Rupert Thomson - Air and Fire

At twenty-five to twelve Wilson broke the silence.

‘Don’t it give you wind,’ he said, ‘eating all them nuts?’

Pablo could not answer, of course. Not at twenty-five to twelve. Wilson watched Pablo’s thin, arched eyebrows lift and curl as his blunt fingers hunted among the peanut shells. The seconds ticked away inside Wilson’s jacket pocket.

‘You know, I just had a thought, Pablo.’

Pablo looked up.

‘You know you don’t talk in the morning? Well, maybe it would be a good idea if you didn’t talk in the afternoon as well.’

Another empty shell slid from the side of Pablo’s hand and hit the floor.

‘And the evening,’ Wilson added, after a moment’s reflection.

Pablo just looked at him.

Wilson stood up. He reached across the bar and took a bottle off the shelf. He brought the bottle over to his table. He sat down again and folded his arms.

‘What I’m trying to say is, maybe we’d all be better off if you didn’t talk at all.’

Pablo said nothing.

‘There’s a couple of missions I heard about,’ Wilson said. ‘They’re on the mainland. You can go there and nobody ever speaks to you. There’s a word for it, I can’t remember what. Calls for a bit of discipline, but I reckon you’d be up to it.’

Wilson leaned forwards. ‘Then nobody would get hurt any more, see? Then nobody would bust their foot.’

Still Pablo said nothing. He studied a husk. His eyebrows had lifted high on to his forehead, as if he were appraising it.

‘No need to rush into anything,’ Wilson said. ‘Just think it over.’ He poured himself a drink and swallowed it.

Then he looked at Pablo again. ‘It’d give me wind,’ he said, ‘that’s for sure.’

It was two minutes to twelve.

When midday came, Wilson decided not to speak. Instead, he closed his eyes and dozed. The next time he looked at his watch, it was eighteen minutes past.

‘About the room,’ he said.

Pablo cleared his throat. First words of the day. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Nothing’s wrong with the room. It’s the stairs.’

‘What’s wrong with the stairs? They’re good stairs.’

‘My foot. That’s what’s wrong with the stairs.’

‘You shouldn’t have bust it, should you. Shouldn’t go sleeping in strange places. With strange women.’ Pablo shook his head.

‘I was thinking,’ Wilson said. ‘Maybe I should take a room on the ground floor.’

‘Can’t help you, I’m afraid.’

‘But there’s an empty room below me,’ Wilson said. ‘I can see it through the floor. There’s no one in it.’

‘It’s taken. They’re all taken.’

Wilson gaped at Pablo. If this was true, it would be the only time in the hotel’s history.

‘It was Montoya’s idea,’ Pablo said. ‘There’s some new workers coming in. For the church. There’s no houses for them, so they’re putting them in my hotel. Fifteen of them,’ he said, ‘in three rooms.’ His dark lips twisted.

‘How long for?’

Pablo shrugged. ‘As long as it takes.’ He swept the rest of the shells on to the floor. ‘I’m not happy about it either. They’re paying me some cut rate that they decided on. The Government,’ he said, and sighed. He brushed a few last fragments off the table, then ran the same hand through his hair. ‘Have you seen anything of Jesús?’

‘I saw him this morning,’ Wilson said. ‘Ramon’s been giving him trouble.’

‘Ramon’s a parasite.’

Wilson had spent most of the morning with the baker, sitting on a sack of flour just inside the door. Jesús had suspended a wooden bar from the ceiling on ropes, and he was standing in his kneading-trough with both hands on the bar, trampling a mass of dough with his feet.

‘This is new,’ Wilson remarked.

‘It’s what they do in Austria,’ Jesús said. ‘An Austrian came through on a ship. He told me about it.’

‘What about your oven? Is it finished yet?’

‘Take a look.’

Wilson crossed the room, unlatched the iron door and peered inside. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s got a slope, that’s for sure.’

‘A slope?’ Jesús chuckled. ‘That’s called a sole, that is. I’m going to do it this time. I’m really going to show them.’

His refurbished oven and his adoption of European techniques had given him the kind of lift he needed. He could see his way forwards again. A baguette began to seem possible. He pumped up and down with his wide feet. The sweat dripped off his chin, moistening the dough beneath.

‘Salt,’ he said, and his pale, heavy mouth broke into a grin. ‘Good bread needs salt.’

‘I hope you washed your feet,’ Wilson said.

‘I trod in some shit before I started work.’ Jesús took one hand off the bar and spread his fingers in the air. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s only the French, isn’t it.’

Wilson was glad to see that the baker’s sense of humour had returned. This certainly was a new Jesús.

The only shadow on the day was cast by Señor José Ramón, the customs officer. Ramón toured El Pueblo a couple of times a week, in search of bribes. His trouser pockets were the deepest in town, but still his mother had to fit them with extensions every year. He appeared on the threshold of the bakery, his hands clasped behind his back. Blue-tinted glasses hid his eyes.

‘You got anything for me?’

His hands surfaced and caressed each other. He moistened his lips. Like many corrupt and powerful men, José Ramón had an almost inexhaustible appetite for cake.

Jesús climbed out of his trough and reached behind the counter. He handed Ramón a brown paper bag. Ramón opened it, and peered inside. He just kept peering down until Jesús reached behind him once again and gathered a handful of sugar buns. Ramón held the bag out. Jesús dropped them in.

Ramón nodded and turned towards the door.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘American. You want to change some dollar? The rate is good.’ He bared his teeth in a predatory smile.

‘I haven’t got any dollar.’

Ramón laughed. ‘A poor American. Now that’s something.’

He was still chuckling when he left the bakery and set off down the street. His pockets were so fat with bribes and sweeteners, he had to swing his weight from one leg to the other; it was the only way he could achieve momentum.

Pablo nodded at the description.

‘Ramón more or less runs the town,’ he said. ‘This part of it, at least. He’s set an import duty of two hundred per cent. That’s on all imported goods. Flour, fruit — you name it. Just plucked the figure out of the air. If you don’t pay it, the goods are held in the warehouse. Guarded by a couple of Montoya’s men. They’re in on it too. If Ramón likes you, though, and you slip him a little something every once in a while, then he only charges you fifty per cent.’

‘A little something?’ Wilson could still see that brown paper bag, bulging with cakes and pastries.

‘Well,’ Pablo said, ‘that’s what he calls it.’

Wilson looked at his watch. It was time to hitch a ride up to Frenchtown. He hoisted himself to his feet and wedged his crutches under his arms.

‘Vows of silence,’ Pablo said.

Wilson turned in the doorway. ‘What?’

‘That word you were trying to think of,’ Pablo said. ‘It’s vows of silence.’

On his way down Avenida Cobre, Wilson heard voices — a low muttering, a hum of anticipation. Half the population of El Pueblo had gathered in the square outside the Hotel La Playa. Wilson caught sight of Luis Fernández, Pablo’s younger brother, and asked him what was happening. The first piece of the church was about to be lifted into place, Luis said. Some kind of arch. Wilson could see more than a dozen Indians crowding round a winch, under the anxious supervision of the man he now knew to be Suzanne’s husband. He pressed closer, leaned one shoulder against the wall of the hotel.