Rupert Thomson - Air and Fire

Valence sat with a straight back, both hands balanced on the carved head of his cane. He had the stillness, the solidity, of a piece of furniture. A dresser, maybe, or a chest of drawers. A place where things were tidy, ordered, stored. And yet Wilson had the feeling, looking at the man, that if he slid a drawer open, any drawer, then chaos would be revealed. Moths. A nest of mice.

‘You have a nice view of the church,’ Valence said.

Then he fell quiet again.

‘Is there something I can do for you?’ Wilson asked eventually.

Valence began to tell him about a priest who had visited the site during the first days of construction. The priest had delivered a sermon to a gathering of Indian workers. Afterwards one of the Indians had approached the priest. The Indian was curious about the new building. He wanted to know what it was. ‘It’s a church,’ the priest said. Then, so as to make himself quite clear, he added, ‘A house of God.’ ‘A house of God?’ The Indian looked puzzled. ‘What does God want with a house?’ The priest gazed at the Indian with an expression of kindly tolerance. ‘It’s a place where we can go and meet Him,’ he explained. ‘You too will be able to meet Him there.’ The Indian’s look of puzzlement remained. ‘But I thought you said that God was everywhere.’ There was a silence, then the priest suddenly remembered that he had an important engagement on the Mesa del Norte. If he did not leave immediately he would be late.

‘It’s not the first time the Indians have got the better of a priest,’ Wilson said with a smile.

But Valence did not seem to have heard. He was still staring out of the window.

‘Suzanne has disappeared,’ he said.

‘What?’ Wilson was not sure that he had understood.

‘My wife, Suzanne. She has disappeared.’

‘When?’

‘This morning.’

‘Where did she go?’

‘I have no idea.’

Both men were still, one sitting on the chair, the other standing over by the wall. There was the power and secrecy of this information between them now, binding them the way blood does. It was as if they had suddenly become fingers of the same hand.

Valence began to mutter in his own language. Wilson stepped forwards and put one hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder.

Valence looked up. ‘I’m sorry. You cannot understand.’

‘Could she be somewhere in the town?’

‘I don’t know. She stole a horse.’

Wilson had to smile. His father may not have trusted green-eyed women, but he would surely have warmed to a green-eyed woman who could steal a horse.

‘It is not a laughing matter, Monsieur.’

The Frenchman’s eyes had mustered some hostility. Wilson chose to ignore it.

‘If she stole a horse,’ he said, ‘she could be anywhere.’

She could be dead, he thought. Nobody rode out into that landscape without knowing its secrets and its dangers — even somebody who seemed blessed, like her. The heat of the sun, the dearth of water. There was no mercy in the land. It would kill you as soon as look at you.

‘I thought perhaps,’ and Valence was lifting his face again, in hope this time, in supplication, ‘that you could find her.’

Wilson turned away.

Valence rose out of his chair. ‘You understand the country. You know it.’ His voice dropped, like someone taking cover. ‘You are her friend.’

When Wilson did not reply, Valence spoke again. ‘Am I wrong?’

‘You’re not wrong.’

‘Then for the sake of friendship.’ Valence spread his hands. ‘You have to.’

Wilson shook his head. There was no avoiding her. It did not matter which way he turned. She was round every corner, at the end of every street. If she did not appear in person she appeared in what was being said. When he closed his eyes to keep her out, she stepped into his dreams.

‘I’m not sure,’ he said slowly, ‘that you’re in any position to make demands.’

‘I don’t follow you,’ Valence said.

It was too late for Wilson to hold back now. ‘If you had truly loved your wife,’ he said, ‘she would not have gone.’

The Frenchman’s face tightened.

‘What do you know about it?’ he said.

‘I know enough.’

The two men stared at each other without speaking. The silence thickened in the room.

Then Valence turned away, one hand thrust into his hair. ‘She loved me first. I could never — ’ He had walked into the corner of the room. He was facing the wall.

Wilson could not think of anything to say.

‘If I loved her, she always loved me more. I wanted balance, equality. She would not allow it.’

Valence swung round. ‘I knew she should not have come to Mexico with me. I knew that it would be difficult. But she insisted. She can be so strong.’ He smiled. It was a hopeless, foolish smile, deformed by circumstance. It was not something that he could really permit himself. ‘She said it was the place of a wife, that she should be with her husband.’

‘And isn’t it?’

Valence shrugged. ‘It depends who you listen to.’

‘Maybe you’re the wrong man for her,’ Wilson said.

‘And who is the right man? You?’ Valence was almost glacial. His confessions had given him strength.

‘No.’ Wilson looked round at his rented room, his few belongings. And had to chuckle. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not me.’

And suddenly he found the way forwards. This was nothing to do with love. A man had come to him and asked for help. It did not matter which man, what help. He had no right to turn the man away.

‘I’ll need a mule. Mine’s split her hoof.’

‘You will do it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I will find a mule for you. Immediately.’

There was no reward for Wilson in the Frenchman’s sudden animation, in his gratitude. If anything, it exhausted him.

‘And provisions,’ he added. ‘I’ll need food and water.’

Valence had one hand on the door, but then he saw that Wilson had not finished. ‘Is there something more?’

Wilson occupied the centre of the room. ‘I’m her friend. You know that. What you don’t know is, I love her.’ He saw that Valence was about to speak and raised a hand to silence him. ‘It’s all right. She doesn’t know. I haven’t told her and I don’t intend to. She will never know.’

Valence had not flinched from Wilson’s painful gaze, nor from the knowledge of his secret, but now he lowered his eyes. His voice, when he finally spoke, was soft as the dust that rolled along the bottom of the walls.

‘You are also the wrong man?’

Wilson nodded slowly. ‘Yes.’

‘Come to the main office in two hours,’ Valence said. ‘I will be there, with everything you need.’ He left the room, closing the door behind him.

Wilson sat down on the bed.

‘But it’s you she loves,’ he said, ‘and I’m not so sure that you deserve it.’

When he looked away from the door, she was standing in the corner of the room, next to the wooden frame that held the washing bowl. She had changed into another dress. There was nothing strange about that; it was another day, after all. He had not seen the dress before. It was geranium-red, with trimmings of black lace and black buttons at the cuffs.

‘You didn’t hear any of that,’ he said.

She did not move except to reach up with one hand and push a curling strand of hair away from her forehead. Her eyes were paler than usual, chalky, almost grey, and her skin had such clarity, it was like shaped light.

‘I’m not feeling too good,’ he told her. ‘I’m going to need your help.’

Still she did not move. Her hands were almost touching the sides of her dress. He could see the air between her fingers.

‘You’ll have to show me the way,’ he said.