Air and Fire (6 page)

Hôtel de Paris, Santa Sofía, Lower California, Mexico

20th April, 189–

My dear Monsieur Eiffel,

A second letter, following swiftly on the heels of the first, seemed called for, if only to reassure you that we have arrived at our destination without further mishap.

Santa Sofía is a most unusual town, dividing as it does into three almost completely separate parts. The centre is laid out on a grid pattern, three avenues wide (each one bearing the name of an indigenous mineral) and ten streets deep, coming to an abrupt end one kilometre inland in a steep wall of sandstone and pumice. The mineworkers, predominantly of Indian extraction, are housed here in rows of identical dwellings that were built for them by the company and, though insufficient time has passed for the houses to have achieved much of a sense of individuality, the character of certain tenants can be deduced from the speed with which their properties are becoming dilapidated. To the south, high on an inhospitable ridge, a modest company of Mexican soldiers (or
rurales,
as they are known) has been garrisoned. Their commander, Captain Montoya, is the local representative of the Mexican Government. As such, he is held responsible for policing the entire area, and he can also be called upon to intercede between the French and the Indians, should any disagreement or unpleasantness arise; I can make no comment on the gentleman, since I have not yet had the pleasure of his acquaintance. The French, meanwhile, are to be found in the northern section of the town. We have made our home on a plateau that plays host to any passing breeze and is therefore considerably more comfortable than the valley below. The Mesa del Norte (known, colloquially, as Frenchtown) comprises one wide street that seems familiar and reassuring at the outset – with
its paved surface and its rows of plane trees planted down both sides, it is faintly reminiscent of a Parisian boulevard – though this familiarity is, in itself, strange and not a little disconcerting. It is here that we are quartered, in the local hotel, having been assured that a house awaits us.

And so to the work in progress – though the word ‘progress' is hardly appropriate in the circumstances. The assembly of this particular church ought to be a simple enough process (and would be, if we were in France), but a number of difficulties have already arisen. Owing to our late arrival, we shall be building during the hottest months of the year. It is for this reason, I surmise, that we have so far been unable to muster an adequate labour force, though Monsieur de Romblay assures me that men will be found, even if he has to sacrifice a few of his own workers from the mine. In any case, we cannot yet begin the assembly since the foundations, which were to be laid in advance of our arrival, have been installed without the proper care and attention, and will have to be scrapped and then rebuilt. Perhaps, after all, this is just the confusion that surrounds any project at the outset.

I trust this letter finds you in the best of health, Monsieur. You would do me a great service if you would convey to your daughter Claire my very best wishes on the occasion of her birthday; it seems strange to be asking this of you in April, and yet, by the time this letter reaches you, the sentiment will, I judge, be an appropriate one. I am, respectfully, your must humble and obedient servant,

Théophile Valence.

The doctor had told Wilson to rest, which was no great hardship if you lived in a fine house with maids and ceiling fans and a veranda. All Wilson had was a single room on the first floor of the Hotel La Playa. A narrow bed stood in the corner, its springs so exhausted that his spine touched the floor when he lay down. A striped blanket hid the mattress. There were no sheets. There was no closet either. Someone had driven nails into the wall instead. Three copper nails, green with rust. Still, they served as a place to hang his jacket and his hat. Plaster had tumbled from the ceiling, exposing joists of blackened wood and, over by the door, he could see between two floorboards down into the room below. There was a stubborn smell of cooking-fat and sour sweat. At least he faced the street, though. That was something. At least he had a view.

There were two chairs backed up against the wall, both as weak on their legs as newborn calves. He pulled one towards the window. It wasn't a bad room, really. He had known worse. It just wasn't a fine house with maids and ceiling fans and a veranda, that was all. He poured an inch of whisky into a cracked glass. Then he lit the stub of a cigar and settled back.

That morning Jesús Pompano had burned the bread again. Wilson sensed it the moment he woke up – a taste of ashes in his throat, that charred edge to the air. As he reached for his crutches he glanced out of the window. A thin column of smoke lifted from the roof of the bakery.

