Air and Fire (37 page)

Hands on the windowsill, she peered down. Below her was a slanting roof of tin. If she could drop down and somehow keep from slipping, she would be halfway to the ground. She sat side-saddle on the sill, and then let go.

Her heels skidded; she lost her balance. She landed on her hip, began to roll. But the pitch of the roof was shallow. She dug her fingers between two sheets of corrugated tin and held on. In the silence that followed she could hear the roof adjusting to her presence.

She sat still, trying to rehearse her next move. There were three wooden stanchions supporting the veranda on this side of the house, she remembered, each stanchion shaped like a Y. She would have to crawl or slide backwards and then feel for the place where the stanchion joined the roof. If she could just win a foothold in the crook of a Y, then she would be able to ease herself over the edge and climb down the stanchion to the wooden rail where the carpets were hung out to air.

In a few moments it was accomplished. She had not been seen, nor had she done herself any further damage. She stood on the pale-green boards of the veranda, jasmine twisting up the wall behind her. Her mind emptied suddenly and she glanced down. The front of her dress was smeared with rust; the white satin had an odd, scorched look, as if it had been held too close to a fire. She realised she could not risk the street; if anybody saw her like this, she would be locked up again – and probably in the hospital this time. And the path that led along the backs of the houses would be no safer: Florestine Bardou spent part of every morning on her back porch, creating yet another waistcoat for her husband. There was only one direction open to her, and that was down the slope, towards the company offices and workshops.

She left the veranda by the kitchen stairs and, lifting her skirts an inch, began to pick her way down the barren hillside. The sun leaned on her bare head. At one point she heard voices, and had to hide behind a rock. Four Indians passed within a few feet of her. One of them wore a
beret. She had seen him the day before, leading the march up Avenida Cobre. They seemed to be pointing at the doctor's house. They did not notice her.

At the bottom of the slope she slipped through a wire fence and into the alleyway between two buildings. The sudden shade was like a benediction. She stood against a wall and looked around. Pools of oil shimmered. Broken cement-blocks lay in heaps. She had to try not to think about her hands. How much they hurt her. How she was carrying bits of the house in her skin. The wall trembled at her back. She found a window and, peering into the building, watched fire arc downwards through the gloom. The molten copper flowed from a ladle near the roof into a huge cylindrical drum. She saw Pierre Morlaix standing below. His silver hair marked him out. It was then that she realised the extent of her own visibility, dressed in white silk, soiled though it was. She hurried down the alleyway. Behind her, she heard the drum begin to turn.

She crossed a factory yard and hid in the gap between a warehouse and a stack of railway sleepers. All in all the circumstances favoured her. With the Indians on strike, there would be fewer people about. Less chance of being seen. She edged past a padlocked door and, rounding the corner, found herself in a passage that led between two high walls of blackened brick. And there, at the far end of the passage, bleached by the sunlight, was the piece of luck she needed. Bleached to the colour of a ghost, but real enough. A horse.

She moved towards the horse – slowly, so as not to startle it. Its head swung in her direction, curious. She recognised it now. All black, with two white fetlocks and a white blaze on its forehead. It belonged to Monsieur de Romblay. She even knew its name.

‘Normandy,' she whispered.

She pushed one hand against the sleek muscles in its neck.

‘There, Normandy, there,' she whispered as she untied the loosely knotted reins. Still whispering the horse's name, she fitted one foot into the stirrups and eased up into the saddle.

She rode through the gates and out on to the cinder track that ran between the office buildings and the sea. Nobody called after her. Nobody had noticed. She had not liked taking the Director's horse, but it could not be helped. And he would thank her later.

Her first idea had been to ride to Captain Montoya's house and warn him. But that would have been a mistake, she realised, a terrible mistake. It would be far better to ride in the opposite direction. To put as much
distance as possible between herself and the event. For she now believed that it could not happen if she were not watching. Without her, the table could not be raised against that cairn of stones. Without her, the naked women could not dance.

