Rupert Thomson - Air and Fire

‘Cool hours. There’s no such thing. Not in the summer.’

‘I’m sure we can arrive at some solution, Monsieur de Romblay. That, after all, is what I’m here for.’

Théo cast a despairing look at Suzanne, but Monsieur de Romblay was already ushering them towards an open carriage.

‘It’s hardly surprising that we’re late,’ Suzanne ventured in a light tone as she took her seat opposite the Director, ‘when you consider how far we’ve come.’

‘Some people who sail round the Horn,’ and Monsieur de Romblay paused, and his chuckle surfaced, ‘ma foi , they never arrive at all.’ He enjoyed this joke of his so much that he had to produce a handkerchief and mop the tears from his cheeks.

Suzanne could not help liking him, despite the peremptory manner in which he had treated Théo. She thought that he was probably just establishing his own authority. He was the Director of Mining Operations which, in a town like Santa Sofía, was tantamount to being mayor. He was the Director and he wanted everyone to understand that, and once they did, it could be forgotten. It was a curiously provincial trait, and all of a sudden she knew what it was about him that struck her as familiar. It was not his face, but his voice. His accent.

‘Forgive me for asking, Monsieur,’ she said, ‘but are you from Normandy?’

‘I was born in Calais.’

‘I thought so,’ she exclaimed. ‘You see, Monsieur, I grew up in Dieppe.’

‘Then we’re neighbours.’

‘We are now,’ she said.

Théo was looking at her with some perplexity, and she could guess why. She seldom spoke of her years in Dieppe — and when she did, it was never with any great fondness or nostalgia. But she had just realised that this coincidence, the link between her and the Director, could be worked to their advantage. Out here they might need allies, and Monsieur de Romblay, judging by the kindly look that he was now bestowing on her, was already close to being one.

Turning away from the Director, she noticed a man sitting in the shade of a tree. The man had a moustache. As she passed by, he raised his hat and smiled. It was an open smile, entirely without guile; it had no other motive than to show respect. She just had time to smile back before the man was hidden by a building. But his gesture lasted in her memory. This would be a friendly town.

She had reached the small square that marked the end of the Calle Francesa. She leaned on the stone parapet; it was still warm from the sun. The sky had darkened, but she could just make out the shape of the houses in the valley below, built in neat rows, like beans planted in a garden. Voices floated upwards. A dog barked once, then barked again — a strangely reluctant sound.

She stepped back from the parapet, uncertain what to do next. The breeze that drifted off the land smelt like a knife found lying at the bottom of a drawer, an unexpected blend of aniseed and rust. There was no freshness in it, nothing green, and yet it was dry and pure, it seemed to come from some high, clean place.

Looking left from where she stood, she could see the dirt-road bending away from her, over the brow of the hill, circling round behind the hospital, then dropping down into the part of town they called El Pueblo. It was still early, not even seven o’clock. She was not tired. A short flight of steps on the east side of the square took her to the road. Once there, she only hesitated for a moment before setting off down the hill.

There were rocks and potholes, and deep grooves worn by the wheels of carriages; she had to tread carefully, or she might fall. Two men rose through the darkness towards her, bent almost double by the loads that they were carrying. They stopped as she passed, not to rest but to stare. They spoke a language she could not identify. She heard it rasp across their tongues, grazing the air behind her as she walked on.

It was darker still in El Pueblo, as dark as the cupboards of her childhood. Sometimes a blade of light showed, bright, then fading, bright again — a candle seen through a crack in the side of a house. She could sense people moving past her down the street, or backwards into alleys, passageways, openings in walls, though it was only the movement that she sensed; she saw nothing as definite as a hand or a face. It could have been animals — dogs, perhaps, or pigs. One doorway spilled a cloudy yellow glow which reminded her of the apple cider her father used to buy for her at country fairs when she was young. She stood on the line where the light ended and the shadows began, and peered in. A single kerosene lamp hung from a rope that had been slung across the room. A family was gathered on the dirt-floor below, all eating with their fingers from the same tin bowl. Flies tangled in the air above their food. On the far wall Christ turned his eyes to the ceiling, as if he could not bear to look. She drew back from the door, moved on.

She took the first left-turning she could find. For a while she thought she was alone in the alley, then she noticed the girls in pale dresses who were leaning against the wall. They had flat faces and whistled softly through their teeth as she passed by. It was like the sound that the wind makes in trees. A sound as thin as needles. She walked faster, turned left again. She could not allow herself to think that she might have made a mistake in coming down the hill. Instead, she longed for a time when she knew the town, where to go for company — where not to go at all. But how would she ever know unless she confronted her ignorance?

Ahead of her, on the corner, she saw an old woman hunched over a fire, poking at the embers with a stick. She wished that she had chosen a different street: this travesty of her visit to Les Halles slowed her heart. But she did not feel that she could retrace her steps.

As she approached, the old woman looked beyond her, cackling. She glanced round. A crowd of children had gathered in her shadow. They must have been following her, but now they were standing still, fanned out behind her like a bridal train. There was a moment of quiet when only the spit and crackle of the fire could be heard, then they were moving closer, holding out their hands. They were asking for something. They used the same word, over and over again. She did not know it.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, in her own language. ‘I have nothing.’

‘Sorry,’ they cried, imitating her. ‘Sorry.’

‘Really, I have nothing,’ she said. ‘Look.’ And she held her empty hands away from her sides.

But she might have been inviting them to admire her, for they clustered round her, touching her dress.

‘Next time,’ she said. ‘Next time I’ll bring you something.’

‘Time,’ they chanted. ‘Time, time.’

She walked in the direction that would return her to the Mesa del Norte. The children followed her until the road began to climb and then they faltered, let her draw away from them. She did not look back again until she reached the hospital. They were still standing at the bottom of the hill, their faces tilted, pale in the darkness.

Entering the hotel lobby almost blinded her; she had to pause inside the door and let her eyes adjust. The wood floors stretched away, gilded under the electric lights. Minerals glittered in their oblong glass cases. Crimson drapes softened voices to a murmur, though, as she moved forwards, there came a sudden shout of laughter from the lounge. Through the curtained doorway she could see Théo sitting in a circle of their new acquaintances. She recognised the Director’s blue frock-coat.

‘Ah, Madame Valence.’ His short arms convulsed and, with a flurry of elbows, he propelled himself out of his chair. ‘May I present my wife?’

Madame de Romblay rose from the chair beside him. She was a handsome woman, in her middle-fifties.