Rupert Thomson: Air and Fire

Some days later, when Théo asked her about the dress — it was one that he had bought for her, from her favourite shop on Rue de la Paix — she told him that she had lost it. ‘Lost it?’ he said. ‘How could you lose a dress?’ But she had run out of words. All she could do was shrug and turn away.

‘Are you not feeling well, my dear?’

This question coincided with her thoughts so neatly that, for one moment, she could not be certain where she was. Then, looking up, she remembered and had to invent an excuse.

‘It’s just the heat, Théo.’

‘This is nothing,’ the Captain said. ‘Wait till July.’

‘Do you need some air?’ Théo asked her.

She summoned a smile for him. ‘I feel fine. How long until we arrive?’

Théo studied her for a moment longer then he reached up with his napkin and dabbed his mouth. ‘An hour.’ He turned to the Captain for corroboration.

‘Aye,’ the Captain murmured. ‘Close enough.’

‘Then we ought to be able to see the town by now,’ she said and, leaving her chair, she launched herself towards the window that overlooked the bow.

But she could only see the land stretching away in both directions, a land stripped of all adornment, musty and jagged.

Then she noticed a cloud to the north-west, a thin white cloud that lay perfectly horizontal in the air. It was so straight, it might have been drawn with a ruler; Théo might have been responsible for it. Looking more closely, she realised that it was not a cloud at all. It was smoke, rising in thin columns from the land below. She could just make out two chimneys, some huddled buildings, the dark arm of a harbour wall.

‘I can see it,’ she cried.

The two men joined her at the window.

‘Aye, that’s it,’ the Captain said, ‘godforsaken hole that it is.’

But Théo was smiling.

‘At last,’ he murmured. ‘The work can begin.’

SS Korrigan

17th April, 189–

My dear Monsieur Eiffel,

I wrote to you from Panama in January and again from Santiago some weeks later, but as I have little faith in either of the two postal services, I am writing to you once more on the assumption that this is the first that you have heard of me.

That I should mention Santiago at all will no doubt cause you some concern since our original plan, as I am sure you remember, was to put in at Panama, transport the church by rail to the west coast and then proceed northwards by steamer into Mexican waters. This plan was thwarted owing to the untimely dynamiting of a government train by a notorious group of revolutionaries. Any assessments as to when the line might once again be operational were vague, to say the least. After a conference with the Captain of the SS Korrigan I decided that it would be as well to continue south, reaching Mexico by way of Cape Horn. Though it would add two months to our journey it seemed the course of action that would offer least threat to our cargo which was, after all, our primary concern. Before too long I was to regret this decision, for we encountered the most ferocious storm, not only ferocious but persistent too, lasting, as it did, a full seventeen days. A section of the bulkhead split, and it seemed at one moment as if we all might perish. It was during that day that we sighted another vessel struggling, like we were, against the elements; it is difficult to express the degree of succour that it afforded us, to know that other men were sharing the same dangers, the same exhaustion.

Suffice to say that we survived the rigours of Cape Horn. On the 2nd of March we put into Santiago for extensive repairs, and it struck me then as an immense irony that, had the National Assembly supported the Panama Canal project, as you supported it, out of a sense of duty to the nation, we might have been spared many of the hardships of the preceding two months. Our sojourn in Santiago was, in many respects, delightful, but it was a relief to be under way once more. Our passage up the coast of South America was accomplished without incident, and the first day of April found us lying off Mexico. They say that one knows when one is entering the Gulf of California on account of the numerous sea serpents that appear in the waters alongside one’s vessel, but, I must say, I have noticed no such phenomenon. Is it not more likely that we are simply entering a part of the world about which much remains unknown, a part of the world where the imagination — especially, it would seem, the imagination of sailors — can take hold and run riot? They were eager to assure me that it was a fact, that the serpents had been seen. I pointed downwards through the floor. ‘In the hold of this ship,’ I said, ‘there are two thousand, three hundred and forty-eight component parts which, when assembled, will fit together with the greatest perfection. That, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘is a fact.’ Sea serpents or no, we will arrive at our final destination this morning, some four months after leaving Le Havre.

You may remember that I was anxious regarding my wife’s desire to join me on this undertaking. I need not have worried. She has acquitted herself admirably. After my many attempts to discourage her, mentioning, above all, the very real danger to her health, it will no doubt amuse you to hear that she has proved to be a far better sailor than her husband. While I lay below deck, prostrated by the most tenacious bouts of seasickness, she was usually to be found up on the bridge, sketching! She knows that I am writing to you and asks me to convey her most respectful regards. Please accept mine also, with your customary kindness, and know that I am, as always, your humble and obedient servant,

Théophile Valence.

Wilson Pharaoh dreamed that all his veins were filled with gold; he only had to cut his wrists and he would be rich.

Awake, there was a moment when he still believed the dream. That he could take his hunting-knife and open up a vein. That gold would pour in liquid abundance from the wound. He had seen maps of his own body, drawn up by a mining company of international repute. He had seen the proof with his own eyes.

He lay still, limbs swimming heavily at some distance from his body. Mosquitoes hung in the air. They were greedier here than anywhere that he had ever been. Kill one in the morning and you could watch your blood spring clear across the room.

His eyes moved along one edge of a green tin ceiling, down a yellow wall. This was not his hotel. He turned his head slowly on the pillow, discovered a girl sleeping beside him. One glimpse of that narrow face, that cataract of coarse black hair, and his memory returned.

He saw Pablo Fernández wiping the counter with a rag, his eyebrows reaching high on to his forehead and curving slightly, like the arms on spectacles. Pablo ran the Bar El Fandango, a cantina at the back of town. He also owned the hotel where Wilson was staying.

‘There’s a couple of men here say Americans can’t drink.’ Pablo slid the words casually past his thin dark lips, his eyes angled sideways and downwards.

Wilson glanced along the bar. The couple of men in question were Indians. Men hired by the company to mine copper. Men who carried future grievance in their bellies like an embryo. They were Seri Indians, famous for their treachery: you could never read their faces, but you could be sure that one of them would have a knife.

Wilson could not back down or walk away. He knew it, and Pablo knew it too. He could think of few distances more dangerous than the distance between the bar of El Fandango and the door. At least twenty men had perished in the space of those few yards. So there was really only one response: