Rupert Thomson - Air and Fire

July slipped by, and his thoughts began to move northwards. There was a kind of nostalgia lodged in the wood itself. The scent that it released into his nostrils as he worked put him in mind of Upper California. He could see forests of fir trees climbing the slopes behind a town, the tip of each tree sharp, the sweep of the forest even in the glittering fall light. He could hear the deep tolling of the surf at night as the ocean rolled shorewards, and the absolute silence between each breaking wave. He could feel the tug of the land in his blood.

Wilson sat on the doctor’s veranda sipping tea from a china cup. When he had told Bardou, the day before, that he would soon be leaving (Monsieur de Romblay had secured him passage on a steamer bound for San Diego), the doctor had insisted on a full medical examination. Wilson had spent most of that afternoon reclining on a bed in the surgery while the doctor peered into his throat, tapped his kneecaps, scrutinised his pupils, measured his pulse, took his temperature and listened to his chest. After almost an hour, Bardou stood back. His hair, his waistcoat and his teeth conspired in an effortless display of brilliance.

‘You are healthy,’ he declared. ‘You have my permission to leave town.’

Wilson helped himself to another slice of lemon sponge, then turned to Madame Bardou. She was pouring him a second cup of the almond infusion which, according to the doctor, was not only refreshing, but extremely beneficial to the liver.

‘This cake is delicious,’ he said.

Madame Bardou’s wide forehead lowered. Her smile had scarcely reached her lips before it was gone.

The doctor echoed Wilson’s compliment, then steered the conversation from cake to bread. Since Señor Pompano had mastered the baguette, the doctor’s life had become, he said, a model of contentment. In fact, things were looking up generally. Only yesterday, five of his waistcoats had been recovered. In poor condition, admittedly, but what could you expect when Indians had worn them into battle? Wilson asked him what he proposed to do with the waistcoats.

The doctor did not hesitate. ‘I will frame them.’

When Wilson suggested this might be a little gruesome, the doctor disagreed. He argued that it was his duty to preserve the waistcoats.

‘After all,’ he said, tilting his face towards Wilson, the tips of his fingers joined beneath his chin, ‘they have become a part of history, have they not?’

Wilson pictured the brocade. Punctured, ribboned, stained with blood. The brutal evidence of musket-shot and sabre-blades. Men had believed in that glittering cloth. It had betrayed them. Maybe the doctor was right. It was a kind of lesson. History.

He shifted on his chair. ‘That reminds me,’ he said. And, reaching into his pocket, he took out a piece of malachite.

Looking at the crystal, he had to smile. He could remember how the gold had looked when he first found it. Large pieces, in a perfectly smooth, pure state. Stream-rounded, almost. He had forgotten about it until the day he was discharged from hospital and he was handed his possessions. When he undid the straps on his knapsack and reached inside, his hand emerged with a piece of malachite. He reached inside again. Some copper ore. He shook the contents of his knapsack out on the hospital veranda and sat back on his heels. At first he thought he had been robbed — but what thief would have bothered to replace gold with rocks, let alone with malachite and copper? Besides, the nurse assured him that his possessions had been kept under lock and key. No, his eyes had played a trick on him that afternoon. The sun, slanting low across the desert, had lit both the crystals and the ore with a deceitful yellow glow. Some would make fine beads if they were carved and drilled. Others would turn the flames of a fire green. But they were not what his father had been looking for.

He held the malachite out towards the doctor.

The gap between the doctor’s eyebrows narrowed. ‘For me?’ Wilson nodded. ‘I found it in the desert. In my delirium I thought it was gold.’

The doctor laughed. ‘All the same, it’s rather attractive.’ He turned the crystal on his palm.

‘Do you remember my promise to you?’ Wilson said. ‘About the nugget?’

‘Yes, I do. But I never thought — ’

‘Nor did I. Not really.’ Wilson stared at the mountains that had kept their secret from him. ‘I guess that’s about as close as I got.’

Towards sunset Bardou saw him down the steps. After thanking the doctor once again, Wilson walked back along the Calle Francesa, his eyes following patterns in the cobbles. Each stone cut by hand. Then shipped all the way to Mexico.

When he glanced up, it was dusk. That wash of supernatural light before the darkness dropped, a violet glow that altered as you watched. There was a woman in a pale-yellow dress walking along the road ahead of him. He recognised the dress; it had lilies of the valley stitched on to it, which stood for happiness returning. They were the only two people on the road. Any moment now the night would crash down through the sky. He recognised the dress and broke into a run.

‘Stop,’ he cried. ‘Wait.’

The woman stopped where she was, but did not look round. Not until he caught up with her did she turn. It was a face he did not know. A round, young face. A slightly startled smile.

‘Yes?’

‘I thought — ’ He was stammering; his hands cupped empty air. ‘I thought you were someone else.’

The girl did not seem alarmed, only sorry to have disappointed him. She bit her bottom lip, lifting her shoulders in a little shrug.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘My name’s Imelda.’ She held the skirt out sideways in the air and let it fall again. ‘Do you like my dress?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do.’

‘Do you think I look beautiful?’ A sudden shyness lowering her eyes.

‘Very beautiful.’

Her face lit. She turned away.

‘Good-night,’ he called after her.

Her voice floated back over her shoulder. ‘Good-night.’

He stood there, watched her walk away from him, the pale dress fading, settling, sinking down into the darkness.

I am indebted to the following people for providing me with places to work during the past two years: Francis Pike, Martha Crewe (again), and the entire staff at Santa Monica’s Hostel in Zanzibar — Natty, Martin, Mary, Teddy, Faith, Willy and, most of all, my good friend Mr Sam Mkwaya.

In order to write this book, I had to do a great deal of research. Particularly valuable to me were Monsieur Jean Roret, Dr A. J. Monhemius, Professor Fred Norbury, Tom Jaine, Adela Arrambide and Isela Rueda. I am also grateful to the Musée D’Orsay in Paris, and to the British Library, the Science Museum Library, The Royal Institute of British Architects and the Victoria & Albert Museum Library in London.

Lastly I would like to thank Imogen for being a wonderful agent and to wish her well in whatever happens next. I would also like to thank everyone at Bloomsbury, especially Liz, Ruth, Sarah, Mary, Lucy, Nigel, Alan and David, for continuing to support my work and for becoming, over the years, a kind of second family.

This book is dedicated to the memory of Kamps Veeran.

RUPERT THOMSONis the author of eight highly acclaimed novels, of which Air and Fire and The Insult were shortlisted for the Writer’s Guild Fiction Prize and the Guardian Fiction Prize respectively. His most recent novel, Death of a Murderer , was shortlisted for the 2008 Costa Novel Award. His memoir This Party's Got to Stop was published in 2010.