicrous pseudo-American hotel perched upon a promontory of rock, shrouded in stifling night, the air conditioning out of action and the jungle beat of the Casanova Trio ripping from the Sand Room, throbbing across the Pool Terrace and in through his balcony window.

  The Casanova Trio. Three prancing faggots and a girl vocalist who did not know her B flat from an A Natural.

  Silver’s mind streamed back as though along an endless road flanked by trees which constantly changed colour, like time lapse photography of the seasons. Loneliness; adolescent anguish; sentiment and the slush of pain which led to revolt. The mind drifting with endless pictures.

  It was only yesterday, after lunch, that he realized he had not rested properly for three years, The sophisticated Douglas Silver — The most promising young director British Theatre has seen since Trevor Nunn they had once written in The Sunday Times. Yet here he was, in the middle of the Mediterranean, feeling consciously randy; wanting a woman. Any woman. A man married to a talented, beautiful and international actress.

  That’s how it goes. Sorry, Jen, he breathed so that she might pick up his thoughts through the static, across the world, among the glittering people.

  He lit a cigarette. The loneliness, he recognized might be a spur to his guilt. The questions were already tumbling around in his mind: How? What started it? Why the big booming and almost constant erection now? The heat? He had been in heat like this before without being horny. Being away from Jen? Could that produce this continual need? He was not using his mind, that was part of the trouble. Lack of mental stimulation affecting the animal within.

  He sat up on the bed and could see himself, through the open bathroom door, reflected in the mirror. Douglas Silver: twenty-six years old, tall, compact and well-proportioned, outwardly composed, with a boyish face, unruly black hair and a manner of diffidence which belied the iron authority he could demonstrate in rehearsal, or the rigid self-discipline he imposed upon himself when directing one of the great dramatic classics.

  At Cambridge he had won a first class honours degree in English and the brilliance of his university productions was blared abroad long before he even began to consider the Theatre as a way of life.

  Then Cambridge was over and he was suddenly thrust into the professional world. Provincial repertory companies, work for the Arts Council and then an incredibly lucid production of that director’s trap, Peer Gynt, in the West End. Success blossomed around him. Recently he had directed one play at Chichester, then a couple for the National, while his Hamlet at Stratford last year drew superlative praise from audiences, critics and the profession alike.

  He had met Jennifer Frost at a first night party in Chichester. He remembered his surprise on discovering that she was so intelligent. She had two movies showing in London and a third about to be premiered, while the studio publicity still spat out an ignorant and vulgar stream of adjectives which pigeon-holed her into the empty, unobtainable, sex-symbol, bitch-goddess category. The universally adored long dark hair, oval face, brown still eyes and near perfect body fascinated him physically, but it was her mind, leaping with agility, pouring out not screen banalities, but mature, conscious and comprehensive ideas, which captured and captivated him.

  They had left the party together and gone back to his rooms in the little street near the cathedral. They drank coffee and talked, about drama, the cinema, acting, politics, children, poetry and music, until it was morning when they fell asleep together, not touching, aware only that the use of their bodies together was for some other time.

  A month later they were married in the sub-normal norm which trails in the wake of people like Jennifer Frost, retreating immediately into a private shell of exploration.

  Now, two years later, Jen had gone back to the grinding, destructive, almost destroyed, over-exposed film world; on location in Mexico with a lead in a flip, up to the minute, tricksy little epic titled Hidalgo, and it was yesterday, after lunch, that Douglas suddenly became aware that he had time on his hands for the first moment in three years.

  It would have been madness to cross the world and join Jen. On location he would have been out of his depth: an abrasive to his wife, her director and the other members of the unit.

  In the end he simply walked into the first travel agent he could find in Regent Street and asked if they could fix him up with two weeks in the sun. Somewhere. Anywhere. They suggested Malta. He called his agent, Revill Sutcliffe, and cabled Jen. Finally it had all fused to these moments of sweat, pulsing noise and a wilderness of arid nothingness: the mind bare, the senses dry and no real person to touch.

  A knock at the door brought the promise of human contact: a brown-uniformed boy holding a cable and waiting to be tipped.

  He expected the cable to be from Jen, so did not quite take in the message as he read — CALL ME MOST URGENTLY. REVILL. —

  On the telephone yesterday, Revill had said there was nothing urgent. A couple of offers to direct new plays; a haggle over money to do The Shrew at Stratford during the following season, but nothing that would not wait until his return.

  There was a four hour delay on calls to London. Four hours in which to turn imagination into the worst nightmares. Jen was ill in Mexico. There had been an accident. His mind filled with the fantasies of hospitals, planes, airports and the dash to his dying wife’s side.

