Rupert Thomson - Air and Fire

‘I hope ours doesn’t take that long.’ Then Suzanne saw that she had been flippant and also, perhaps, tactless. ‘Have you seen it?’ she asked quickly. ‘The Misión San Ignacio?’

‘Oh no,’ Florestine said. ‘I haven’t seen it. But you must.’ Her chin dropped; her forehead, wide and concave, seemed to expand. ‘You’re so much more adventurous than I am.’

Suzanne chose to deny this — politeness demanded it of her — and yet, in truth, she could not disagree. It struck her that Florestine Bardou lived through others, encouragement being the most active part that she could play, and even in her encouragement she showed humility.

She turned to Wilson once again. ‘Have you ever heard of San Ignacio?’

‘I went there once.’

‘You have been there?’ She could have cried out with delight at the coincidence, but then she saw Santa Sofía on the port bow, crouching in the shadow of the mountains. The chatter of machinery carried across the water. The harbour wall reached out, bent halfway along, like an elbow. It would soon be gathering them in.

‘What’s it like?’ She spoke with urgency now.

‘The town?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘the town.’ Men could be slow sometimes. They had to weigh everything, like shopkeepers.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s famous for its trees.’

‘There are trees?’ She had not expected that.

‘There are thousands of trees. Date palms, mostly. All in the same valley.’

She sat still, trying to imagine it.

‘And its water,’ he said.

‘What’s so special about the water?’ she asked.

He thought for a moment, and then he lifted his eyes to hers. ‘That it is there at all.’

Before she could ask him to explain, he pointed towards the land. ‘Look. Your husband’s waiting for you.’

‘Yes.’ But she did not look.

They had passed through the harbour entrance, and both Wilson and Namu were occupied with practicalities. Wilson stood close to the mast and began to haul the sail down. Namu’s eyes were fastened on the quay, the tiller shifting in his grasp as he brought the boat alongside. It was accomplished with great tenderness — a mother laying down her child. Half dozen boys squatted on the parapet above, their toes hooked over the edge. With their shaved heads and their pinched eyes, they looked capable of malice, but they caught the ropes that Wilson threw to them and looped them around the iron bollards. It struck her that one of them could have been the boy who appeared with Marie Saint-Lô’s silver shoes, though she was not sure she would have recognised him now.

She climbed the flight of stone steps that led up to the quay. It was not until she was standing on solid ground that she looked up. Théo was waiting at a respectable distance, his hands clasped behind his back. She could not see his face, only the winking of his gold watch-chain against the dark ground of his coat. The routine demands of mooring the boat, that sequence of small, sure actions, had given her time to recover her poise, had moored her too. When she waved, he lifted one hand and lowered it again, the gesture reassuringly mechanical, familiar. Her husband, waiting for her. She moved towards him, took his arm.

‘Théo, this is the American I’ve been telling you about.’

Wilson swung his way along the quay on his crutches. She turned quickly and included him.

‘Mr Pharaoh,’ she said, ‘this is my husband, Monsieur Valence.’

The men shook hands.

‘It’s a great pleasure,’ Wilson said.

‘And for me.’ Théo raised a clenched fist to his mouth, as if it were a cup and he might drink from it. He coughed once. ‘And I must thank you, Monsieur Pharaoh, for going to such trouble to entertain my wife, especially in your condition. Perhaps I could offer you a small aperitif?’

Suzanne smiled, not just at Théo’s heavily accented English, but because she realised that he must have been assembling this little speech while standing on the quay, attaching one word to another, piecing the sentences together — and the construction was sound, of course, and the pieces fitted perfectly.

Wilson dipped his head. ‘Thank you kindly,’ he said, ‘but I have to settle up with Namu.’ He indicated the fisherman, who was standing some way off.

‘Settle up? Ah yes. Of course.’ The gap between Théo’s eyebrows narrowed and he nodded, as if some weighty legal matter had been mentioned. Possibly he had not understood; out of politeness he would let his lack of understanding pass. ‘Another time, perhaps.’

‘Perhaps you would dine with us one night,’ Suzanne said.

‘Thank you,’ Wilson said. ‘I’d like that.’

‘Good. Then I’ll arrange it.’

She was distracted by a scraping sound that seemed to be coming from behind Wilson’s back. She peered past his shoulder. The Mexican boys had gathered a few yards away. One of them had wedged his foot into a metal bucket and was limping round the quay. Two others were bowing, shaking hands, bowing again.

Wilson swung round and flung an arm out sideways, as if he would have liked to sweep them all into the water. They scattered — though the boy with the bucket on his foot clung to his fiction, scattering more slowly, more awkwardly, than the rest.

‘Little devils,’ Wilson said.

Lifting his hat to Suzanne, he pivoted on his crutches and moved away. The boys followed at a safe distance, some limping, some hopping, one with his bucket still attached. She smiled as she watched him go. It was partly the sight of the procession and partly this: she would have been willing to lay money on the fact that Wilson had never heard of an ‘aperitif.

‘You’ve caught the sun,’ Théo said.

‘Have I?’

He touched his forehead, then his cheek. ‘Here and here.’

‘It must have reflected off the water,’ she said.

‘But you enjoyed yourself?’

‘Oh yes. Very much.’

Though she was tiring now after her long day she hoisted her spirits for a moment. They were light, yet artificial; she was imitating her pleasure in the day for him. Underneath, she could hardly wait for sleep.

‘You mentioned that we might invite the American to dinner,’ Théo said, as they began to climb the hill.

She looked at him. ‘What of it?’

‘Wouldn’t it be awkward?’ he said. ‘I mean, after all, he doesn’t know anybody.’

‘He knows the doctor.’

‘Yes, that’s true.’ Théo walked in silence for a while. ‘It’s just that some of our colleagues don’t seem to have a very high opinion of Americans.’

‘Or of any other nationality, for that matter.’ Suzanne smiled. ‘But I’m sure Madame de Romblay would not be averse to a little extra male company,’ she said, ‘wherever it happens to come from.’

‘Well,’ Théo said, ‘if you think it might be agreeable.’

When they reached the house, he mentioned that he would be dining with Jean-Baptiste Castagnet in the company offices that night. For once she was glad to be excluded. She did not have the energy for dinner. It was as much as she could do to wish Théo a pleasant evening.

She noticed his eyebrows lower. Her apparent equanimity had wrong-footed him; probably he had been expecting to have to defend himself. He would now be convinced more than ever of her capriciousness — or perhaps he would interpret it as his reward for having given way to her. It seemed that once men saw some kind of pattern in a woman then they clung to it. This acquiescence of hers did not conform to the pattern that had been assigned to her. Her fatigue became suspicious, even perverse.

She ate a cold supper on the divan by the window. Afterwards she read a novel. Every now and then she let the book close on her thumb and, resting her head against a cushion, dreamed of San Ignacio.