Rupert Thomson - Air and Fire

She saw very little of Théo during the week of their arrival, but that was only to be expected. She did not mind — in fact, if anything it suited her. She was able to take the days at her own pace.

In the mornings she sat on the hotel veranda. From her table she could look down a barren hillside of rocks and cactus to the narrow coastal strip where most of the town’s industry was to be found. Beyond that jumble of brown buildings lay the Sea of Cortez, palest blue, too lazy to achieve a tide, yet capable, so Théo had told her, of the most sudden and violent storm that was known locally as El Cordonazo or ‘the Lash’. While she gazed at the view which, even at an early hour, would seem to undulate in the heat, Rodrigo, the houseboy, would bring her coffee in a glass cup, a basket of fresh rolls and a French newspaper that was never less than six months out of date. Rodrigo moved with a kind of slovenly grace which was only appealing because he was young, and which would in time, she felt, become grotesque. He always had a smile for her, though, and he would leave small gifts on her table — sometimes the flower from a prickly pear, sometimes a piece of fruit. It was Rodrigo who showed her the library behind the office, shelves of novels, journals and almanacs that had been discarded by previous guests, some in English, the rest in French, and it was Rodrigo who then offered to carry her selections up the stairs for her. She spent whole afternoons in her drawing-room, reclining on the ottoman by the window. She sketched, she read her books; she slept. There were no more expeditions of the kind that she had undertaken on her first evening. She did not seek the land out; she was content to let it come to her.

Her first visitor was the Director’s wife. A sharp, two-syllable knock on the door heralded a flurry of emerald silk skirts as Madame de Romblay launched herself into the room. Her tin eyes glittered; her tea-gown foamed with Irish lace.

‘Forgive me for disturbing you like this. I was just passing.’ Her mouth opened in a mirthless smile. ‘In a town the size of Santa Sofía, one cannot help but be just passing.’ She placed one hand against her collar-bone and stooped to examine the gilt frame on a miniature. ‘How are you, my dear?’

‘I’m very well, thank you.’ Suzanne always had the feeling that Madame de Romblay’s questions, though innocent and conventional on the surface, were probing after some much deeper and more unhappy truth. ‘Can I offer you something?’

But the woman was already half-way to the fireplace, her eyes scanning the silk-lined walls, her pale-green sunshade twitching on her shoulder. ‘It’s not a bad hotel, though it’s not what you’re used to, I’m sure.’

‘I’m not used to staying in hotels at all,’ Suzanne replied. ‘Actually, I’m quite enjoying it.’

Madame de Romblay surveyed her from the far end of the room. ‘We are so few here. I’m afraid that you’ll be bored.’

‘I came here to be with my husband, Madame. I did not expect a constant round of entertainment.’

‘Well, we do our best.’ With a fatalistic sigh, Madame de Romblay opened a fan that was inlaid with mother-of-pearl and began to beat the air beneath her chin. ‘There will be a dinner, of course,’ she said, ‘to welcome you both.’

‘I shall look forward to it.’

‘Oh yes, and my husband asked me to assure you that you’ll not be inconvenienced for much longer. Your house will be ready by the end of the week,’ and Madame de Romblay’s eyes lingered on the books and journals that littered surfaces throughout the room, ‘then you’ll have something to occupy you at last.’

Later, Suzanne stood at the window and watched as Madame de Romblay emerged from the ground floor of the hotel. The drawing-room still seemed disrupted by her presence. The air churned.

It was the doctor who appeared next, using his professional status as an excuse for a visit which was, Suzanne suspected, entirely social.

‘And how are you feeling, Madame?’ He spun gracefully into the room on slippered feet, the tips of his moustache as sharp as the points of pencils, his hair slick with pomade.

She admitted to being somewhat tired.

‘A long voyage,’ the doctor said. ‘A new climate.’ He opened his hands and brought his shoulders up towards his ears. ‘It’s only to be expected.’

‘And what do you prescribe, Doctor?’

‘Rest, Madame.’

‘I’ve been resting a good deal,’ she told him.

‘Excellent.’ The doctor nodded to himself. His sleek hair caught the light and flashed. ‘One must conserve one’s energy. I insist that my wife rests for at least an hour every afternoon. She finds it most beneficial.’

Suzanne had met Florestine Bardou the day before, on the Calle Francesa. The two women stood on the street, their faces shaded by the fringed rims of their parasols. Florestine had been wearing a plain grey dress which constrasted most strangely with the luxuriant convolutions of her name, and she had the habit of lowering her eyes when she was speaking as if she were in the presence of someone far more important than herself. Suzane was beginning to understand how this might have come about.

‘Well,’ the doctor was saying, ‘I just hope that life won’t be too dull for you. I hope that you will not become too,’ and his eyes lifted to the ceiling as he searched for the word, ‘too jaded.’

She smiled. ‘The town doesn’t seem to have had that effect on you, Doctor.’

‘No?’ The doctor glowed. He was not a man to be dismayed by compliments.

That afternoon, as she followed his advice and rested for an hour, she heard the piano again, only this time it was not Carmen, but something that she did not know. It sounded like a ballad or a show-tune, she decided, as she closed her eyes. She dreamed of people dancing in a barn, with bales of hay stacked high against the walls, rush-torches casting shadows on a sawdust floor.

In the evening she looked for Rodrigo. She found him on the veranda, idly flicking dead flies off the tables with an ancient copy of Le Temps. When he saw her, his eyes brightened.

‘You have been reading?’ he asked.

She smiled at his mangled, lisping French. ‘A little.’ She let her eyes drift out over the Sea of Cortez. The water had absorbed the fading light, its surface the colour of woodsmoke, or hyacinth. It was after five o’clock. People would soon be arriving for their aperitifs.

She turned back to Rodrigo. ‘I thought I heard someone playing the piano this afternoon.’

‘Yes, Madame.’

‘Do you know who it is who plays?’

‘He is American.’

‘There’s an American here?’

‘Yes. He plays the piano. Always in the afternoon.’ Rodrigo smiled, and his sharp teeth showed. ‘He is a good man,’ Rodrigo said, ‘but he is,’ and he revolved one finger in the air beside his ear.

‘Mad?’ she said.

‘Yes.’ He grinned. ‘Mad.’

The following afternoon, towards three o’clock, Suzanne was woken from a light sleep by the opening bars of Schubert’s ‘Marche Militaire’. She rose from the couch and crossed the room to her dressing-table. She had determined to seek out the American and make his acquaintance. It would be a welcome diversion; it would also be a chance to practise her English. She had only met one American before. In the summer of 1889 Buffalo Bill Cody had brought his Wild West Company to Paris as part of the World Fair. During his stay Mr Cody had visited the Eiffel Tower and, after signing his name in the guest book, she and Théo, among others, had taken him to lunch. He had been a man of some considerable charm, despite his long hair and his peculiar clothes.

She made one final adjustment to her dress, then left the room. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, however, she hesitated; she did not advance into the lobby. The American was seated at the piano, less than twenty feet away. He was playing with such vigour that he remained entirely unaware of her. She drew back into the shadows.