Rupert Thomson - Air and Fire

The shutters burst open, bounced back off the wall. Some pieces of plaster landed on the ground below the window. Mama Vum Buá peered out, her eyelids bloated with sleep.

‘You’re late this morning,’ Wilson said.

‘If you’re going to be funny you can go up the road.’

He grinned. Up the road was an eating-shack called La Concha. You only had to step through the beaded curtain to feel the first twinges of dysentery.

The Señora appeared in the doorway, wearing her usual dress, the one that used to be yellow and red. She summoned a sound from deep in her throat, a sound commonly associated with geese, and sent her spit soaring clear across the yard. He heard it land in the peaceful water of the harbour. Turning her face towards the sun, she began to scratch her arms. Her blunt toes kneaded the dust.

‘That church,’ he said, ‘remember?’

‘I remember.’

‘You know why we couldn’t see it?’

Mama Vum Buá drew her shoulders up towards her ears. Her mouth curved downwards. She kept her eyes imperiously shut.

‘It’s in pieces,’ he said, ‘that’s why.’

‘What happened? Somebody break it?’

He laughed. ‘Nobody broke it. It’s supposed to be in pieces. It has to be assembled.’

‘Ah.’

‘A very famous man designed it, apparently.’

Her eyes were open now, and slanting at him, across her cheeks. ‘Who?’

‘His name’s Eiffel.’

The same downward curve of the mouth. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘He built the Eiffel Tower.’

‘The Eiffel Tower? What’s that?’

‘It’s the tallest building in the world.’

Her eyes moved lazily out towards the horizon. ‘I can’t see it,’ she said. ‘Can’t be that tall.’

Wilson could not keep from smiling.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘I’d like some of those eggs of yours, Señora, if you please.’

But she was staring at him, suspicion drawing her eyebrows down towards the bridge of her nose. ‘Something’s funny. You wouldn’t be laughing if something wasn’t funny.’

‘And coffee,’ Wilson said, still smiling. ‘Plenty of that good coffee.’

‘It is an honour and a privilege, not to mention a relief,’ Monsieur de Romblay began, ‘a relief,’ he continued, lifting his voice above the laughter, ‘to be able finally to welcome into our midst Monsieur and Madame Valence who are here as representatives of one of the most prestigious construction companies in France, if not the world, the Compagnie des Établissements Eiffel — ’

Suzanne felt her attention begin to wander. Her eyes drifted away from the Director and out across the table — the glinting clutter of silver and glass, the red flowers arching out of their wide bowl, the tallow candles releasing the occasional twist of black smoke into the atmosphere. Gathered round her in the dining-room was the cream of Santa Sofía society: Eugène and Léonie de Romblay, the hosts; Émile Bardou and his wife, Florestine; Marie Saint-Lô, his assistant at the hospital; François Pineau, the accountant; Pierre Morlaix, the safety engineer; Jean-Baptiste Castagnet, who was in charge of timbering and lumber; and, lastly, Captain Félix Montoya, commander of the military garrison. The men were dressed in black coats and white cravats, the sole exception being the Mexican, who had appeared in a scarlet tunic with silver epaulettes and a broad felt hat which was now recumbent on a chair, its plumes shifting in the down-draught from the electric ceiling fan. The women wore evening gowns of silk and taffeta. Marie Saint-Lô had decided on emerald-green, which complemented her pale skin and her brown hair — though, by leaving her neck and shoulders bare, the dress accentuated her stocky, somewhat earthbound figure. Madame de Romblay had chosen a particularly unambiguous cerise. The doctor’s wife had settled for dove-grey. All three had adorned their hair and their décolletages with sprigs of jasmine and cactus blossom, and scent-vials glittered in their gloved hands. Suzanne was wearing mousseline de soie in lettuce-green, trimmed with pompon roses, and pale-shrimp suede gloves to the elbow, and, looking round the table, she did not feel that she was overdressed.

They were nearing the end of a dinner that had been a revelation. An hors-d’oeuvre of spiced bouillabaisse was followed by fillets of yellowtail and barracuda, caught in the waters off the island of San Marcos. For the entrée Madame de Romblay offered a choice of quail or pigeon, both trapped locally by Yaqui Indians. With the fish she served a chilled Chablis, with the fowl, a Bordeaux. (It transpired that, unknown to Théo, both wines had travelled in the hold of the SS Korrigan, along with the town’s new church.) Dessert consisted of segments of Mulege orange preserved in pomegranate brandy and, for the more enterprising, a bowl of pitahaya, the fruit of the organ-pipe cactus, whose spiny, ash-green skin could be peeled away to expose a deep red meat which tasted, Suzanne thought, like strawberries that were almost, but not quite, ripe. With dessert Madame de Romblay suggested a garnet wine from San Ignacio. It had been produced by Jesuits, she claimed, and was one of the few aspects of Jesuit teaching in which the Indians had shown any interest. It closely resembled port, both in its colour and its flavour, and was, in fact, most palatable. Théo had already drunk three glasses.

Suddenly the table rocked with laughter and Suzanne looked up. Théo was turning to her with a smile of resignation on his face. It appeared that Monsieur de Romblay was approaching his finale.

‘— late as a Valence. And if someone’s very late, say about two months,’ gusts of laughter were now sweeping the room and powder rose in clouds from the shoulders of the women, ‘then you might say, “That was a real Valence.” For many of the local people, as we all know, the Valence is a way of life. Perhaps,’ and now the Director himself could not keep from joining in the hilarity, ‘perhaps it’s a blessing, no, more than that, a stroke of genius, that they will now be working with the original exponent of the Valence, none other than Monsieur Valence himself.’

Théo leaned forwards in his chair and executed a number of modest bows in all directions. He was still smiling, though his smile had grown somewhat bemused.

Monsieur de Romblay reached down and seized a glass of Jesuit wine. ‘But seriously,’ he said, ‘we do welcome you both to Santa Sofía, and we hope that your stay will be a happy and rewarding one.’ He raised his glass high. ‘To Monsieur and Madame Valence.’

At last the time came for the company to divide, the men retiring to the library for cognac and cigars, the women to the drawing-room, where coffee and Turkish Delight would be served. As Monsieur de Romblay passed behind Suzanne on his way out of the room, she turned in her chair.

‘A most amusing speech, Monsieur.’

Monsieur de Romblay bent close to her ear. ‘I did not go too far, my dear?’

‘My husband may be correct,’ Suzanne replied, ‘but he can take a joke. You should hear me sometimes.’

Perhaps, after all, she had drunk one too many glasses of the garnet wine herself. But the Director had thrown his head back and seemed to be threatening, in his merriment, to swallow the chandelier.

‘You are certainly a welcome addition to our little throng,’ he said, when he had regained his composure. ‘Most welcome.’

In the drawing-room the women conversed among themselves, complaining first of the laziness of Mexican and Indian maids, then of the din made by the boys who delivered the water; there was also a brief and hushed discussion of some local root that was reputed to have aphrodisiacal powers. All this talk either concerned events that preceded Suzanne’s arrival or presumed a degree of intimacy that she did not as yet possess, but she was content simply to listen, turning every now and then to gaze out of the window. The Director’s house occupied the high ground at the south end of the Calle Francesa. She could look beyond the rooftops of the houses opposite to where the sea pushed against the gravel shore. She could see white smoke rising from the smelting works like the trunk of some ghostly tree. Away to the right and far below she could just make out the dim yellow lights of the harbour.