  Stupidly, Douglas chose to wait in his room, the solitude groping vividly at his mind and the imagination coloured by the half bottle of whisky ordered from room service.

  When the
call finally came through, the line was dreadful and Revill had been wakened after only half-an-hour’s sleep. ‘It’s Douglas. What the hell’s happened?’

  Static and the far off voices of operators or lovers somewhere among the electronic network.

  ‘Douglas, what’re you ringing for at this time of night?’

  ‘Your cable said it was urgent.’

  ‘It could have waited until morning.’

  ‘Well what’s urgent? What is it?’

  ‘We’ve had an offer, that’s all. I think you might be interested enough to come back and discuss it.’

  ‘What sort of an offer?’

  ‘Director of the Shireston Festival Company.’

  ‘The Shireston?’

  ‘You want to talk with them?’

  ‘It’s got to be a quick decision?’

  ‘They want to move. They want to see you now.’

  There was a fractional hesitation.

  ‘I’ll take the first flight I can get. Call you from Heathrow or Gatwick or wherever.’

  He rang through to reception. There was a flight out, via Rome, at eleven next morning and there were seats available. Another cigarette and a long pull at the remaining whisky.

  The Shireston. It was not as well organized and certainly not as attractive as Stratford. It had none of the kudos of the National, nor the display facilities of Chichester, but the potential had never been properly exploited. It was a place where one could gather together and build a company, and it was unique. Though they had failed at Shireston, two of its previous directors had become powerfully big names; and, if he had heard correctly, there was money available. It could be a challenge with great possibilities.

  Director of the Shireston Festival Company. He repeated it aloud. Elation. The alcohol, combined with the news, began to make Douglas feel the creative need even more sharply. Thinking clearly now, he knew very well how it took him, even though he tried to con himself for most of the time.

  ‘When you’re directing,’ Jen would say, ‘you might as well leave me with a box of king-size candles. Then, when the play’s on you’re never off me.’

  That was why he had never been unfaithful. The time had always been so full even though, however much he tried to disguise it, Douglas Silver’s talent and brilliance operated through sexual motivation. The whole drive was directed towards the project, and when that was through the creative urge became more basic.

  It was basic now as he thought of Jen: the live texture of her skin and the special smell of her: the particular scent of her sweat when he took her, the gutteral choke she gave at orgasm; the wild look as she prepared for him, or the soft, still, deep quiet as she rested, asleep or pacified.

  The Casanova Trio had been silenced by the onslaught of night. Yet the need in him remained. He put on his sandals and padded out of the room. In the main lobby there was nobody except the desk clerk who gave him a mistrustful look.

  The Sand Room was silent and uninviting so he went out on to the Pool Terrace, telling himself the urge would pass in the night air. The kidney-shaped pool shone, empty and placid, a whitish-green in the diffused underwater lighting. On the other side of the terrace there was a low wall from which you could look down on to the rocks and the regularly changing surf.

  He walked round the pool towards the wall and sat down, squatting sideways on to stare out at the dark water, watching its white foam trimming spluttering in, his mind detaching itself from the present.

  Jen came swiftly to the surface. A moment from an afternoon they had spent at Blenheim Palace: a bright cold day in February and they had walked briskly round the grounds. Later, standing on the bridge, the winter sun reflected in the water: a long spear of light seemed to be pointing at them, embracing, leaning across the parapet. That night they had stayed at The Bear in Woodstock and never slept because of their mutual hunger. He could see the room clearly: the ornate bedhead; coffee going cold on a tray; Peggy Lee’s recorded voice filtering an oldie — Don’t Smoke in Bed — from the radio.

  ‘It’s a corny line, but have you got a light?’

  The voice had a controlled, husky quality. Douglas turned, startled at its sudden intrusion.

  She was a tall coloured girl, dressed to emphasize her slimness in flaired slacks and a skinny turtleneck, one hand raised holding an unlit cigarette.

  Douglas felt for his lighter. ‘You want to be careful doing that. You never know who you’ll meet out here in the wee small hours.’

  The flame spurted and kindled the tobacco. The girl took a long drag and blew the smoke away with a quick movement of her mouth, as though disgusted by it. ‘I know who you are. I saw you at dinner tonight. Then I couldn’t sleep and spotted you from my balcony, shameless hussy that I am. How are you Mr. Silver?’

  Douglas creased his forehead in an effort to recall her. ‘Don’t worry.’ She laughed. ‘I don’t suppose you remember me for a moment. I auditioned for you once...’

