“They’re good.”
“Is that San Fermin’s?”
Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel.
“Yes. Where the show started on Sunday.”
“Let’s go in. Do you mind? I’d rather like to pray a little for him or something.”
We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead.
“Come on,” she whispered throatily. “Let’s get out of here. Makes me damned nervous.”
Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success.
“Don’t know why I get so nervy in church,” Brett said. “Never does me any good.”
We walked along.