Rupert Thomson - Air and Fire

And in the house below, two women dancing, dancing –

She woke on her back, breathing fast. Perhaps she had run from the cemetery to where she lay. Perhaps she had run all the way. Her nightgown was drenched; she might have swum an ocean in her sleep.

Her gift had returned and it was stronger than ever. She could hardly bear the weight of it. They would kill Montoya. She knew that now. And knew it with absolute certainty. In one sense, it had happened already. She did not know what power she had to alter things. She only knew that she had been handed a responsiblity. She must go instantly, and warn him. The past had no place in her decision. She did not care for him, but still she could not let him die.

She reached for her clothes.

‘Where are you going?’

Théo had woken up.

But she did not stop dressing.

‘I have to warn him.’

‘Who?’

‘Montoya.’ She spoke with some impatience. This was no time for words.

She had never told Théo about her dreams. They had vanished the moment that he made love to her and it would have been difficult to talk to him of something that was no longer there. It would have been like accusing him of theft. And besides, he was such a rational man. He was too rational, for instance, to believe in God. Such mysteries were for women; men had science. What point would there have been in telling him of premonitions? He would only have presented her with a series of facts and arguments to explain what she had experienced. It was too exhausting even to contemplate.

She was opening her wardrobe to choose a dress when Théo took her by the arm.

‘Just think,’ he said. ‘Think for a moment.’

‘There’s nothing to think about,’ she said.

He was trying not to raise his voice. His seemingly bottomless patience had the look of weariness. ‘The town is not safe. There are people wandering the streets, looking for revenge.’

‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘That’s exactly why I have to go.’

As she lifted a dress from the wardrobe he reached round and snatched it from her hands.

‘You’re not going anywhere, Suzanne.’

He stood in front of her with his head lowered, like a bull that might charge. She could not believe his stubbornness, his stupidity. He could not see for reasons. Facts had blinded him.

She threw herself at him, fighting to reclaim the dress. He held it away from her, used his other hand to keep her at bay. He was too strong for her. She rushed towards the bedroom door instead. She would cross town in her lace petticoats if need be. But he seized her by the wrist as she ran past him and her arm almost leapt from its socket. She cried out in pain.

‘Be quiet,’ he said. ‘Do you want everyone to hear?’

She twisted in his grasp. ‘Let me go.’

He pinned her to the bed, bruising her slender muscles along the inside of her arms. He placed a hand over her mouth.

‘You’re hysterical.’

She tried to shake her head, deny it, but his hand was pressed so hard against her mouth that she could not use the lower half of her face at all.

‘You’re making a fool of yourself. And of me.’ The skin below his eyes had sagged. He was ageing. It no longer had the power to move her.

‘You’re not going to see Montoya, or anyone else. You’re staying here, in this house.’ He shook her to make sure that she was listening. ‘You’re not leaving. You’re staying here. Do you understand?’

But he’s in my dreams, she wanted to shout. He’s dying in my dreams. She tried to force the words out through her eyes, but he only pressed down harder with his hand.

Mama Vum Buá cooked Wilson some breakfast as usual, but she would not speak to him. Her blue eyes seemed clouded and remote. He thought she must be in mourning for her people. They had died in a land that was foreign to them, a land with no rivers and no mercy: it had leaned on their spines until they snapped; it had climbed into their mouths and nostrils; it had killed them itself. He did not try to reach down into her grief. It was not his place. Besides, he had his own to deal with. Trivial beside hers, but there nonetheless. His crystals had been taken. They were gone, every one of them. He had nothing to give Suzanne. He ate his tortillas in the shade of the quince tree, content to be left alone.

It did not last long. The girls soon came clustering around his table. The Señora had warned them not to leave the property that day, and they were bored.

‘Tell us something,’ First, the tallest, said.

Wilson pushed his plate away. He sipped at his coffee, then wiped his moustache. ‘You know, it’s funny,’ he said, ‘but I do happen to have a story for you this morning.’

‘Tell us,’ First said.

‘Yes,’ the others clamoured, ‘tell us.’

He leaned back in his chair, hands folded on his waistcoat. ‘Once upon a time,’ he began, ‘there was a very beautiful woman. She had green eyes that were as green as the leaves on trees and lips that only the most beautiful words came out of and hair that was long,’ and he hesitated for a moment, ‘and black. The beautiful woman lived in a big house, high up on a hill, and she was married to a man who was very important. The man built buildings for the king. All sorts of buildings. Palaces, mansions. Churches too.’

Wilson looked up. The girls clung to the edge of the table, their eyes wide and solemn.

‘The beautiful woman and the important man did not want for anything,’ he went on. ‘They ate the best food in the land and drank the best wine. They had servants to wait on them, hand and foot. They slept in sheets that smelled like the grass in summer. They had gold too — plenty of it. But the beautiful woman wasn’t happy — ’

‘Why wasn’t she happy?’ First asked.

‘Because her husband didn’t love her,’ Wilson said. ‘He was too busy. He never bought her presents or told her she was beautiful. In fact, he was so busy, he hardly even noticed her at all. All he could think of were his palaces, his mansions and his churches.’

Wilson drained the last of his coffee and emptied the bitter grounds on to the dirt.

‘Well,’ he went on, ‘the beautiful woman didn’t know what to do. Her eyes that were as green as leaves began to turn brown, like leaves when they’re about to fall. The words that came out of her lips were no longer beautiful. Mostly no words came out of her lips at all, just silence. She was so unhappy and so bored that she almost wished that she was dead.’ Wilson leaned forwards, over the table. ‘Then, one day,’ he said, ‘she met a man — ’

‘Was he a prince?’ First asked. She was standing beside him now, one hand on his shoulder.

Wilson smiled. ‘No. He was a poor man. He lived in the valley, at the bottom of the hill. He was a poor man, but he was good. And, as time passed, the beautiful woman and the poor man became friends. They told each other stories. They talked and joked and laughed. And slowly the beautiful woman found a little of the happiness that she had lost. And slowly the poor man fell in love with her. He fell in love with her eyes that were green again, green as the leaves on trees in summer, and he fell in love with her hair that was long and yellow — ’

‘Black,’ First said. ‘It was black.’

‘Yes, black,’ Wilson said. ‘Her long black hair. And he fell in love with her lips that only the most beautiful words came out of. But she didn’t fall in love with him — ’

He faltered. Sometimes, riding on the prairies, you saw a storm coming towards you. There was that feeling of the world closing down in front of you, a kind of blindness. Strange, because you could see the blindness coming. That was the feeling he had now.