This new belief had come from nowhere, with the force of a revelation. Her dream's appendix. Ride away from the town; ride up into the hills. It was the only way to save his life.

Back in his hotel room Wilson sat with his boots on the table and his guitar cradled in his hands. He had decided to put the finishing touches to that song of his. It would complement her message to him, which he had got so late. It would be the tune of their reunion.

He was still tinkering with the first two lines when somebody rapped on the door. He jumped so hard, his thumb caught in the strings. An edgy, chaotic chord. He put the guitar down and reached for his shovel. If it was Indians again, they'd be in for a surprise this time. The same went for those half-brothers of the Bony One. The blade's edge had a blunt grin where he had cleaned the dirt away; the steel gleamed. It was rapidly becoming a traditional weapon in town. But it would do the job, no question. He had seen men killed with far less elegance.

‘Who is it?' he called out.

He stood to one side of the door with the shovel raised.

‘It is I. Monsieur Valence.'

‘One moment.'

He leaned the shovel against the wall and, looping his suspenders over his shoulders, tucked his shirt into the waistband of his pants. What could the Frenchman want? It must be urgent, for him to venture down into El Pueblo on such a night. He opened the door. Valence peered through the gap.

‘I'm sorry to intrude on you.'

Wilson held the door open. ‘Come on in.'

Showing Valence to a chair by the window, he was momentarily embarrassed by the poverty of his surroundings.

‘You're taking a big risk coming here,' he said. ‘I was almost lynched tonight.'

Valence sat with a straight back, both hands balanced on the carved head of his cane. He had the stillness, the solidity, of a piece of furniture. A dresser, maybe, or a chest of drawers. A place where things were tidy,
ordered, stored. And yet Wilson had the feeling, looking at the man, that if he slid a drawer open, any drawer, then chaos would be revealed. Moths. A nest of mice.

‘You have a nice view of the church,' Valence said.

Then he fell quiet again.

‘Is there something I can do for you?' Wilson asked eventually.

Valence began to tell him about a priest who had visited the site during the first days of construction. The priest had delivered a sermon to a gathering of Indian workers. Afterwards one of the Indians had approached the priest. The Indian was curious about the new building. He wanted to know what it was. ‘It's a church,' the priest said. Then, so as to make himself quite clear, he added, ‘A house of God.' ‘A house of God?' The Indian looked puzzled. ‘What does God want with a house?' The priest gazed at the Indian with an expression of kindly tolerance. ‘It's a place where we can go and meet Him,' he explained. ‘You too will be able to meet Him there.' The Indian's look of puzzlement remained. ‘But I thought you said that God was everywhere.' There was a silence, then the priest suddenly remembered that he had an important engagement on the Mesa del Norte. If he did not leave immediately he would be late.

‘It's not the first time the Indians have got the better of a priest,' Wilson said with a smile.

But Valence did not seem to have heard. He was still staring out of the window.

‘Suzanne has disappeared,' he said.

‘What?' Wilson was not sure that he had understood.

‘My wife, Suzanne. She has disappeared.'

‘When?'

‘This morning.'

‘Where did she go?'

‘I have no idea.'

Both men were still, one sitting on the chair, the other standing over by the wall. There was the power and secrecy of this information between them now, binding them the way blood does. It was as if they had suddenly become fingers of the same hand.

Valence began to mutter in his own language. Wilson stepped forwards and put one hand on the Frenchman's shoulder.

Valence looked up. ‘I'm sorry. You cannot understand.'

‘Could she be somewhere in the town?'

‘I don't know. She stole a horse.'

Wilson had to smile. His father may not have trusted green-eyed women, but he would surely have warmed to a green-eyed woman who could steal a horse.

‘It is not a laughing matter, Monsieur.'

The Frenchman's eyes had mustered some hostility. Wilson chose to ignore it.

‘If she stole a horse,' he said, ‘she could be anywhere.'

