Air and Fire by Rupert Thomson

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.
    â€˜What do you think of our new friends?’ he asked.
    She understood his intent, however veiled. ‘I do not regret cominghere,’ she said, ‘not for one moment.’
    He laughed. ‘If our conversation were bridges, I fear they would soon collapse.’
    â€˜Oh?’ She took his arm. ‘And why is that?’
    â€˜We advance too quickly, before we have built the necessary struts and trusses to support us.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Curious?’ he said. ‘Why do you find it curious, Monsieur?’
    â€˜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