Downstairs in the lobby he went looking for Pablo, thinking they could discuss this new development, but there was no sign of him, only a boy scraping vulture droppings off the floor with a piece of palm bark. Pablo would not have been much use anyway; it was still only eight in the morning. Pablo never spoke a word before midday, not to anyone. It was a matter of principle.

Wilson found Jesús slumped on a sack of grain in the bakery, his chin
propped on his fist. Flour clung to his eyebrows and his pale, heavy mouth. He looked old before his time.

‘Those French,' and Jesús blew some breath out, and it turned white as it passed through his lips, ‘they'll be the death of me.'

‘Another failure, I take it.'

‘See for yourself.'

Wilson crossed the stone floor and rested his crutches against the counter. He peered into the mouth of the oven. Three blackened loaves lay smouldering on their baking tray. One of them had split open, as if somebody had taken an axe to it; a wisp of steam rose from the fissure like an apology. He turned away, leaned an elbow on the counter.

‘Now they're telling me I have to build a sloping oven.
¡Chingada Madre!
Jesús cleared his throat and spat through the doorway, then he stared at the floor again and slowly shook his head.

‘A sloping oven?' Wilson was not sure if he had understood.

‘It helps with the moisture. You have to have moisture, they tell me. Without moisture it can't be done. Well, let me tell you something. I can't stand moisture. I loathe it. Moisture makes me puke.'

‘I saw the doctor yesterday,' Wilson said. ‘He's getting impatient.'

‘Is he the one with the fancy waistcoats?'

‘That's him.'

‘He's the worst. Always down here, poking around.'

‘He just likes his French bread, that's all.'

‘He should have stayed in France, then, shouldn't he.'

Wilson grinned.

‘They'll be the death of me, those French.' Jesús shook his head again. A cloud of flour rose into the air and hung in a shaft of sunlight, looking suddenly as if it were made of gold. As Wilson watched, the middle of the cloud disintegrated; the cloud became a halo. The baker still sat gloomily below. It seemed to Wilson that he had been witness to a prophecy, which was his to do with as he wished.

‘It will come right in the end, Jesús,' he said, and felt quite confident in his prediction.

Jesús looked at Wilson for the first time since Wilson had walked in. ‘What did you do to your foot?'

He must have been the only person in town who had not heard. He had been too preoccupied to see beyond the four walls of his bakery. An earthquake could have happened. A flood. He would not have known.

Wilson drank from his cracked glass. Through the window he could
see the tilting iron rooftops of the town, the steep escarpment of the Mesa de Francia and the clean blue sky beyond. In the foreground a space had been cleared, about the size of a small town-square or a ceremonial arena; Wilson could imagine that an Indian tribe might dance on that red dirt, and call it sacred. As he stared down, a man passed through his line of vision. The man was buttoned into a black frock-coat, and held a white umbrella above his head. In his other hand he clutched a handkerchief; every now and then he would reach up and dab his throat, his forehead, the back of his neck. On his feet he wore a pair of immaculate white spats. A Frenchman. No doubt about it.

The Frenchman advanced to the middle of the arena and stood still, facing east. Then he turned about and faced the mountains in the west. His shadow crouched behind him. He began to walk westwards, his legs stiff, his stride exaggerated. He was counting the number of paces, measuring the ground. When he could go no further, he stopped and nodded to himself.

Then, suddenly, he was running back the way he had come. It was a strange sight, a man running with an umbrella above his head, especially when that man was a Frenchman. You rarely saw a Frenchman running; there was no dignity in it. Without taking his eyes off the man, Wilson lifted his glass and drank. The man was holding up his hand as he ran and Wilson could now see why. Some Indians had filed into the square. They were carrying pieces of grey metal; some of the pieces were large, and required the combined efforts of six men. It seemed important to the Frenchman that the pieces be set down in certain precise locations, but the Indians were having trouble following his instructions – or maybe it was simply that they did not see the point. Arms were being waved, heads shaken. The pieces of grey metal moved from one place to another. Then, sometimes, they moved back again. Wilson was highly entertained by the charade; it might almost have been arranged on his behalf, something to keep him amused during the long hours of his convalescence. But his smile faded as the Frenchman, pale with exasperation, turned his face up to the sky. He was the man from the boat. The man who had walked down the gangway with that woman on his arm. The man who had sat beside her in the carriage. A jolting began somewhere under Wilson's ribs. He poured himself another shot of whisky, swallowed it.

