Rupert Thomson - Air and Fire

‘But that’s almost two weeks ago. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You weren’t here.’

‘I’ve been back since Wednesday — ’

Pablo shrugged. ‘It was so long ago. I just forgot. And besides,’ he said, ‘a lot’s been happening.’

Wilson stood up. His promise to look after her. That dream about her talking to him in the street. His visit to the house, and then not entering. She said she missed you. He paced the bakery floor, his heart still jumping. Two weeks ago. Two weeks. He sat down. Stood up again.

Pablo had been following his movements with some interest. Now he turned to Jesús. ‘Do you remember the night Wilson left town? The night he got drunk?’

Jesús nodded.

‘You remember we were wondering about a woman?’

‘What about it?’

‘Well,’ and Pablo leaned against the wall and smiled the same slow smile, ‘I think we just had a breakthrough.’

Stalls and tents had been set up outside the houses. Sprigs of amaranth hung upside-down from the eaves; glass lanterns housing hand-rolled tallow candles swung from poles. There were fortune-tellers and knife-grinders. There were women selling strips of fried meat, maize tortillas, bowls of beans. There were games of chance. The air had a roasted smell. El Pueblo, on a Saturday.

Wilson paused to watch an Indian healer. A sick woman sat on a stool, her hands braced on her knees, her eyes blank and glassy. First the healer blew into her face through a short tube. Then he danced in front of her, muttering a chant. Finally he reached up with a sharp stick and cut into her forehead. Wilson turned away before it was clear whether or not the cure had worked. He had seen enough blood spilled for one day.

A few yards further on, a woman clutched at his sleeve. One hand curled beneath his chin, words spluttering and gushing through her few remaining teeth like water forced through rocks. He understood that she was selling potions that would instil courage and resolution. When she realised these qualities did not interest him particularly, she told him that she could save his teeth. His hair too; his virility. She could stop him growing old. She could help him fall in love.

He shook himself free. ‘I don’t need that.’

In truth, he did not know what he needed. He was aware only that he was moving from one distraction to another. Nothing was being resolved. Maybe he should have asked her for a potion that would put his mind to sleep.

As the light began to fade, he allowed himself to be caught up in the mass of Indians who were making their way towards the main square. Monsieur de Romblay was due to speak at six o’clock. Nobody knew what to expect. The mood of the crowd was a blend of anger, grief and curiosity. Wilson could not believe the sheer weight of numbers in the streets. Then he remembered that Pablo had spoken of people coming into town from further up the coast, from settlements inland — from all around, in fact. Disasters were magnets: people were always drawn in their direction.

By the time the crowd delivered Wilson to the edge of the Plaza Constitución, it was almost dark. A clear night, no moon yet. Stars the size of snowflakes. Boys perched in the branches of the plane trees, whistling to one another, trading information and insults, their voices hoarse as crows. The square had filled with men. Some were drunk already, and staggering. They wore machetes slung at an angle through their belts or dangling flush against their thighs. They were drinking from clear bottles whose contents Wilson was all too familiar with. The previous night there had been an outbreak of rioting in El Pueblo. In order to save his bar from destruction, Pablo had been forced to hand out more than fifty pints of liquor free of charge. The only surprise was that the Indians still had any left. Scanning the faces, Wilson noticed an almost total absence of women. He thought this an ominous sign.

A murmuring, and heads began to turn. Feet stamped on the baked ground. Monsieur de Romblay was entering the square in his director’s carriage, his face, in profile, gliding smoothly above the dark heads of the crowd. He had a driver, and another man sat next to him, an Indian, but otherwise he was alone. No military escort, nothing provocative.

He climbed out of his carriage, vanishing below the surface of the crowd, seeming to drown for a moment, and then emerged again, and mounted the steep staircase to the bandstand. He held up his hands in an appeal for silence. The Indian stood beside him, darting glances at his face. The noise died down. An uneasy quiet took its place.

Monsieur de Romblay produced a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. He cleared his throat.

‘ Señoras y Señores — ’

A chuckling. There were no ladies present.

At least the Director was speaking in a language that most could understand, though. He might make a fool of himself, but, equally, he might win some respect.

Now the Indian had taken over. He was an interpreter. Each time Monsieur de Romblay completed a sentence in Spanish, the Indian repeated it in dialect. This was sound diplomacy. Though restless, the crowd was listening.

Monsieur de Romblay was appealing to the Indians’ good sense. He regretted from the bottom of his heart the recent tragedy and suggested that the suffering should be shared by all the people of the town, irrespective of race or colour. The French doctor and his nursing staff, each one an expert in their field, were working round the clock to make the wounded comfortable.

‘What about the dead?’ an Indian shouted. ‘Are you making them comfortable too?’

There was a ripple of bitter laughter.

But Monsieur de Romblay did not acknowledge the interruption. It was possible he had not heard. He declared that the families concerned would all be compensated for their tragic losses. He promised an immediate review of the safety regulations and a pay rise in the near future. Here he paused and looked up, almost as if he were expecting some applause.

‘The near future?’ snarled the Indian. ‘When’s that?’

Monsieur de Romblay continued, unperturbed. He urged the Indians to show forbearance, to keep calm. Hot tempers had never achieved anything constructive.

‘And while I am on the subject of hot tempers,’ he said, ‘I would like to apologise for the behaviour of Captain Montoya — ’

He got no further.

A rocket fizzed across the square and, tangling with a plane tree, seemed to wrestle with the leaves. Sparks dripped on to the heads of Indians beneath. The crowd parted and swirled in two directions. Someone lit a firecracker. Monsieur de Romblay ducked, his hands thrown up around his head. There were screams. A machete flashed through the air like a piece of lightning. Wilson turned one shoulder sideways and tried to ease back through the crowd. But people were surging forwards now. He saw the bandstand railing buckle. The Indians were chanting slogans in which the only words that could be distinguished were ‘Montoya’ and ‘French’. Monsier de Romblay withdrew to the Mesa del Norte in a flurry of promises and pleas, most of which went unheard.

Wilson found himself on the south side of the square. He walked down Avenida Aljez and then turned left into an unlit side-street that led to Avenida Cobre. It was not clear whether the Indians had misunderstood Monsieur de Romblay’s apology, or whether they had simply run out of patience. Probably he had not been wise to mention Montoya’s name. It was a pity. It had not been a bad speech up until that point. But now Wilson could foresee another night of looting.

Something struck him on the back. He turned round. A rock lay at his feet. He looked up into the hostile faces of half a dozen Indians. He could not be sure that they were miners, and that worried him. They looked more like Indians from further north. It was a dark street. There was too much space around him. He could hear the knife-grinder’s cry: ‘Sharpen your blades, sharpen your blades.’