Air and Fire by Rupert Thomson Page B

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?’
    â€˜The American.’
    â€˜Is he that fellow with the broken foot?’
    â€˜His name is Wilson Pharaoh. He comes from San Francisco.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Make love to me.’ She had to whisper, or he would hear.
    â€˜Please,’ she whispered.
    She wished that he desired her more often, with more urgency, with violence, if need be. She could imagine that he might hold her down by her hair, that he might take her by surprise, against her will.
    But his love for her, every aspect of his love, seemed so measured. Methodical, precise. It had been the same during the voyage from Le Havre. In their cabin there had been two single bunks, and he considered it undignified, he said, to make love in a narrow bunk – though he had, on more than one occasion, the voyage being so long, felt driven to submit to this indignity.
    The bed lunged and creaked as he climbed in. She listened to his breathing deepen. Then, without thinking, almost despite herself, she reached out and touched his shoulder. He shifted suddenly away from her.
    â€˜What is it?’
    There was anger in his voice. She could not answer.
    â€˜I was almost asleep,’ he said. ‘You startled me.’ He became gentler, more persuasive. ‘You know that I have to be up early in the morning.’
    â€˜Of course, Théo. I’m sorry.’ She turned away from him, lay on her side.
    She felt him lift his head off the pillow and peer at her. She sensed his puzzlement, but knew it would not last. She closed her eyes and listened to her