Air and Fire (10 page)

‘A most amusing speech, Monsieur.'

Monsieur de Romblay bent close to her ear. ‘I did not go too far, my dear?'

‘My husband may be correct,' Suzanne replied, ‘but he can take a joke. You should hear me sometimes.'

Perhaps, after all, she had drunk one too many glasses of the garnet wine herself. But the Director had thrown his head back and seemed to be threatening, in his merriment, to swallow the chandelier.

‘You are certainly a welcome addition to our little throng,' he said, when he had regained his composure. ‘Most welcome.'

In the drawing-room the women conversed among themselves, complaining first of the laziness of Mexican and Indian maids, then of the din made by the boys who delivered the water; there was also a brief and hushed discussion of some local root that was reputed to have aphrodisiacal powers. All this talk either concerned events that preceded Suzanne's arrival or presumed a degree of intimacy that she did not as yet possess, but she was content simply to listen, turning every now and then to gaze out of the window. The Director's house occupied the high ground at the south end of the Calle Francesa. She could look beyond the rooftops of the houses opposite to where the sea pushed against the gravel shore. She could see white smoke rising from the smelting works like the trunk of some ghostly tree. Away to the right and far below she could just make out the dim yellow lights of the harbour.

She had suspected that, sometime during the course of the evening, she would be examined by Madame de Romblay, so when she heard the chair beside her fill with rustling taffeta she knew, without looking, who it was. She could feel those cold tin eyes travelling across her clothes, her skin. She prepared a smile for the moment when she turned from the window, back into the room.

‘Madame de Romblay, that was a truly exceptional meal.'

‘You must call me Léonie, my dear.' Madame de Romblay lit a dark-brown cigarette and let the smoke spill from the corner of her mouth. ‘We're such a small community here. We cannot stand on too much ceremony.'

Suzanne inclined her head, a gesture that was not unlike submitting to a guillotine. And then Madame de Romblay's voice, soft as the blindfold that would be used: ‘How long have you been married?'

‘Almost six years.'

Madame de Romblay's upper body moved sharply backwards. ‘I would not have thought that you were old enough.'

The two remaining women had exhausted their conversation on the other side of the room and were listening with undisguised curiosity. But Suzanne could not think of a reply. Instead, she focused her attentions on Madame de Romblay's dress. A woman with Madame de Romblay's colouring should not be wearing cerise. It gave her neck and shoulders an unhealthy, mottled look. A darker colour would have been more flattering. Indigo, perhaps. Or heliotrope.

In the face of Suzanne's silence, Madame de Romblay felt the need to elaborate.

‘You must have been very young,' she said.

‘I was twenty.'

‘So you are now, what, twenty-six?'

Suzanne admitted it.

‘You don't look twenty-six, my dear.' Madame de Romblay appealed to the other women, and they duly shook their heads.

‘Thank you,' Suzanne said.

Madame de Romblay tipped an inch of ash into the metal ashtray at her elbow, one eyebrow arching. ‘He's a distinguished man, your husband.'

‘He has done well,' Suzanne ventured, ‘yes.'

‘And how did you meet him?' Madame de Romblay leaned over and shut her cigarette inside the ashtray. While her back was still turned, she added, ‘After all, the age difference, you must admit, is quite considerable.'

Suzanne smiled. ‘My father taught at the École Centrale in Paris, and Théo was one of his best students. They became friends. Théo was often a visitor at our house.' Her smile spread as a lie occurred to her. ‘In fact, I'm sure that I remember Théo babysitting me,' she said, ‘when I was about seven.'

‘How charming,' Madame de Romblay said.

But she knew that Suzanne had pre-empted her, and she knew that Suzanne knew, and the pot of coffee that had just arrived in the room provided her with an opportunity to excuse herself.

After leaving the de Romblays' house, Suzanne and Théo crossed the small square that she had discovered on her first evening. They stood at the parapet, looking down into the valley. A warm breeze rose off the sea and pushed against her dress.

‘What do you think of our new friends?' he asked.

