Rupert Thomson - Air and Fire

The minutes passed with no division. Time had flattened into a single, smooth dimension, like the sea. Nothing separated one minute from another, or one hour from the next. As she stirred a spoonful of molasses into her coffee, her eyes moved to the divan. She reached out, took a cushion between her hands and, unfastening the pearl buttons one by one, felt deep inside and drew the hidden letter out.

She sat on the window-seat, her legs folded beneath her, the envelope caught between her thumb and her remaining fingers. The ocean filled the window, still and hot and flat.

At last she sat up straighter, reached into the envelope. Unfolded the single sheet of paper it contained. Her eyes travelled through the unfamiliar words, tangling in the loops of some letters, slipping down the tails of others. Not understanding it only fuelled her excitement. Not understanding it, yet knowing what it was.

‘Amor,’ she read.

She saw a man borne down a flight of stairs on an uneven tray of hands. Her belly tightened; a tingling began inside her. The letter slipped from her fingers, swooped to the floor. She lay back. She thought of the point at which the ocean touched the land. The sun beat down outside, reducing everything to silence.

She moved one hand through the opening in her chemise.

Amor, she thought.

She could feel a welling now, like water in a cup when it is filled too full. That moment just before it overflows. When it seems to tremble, higher than the cup’s own lip.

One afternoon she had watched the Indians lifting sections of the church, sweat shining on their bodies, as if they had been coated with silver. The iron panels had been lying in the sun all day. She saw one of the Indians draw his hand back sharply, shake it in the air. They were burning their hands on pieces of Christ. Their bodies partly silver, partly wood. She could almost hear the sizzle of their flesh.

She moved her hand against her skin. Her head pushed back, she felt her breath case past her lips. She was filling a glass of water as slowly as she could. The glass was almost full, but she was still adding water, drop by drop. The water seemed to bulge above the rim. Then she had to hold it there, hold it until she could hold it no longer, until the moment when it spilled, ran slickly down the outside of the glass.

She could tell from the position of the sun that it was afternoon. The shadow of the house lay distorted on the ground. The century plant spread its long three-fingered hand across the hot brown rocks. What she could see through the window at this hour had an artificial quality: a papier mâché landscape, propped up from behind.

She thought of the place that Wilson Pharaoh had described for her. A forest in the desert, an oasis; a place that had three dimensions, even though it only existed in her imagination. She had broached the subject with him a few evenings before, sitting on the veranda of the hotel.

‘You never told me about the water,’ she said.

‘Water? What water?’

‘The special water,’ she said. ‘At San Ignacio.’

Wilson smiled, his amusement almost fatherly. ‘You haven’t forgotten then?’

‘Forgotten? Of course not.’

‘It’s fresh water,’ he said, ‘kind of green in colour. It’s known for its purity. They say it comes from springs high in the mountains.’

She had shivered at the words. It was as if part of her memory had been distilled and stored in his. She thought of the man in Paris and his small glass vial, almost holy in the way in which he wore it like a cross around his neck.

‘You have to remember that the town is surrounded by desert on every side,’ Wilson went on, ‘and the desert, the Vizcaino, is merciless. It has killed many people. The water at San Ignacio is the only water for fifty miles around.’

‘Does it have a name?’

‘There’s one pool among the palm trees where the water is said to be the sweetest. The Spaniards called it La Candelaria, but that’s not the original name. The Indians were there long before. They called it Kadakaamana, which means “valley of the sedges”. It refers to the sedge grass that grows at the edge of the water, long grass, very green, a good deal like rushes. Without that water, the grass wouldn’t be there at all.’

‘Kadakaamana.’ She was already dreaming of the place.

‘For the Indians it was sacred,’ he said. ‘The source of life itself.’

From her seat by the window she could hear the distant notes of a piano coming from the hotel across the street. Only today there was a difference. She began to smile. It was not Bizet’s Carmen that Wilson was playing. It was ‘La Marseillaise’.

She roused herself and, leaving the haven of the divan, ran up the stairs to dress. She had an idea now and it had swept away her lethargy of the day; energy had come from nowhere in a rush. She was halfway across the street, her parasol spinning on her shoulder, before she remembered the letter that had fallen from her hand and would still be lying on the carpet. She had to hurry back into the house. There the letter was, where she had abandoned it, unfolded, shameless, an open mouth confessing everything. She snatched it up, pushed it back into the envelope, returned it to its hiding-place inside the cushion. She could not believe that she had been so rash. Chastened, she left the house again, and it was with much greater composure that she set out across the street for the second time.

She had spurned all the muted colours in her wardrobe. Instead she had dressed in a gown of shell-pink foulard, and pale-green gloves with jade buttons. She had soaked a lace handkerchief in her favourite Guerlain. On her shoulder twirled a sunshade crowned with ostrich feathers, its handle finished in Japanese cloisonné. She crossed the threshold, stopping just inside the door. The lobby seemed deserted, apart from the man at the piano. Then she caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure, almost liquid, stooping in a sheet of light, the white glare where the corridor ended, where it opened out into the courtyard. But it was just Rodrigo, sweeping. She looked back into the room, which now seemed dark. Wilson noticed her, half-rose from his piano-stool.

‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Don’t stop.’

She stood at his shoulder and watched him play. Then she took a seat some distance away, by the window. She knew that he had been waiting for her. That the music was incomplete without her. She sat by the window, listening.

It was a while before she spoke.

‘How did you learn it, Wilson?’

‘I found the music in an outhouse back of the hotel. I thought I’d surprise you.’

‘You had better be careful,’ she said, ‘or the French will be hiring you to play on special occasions.’

‘Do you think so?’ he said, almost hopefully. Then he looked down at his soiled red bandana, his collarless shirt. ‘Not unless I smarten up a bit.’

‘I apologise for last night,’ she said.

‘There’s no need.’

She looked away from him. ‘I doubt the others will be quite so understanding.’

In the silence that followed she could hear the panting of a train as it struggled up the hillside to the mine. The red velvet drapes on the window smelled of damp.

‘Something else,’ he said. ‘Look.’ And he spun on the stool and shot out his right leg.

At first she did not see it. Two feet, two boots. There was nothing strange in that. Then she realised, and had to laugh.

‘But that’s wonderful,’ she said. ‘How does it feel?’

‘Like it belongs to someone else. I still need a stick to get around, but the doctor says it’s just a matter of time before that goes too.’ He grinned at her from beneath the brim of his hat. ‘The expedition you had in mind,’ he said, ‘it won’t be long now.’ He swivelled on his stool and launched into the first bars of ‘La Marseillaise’ once more.