1993 - The Blue Afternoon (32 page)

Beside him Annaliese slept on, her mouth open, little mumbling snores coming from her. He had rejoined her in the marital bed these last few nights in order not to provoke any suspicions that their reconciliation was not genuine, and the thought came to him as he slid from between the sheets that he would not be sleeping in it for much longer. This brought a mild pang of sadness but it was replaced by a charge of excitement when he considered the future waiting for him. He had no animus against Annaliese, no regret about leaving her, but he did admit that their ‘reconciliation’ made what he was about to do that much harder on her. Still, there was no way he could prevent that.

He dressed and was driven to the hospital without breakfasting. It would have been hard enough counting the hours and days without the added prospect of Pantaleon’s assault on the Amberway-Richault prize complicating matters. He was consoled by the thought that some malfunction was bound to occur and necessitate a further postponement. He might even, he thought, indulge in a spot of covert sabotage himself if the opportunity arose. But whatever happened he had to go through the motions of participating in order to neutralise Pantaleon’s threat. It would occupy some hours of a long day, in any case, keep his mind busy.

At the San Jeronimo he made his final arrangements. He checked the rotas of the night staff for 20 May, confirmed that his theatre nurses had been given the relevant day off and ensured that certain key components in the plan were in their allotted places.

As he set off for the nipa barn he felt a strong sense of purposeful calm descend on him, marred only by a feeling of irritation with Pantaleon and his absurd obsession with heavier-than-air powered flight. He had hoped for rain and indeed a fine drizzle was falling and the day was already overcast and muggy. As Constancio drove him over the Colgante bridge he saw the turning that led to San Miguel and the Calle Lagarda. He wondered how she was bearing up, how the strain of waiting was affecting her…But again he felt a quiet confidence return: she was strong too, they both knew exactly what they were doing, together they would come through.

To his surprise the road to the nipa barn was busy with pedestrians and some dozens of carriages were parked on the verge of the track where the path led to the meadow. He had expected one or two official witnesses but this had all the signs of a sizeable crowd. As he pushed through the gap in the plumbago hedge he was amazed to see upwards of a hundred people standing or sitting along the western edge of the meadow. On the eastern fringe there was a roped-off area equipped with folding wooden chairs where he imagined the adjudicators and official witnesses would sit. The barn was prettified with palm fronds and bunting, strings of fluttering pennants—crimson, moss green and buttercup yellow. He eased his way through a large group of well-wishers and journalists and found himself confronted by the Aero-mobile itself, standing in the opening to the barn, the doors thrown wide. Painted on the nose in a cursive cobalt script was Aero-movil numero uno. Dr Pantaleon Quiroga-Dr Salvador Carriscant.

Pantaleon was posing for photographs, one hand resting on an elevator strut, wearing an ankle-length leather motoring coat and a flat tweed cap that he had reversed. He looked most peculiar but something about his outfit suddenly made the prospect of the flight seem terrifyingly real and for the first time Carriscant felt a jolt of fear in his chest. This might, might, just actually happen, he thought, and he felt a squirm of nausea inside him. The Aero-mobile, caught in a chance gleam of sunlight, all at once looked modern and efficient. The twin pushing propellers were glossy with fresh varnish, the laterally mounted power plant had been regreased and repainted and looked factory-new, and the five bicycle tyres of the supporting carriage had been blacked and the spokes prinked out in white. The machine, he had to admit, appeared horribly plausible, its design, its ungainly functional shape, made it look capable of flight for the first time. It made sense, all of a sudden, a fact he thought he would have never conceded, and his stomach churned and heaved as saliva squirted into his mouth.

Pantaleon saw him and darted forward to draw him out of the crowd. His brown face was taut with suppressed emotion and his eyes were filled with tears. He embraced Carriscant, kissing him on both cheeks, as flash powder exploded with dull magnesium whumphs around them.

“Aren’t you a bit hot?” Carriscant asked.

“Salvador, what are you wearing?” Pantaleon looked him up and down with dismay.

Carriscant contemplated his white linen suit, his black English shoes, his hand went nervously to his polka-dotted bow tie.

“I didn’t think,” he said. “I dressed for a normal day’s work.”

