William Boyd - The Blue Afternoon

'They think another American did it.' Carriscant told him about Bobby's theory, but Pantaleon seemed uninterested. The dead American soldier seemed to have preoccupied him and he began to tell Carriscant a rambling story he had heard from an uncle about a company of American soldiers who had been pursuing General Elpidio in Batangas. One of the soldiers had fallen into a pit, the base of which had been lined with bamboo spears. In retribution every inhabitant of the nearest two villages – men, women and children-had been shot and their bodies burned.

'I think about two hundred people paid with their lives for that one man's life… ' He shrugged. 'It seems very unfair. I mean -'

'I would rather you didn't talk about it,' Carriscant said abruptly; he stood very still, stiffly, like someone who has just put his back out and is terrified to move.

Pantaleon was upset and very apologetic. 'I'm so sorry, Salvador,' he said, 'I forgot. I'm very sorry, please forgive me.'

Carriscant recovered himself. 'It's been a strange day,' he said. 'Normally, I'm fine. I think the American-' He stopped talking and managed a kind of smile. 'Pantaleon,' he said, 'could I come home with you? Just for an hour or so. I don't feel ready for work, and -'

'Of course,' Pantaleon said, hiding his surprise. 'In any case I've been meaning to ask you back for a while, now. I've got something I want you to see.'

Dr Salvador Carriscant and Dr Pantaleon Quiroga boarded a horse tram at the Plaza Magellanes, crossed the Pasig at the Bridge of Spain and made their way towards the suburb of Santa Cruz. The tram was crowded with Indio workers returning from their jobs in the city and Carriscant was conscious of their candid stares as they tried to divine what these two kastilas in their suits and ties were doing on this poor man's mode of transport.

The two men left the tram at Calle Azcarrega and walked to Pantaleon's house, a two-storey adobe and lumber building in a relatively smart street. Pantaleon occupied half the rooms, sharing the rest with an American couple, teachers, who were setting up the reformed educational programme at the local school. They paused only long enough to collect a key and then walked down a dirt lane through kitchen gardens and out on to an area of waste ground on the north bank of an estero, one of the Pasig 's many meandering arms. Ahead of them was a line of trees that marked another wormy loop in the river's progress and over to the left Carriscant could make out the galvanised iron roofs of Sampaloc; He had not realised Pantaleon lived quite so close to Sampaloc; he filed that piece of information away in his mind.

The afternoon sun was obscured by a layer of hazy clouds and the heat was going out of the day, and from time to time the breeze from the south carried the rich yeasty smell from the San Miguel brewery. Pantaleon was striding out with genuine enthusiasm and Carriscant had to stretch his legs to keep up with him.

They pushed through a gap in a plumbago hedge and beyond that, on the edge of an elongated meadow of sun-bleached grass, he saw a recently built nipa barn, unusually broad, its bamboo walls still green and its palm leaf thatch only partially faded.

'What's this?' Carriscant said.

'It's mine,' Pantaleon said. 'I had it built. I own this land here.' He gestured at the blond meadow stretching in front of them.

Pantaleon unlocked the padlock on the barn doors and swung them open. Carriscant peered into the gloom and saw what he took to be a curious assemblage of wood and wires that was raised from the earth floor on numerous wooden trestles. It looked, at first glance, as if Pantaleon was constructing a giant hollow cross, laid out horizontally, but, as his eyes became accustomed to the murky light, he began to make out other details that were less easy to explain: various wheels, levers with wires attached to them and what looked like two large bicycle saddles set in tandem. Carriscant wandered around the construction, touching the tightly strung wires, plucking at them with his fingers. It made no sense at all.

'You made this?' he asked Pantaleon.

'Local carpenters. To my specifications.'

'A kind of dwelling? A prefabricated shelter?'

Pantaleon laughed, high-pitched, delightedly.

'No, no, no,' he said. 'You couldn't be more wrong. It's – ' he paused for effect. 'It's a heavier-than-air flying machine.'

Carriscant was late returning home. After the visit to the nipa barn he and Pantaleon had gone to the cafe opposite the Zorilla theatre in Santa Cruz and drunk a few glasses of American beer – Schlitz-and Pantaleon had tried to explain the concepts behind the flying machine he was building. Carriscant had been cheered by his friend's excitement and realised he now had the answers to the question he had posed earlier in the day regarding the expenditure of the Quiroga salary. He had taken a carromato back to Intramuros and had reached his home long after dark. The wide front door was opened for him by Danil, his cook's wife, whom he asked to bring him some coffee. He passed on through the ground-floor area of the house where, as well as providing rooms for his servants, his two carriages were stored and his ponies stabled. The taste of beer was still sour in his mouth and he felt a slight tension in his shoulders as he walked up the steps from the interior courtyard to the living quarters on the first floor. Oil lamps burned in the public rooms, their orange glow reflected in the glossy polish of the hardwood floors. At the rear of the house, overlooking the walled garden, was a wide stone patio – the azotea – and he could see Annaliese sitting there reading by the fuzzy light of an Aladdin lamp. The night was cool and breezy and from the garden came the guttural croaking of frogs and the monotone brrrr of cicadas.

Annaliese looked around as he crossed the living room, the oval discs of her spectacles flashing white for an instant as they caught the light. He kissed her lightly on the forehead and sat down on a rattan chair opposite her, apologising for his lateness. He explained about the discovery of the murdered American and how his day had been disrupted.

She looked at him evenly, as if he were a witness and she a lawyer assessing the veracity of his evidence.

'Do you want to eat?' she said eventually. 'There's some pork left.' Her German accent was mild: Carriscant remembered how he had been attracted to it once, how it had seemed exotic and strange, how it had excited him at certain moments.

'No, thanks. I had some beers with Pantaleon. You won't believe what he's -'

'I thought you said this murder business had detained you?'

'Well, it did. But then Pantaleon asked me to see this contraption he's building. A flying machine – can you believe it?'

'He's such a child, Pantaleon.'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

This was the disagreement they had been waiting for and they had a short and vicious argument about whether it was childish to build a flying machine or inspirational. The barely covert venom in their exchange seemed, paradoxically, to reduce the tension in the air. The animosities had been freed, loosed momentarily; as with a lanced abcess the flow of purulence relieved the pain for a while.

Carriscant's coffee was served and he sipped it slowly, studying his wife's face over the rim of the cup, watching her read. She wore small oval spectacles which had the effect of ageing her somewhat, especially as her hair was pulled tight around her head, tucked behind her ears. She had never looked beautiful, he considered, but neither could she be described as plain. There was no feature of her face that could be listed as objectionable, but there was nothing particularly attractive either. He asked himself, as he often did in the aftermath of one of their arguments, what on earth had made him want to marry her.