Rupert Thomson - Air and Fire

‘I hear you were attacked.’

Wilson smiled grimly. ‘They thought I was French.’

‘My God,’ she said, ‘what will become of us?’

Madame Bardou’s hand had risen to her throat. ‘You’re not hurt, I hope?’

‘No, ma’am, not a scratch. But thank you for asking.’

Wilson leaned down to adjust a stirrup strap. It had been impossible to keep track of what was happening; reports varied wildly. He had been woken from his nap by the sound of hammering — not the church this time but Mexicans, nailing bits of wood over their windows. Towards midnight, as he crossed town to meet with Monsieur Valence, he ran into Pablo. Pablo was in his element, meddling with fact and fabricating rumour.

‘The fat man,’ he said, his eyebrows lifting high on to his forehead. ‘The Director. Have you heard?’

‘What about him?’ Wilson said.

According to Pablo, Monsieur de Romblay had been taken ill as he left the Plaza Constitución that evening, and had been rushed to hospital. Then, as the doctor reached for his scalpel, Monsieur de Romblay exploded. Right there, on the operating table. A nurse was killed by flying organs. The doctor only survived because he was wearing a magic waistcoat, the one made out of sunlight and diamonds. There had been some trouble on the waterfront as well. The customs house had been looted, and someone had uncovered Ramon’s secret stockpile. Not just ordinary goods like sugar and flour. Luxuries too, which must originally have been intended for the French. Silk pyjamas, for example. Goose-liver pâté. Armagnac. And then, less than an hour ago, two of the five dead miners had come back to life. They had been seen on Avenida Aljez, leaning casually against a tree, their hands and faces lit by soft green flames. What else? Oh yes –

‘Don’t tell me,’ Wilson said. ‘The Amazons are coming.’

Pablo held his hand out in the air. Wilson had to shake it.

‘But seriously, Pablo.’

‘Well,’ Pablo said, ‘there has been some rioting on Calle 14.’

This Wilson could believe. The Mexicans would not be boarding up their windows for nothing. If the French had any sense, they would do the same, despite the heat.

It was from Castagnet that Wilson learned of recent developments on the Mesa del Norte. In the wake of his abortive speech, Monsieur de Romblay (shaken, but in perfect health) had been trying to resolve all disputes in private conference. At one point during the proceedings Montoya had pulled his pistol from its holster and fired a bullet into the Director’s dining-room ceiling. The bullet had passed through an electric wire and fused every light in the house. The three Indian spokesmen who were waiting in the hallway — they would not sit down at the same table as the Mexican — were plunged into darkness. One Indian claimed to have heard thunder. Another talked of an eclipse. Offerings of amaranth and crushed obsidian would have to be made at once, they said. To Coatlicué, to Humming-Bird-on-the-Left — and to Jesus Christ as well: in circumstances as mysterious as these, it was best to leave nobody out. De Romblay and Montoya had repaired to Castagnet’s house and were believed to be close to reaching some kind of understanding. In the hospital across the road the doctor was performing surgery on an injured miner; amputation of the leg seemed likely. Of resurrected Indians and revelations at the customs house, Castagnet knew nothing. There was a sense in which Suzanne’s disappearance could be seen as conforming to a pattern. It could have been truth or rumour. It was yet another symptom of the town’s delirium.

Monsieur Valence coughed into his fist. ‘You’re quite sure that you will go alone?’ he asked.

Wilson nodded. ‘It’s what I’m used to.’

Monsieur Castagnet stepped forwards, one hand on the reins. He stroked the mule’s nose. ‘Do you have everything you need?’

‘Compared to what she has — ’ Wilson did not finish the sentence.

‘True,’ Castagnet murmured.

‘What I still cannot understand,’ Madame de Romblay said, ‘is why she stole my husband’s horse in the first place. That horse is valuable. He paid more than a thousand francs for it.’ She was looking at Monsieur Valence, as if she expected an explanation.

But Valence, deep in a turmoil of his own, had not noticed. ‘I don’t know how I’ll sleep tonight,’ he said.

Wilson smiled bleakly. Sleep did not seem a possibility for anyone.

Madame Bardou offered him her face once more. Her hair was curling in the humid air.

‘Which direction will you take, Monsieur?’

He had given no thought to this at all and yet he found that he already knew the answer.

‘I’ll be heading inland,’ he said. ‘West.’

Five hours of darkness remained when he set off along the cinder track that led out past the lumber yard and the smelting plant. When he had passed the two brown trains he glanced behind him. The French were still standing outside the gates, four figures dwarfed by buildings and machinery. They looked like a fragile race, a race in danger of extinction. He found himself feeling a kind of pity for them as he rode on.

It was a moonless night, not at all the kind of night that he would have chosen for a journey through the awkward country of Cabo Vírgenes. In some places the coastal plain that divided the mountains from the sea was no wider than the track itself. To the left you passed canyon after canyon, reaching down from the mesa, high and waterless, behind. The land was only fertile in one respect: minerals had been found in such abundance that names could not be made up fast enough. It was here that the company had established many of its mines. To the right lay a gravel beach and waves that always sounded tired: flop -flop flop -flop flop -flop. An hour went by before he saw the turning that he had been looking for; it wound its way up into a district known as Soledad, and then climbed higher still, towards the pass that cut through the Peninsula Range. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was a narrow path and he might easily have missed it in the dark.

No sooner had he started up into the mountains than his worries began. The mule felt uncertain under him. She had been borrowed from the company. She would be used to pack work, the same routes every day; it was possible that she had never left the town before. He cursed himself for not having asked. The trail he was taking was the most direct. There were tight bends, steep slopes, sheer drops. It called for surefootedness and a steadfast disposition. But they were only just above sea-level, and already the mule was laying its ears back and looking to escape. That could be fatal in a country where the only sideways turn was likely to be over a precipice and down five hundred feet.

He went on for as long as he dared, stopping to make camp when the track widened to form an oval. It was dark as a hand of black cards, and there would be rock-falls ahead. He would rest here until the sun came up. Stepping out of the saddle, he hunted through his knapsack for a length of rope and tied the mule’s forelegs together so she could not bolt. Then he poured some water into the crown of his hat and set it on the ground in front of her. She dipped her head and drank. Stars jostled in the sky between her ears.

He built a small fire, filled the kettle. While he waited for the water to boil he ate a few mouthfuls of jerked beef and followed it with some fresh dates which the doctor’s wife had pressed into his hand. Later, he unpacked his bedroll and lay down, a cup of sugared tea heating a circle on his chest. Part of him knew that there was no time to waste and wanted to panic. Part of him cursed the mule. But he had to lock that part away. It would do Suzanne little good if he was killed before he got to her — and besides, it could not be more than a couple of hours until dawn.