Air and Fire (12 page)

‘The eleventh,' she said.

‘Yes.'

‘That's a Tuesday.'

‘Yes, it is.'

‘My husband will be at work. He won't be able to come.'

‘Then come alone.'

Though this was ostensibly his answer to the objection that she had raised, it also had the distinct ring of an order. There was no doubt in his mind but that she would come, and come alone, if she had to. It might even, she thought, have been his original intention, and it now occurred to her that, despite the conspicuous formality of the invitation, Montoya was a man who took no account of the accepted social proprieties.

That evening, after supper, when Théo had retired to his study on the first floor, Suzanne read for an hour on the divan, the invitation tucked between the pages of her book. Towards ten o'clock she climbed the stairs to bed. The study door stood open, but she thought that she should knock. When there was no reply, she entered. Théo was hunched over some plans, his back to her.

‘Will you be much longer?' she asked.

He spoke without looking round. ‘I didn't hear you knock.'

‘Well,' she said, ‘I did knock.'

‘I'm sure you did. I just didn't hear it.'

She crossed the room and leaned against the window. She could hear
the monotonous rumble of the smelting plant through the wire-mesh screen. The night smelled of jasmine and rust.

‘Don't you find it hard to concentrate,' she said, ‘with all this noise?'

‘One can become used to anything.'

Smiling faintly, she moved away from the window and stood behind him, one hand on the back of his chair.

‘We've been invited to tea,' she said.

‘Really? Who by?'

‘Montoya.'

‘The man's a clown.' Théo unfolded a detailed drawing of the church and spread it on the table in front of him. The crash and rustle of the paper dismissed her.

‘Clowns can be entertaining,' she said.

Still Théo would not look up.

‘And besides,' she added, ‘I think he has a certain charm.'

‘You know that I'm busy.'

She was staring at her hand. White against the dark wood of the chair. And, beyond her hand, his back. The curve of it. Solid, black – immovable.

‘Do whatever you think best, my dear.'

She doubted he had heard much of what she had said. Like the rumble of the smelting works and the heat, her presence lacked the power to disturb him. He was too preoccupied with the documents that lay before him.

It was only when she pulled her hand away from the chair and turned to leave the room that his eyes lifted. She thought she could feel him studying her as she walked out.

It was twenty past eleven by his father's gold watch when Wilson pushed through the corrugated-iron door of the Bar El Fandango. Pablo Fernández was sitting in the cool gloom, a heap of peanuts at his elbow. Staring straight ahead, Pablo would snap a shell open, toss the nut into his mouth, then let the empty husk spill out of the side of his hand. His eyes did not blink or flicker as Wilson passed in front of him; they did not move at all. Though Wilson had grown used to Pablo, he still found this manner of his unnerving; it was like dropping a stone into a pond and it just vanishing without a ripple. He sat down at the only other table and waited for the two hands on his watch to meet.

The Bar El Fandango was a wooden lean-to, with sky showing through the walls. The floor was clay, baked solid by the heat, its surface polished by spilt drinks and miners' phlegm. Pickled eggs crowded in a tin bowl on the counter. Close by stood a jar that bristled with viznaga spines – the poor man's toothpick. A turtle-shell and a pair of castanets hung from a nail above the bar. Bottles with no labels filled the shelves beneath. Cactus liquor. Pablo had told Wilson how the stuff was made. It was simple enough. You found the right kind of cactus, then you just cut the top off and added sugar. Seven days later a pure, clear alcohol dripped from a pinhole in the base. Seven days. That was how long it took. ‘Just like the world,' Wilson had observed at the time. Pablo had not reacted – not for a moment, anyway. Then his head began to turn. It turned until it locked on Wilson's face. Then he stuck his hand out and Wilson had to shake it. ‘Just like the world,' Pablo repeated, and his thin dark lips achieved a smile. After that, Wilson always knew when he had said something Pablo liked because Pablo would stick his hand out and Wilson would have to shake it. The smile would happen later. Sometimes not until the next day.

At twenty-five to twelve Wilson broke the silence.

‘Don't it give you wind,' he said, ‘eating all them nuts?'