She understood his intent, however veiled. ‘I do not regret coming
here,' she said, ‘not for one moment.'

He laughed. ‘If our conversation were bridges, I fear they would soon collapse.'

‘Oh?' She took his arm. ‘And why is that?'

‘We advance too quickly, before we have built the necessary struts and trusses to support us.'

‘Sometimes,' she said, feeling daring now, feeling a sudden sense of release, ‘I think you overdo the struts and trusses.'

He laughed again, though less readily. It was a reference to the tower that he had laboured on with such zeal and devotion, and it was a reference that was less than respectful. But she had wanted to dispatch his gravity with her light wand; she had meant him to understand that she loved him, not for what he had accomplished, but for what he was – not the engineer, but the man.

He turned away from the parapet, hands clasped behind his back. She followed him. They walked beneath the trees in silence. She watched the light and shade alternating on his face.

‘Well,' he said at last, ‘they seemed satisfied with the plans, though there was one rather awkward moment.'

She saw that he had not held her piece of gentle mockery against her. Perhaps he had understood her after all.

‘What happened?' she asked.

He set the scene for her. When he entered the library that evening he saw that his architectural drawings had been laid out on the table, their corners held down by an assortment of natural paperweights – copper, mostly, as one might have expected, though there were also some specimens of various local minerals: gypsum, chalcedony, malachite and jasper; there was even, he remembered, a fossilised shark's tooth from the Pliocene era. This digression, so typical of him, might, at other times, have frustrated her, but on this warm night, with her arm linked through his, she found it impossible not to indulge him.

For many of the men gathered round the table, Théo said, this was a first glimpse of the church that would be built for them, since it had been purchased on their behalf by the head office of the company in Paris. They were murmuring and pointing, conferring among themselves, the air rich with the mingled fumes of brandy and cigars. Then François Pineau cleared his throat.

‘He is the thin one,' Suzanne said, ‘with the twisted upper lip.'

Théo nodded. ‘He's the accountant.'

She smiled. It was as if, in describing the nature of the man's work, Théo had supplied the reason for his ugliness.

Monsieur Pineau cleared his throat and stepped back from the table. ‘It's a curious notion, don't you think,' he declared, ‘building a metal church in a town like this?'

The question was directed at no one particular person, but rather tossed into the air in order that somebody might reach out and catch it. That somebody was Théo, as, no doubt, it had to be.

‘Curious?' he said. ‘Why do you find it curious, Monsieur?'

‘I don't know whether you are familiar with our climate, Monsieur Valence, but during the summer months the temperature often rises to thirty-five degrees, sometimes higher. In a church that is constructed wholly out of metal –' He lifted one hand into the air. He had made his point; he did not need to go on.

There was a sudden hush in the library, as if this factor had not been properly taken into consideration, as if some dreadful blunder had been committed. All eyes turned slowly, inevitably, to Théo. This was the awkward moment to which he had alluded. He was not shaken, however, or cowed. He had been present when Monsieur Eiffel defended his tower in front of a hostile committee of the city council, and defended it on both structural and aesthetic grounds. This was not even a matter of aesthetics; this was simply a practical objection.

‘I'm sure that your superiors in Paris would not have bought the church in the first place,' he replied, ‘if they thought it inadequate for their needs.' Then, in case it seemed that he had merely put the accountant in his place, he turned to specifics. ‘There will be insulation between the walls,' he explained, ‘in the roof, too, if we can find a suitable material. Pumice has, I believe, been suggested.' He turned to Monsieur Castagnet, who nodded. ‘There will also be a great many windows, as you can see. Draughts will be conducted throughout the building.'

‘My dear Monsieur Valence,' and Pineau's lip curled in a sardonic smile, ‘during the summer months, there are no draughts.'

‘And in time, of course,' Théo continued, ‘there will be fans. I hasten to remind you that we are living in a modern age. We need no longer be at the mercy of an unfavourable climate.'

‘In time,' Pineau muttered. He would not be placated.

‘Perhaps, gentlemen,' Monsieur de Romblay ventured, ‘we are meant to suffer for our religion.'