  ‘In Birmingham.’ He almost shouted as memory picked up the clues. He could see her. The empty theatre, her willowy figure in a belted topcoat; green, he thought. It had been a cold morning and there was some trouble with the heating system. He also heard her voice from the stage. How could he have forgotten? The mental note had been made and underlined. ‘Birmingham.’ He said again, softly.

  ‘Very good. I’m flattered.’

  ‘Quick Silver.’ He grinned.

  ‘I’ll bet you can’t remember my name.’

  The surf crashed once below them. He spread his hands wide. ‘Miracles take a little longer.’

  She offered a palm. There was a grace of movement. The gesture of an actress. ‘Carol. Carol Evans.’

  ‘Now I remember.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ A pause as he blew out a thin stream of smoke.

  ‘About Birmingham. I mean about the job.’

  ‘As you say, miracles take a little longer.’

  ‘No. You were very good. Very good. It was a matter of casting problems. A little interference.’

  ‘Uh-hu.’ She came and sat down beside him on the wall.

  ‘So what’re you doing now?’

  ‘I’m on holiday.’ She laughed, an infectious, melodic noise, tossing her hair back in a way which had the stamp of habit about it.

  ‘Before that?’

  ‘I had a couple of lines in a movie at Borehamwood. Real hard work. Paid for the holiday.’

  ‘Good lines?’

  ‘Integrated stuff like — Would you prefer the white meat or the dark, sir?’

  Douglas chuckled.

  ‘So what’s the famous Douglas Silver doing here all alone without his beautiful movie queen wife?’ There was no mockery.

  He bit his lip. ‘Being lonely. Full of self-pity and getting the hell out of here at eleven in the morning.’

  ‘Oh.’ A small shock, then with a smile. ‘I thought I might have someone to talk with while I improved my tan.’

  ‘You here alone then?’

  ‘No. With a friend. A girl friend, but she got lucky with a nice boy from Hampstead and I get the feeling that I’m intruding. About your wife...? Everything’s...?’

  ‘Everything’s fine. Okay. She’s making a movie.’ He took a deep breath and found himself letting out a sigh. ‘Yes, in Mexico she’s making a movie.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘There’s work around the corner.’

  Her cigarette glowed in the half-light as she nodded.

  ‘If there’s ever anything in it for a lanky spade dolly, remember me, Douglas Silver.’

  Another pause: counterpoint from the sea eternally slapping away at the rocks. Douglas felt very much alert, his senses tingling, straining like radar antennae. He put out his hand. Carol took it into hers, lightly, rubbing palms together.

  They sat there, holding hands and talking: mainly about his productions that she had seen; personalities; mutual friends, the people who, naturally enough, criss-crossed their lives
.

  After a while Douglas said, ‘You want to come back to my ghetto?’

  He felt she was looking at him, hard.

  ‘You that lonely?’ Low and surprised.

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘How else can you mean it, Douglas Silver? A man is alone, his wife far away across the wide ocean and he invites a girl back to his room? He invites her back to screw her. What other way is there?’

  There was a shout from somewhere deep in the hotel. A shout of something. A drunken waiter, perhaps, letting off steam now that all the guests were safely tucked away for the night.

  Carol got to her feet. ‘Okay. Let’s be adult. You’re a nice guy and you need it. So do I, but it’s not for favours. I don’t want you beating your brains out when it gets to your next production and you’re trying to figure out how you can fit in a black bitch as the Snow Queen.’

  She stretched out her arm, took his hand again, firmly this time, and they headed back into the hotel.

  In the lobby the desk clerk threw another of his random suspicious looks, shrugging his shoulders once their backs were turned to him.

  They kissed by the door in his darkened room. An experimental touching of the lips, no give in either of them. Then, as they undressed, they allowed each other’s fingertips to touch and it was as though energy had begun to flow between them. Douglas moved his hand down her rib cage as she bared her small breasts.

  She was not just slim, but thin: he could feel the bones, and, while each of her breasts was firm and large enough for him to cup and completely cover with his hand, she had no real waist.

  In the end he helped her, sliding the tiny bikini she wore down over her flat buttocks and thighs, lifting his bare foot, placing it against the garment’s crotch, pushing down.

  She opened her mouth to kiss him, and, this time, there was no experimenting. Her open lips closed on his with a new ferocity. For the first time in his life Douglas felt a need for more than the safe satisfaction which pulsed between her thighs. Her tongue filled his mouth. Between them there was the taste of tobacco, brandy and whisky. He drew away from her, clinging to her shoulders and pushing her down.