Eric McCormack - Cloud

Now he got down to business. He recommended that the manager advise the owners to invest in a ventilator system. Smith’s Pumps would, of course, be happy to custom-build one for them. In the meantime, the wearing of oxygen masks by the miners would be adequate protection.

Even as he talked about business matters, I could still catch glimpses in his face of that monstrous image I’d seen in the cave. And from his sideways glances, I knew he could still see aspects of it in me.

We even joked about it.

But I wondered if perhaps we’d each seen a truth about the other, the kind of truth no one would want to believe about himself. And, having seen it, would two people ever be able to look at each other in the same old, relatively innocent way?

At any rate, the next morning, he took a jeep to the little airfield. From there he’d fly to the capital, and then on, back to Canada. The last thing he said to me was that he hoped we’d meet again.

GORDON SMITH’S scientific analysis made no difference to the fate of the mine. In the weeks that followed his departure, the unscientific view of the incident spread and intensified. It was believed that any miner who went down into the La Mancha mine, and any gold extracted from it, would be accursed. The owners went so far as to hire a local shaman to come and perform some ceremonies to placate or exorcise the spirits. But that did nothing to reassure the miners. So eventually it was decided that the entrances to all three tunnels should be dynamited over and the workers deployed to other mines.

Almost overnight, the shantytown that had grown up around La Mancha was depopulated. The townspeople were now convinced that after the shaman’s intervention some of the mountain spirits might flee the mine and, instead, take up residence in the town.

One way or another, “ghost town” soon became an apt description of that collection of shacks.

MY TUTORING TOOK ME to other mines. But those few moments of terror down the La Mancha tunnel had a lasting, if not permanent, effect on me. Certainly, from that point in my life I felt I became less naive about people, less reliant on first impressions.

Which, surely, was a good thing.

InterMinas had sent me to tutor a group of administrators at the Segura strip mine, which was located in a low-lying region of thick jungle. I’d been warned that the climate there was very humid and especially hard on gringos. After a few weeks, just when I was congratulating myself on my strong constitution, I suddenly came down with a high fever and upset stomach. Within a day or two, I’d developed severe pains in all my muscles and a severe rash.

InterMinas arranged for me to be transported by jeep to a regional hospital. It had been established by the company exclusively for its workers.

“HOSPITAL” WAS A grandiose name for what was a large bamboo hut in a jungle clearing. It had a tin roof, fly screens instead of glass windows, and mosquito nets over each of the twenty beds. In spite of the window screens, the place was abuzz with flying insects that didn’t seem to grasp the difference between indoors and outdoors. The only sort of cooling in this hospital consisted of three ceiling fans. These depended on an electrical supply that seemed to fizzle out regularly during the stickiest part of each day.

Three nurses took turns looking after the patients day and night, and a physician did a morning round. He diagnosed my problem as a case of dengue fever, a quite painful form of malaria inflicted by a species of daytime mosquitoes. He assured me that although the illness was painful — it was known as “break-bone fever”—it wasn’t likely to recur.

I was relieved to learn I had a mere case of dengue, which I’d heard about before. I’d been worried it might be the dreaded Guinea Worms. These worms got into the intestines from drinking untreated water. They were as thin as wire and grew to several feet long, popping their heads out through the belly of the sufferer from time to time. At other mines, I’d seen afflicted miners wind the worms out of themselves on twigs.

Only five other patients were in the hospital, all noticeably bandaged from such work injuries as fractured skulls, legs, and arms. You’d never have suspected any of these patients were in pain. Like all the miners I’d met, no matter how awful their condition, suffering in silence was the only acceptable behaviour. I did my best to muffle my own groans.

IN ABOUT A WEEK, I was starting to feel much better. One afternoon I’d had a good lunch of small meat-filled burritos, with mangoes and other fruit for dessert. I must have nodded off.

I dreamt one of those strange dreams in which I was aware I was dreaming. I was standing at the entrance of a tenement in a crowd of people, their faces as detailed and memorable as those of any strangers you see in any real street in the waking world. A man came through the entrance and looked out over the crowd. It was Gordon Smith. He eventually saw me, raised his right arm, and pointed towards me. His eyes were bulging and cold, the way they’d been that day in the La Mancha mine. I knew that was impossible, that there was a scientific explanation, and that this must therefore be a dream.

Nevertheless, to be on the safe side I tried to run away. I couldn’t move my limbs so I attempted to say something, and the sound of my own voice awakened me.

There, by my bed, looking down at me in a friendly and concerned way, stood Gordon Smith himself. I blinked to be sure I wasn’t dreaming still.

“I’m sorry I startled you,” said Gordon Smith. “May I sit down?” He pulled a cane chair towards the bed and sat. “I happened to be down in this region checking the pumping system over at the Segura mine and one of the managers mentioned that the young Scottish tutor had been brought here sick. I realized it was you he was talking about, so I borrowed a driver and a jeep and came over to pay a visit. Unfortunately, I only have fifteen minutes then I have to get to the airport — I’m flying out tonight. How’re you feeling?”

I didn’t mention just seeing him in my dream and told him instead about the dengue.

“I know it well,” he said. “It’s not the most pleasant thing.”

A nurse appeared with two cups of coffee for us. I almost thought I was dreaming again, that was so unusual. Clearly we were being given special treatment.

As we sipped, Gordon Smith asked about my work and we talked about the various mines where I’d been tutoring since I last saw him, nearly six months before. We chatted for a while about some of the managers he knew. He kept checking his watch and eventually gave me one of his keenest hawk stares.

“I don’t have much time so I’ll get to the point,” he said. “When you’re fit to travel why don’t you come to Canada and stay a while at my place in Camberloo? The change will help you recuperate properly.”

I was so surprised I didn’t know what to say.

“Look,” he said. “This isn’t a spur-of-the-moment idea. I’ve been thinking about it since we met at La Mancha — and my motives aren’t entirely benevolent. The fact is, I’m getting a bit too old myself for all this travelling, and I badly need a reliable assistant. I’ve had my eye out for someone suitable for quite a while, and I have a notion you might be just the man for the job. You’d still see lots of the world if that’s what you want — and you’d have a good income and a home base to come back to.”

He could see how stunned I was.

“If you do come and visit Camberloo, you can find out for yourself what’s involved at the business end of Smith’s Pumps,” he said. “I’m quite aware that you’re not a scientist or an engineer, and that you’re not really familiar with pumps or air-exchange systems. But your job wouldn’t be building the machinery. That’s already taken care of. All you’d need to learn is how to persuade potential clients to consider our products. And I can teach you how to do that.” He checked his watch again. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but give it some thought. Whatever you decide in the end, it’ll be a few months’ holiday for you.”