Rupert Thomson - Air and Fire

And the ghost of his love still murmuring against his back.

‘Suzanne — ’ Suddenly he did not know what to say.

‘Yes?’

‘I found her, then — ’ He paused. He would have to lie. ‘Then — then I don’t know.’

‘You brought her back. She was tied to you, with a piece of rope.’

‘I brought her back?’ Wilson gaped at the doctor. It did not seem possible. His memory curled, folding inwards on itself — one long wave breaking, back into the past.

‘It was a miracle,’ the doctor said. ‘Not just that you found her, but that she was still alive.’

‘But — ’ Wilson could see his shovel and his rifle upright in her arms. He could hear the water chatter as she sank. ‘I thought she died — I thought I buried her — ’

‘You were delirious, Monsieur. Heatstroke, dehydration — ’

‘And now?’

‘Now what?’

‘Where is she now?’

The doctor opened his hands; he might have been releasing captive butterflies. ‘She’s gone.’

Wilson stared at the doctor’s empty hands. He could not speak.

‘She left this morning,’ the doctor said, ‘with her husband. I advised against it. In my opinion, she was not well enough to travel. She needed rest, as you do. But he would not listen.’ Stepping forwards, the doctor adjusted the metal apparatus that stood beside the bed. ‘The sooner she returns to France, the better. That is what he said.’

Wilson suddenly noticed the bottle of clear fluid above his bed and how it fed down a tube into his arm. ‘What are you doing to me?’

‘Salt solution. To replace what you lost. You will be a new man.’

Wilson doubted that. His mind would still be old. His mind and what was in it.

He lay still, watched the fan revolve. Then he closed his eyes. The air beat softly at his eyelids.

Not dead, but gone.

The knowledge floated down. Was there a difference — for him? He was not sure. He felt the knowledge settle in his head. He had never imagined that grief could weigh so little, or desolation be so gentle. It was like being covered in the finest gold leaf.

‘You’re something of a hero, you know,’ he heard the doctor say. ‘It’s not every man who would have risked his life like that.’

‘If you don’t mind,’ Wilson said, ‘I’d like to sleep now.’

When he woke the next day, there was a huge area of blue at the edge of his vision. He altered the position of his head on the pillow. Monsieur de Romblay was sitting on a chair beside his bed. It was the frock-coat that was blue, with a loop of gold, the Director’s watch-chain, slung like some elaborate vein between his heart and his liver. A white lace neckcloth billowed at his throat. He was muttering to himself under his breath. From time to time he would fall silent, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. Then he would smile and his chin would tumble downwards; he would continue with his muttering.

At last he noticed that Wilson’s eyes were open. His smile puckered, the corners of his mouth tucking into his cheeks. His feet shifted on the floor.

‘I was just working on a speech. We’re expecting the Mexican Foreign Minister here tomorrow.’ He grasped Wilson’s hand. ‘It’s good to see you looking so well, Monsieur Pharaoh.’

‘Good of you to come, sir.’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Much improved.’

The Director nodded. ‘I assume that you’ve heard about our,’ and he paused, ‘our difficulties?’

‘They’d already started when I left.’

‘Of course.’ The Director adjusted his lace neckcloth. ‘I have never known such carnage,’ he said, ‘not since my days as an engineer with the Army.’

Everyone who appeared at Wilson’s bedside seemed eager to furnish him with their own version of the events and each version differed. With Monsieur de Romblay, there was no sartorial angle, of course. Instead he talked at great length of his diplomatic initiatives and how, given their failure, he felt that he should shoulder some of the responsibility for what had followed. He had been left with no option but to declare a state of emergency, he said. Nonetheless, many heinous crimes were committed, many barbarities. None more disturbing, perhaps, than the lynching of Captain Montoya.

‘They killed him?’

‘Oh yes.’ The Director grimaced. ‘But the word “kill” does not adequately describe what they did to that unfortunate young man.’

Wilson did not need to be told. He was familiar with the way in which Indians exacted vengeance; he knew that it would have been brutal and humiliating beyond his imagination.

Happily, the Director continued, when he saw that he would be hard pressed to sway Montoya, he had cabled the authorities at Guaymas, requesting urgent reinforcements. The response had been most impressive. Once order was restored, he had announced a substantial increase in the miners’ basic wage, then he had introduced a raft of new safety regulations. The miners were due to go back to work any day now. He had kept the soldiers on, billeted in Montoya’s house, in case of further trouble. But he felt confident that the episode was over. There had been numerous letters of apology from the Mexican Government, even one inviting him to Mexico City to discuss the crisis, signed by Don Porfirio himself.

‘As I said, the Foreign Minister is due tomorrow,’ Monsieur de Romblay concluded. ‘He’s profoundly embarrassed. Hence the speech.’

‘I can think of nobody better qualified to reassure him, sir. Everyone remarks on the high quality of your public speaking.’

The Director’s hand fluttered among the folds of his lace neckcloth. Then, in an attempt to conceal his pleasure, he rose to his feet and turned away.

After a moment’s silence, Wilson spoke again.

‘I have a question.’

Monsieur de Romblay’s face loomed over the bed once more, all benevolent attention.

‘The church,’ Wilson said. ‘Was it destroyed entirely?’

‘Not entirely. But it’s badly burned.’

The Director explained that scaffolding materials had been piled against an inside wall, chairs too, fence-posts — anything combustible. Then somebody had set the lot on fire.

He sighed. ‘It will be built again, of course. Perhaps next year, perhaps the year after. When things are less sensitive.’ He turned to Wilson and his face brightened. ‘But I did not come here to burden you with all this unpleasantness. I’m here to express the gratitude, not only of Monsieur and Madame Valence, but of the whole community.’ He leaned forwards. ‘I would like to know,’ he said, ‘how we can repay you for what you did.’

‘There’s no need. Madame Valence was a friend.’

‘All the same, Monsieur. It was a heroic act. We feel that it should be recognised.’

Wilson stared up at the ceiling fan. It revolved at a speed that allowed him to distinguish the individual blades. The air dropped on to his face in soothing layers.

‘What can we offer you,’ and the Director’s voice had softened, ‘as a token of our indebtness?’

Wilson brought his eyes down from the ceiling. ‘I’d like some wood.’

‘Wood?’ The distance between Monsieur de Romblay’s features seemed to expand.

‘Oak, if you have it,’ Wilson said, ‘though I guess pine would do.’

The green light of evening.

Across the lawn the palms showed black and spare against the sky. There were no waves in the Bahía de Limón tonight — just a slight swell, a restlessness, as if the water were a single, gleaming sheet and some creature stirred beneath.

It would rain before long.

Angling her chair so that the light fell across her writing paper, Suzanne dipped her pen into the inkwell and began.