Almost a week had passed since he had raised his hat to her and still he had not been able to banish her image from his mind – her yellow dress, her eyes like leaves, her hair tumbling blonde and bronze on to
her shoulders. He dredged his past for some comparison, but he could only think of the girl he had known in Monterey when he was sixteen.

Her name was Saffron and she had been older than he was, almost twenty. She wore a shapeless green satin dress and no shoes. He had seen her in the street when it was raining, her bare feet turning puddles into crowns of water round her ankles as she ran, her red hair trailing in the air behind her. Later, she sat on his lap in the back of a saloon and her mouth tasted of brine, but her body was as firm as his belief in heaven under that slippery green dress.

He was not the only lover she had – there were others; he knew of at least two – but he was grateful to be counted among them, to be sharing her favours. In his innocence he felt privileged. And she had never lied to him. From the beginning he was made to understand that jealousy was something he was not entitled to. There was an odd purity about the girl, for all her promiscuities; twenty-five years later, he still felt a kind of skewed respect for her.

They would sit on the quay, among the coiled ropes and fishing nets, and watch the fog roll in, and it would fold around their shoulders, reach between their faces, and all the harbour sounds closed in – the creak of hawsers, sailors' curses, cats on heat – and he would push his hands beneath her clothes and taste the weather on her lips, and there was fear in it, her pa would strap her if he knew, which only made the trembling more. But the danger did not issue from her family. One night a tall man showed; old he seemed then, though he had probably been less than thirty. He strode out of the fog and pulled a gun from his overcoat and fired. It sounded as if he had hit a tin tray with his fist. They fled, but there were no more shots. They crouched in a warehouse stacked high with salted mackerel and listened for his tread. None came.

‘Passion done spoiled his aim.' She was panting, and her eyes glittered through her hair. ‘He's not like you. He wants to be the only one.'

Again he felt the privilege of being close to her and, later that night, with the moon dull on the water, he told her that he loved her.

‘Oh Will,' she said, ‘not you as well.'

‘I don't mean nothing by it.' He stared at the moon on the water. He stared so hard, he thought he might shatter it.

‘Will,' and her voice was as soft and biased as a mother's hand, ‘you don't have the first idea.'

Then, one morning, his father shook him awake with the news that he had hitched them a ride on a covered wagon heading east, and
it was leaving directly. He folded his bedroll, his mind still flat with sleep. It felt like one of those Chinese paper lanterns he had seen on Montgomery Street. You bought them flat and then you had to shake them out. Sometimes it was hours before his mind opened and there was light in it.

He followed his father down the narrow stairs and out on to the street. The sun had not yet risen, but the sky was warming up on the horizon, a blush of light that made his father's eyes look fierce and clean. A man in a crumpled hat drove past them in a cart. A second man was balanced on the tailgate. He had rolled his sleeves up and he was dipping his hand in a barrel and his pale arm swung this way and that, like he was sowing seeds. But it was water that he was throwing on the street, salt water to hold the dust down. It must have been summer.

He huddled in the back of the wagon, pressed half-way off the bench by a man whose broadcloth coat was sticky with liquor and the grease of hogs. A cock crowed on a nearby roof; he could see its shape cut out against a strip of sky. His father handed him a tin mug with an inch of cold coffee in the bottom. He drank it down.

The wagon rocked and rattled east. As the town became memory, he began to think of the girl with the red hair and the green satin dress. If only he had asked for a lock of that hair of hers, a snippet of that dress. He had nothing but a name, held inside him, like a smooth stone in the darkness of a pocket. If only that tall man's bullet had nicked his cheek. He did not even carry a scar he could remember her by. And it was too late now. And though he passed through Monterey several years later, on his way north, to Oregon, he never did see her again.