Read Online Air and Fire by Rupert Thomson - Free Book Online Page A

was known locally as El Cordonazo or ‘the Lash’. While she gazed at the view which, even at an early hour, would seem to undulate in the heat, Rodrigo, the houseboy, would bring her coffee in a glass cup, a basket of fresh rolls and a French newspaper that was never less than six months out of date. Rodrigo moved with a kind of slovenly grace which was only appealing because he was young, and which would in time, she felt, become grotesque. He always had a smile for her, though, and he would leave small gifts on her table – sometimes the flower from a prickly pear, sometimes a piece of fruit. It was Rodrigo who showed her the library behind the office, shelves of novels, journals and almanacs that had been discarded by previous guests, some in English, the rest in French, and it was Rodrigo who then offered to carry her selections up the stairs for her. She spent whole afternoons in her drawing-room, reclining on the ottoman by the window. She sketched, she read her books; she slept. There were no more expeditions of the kind that she had undertaken on her first evening. She did not seek the land out; she was content to let it come to her.
    Her first visitor was the Director’s wife. A sharp, two-syllable knock on the door heralded a flurry of emerald silk skirts as Madame de Romblay launched herself into the room. Her tin eyes glittered; her tea-gown foamed with Irish lace.
    â€˜Forgive me for disturbing you like this. I was just passing.’ Her mouth opened in a mirthless smile. ‘In a town the size of Santa Sofía, one cannot help but be just passing.’ She placed one hand against her collar-bone and stooped to examine the gilt frame on a miniature. ‘How are you, my dear?’
    â€˜I’m very well, thank you.’ Suzanne always had the feeling that Madame de Romblay’s questions, though innocent and conventional on the surface, were probing after some much deeper and more unhappy truth. ‘Can I offer you something?’
    But the woman was already half-way to the fireplace, her eyes scanning the silk-lined walls, her pale-green sunshade twitching on her shoulder. ‘It’s not a bad hotel, though it’s not what you’re used to, I’m sure.’
    â€˜I’m not used to staying in hotels at all,’ Suzanne replied. ‘Actually, I’m quite enjoying it.’
    Madame de Romblay surveyed her from the far end of the room. ‘We are so few here. I’m afraid that you’ll be bored.’
    â€˜I came here to be with my husband, Madame. I did not expect a constant round of entertainment.’
    â€˜Well, we do our best.’ With a fatalistic sigh, Madame de Romblay opened a fan that was inlaid with mother-of-pearl and began to beat the air beneath her chin. ‘There will be a dinner, of course,’ she said, ‘to welcome you both.’
    â€˜I shall look forward to it.’
    â€˜Oh yes, and my husband asked me to assure you that you’ll not be inconvenienced for much longer. Your house will be ready by the end of the week,’ and Madame de Romblay’s eyes lingered on the books and journals that littered surfaces throughout the room, ‘then you’ll have something to occupy you at last.’
    Later, Suzanne stood at the window and watched as Madame de Romblay emerged from the ground floor of the hotel. The drawing-room still seemed disrupted by her presence. The air churned.
    It was the doctor who appeared next, using his professional status as an excuse for a visit which was, Suzanne suspected, entirely social.
    â€˜And how are you feeling, Madame?’ He spun gracefully into the room on slippered feet, the tips of his moustache as sharp as the points of pencils, his hair slick with pomade.
    She admitted to being somewhat tired.
    â€˜A long voyage,’ the doctor said. ‘A new climate.’ He opened his hands and brought his shoulders up towards his ears. ‘It’s only to be