Even Théo had laughed at that.

‘The Director is not without a certain wit,' Suzanne observed.

Théo murmured his agreement. ‘In any case,' he added, ‘they will not have to suffer just yet. In fact, it will be a good two months before they have to start suffering.'

‘Two months it may be,' Suzanne said, ‘but I'll wager that Madame de Romblay has already reserved her pew.'

‘I must say, I do not care for that woman.' Théo was frowning. ‘There is something vulgar about her. Though the dinner was exceptional, of course.'

Suzanne smiled to herself as she recalled how Madame de Romblay had flirted with Théo, and how Théo had signally failed to respond. Théo did not understand flattery; he never took it personally or believed it, not for a moment. To him it was one facet of the art of conversation; it was purely an exercise in the social graces, pleasant enough, but essentially meaningless. When Madame de Romblay suggested that some of Eiffel's genius might have rubbed off on him, he immediately, and without self-consciousness or hesitation, launched into a discussion of the word and then departed for the wider pastures of semantics, leaving the poor woman far behind with a glazed expression on her face.

Suzanne's smile widened. There was something vulgar about her, he had said, as if it was something that he could not quite pin down – a hidden quality, some elusive trait. She remembered how Madame de Romblay had turned from Théo to Montoya, leaning into him, her tin eyes glittering through narrowed lids. She had been wearing a dress that made no secret of her breasts, and all the men, at some time in the evening, had let their eyes rest for a moment on those brazen slopes. Where for some they might have been emblems of seduction, for Théo they were merely vulgar. For the young Captain they appeared to present a positive threat. He seemed flustered, if not smothered, by her interest. As for the rest of the company it was rather as if she were lavishing attention upon a favourite hound. They displayed no signs of unease or embarrassment; the atmosphere was one of complicity. In fact, the manner in which her behaviour was tolerated suggested that this was an established routine, that the French thought of Montoya, and perhaps all Mexicans, as a lesser breed, a butt for ridicule, a source of entertainment. But if Madame de Romblay was vulgar, she was also dangerous – for what was that vulgarity but a craving for centre-stage; it was her right, her privilege, and the other women, Marie and Florestine, had left the field open for her. Suzanne saw that she would have to tread with the utmost care. She could make enemies here.

This meditation had brought them both to the front of the hotel, and Théo stood aside so she could climb the steps to the veranda. She paused under the sloping roof to draw the beauty of the night into her lungs. The air was dense and soft; she felt she could almost cup it in her hand. She looked away to the south. The moon had risen into the clear sky above the mountains. Her thoughts turned to the American. When she first addressed him, just below where she was standing now, it had been with a confidence, a kind of familiarity, which, had it been viewed from the outside, say by Madame de Romblay, would probably have seemed quite inappropriate – even, perhaps, shameless. But she had once again sensed a kinship between this new acquaintance and the water-carrier from her childhood; they shared the same kindliness, the same quiet strength. It had seemed entirely natural to seek him out and talk to him.

She took Théo's arm. ‘When the moon is full, Théo, you can sit outside at night and read a book.'

The idea entertained him. ‘Who told you that?'

‘The American.'

‘Is he that fellow with the broken foot?'

‘His name is Wilson Pharaoh. He comes from San Francisco.'

‘Typical American,' Théo said, ‘to go filling your head with fanciful notions.' His tone of voice was understanding, though, and fond; he was only amused at the naivety of a foundling nation.

She pressed closer to him. ‘I wish you were younger,' she said, ‘so that I might have more time with you.'

He smiled down at her. ‘I'm not dead yet.'

She lay on her back under the mosquito-netting that arched from the bed up to a metal halo near the ceiling. Its long sides billowed in the down-draught from the fan. She could hear Théo washing in the room next door – water splashing on to stone. It was their last night in the hotel. Tomorrow they would be moving into a house with a view of the sea. The garnet wine surged through her body; her blood weighed more than usual in her veins. One of her hands drifted upwards from her hip. Her skin rose to the touch of her nightgown.