Rupert Thomson - Air and Fire

Suzanne took her hand. ‘I’m honoured, Madame.’

‘What a charming creature.’ Madame de Romblay offered her profile as she spoke, the words spilling over her shoulder. They must have been intended for her husband. ‘I do hope that you’re settling in, my dear.’

‘Yes indeed, Madame. Thank you.’

Madame de Romblay had eyes the colour of tin and a nose that seemed profoundly attracted to her upper lip. When she smiled, her teeth slanted back into her mouth. Suzanne’s first thought was that she had assumed the airs of her husband, though without the underlying humour.

‘And this is Monsieur Castagnet,’ Théo said, moving to her side. ‘He has very kindly offered to assist me in the event of any construction difficulties.’

‘We’re not anticipating a great many of those, Madame.’ Monsieur Castagnet bowed low.

Suzanne noted the large square face, the amused eyes, the forehead scored with lines. ‘If the two of you are to be working together,’ she said, ‘then I can be perfectly confident of the outcome.’

Smiling, Monsieur Castagnet bowed again.

‘And now, if you would excuse us,’ Théo said, ‘we really must retire. It has been a long day.’

He took Suzanne’s arm and ushered her towards the stairs. Once they were alone, he turned to her.

‘Where have you been?’ His voice was hushed, fretful.

‘I went for a walk.’

‘A walk? Where?’

‘Nowhere in particular,’ she said.

‘You didn’t go into the town, I hope.’

‘I walked along the street,’ she said, ‘then down the hill a little way.’ She opened the door that led to their suite and moved beyond him, into the room.

‘There were children,’ she said, removing her gloves. ‘They wanted something, but I didn’t know what. Sweets, I suppose. Or money.’

‘You shouldn’t have gone down there, Suzanne. It’s dangerous.’

‘Dangerous?’ She put surprise into her voice — though there had been a moment, she remembered, when she had felt uneasy. Those girls in pale dresses, air whistling between their teeth.

‘Yes.’ He turned away, frowning, and touched the bevelled edge of the mirror with one finger. ‘Of course.’

‘But we’re living here, Théo. Surely we cannot live in fear.’

‘We can live with propriety, however.’

Something gave way in her; she went and stood beside him, took his arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it was foolish of me.’

As she spoke, the building shuddered. The shutters on the window rattled. She tightened her grip on his arm.

‘That’s the smelting works,’ he said. ‘When I told Monsieur de Romblay that I was looking forward to a good night’s sleep, he just laughed. “You’ll be lucky,” he said.’ Théo shook his head. ‘That fellow takes great delight, it seems, in making fun of me.’

She smiled up at him. ‘I love you, Théo.’

He sighed and patted her hand. ‘I’m going to turn in. And you, my dear, you must be tired too.’

She nodded. ‘I am.’

But she stood for a while longer by the window, looking out into the night. Many of the lights across the street had been extinguished. The Gulf of California lay far below, one shade darker than the sky. And it was then that she thought of the cabin-boy and felt a loneliness descend. She remembered how avidly they had listened to each other’s stories, for they each believed the other’s life to be more exotic than their own. But there had been no time to meet him again. No chance to compare their findings about the colour of the sea, no chance to lean against the rail and watch the water folding away from the side of the boat. No chance to say goodbye. That morning, as she climbed into the Director’s carriage, she thought she saw a figure high up on the bridge, a figure with eyes like splinters and a head of curls. But when she waved, the figure had not waved back. She felt the disappointment sink into her, the way rain sinks into sand and darkens it. Her breath misted the glass. She wished that events would not so readily assume the shape of punishments.

Then she heard Théo call her name and, turning away from the window, she moved across the room towards him.

Hôtel de Paris, Santa Sofía, Lower California, Mexico

20th April, 189–

My dear Monsieur Eiffel,

A second letter, following swiftly on the heels of the first, seemed called for, if only to reassure you that we have arrived at our destination without further mishap.

Santa Sofía is a most unusual town, dividing as it does into three almost completely separate parts. The centre is laid out on a grid pattern, three avenues wide (each one bearing the name of an indigenous mineral) and ten streets deep, coming to an abrupt end one kilometre inland in a steep wall of sandstone and pumice. The mineworkers, predominantly of Indian extraction, are housed here in rows of identical dwellings that were built for them by the company and, though insufficient time has passed for the houses to have achieved much of a sense of individuality, the character of certain tenants can be deduced from the speed with which their properties are becoming dilapidated. To the south, high on an inhospitable ridge, a modest company of Mexican soldiers (or rurales, as they are known) has been garrisoned. Their commander, Captain Montoya, is the local representative of the Mexican Government. As such, he is held responsible for policing the entire area, and he can also be called upon to intercede between the French and the Indians, should any disagreement or unpleasantness arise; I can make no comment on the gentleman, since I have not yet had the pleasure of his acquaintance. The French, meanwhile, are to be found in the northern section of the town. We have made our home on a plateau that plays host to any passing breeze and is therefore considerably more comfortable than the valley below. The Mesa del Norte (known, colloquially, as Frenchtown) comprises one wide street that seems familiar and reassuring at the outset — with its paved surface and its rows of plane trees planted down both sides, it is faintly reminiscent of a Parisian boulevard — though this familiarity is, in itself, strange and not a little disconcerting. It is here that we are quartered, in the local hotel, having been assured that a house awaits us.

And so to the work in progress — though the word ‘progress’ is hardly appropriate in the circumstances. The assembly of this particular church ought to be a simple enough process (and would be, if we were in France), but a number of difficulties have already arisen. Owing to our late arrival, we shall be building during the hottest months of the year. It is for this reason, I surmise, that we have so far been unable to muster an adequate labour force, though Monsieur de Romblay assures me that men will be found, even if he has to sacrifice a few of his own workers from the mine. In any case, we cannot yet begin the assembly since the foundations, which were to be laid in advance of our arrival, have been installed without the proper care and attention, and will have to be scrapped and then rebuilt. Perhaps, after all, this is just the confusion that surrounds any project at the outset.

I trust this letter finds you in the best of health, Monsieur. You would do me a great service if you would convey to your daughter Claire my very best wishes on the occasion of her birthday; it seems strange to be asking this of you in April, and yet, by the time this letter reaches you, the sentiment will, I judge, be an appropriate one. I am, respectfully, your must humble and obedient servant,

Théophile Valence.

The doctor had told Wilson to rest, which was no great hardship if you lived in a fine house with maids and ceiling fans and a veranda. All Wilson had was a single room on the first floor of the Hotel La Playa. A narrow bed stood in the corner, its springs so exhausted that his spine touched the floor when he lay down. A striped blanket hid the mattress. There were no sheets. There was no closet either. Someone had driven nails into the wall instead. Three copper nails, green with rust. Still, they served as a place to hang his jacket and his hat. Plaster had tumbled from the ceiling, exposing joists of blackened wood and, over by the door, he could see between two floorboards down into the room below. There was a stubborn smell of cooking-fat and sour sweat. At least he faced the street, though. That was something. At least he had a view.