“Did you hear that?” Pantaleon called to the assembled journalists. “My dear colleague here has dressed for
a normal day’s work
. What calm confidence! What elan, as the French say. This is the spirit that will place the Philippines at the forefront of the great aerial adventure!”

The journalists scribbled all this down in their notebooks, and Pantaleon translated for the English language papers. Carriscant had never seen him so self-assured, or display such zeal, such evangelical savoir-faire.

“Everything is in order,” Pantaleon said quietly to him. “Tuned to perfection. I ran the engine for ten minutes last night. Like birdsong.”

A shower of rain drove them inside the barn where Carriscant answered journalists’ questions as dourly and as dully as possible. No, he had no real enthusiasm for flying; it was a simple favour to a friend that brought him here; no, he did not imagine that being aloft in a flying machine would be injurious to health.

“After all we’ve all climbed a tree before,” he said, “and Dr Quiroga assures me we shall not attain an altitude of more than ten feet above the ground. To climb a ten-foot tree can hardly be regarded as life–threatening.”

“Unless you fall out,” said the man from the Manila Times. Everybody found this very amusing.

Pantaleon introduced him to the official adjudicators: there was Henry K. Gallo, president of the Army and Navy Club, Agapita Castaneda of the Philippine Commission, Señor Alejandro Gimson, the deputy editor of El Renacimiento, Rafael Martinez Mascardo, curator of the Museo de Ateneo, Mr Tiam Lam of the Chinese Chamber of Commerce, and Captain Gaspar Barboza, the Brazilian consul.

Carriscant was mightily impressed with Pantaleon’s organisational powers: facets of the man were being revealed today which he would never have believed existed.

“I wanted a complete cross-section,” Pantaleon explained. “Their signatures on the certificate of attestation will be very impressive, no?” He smiled and looked at his watch. “We’re just waiting for the final one—an American—from the Governor’s Office. I thought it was important to have an American.”

“Who’ve you got?” Carriscant asked. His nausea had returned, it was coming and going in waves; he was beginning to wish he had eaten breakfast.

“I don’t know. They said they’d send someone along. Are you all right?”

“I’m a bit hungry.”

“All I have is some beer. And champagne for afterwards.”

“Beer will do.” Carriscant drank a bottle of gassy San Miguel beer—la mas sobrosa y sustanciosa, it said on the label—and spent the next five minutes belching softly to himself. The crowd in the meadow, sheltering beneath umbrellas, had grown to over two hundred. Small boys with stiff-bristled brushes swept any accumulating water off the wooden roadway. Carriscant noticed that the guava trees at the end of the field had been cut down and in the middle of the paddy field beyond was a large square of white canvas stretched between two poles. That marked the target distance, he supposed, and he saw a small group of people huddled not far from it, the better to witness the historic moment. For the first time he asked himself an important, practical question: if indeed they did manage to leave the ground and travel sufficiently far to reach the marker, where and how were they going to come down? He put this point to Pantaleon with some urgency.

“Oh, in the rice fields,” Pantaleon said. “I’ve paid the farmer in advance. The mud and the water will make a soft landing. Don’t worry, I’m not going to attempt anything beyond the demands of the competition.”

“Good.”

“We can save turning and setting down for another occasion.”

“Mmm.” In the corner of his eye he spotted an American soldier in uniform who looked uncannily like Sieverance.

“Morning, Carriscant,” Sieverance called cheerfully, striding over. “I must say this is very intrepid of you.” He greeted Pantaleon. “Dr Quiroga, good to see you. Governor Taft asked me to wish you good luck and sends his best wishes.”

“I’m so sorry,” Pantaleon said to Carriscant later, when Sieverance had gone. “I had no idea they would send him, believe me, Salvador.”

“I suppose he was curious,” Carriscant said; the sight of Sieverance had not unsettled him as much as he had expected. “Oh dear, looks like the rain has set in.”

But the squall passed and ten minutes later the sun shone brightly, she wooden planks on the roadway steaming visibly as they warmed. The Aero-mobile was wheeled out of the barn again and set in place at its starting point. Pantaleon climbed on a stepladder and made a short speech.