She could be dead, he thought. Nobody rode out into that landscape without knowing its secrets and its dangers – even somebody who seemed blessed, like her. The heat of the sun, the dearth of water. There was no mercy in the land. It would kill you as soon as look at you.

‘I thought perhaps,' and Valence was lifting his face again, in hope this time, in supplication, ‘that you could find her.'

Wilson turned away.

Valence rose out of his chair. ‘You understand the country. You know it.' His voice dropped, like someone taking cover. ‘You are her friend.'

When Wilson did not reply, Valence spoke again. ‘Am I wrong?'

‘You're not wrong.'

‘Then for the sake of friendship.' Valence spread his hands. ‘You have to.'

Wilson shook his head. There was no avoiding her. It did not matter which way he turned. She was round every corner, at the end of every street. If she did not appear in person she appeared in what was being said. When he closed his eyes to keep her out, she stepped into his dreams.

‘I'm not sure,' he said slowly, ‘that you're in any position to make demands.'

‘I don't follow you,' Valence said.

It was too late for Wilson to hold back now. ‘If you had truly loved your wife,' he said, ‘she would not have gone.'

The Frenchman's face tightened.

‘What do you know about it?' he said.

‘I know enough.'

The two men stared at each other without speaking. The silence thickened in the room.

Then Valence turned away, one hand thrust into his hair. ‘She loved me first. I could never – ' He had walked into the corner of the room. He was facing the wall.

Wilson could not think of anything to say.

‘If I loved her, she always loved me more. I wanted balance, equality. She would not allow it.'

Valence swung round. ‘I knew she should not have come to Mexico with me. I knew that it would be difficult. But she insisted. She can be so strong.' He smiled. It was a hopeless, foolish smile, deformed by circumstance. It was not something that he could really permit himself. ‘She said it was the place of a wife, that she should be with her husband.'

‘And isn't it?'

Valence shrugged. ‘It depends who you listen to.'

‘Maybe you're the wrong man for her,' Wilson said.

‘And who is the right man? You?' Valence was almost glacial. His confessions had given him strength.

‘No.' Wilson looked round at his rented room, his few belongings. And had to chuckle. ‘No,' he said, ‘not me.'

And suddenly he found the way forwards. This was nothing to do with love. A man had come to him and asked for help. It did not matter which man, what help. He had no right to turn the man away.

‘I'll need a mule. Mine's split her hoof.'

‘You will do it?'

‘Yes.'

‘I will find a mule for you. Immediately.'

There was no reward for Wilson in the Frenchman's sudden animation, in his gratitude. If anything, it exhausted him.

‘And provisions,' he added. ‘I'll need food and water.'

Valence had one hand on the door, but then he saw that Wilson had not finished. ‘Is there something more?'

Wilson occupied the centre of the room. ‘I'm her friend. You know that. What you don't know is, I love her.' He saw that Valence was about to speak and raised a hand to silence him. ‘It's all right. She doesn't know. I haven't told her and I don't intend to. She will never know.'

Valence had not flinched from Wilson's painful gaze, nor from the knowledge of his secret, but now he lowered his eyes. His voice, when he finally spoke, was soft as the dust that rolled along the bottom of the walls.

‘You are also the wrong man?'

Wilson nodded slowly. ‘Yes.'

‘Come to the main office in two hours,' Valence said. ‘I will be there, with everything you need.' He left the room, closing the door behind him.

Wilson sat down on the bed.

‘But it's you she loves,' he said, ‘and I'm not so sure that you deserve it.'

When he looked away from the door, she was standing in the corner of the room, next to the wooden frame that held the washing bowl. She had changed into another dress. There was nothing strange about that; it was another day, after all. He had not seen the dress before. It was geranium-red, with trimmings of black lace and black buttons at the cuffs.

‘You didn't hear any of that,' he said.

She did not move except to reach up with one hand and push a curling strand of hair away from her forehead. Her eyes were paler than usual, chalky, almost grey, and her skin had such clarity, it was like shaped light.

‘I'm not feeling too good,' he told her. ‘I'm going to need your help.'