Pablo could not answer, of course. Not at twenty-five to twelve. Wilson watched Pablo's thin, arched eyebrows lift and curl as his blunt fingers hunted among the peanut shells. The seconds ticked away inside Wilson's jacket pocket.

‘You know, I just had a thought, Pablo.'

Pablo looked up.

‘You know you don't talk in the morning? Well, maybe it would be a good idea if you didn't talk in the afternoon as well.'

Another empty shell slid from the side of Pablo's hand and hit the floor.

‘And the evening,' Wilson added, after a moment's reflection.

Pablo just looked at him.

Wilson stood up. He reached across the bar and took a bottle off the shelf. He brought the bottle over to his table. He sat down again and folded his arms.

‘What I'm trying to say is, maybe we'd all be better off if you didn't talk at all.'

Pablo said nothing.

‘There's a couple of missions I heard about,' Wilson said. ‘They're on the mainland. You can go there and nobody ever speaks to you. There's a word for it, I can't remember what. Calls for a bit of discipline, but I reckon you'd be up to it.'

Wilson leaned forwards. ‘Then nobody would get hurt any more, see? Then nobody would bust their foot.'

Still Pablo said nothing. He studied a husk. His eyebrows had lifted high on to his forehead, as if he were appraising it.

‘No need to rush into anything,' Wilson said. ‘Just think it over.' He poured himself a drink and swallowed it.

Then he looked at Pablo again. ‘It'd give me wind,' he said, ‘that's for sure.'

It was two minutes to twelve.

When midday came, Wilson decided not to speak. Instead, he closed his eyes and dozed. The next time he looked at his watch, it was eighteen minutes past.

‘About the room,' he said.

Pablo cleared his throat. First words of the day. ‘What's wrong with it?'

‘Nothing's wrong with the room. It's the stairs.'

‘What's wrong with the stairs? They're good stairs.'

‘My foot. That's what's wrong with the stairs.'

‘You shouldn't have bust it, should you. Shouldn't go sleeping in strange places. With strange women.' Pablo shook his head.

‘I was thinking,' Wilson said. ‘Maybe I should take a room on the ground floor.'

‘Can't help you, I'm afraid.'

‘But there's an empty room below me,' Wilson said. ‘I can see it through the floor. There's no one in it.'

‘It's taken. They're all taken.'

Wilson gaped at Pablo. If this was true, it would be the only time in the hotel's history.

‘It was Montoya's idea,' Pablo said. ‘There's some new workers coming in. For the church. There's no houses for them, so they're putting them in my hotel. Fifteen of them,' he said, ‘in three rooms.' His dark lips twisted.

‘How long for?'

Pablo shrugged. ‘As long as it takes.' He swept the rest of the shells on to the floor. ‘I'm not happy about it either. They're paying me some cut rate that they decided on. The Government,' he said, and sighed. He brushed a few last fragments off the table, then ran the same hand through his hair. ‘Have you seen anything of Jesús?'

‘I saw him this morning,' Wilson said. ‘Ramon's been giving him trouble.'

‘Ramon's a parasite.'

Wilson had spent most of the morning with the baker, sitting on a sack of flour just inside the door. Jesús had suspended a wooden bar from the ceiling on ropes, and he was standing in his kneading-trough with both hands on the bar, trampling a mass of dough with his feet.

‘This is new,' Wilson remarked.

‘It's what they do in Austria,' Jesús said. ‘An Austrian came through on a ship. He told me about it.'

‘What about your oven? Is it finished yet?'

‘Take a look.'

Wilson crossed the room, unlatched the iron door and peered inside. ‘Well,' he said, ‘it's got a slope, that's for sure.'

‘A slope?' Jesús chuckled. ‘That's called a sole, that is. I'm going to do it this time. I'm really going to show them.'

His refurbished oven and his adoption of European techniques had given him the kind of lift he needed. He could see his way forwards
again. A baguette began to seem possible. He pumped up and down with his wide feet. The sweat dripped off his chin, moistening the dough beneath.

‘Salt,' he said, and his pale, heavy mouth broke into a grin. ‘Good bread needs salt.'

