Rupert Thomson - Air and Fire

She had suspected that, sometime during the course of the evening, she would be examined by Madame de Romblay, so when she heard the chair beside her fill with rustling taffeta she knew, without looking, who it was. She could feel those cold tin eyes travelling across her clothes, her skin. She prepared a smile for the moment when she turned from the window, back into the room.

‘Madame de Romblay, that was a truly exceptional meal.’

‘You must call me Léonie, my dear.’ Madame de Romblay lit a dark-brown cigarette and let the smoke spill from the corner of her mouth. ‘We’re such a small community here. We cannot stand on too much ceremony.’

Suzanne inclined her head, a gesture that was not unlike submitting to a guillotine. And then Madame de Romblay’s voice, soft as the blindfold that would be used: ‘How long have you been married?’

‘Almost six years.’

Madame de Romblay’s upper body moved sharply backwards. ‘I would not have thought that you were old enough.’

The two remaining women had exhausted their conversation on the other side of the room and were listening with undisguised curiosity. But Suzanne could not think of a reply. Instead, she focused her attentions on Madame de Romblay’s dress. A woman with Madame de Romblay’s colouring should not be wearing cerise. It gave her neck and shoulders an unhealthy, mottled look. A darker colour would have been more flattering. Indigo, perhaps. Or heliotrope.

In the face of Suzanne’s silence, Madame de Romblay felt the need to elaborate.

‘You must have been very young,’ she said.

‘I was twenty.’

‘So you are now, what, twenty-six?’

Suzanne admitted it.

‘You don’t look twenty-six, my dear.’ Madame de Romblay appealed to the other women, and they duly shook their heads.

‘Thank you,’ Suzanne said.

Madame de Romblay tipped an inch of ash into the metal ashtray at her elbow, one eyebrow arching. ‘He’s a distinguished man, your husband.’

‘He has done well,’ Suzanne ventured, ‘yes.’

‘And how did you meet him?’ Madame de Romblay leaned over and shut her cigarette inside the ashtray. While her back was still turned, she added, ‘After all, the age difference, you must admit, is quite considerable.’

Suzanne smiled. ‘My father taught at the École Centrale in Paris, and Théo was one of his best students. They became friends. Théo was often a visitor at our house.’ Her smile spread as a lie occurred to her. ‘In fact, I’m sure that I remember Théo babysitting me,’ she said, ‘when I was about seven.’

‘How charming,’ Madame de Romblay said.

But she knew that Suzanne had pre-empted her, and she knew that Suzanne knew, and the pot of coffee that had just arrived in the room provided her with an opportunity to excuse herself.

After leaving the de Romblays’ house, Suzanne and Théo crossed the small square that she had discovered on her first evening. They stood at the parapet, looking down into the valley. A warm breeze rose off the sea and pushed against her dress.

‘What do you think of our new friends?’ he asked.

She understood his intent, however veiled. ‘I do not regret coming here,’ she said, ‘not for one moment.’

He laughed. ‘If our conversation were bridges, I fear they would soon collapse.’

‘Oh?’ She took his arm. ‘And why is that?’

‘We advance too quickly, before we have built the necessary struts and trusses to support us.’

‘Sometimes,’ she said, feeling daring now, feeling a sudden sense of release, ‘I think you overdo the struts and trusses.’

He laughed again, though less readily. It was a reference to the tower that he had laboured on with such zeal and devotion, and it was a reference that was less than respectful. But she had wanted to dispatch his gravity with her light wand; she had meant him to understand that she loved him, not for what he had accomplished, but for what he was — not the engineer, but the man.

He turned away from the parapet, hands clasped behind his back. She followed him. They walked beneath the trees in silence. She watched the light and shade alternating on his face.

‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘they seemed satisfied with the plans, though there was one rather awkward moment.’

She saw that he had not held her piece of gentle mockery against her. Perhaps he had understood her after all.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

He set the scene for her. When he entered the library that evening he saw that his architectural drawings had been laid out on the table, their corners held down by an assortment of natural paperweights — copper, mostly, as one might have expected, though there were also some specimens of various local minerals: gypsum, chalcedony, malachite and jasper; there was even, he remembered, a fossilised shark’s tooth from the Pliocene era. This digression, so typical of him, might, at other times, have frustrated her, but on this warm night, with her arm linked through his, she found it impossible not to indulge him.

For many of the men gathered round the table, Théo said, this was a first glimpse of the church that would be built for them, since it had been purchased on their behalf by the head office of the company in Paris. They were murmuring and pointing, conferring among themselves, the air rich with the mingled fumes of brandy and cigars. Then François Pineau cleared his throat.

‘He is the thin one,’ Suzanne said, ‘with the twisted upper lip.’

Théo nodded. ‘He’s the accountant.’

She smiled. It was as if, in describing the nature of the man’s work, Théo had supplied the reason for his ugliness.

Monsieur Pineau cleared his throat and stepped back from the table. ‘It’s a curious notion, don’t you think,’ he declared, ‘building a metal church in a town like this?’

The question was directed at no one particular person, but rather tossed into the air in order that somebody might reach out and catch it. That somebody was Théo, as, no doubt, it had to be.

‘Curious?’ he said. ‘Why do you find it curious, Monsieur?’

‘I don’t know whether you are familiar with our climate, Monsieur Valence, but during the summer months the temperature often rises to thirty-five degrees, sometimes higher. In a church that is constructed wholly out of metal —’ He lifted one hand into the air. He had made his point; he did not need to go on.

There was a sudden hush in the library, as if this factor had not been properly taken into consideration, as if some dreadful blunder had been committed. All eyes turned slowly, inevitably, to Théo. This was the awkward moment to which he had alluded. He was not shaken, however, or cowed. He had been present when Monsieur Eiffel defended his tower in front of a hostile committee of the city council, and defended it on both structural and aesthetic grounds. This was not even a matter of aesthetics; this was simply a practical objection.

‘I’m sure that your superiors in Paris would not have bought the church in the first place,’ he replied, ‘if they thought it inadequate for their needs.’ Then, in case it seemed that he had merely put the accountant in his place, he turned to specifics. ‘There will be insulation between the walls,’ he explained, ‘in the roof, too, if we can find a suitable material. Pumice has, I believe, been suggested.’ He turned to Monsieur Castagnet, who nodded. ‘There will also be a great many windows, as you can see. Draughts will be conducted throughout the building.’

‘My dear Monsieur Valence,’ and Pineau’s lip curled in a sardonic smile, ‘during the summer months, there are no draughts.’

‘And in time, of course,’ Théo continued, ‘there will be fans. I hasten to remind you that we are living in a modern age. We need no longer be at the mercy of an unfavourable climate.’