“We are men of the new century,” he said, reading from notes, “and it is thus our signal duty to look forward. The challenge of heavier-than-air powered flight is the greatest objective mankind will face in the coming years. It seems fitting to me that this attempt on the Amberway-Richault prize should be made by two surgeons, two men who embody the new century’s spirit of science walking hand in hand with human endeavour. We who are exploring the innermost recesses of the human body should not neglect this globe’s wider frontiers. I want to thank my dear friend, Dr Salvador Carriscant, for his support and fortitude. I thank you all for being here on this historic day for our country. God bless the Philippine people and our enterprise.” Considerable applause greeted this.

The time had come. As if in a dream Carriscant found himself climbing into the rear saddle in the nose of the Aero-mobile. The two warping handles jutted up in front of him and without thinking he grasped them firmly, pulling them this way and that and causing the tail to turn in response. A soft salvo of flash powder greeted this impulsive gesture. Behind him Pantaleon began to swing the propeller. Carriscant prayed earnestly for a fuel leak, a faulty connection, a blown gasket, anything, but on the third attempt the pistons fired and the shrill irate roar of the Flanquin filled his ears. He felt the vibrations travel up his spine and suddenly he wished he was wearing different clothes: he felt a complete fool in his white linen suit and his glossy English brogues. Pantaleon flapped round the wing in his leather coat as the second propeller began to turn. He climbed into the forward saddle and inserted his feet into the stirrup controls. He twisted round to face Carriscant, his eyes bright, two darker spots on his brown face where his blush glowed.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said emotionally. “All that bad feeling is behind us now. Please tell me it’s so.”

“Completely forgotten, Panta.” He paused. “Now, you’re quite sure this is safe.”

“You’re more at risk in a carromato,” he said, with serene confidence. “Now remember, only when I reach up for the air-catcher do you take over the warp controls. Otherwise, do nothing.”

“Right.”

Pantaleon reached up to the twin handles above his shoulder and pushed them, raising the long flap on the leading edge to its full extent. Then he turned up the throttle control to full and the Aero-mobile began to thrum and judder violently. He gave the signal to the boy to pull away the wooden chocks and released the brake on the bicycle wheels.

With a brutal jerk the Aero-mobile lurched forward. Carriscant was flung backwards and as the whip crack effect hurled him forward again his nose smashed heavily into Pantaleon’s back between his shoulder blades. His vision dimmed as his eyes flooded with salty tears and he sensed, rather than saw, the hot plumes of blood jet from his nostrils.

He was aware of the tremendous noise of the engine and the hollow drumming sound of the wheels on the roadway planks as the machine began to pick up speed. As he blinked his eyes clear he saw the dark dripping splash of his blood on Pantaleon’s coat back and, to his horror, he realised that his entire front was a sopping swathe of red, that pools had gathered in the creases in his lap and that more was still snorting from his nose.

“Stop!” he screamed. “You’ve got to stop it!”

Pantaleon was sitting hunched forward over his controls, oblivious, like a racing cyclist in a sprint. Carriscant now felt the speed of their passage whip the ribbons of blood and snot away from his nose to sprinkle the rear section behind him, the heavy drops pattering on the stretched fabric. Then there was a sudden decrease in noise and he. realised the drumming of the wheels had ceased. Beyond his left thigh he saw the cruciform shadow of the Aero-mobile begin to shrink slowly. To his absolute horror he realised that they had taken to the air.

In front of him Pantaleon began to whoop and caw like some maddened, tormented bird. Glancing down, he saw the white discs of the lopped trees at the meadow’s end flash beneath them and he realised they were considerably higher than ten feet from the ground. The engine too seemed to be straining unnaturally hard as the sensation of forward motion gave way and was replaced by a kind of dreamlike buoyancy as the Aero-mobile seemed to rise almost vertically in the air like a gull gliding in a warm thermal.

“We’re too high!” Carriscant yelled.

Pantaleon turned, gaped in shock, and almost fell from his saddle at the sight of his blood-boltered passenger.

“My God! What happened?”

“We’re too fucking high!” Carriscant screamed in his face.

“Take the controls!”

Panicking, suddenly obedient, Carriscant gripped the two warping levers and felt the animate vibration of the flying machine transfer itself to his body. Pantaleon reached up and took hold of the air-catcher flap handles. And pulled down.