‘I hope you washed your feet,' Wilson said.

‘I trod in some shit before I started work.' Jesús took one hand off the bar and spread his fingers in the air. ‘Well,' he said, ‘it's only the French, isn't it.'

Wilson was glad to see that the baker's sense of humour had returned. This certainly was a new Jesús.

The only shadow on the day was cast by Señor José Ramón, the customs officer. Ramón toured El Pueblo a couple of times a week, in search of bribes. His trouser pockets were the deepest in town, but still his mother had to fit them with extensions every year. He appeared on the threshold of the bakery, his hands clasped behind his back. Blue-tinted glasses hid his eyes.

‘You got anything for me?'

His hands surfaced and caressed each other. He moistened his lips. Like many corrupt and powerful men, José Ramón had an almost inexhaustible appetite for cake.

Jesús climbed out of his trough and reached behind the counter. He handed Ramón a brown paper bag. Ramón opened it, and peered inside. He just kept peering down until Jesús reached behind him once again and gathered a handful of sugar buns. Ramón held the bag out. Jesús dropped them in.

Ramón nodded and turned towards the door.

‘Ah,' he said, ‘American. You want to change some dollar? The rate is good.' He bared his teeth in a predatory smile.

‘I haven't got any dollar.'

Ramón laughed. ‘A poor American. Now that's something.'

He was still chuckling when he left the bakery and set off down the street. His pockets were so fat with bribes and sweeteners, he had to swing his weight from one leg to the other; it was the only way he could achieve momentum.

Pablo nodded at the description.

‘Ramón more or less runs the town,' he said. ‘This part of it, at least. He's set an import duty of two hundred per cent. That's on all imported goods. Flour, fruit – you name it. Just plucked the figure out of the air.
If you don't pay it, the goods are held in the warehouse. Guarded by a couple of Montoya's men. They're in on it too. If Ramón likes you, though, and you slip him a little something every once in a while, then he only charges you fifty per cent.'

‘A little something?' Wilson could still see that brown paper bag, bulging with cakes and pastries.

‘Well,' Pablo said, ‘that's what he calls it.'

Wilson looked at his watch. It was time to hitch a ride up to Frenchtown. He hoisted himself to his feet and wedged his crutches under his arms.

‘Vows of silence,' Pablo said.

Wilson turned in the doorway. ‘What?'

‘That word you were trying to think of,' Pablo said. ‘It's vows of silence.'

On his way down Avenida Cobre, Wilson heard voices – a low muttering, a hum of anticipation. Half the population of El Pueblo had gathered in the square outside the Hotel La Playa. Wilson caught sight of Luis Fernández, Pablo's younger brother, and asked him what was happening. The first piece of the church was about to be lifted into place, Luis said. Some kind of arch. Wilson could see more than a dozen Indians crowding round a winch, under the anxious supervision of the man he now knew to be Suzanne's husband. He pressed closer, leaned one shoulder against the wall of the hotel.

The arch lay flat on the ground, its feet loosely bolted into concrete foundations. Cables had been fastened to the other end, some linked to the winch, some lying unattached. A long line of Indians waited at the apex. Wilson watched as they bent down, inserting their hands beneath the structure. Then, on a signal from Monsieur Valence, they straightened up. The arch rose a foot into the air. The Frenchman shouted another command. The winch let out a creak; the cables tightened. The arch began to lift. The Indians supported it, their chins tucked into their chests, their arms stretching above their heads. Then it was out of reach, and all they could do was stand beneath it staring upwards as the cables took the strain.

As the arch lifted, framing the houses beyond it and the clear blue sky above, Wilson began to get an idea of its size and shape. It was at least forty feet high, and built entirely from interlocking pieces of grey metal. He remembered Suzanne telling him about the number
of component parts involved. Two thousand and something, she had said. Now he could understand it. The arch had been constructed in six sections, and each section was made up of – he counted – twenty-four pieces. The two sections that met to form the apex and the two at the base were straight. Only the two sections that created the actual shape of the arch were curved. He saw how cleverly the structure had been designed, so as to use the least number of curved pieces; they would be more difficult to make, and more expensive.