Rupert Thomson - Air and Fire

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Your country is famous for gold. California, Montana, even Idaho.’ Pineau paused. ‘But Santa Sofía — ’

Wilson waited for the laughter to fade. Some people cannot resist trying to soil and ridicule your dreams. Maybe it is because they have none of their own.

‘It is my contention,’ he said finally, ‘that, sometime in the future, it will be discovered that this entire peninsula is nothing less than an extension of the famous gold-fields of Northern California.’

You could have heard a dime land in the rug.

He sat back in his chair. It was the first dinner party that he had ever attended. The men wore shirts that gleamed like ivory. The women had jewelled necks and ears; flowers blossomed in their hair. He did not belong in such exalted company. He had washed with carbolic soap. He had trimmed his moustache. He had dressed in his best blue-flannel shirt, a black four-in-hand tie of his father’s and pair of dark trousers which he had borrowed from Jesús Pompano. But still he looked like the men they put in fields to scare the birds.

‘Do you have any proof of this,’ and Pineau paused again, ‘contention of yours?’

Wilson smiled to himself. ‘Certainly, at the present time, I should be hard pressed to furnish you with proof to the contrary.’

The doctor chuckled. ‘Bravo, Monsieur. Well said.’

Wilson glanced at Suzanne and saw his secret safe behind her eyes, invisible to everyone but him.

But Pineau would not let him alone. ‘You would not be here,’ he said, ‘if you did not know something.’

Suzanne let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Monsieur Pharaoh is a romantic,’ she said, ‘and romantics don’t need proof. All they need is faith.’

‘Faith.’ Pineau curled his lip.

‘My dear Suzanne,’ said Madame de Romblay, whose head and shoulders rose out of a froth of purple satin, ‘you make our American friend sound like a candidate for sainthood.’

Smiles travelled the length of the table. Wilson felt that he should smile too, if modestly.

But Suzanne did not smile. Her cheeks flushed and her green eyes seemed to bleach.

‘Who was it, may I ask,’ she said, ‘who landed in California with gardening implements believing, in their naivety, that gold was so abundant that it could be raked out of the rivers?’ Nobody spoke. ‘I’ll tell you who it was,’ she said. ‘It was the French.’ She looked round the table, settling at last on the Director’s wife, whose eyes were glittering at this betrayal of her nation, whose lips had snapped tight shut. ‘We may think that we’re superior, that we know more than others,’ she said, ‘but we don’t. We don’t know the half of it.’

Monsieur Valence leaned forwards, placing his hands flat on the tablecloth. He had folded his napkin into one tight square.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘if we have all finished, perhaps we should adjourn to the veranda.’

‘But we haven’t finished,’ Suzanne said, ‘have we, Théo?’

Valence looked steadily at Wilson. ‘Monsieur Pharaoh?’

Wilson had no choice but to struggle to his feet. As he turned away from the table he saw Suzanne lift her napkin into the air and suspend it quite deliberately above the candelabra. In seconds the napkin had caught fire. She dropped the burning cloth in the centre of the table and rose calmly from her chair.

‘By all means,’ she said. ‘Let’s adjourn.’

She did not appear for the coffee and brandy that were served on the veranda. Monsieur de Romblay took hold of the conversation and, working in unison with the doctor, steered it into a debate about the recent unrest among the miners, not exactly an entertaining subject, but less troubled than some. It was a discussion in which Wilson played little part since most of those present had by now reverted to their native language. Still, he could feel some of the tension in the air disperse. Now and then the doctor leaned over and translated for him. At one point he thought of mentioning the epileptic’s vision, which could well have helped to undermine morale, but he held his tongue, fearing that he might make a fool of himself again. Indeed, his only contribution drew a snort of indignation from the accountant. He had simply observed that conditions in the mine were far from perfect. Monsieur de Romblay also bridled at the remark.

‘We are not running a charity, Monsieur.’

Wilson kept silent after that.

It was not long before the doctor turned the conversation to his favourite subject: bread. Given the conspicuous lack of progress during the last few weeks, he suggested that they should consider recruiting a baker from France. Madame de Romblay said that, in her opinion, no baker worth his salt would agree to come. The Sister, Marie Saint-Lô, thought they should give the Mexican another chance.

‘Apparently there has been a death in the family.’ Marie Saint-Lô turned to the doctor.

‘That’s correct. I forgot.’ The doctor sighed. ‘Well, I suppose you cannot expect too much of somebody who is going through a period of mourning.’

‘Who died?’ Monsieur de Romblay asked.

‘His mother, wasn’t it?’ The doctor did not seem sure.

Madame de Romblay shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It was his aunt. I’m certain of it.’

‘Monsieur Pharaoh?’ the doctor said. ‘Perhaps you could enlighten us?’

But Wilson only shrugged. He felt bloated and queasy. He could have opened his mouth and emptied the contents of his stomach on the ground, a temptation that was very nearly rendered a necessity a few minutes later when Pineau settled in the chair beside him.

‘Monsieur Pharaoh,’ and he put a hand on Wilson’s shoulder, and Wilson could smell compost on the accountant’s breath, ‘they tell me that you can recommend a local whore.’

It was after midnight when Wilson put his glass of brandy down. Reaching for his crutches, he announced that he would have to be going. ‘I could use some rest,’ he said.

The doctor beamed up at him. ‘I’m delighted to hear it. The message is getting through at last.’

Monsieur de Rombay joked, rather drunkenly, that Wilson should not consider looking for any gold until morning and, under the cover of good-natured laughter, Wilson wished the company a pleasant night, thanked Monsieur Valence for the most excellent dinner and then began to make his way round to the front of the house.

Halfway along the veranda, Monsieur Valence overtook him.

‘There is a carriage,’ he said. ‘I will fetch it for you.’

Before Wilson could protest, the man had vanished.

Sheet lightning lit the heavens to the west, beyond the mountains. In other towns it might have heralded rain; in Santa Sofía, this did not seem likely. He stood at the top of the steps. His head ached from listening to hours of talk.

Then, as he looked up, the lightning came closer, laying bare the sky above the house, and there, in the shadows of the veranda, stood Suzanne.

‘Wilson? Is that you?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re leaving?’

Stumbling over his words, he began to thank her for the dinner, but he encountered a look of such utter distraction on her face that he could no longer speak.

‘Imagine,’ she said, ‘if the house had burned down.’

She was laughing. A sequence of notes, innocent and clear.

He stood still, uncertain what to say.

Lightning again: her face jumped out at him, a section of her dress, a jasmine flower behind her. It seemed to have the power to reveal her one moment and remove her the next, as if her existence were pure illusion.

‘You’re ashamed of me.’

He shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, Wilson,’ she said, Tm truly sorry. It was not the dinner I intended it to be.’