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

expected.’
    â€˜And what do you prescribe, Doctor?’
    â€˜Rest, Madame.’
    â€˜I’ve been resting a good deal,’ she told him.
    â€˜Excellent.’ The doctor nodded to himself. His sleek hair caught the light and flashed. ‘One must conserve one’s energy. I insist that my wife rests for at least an hour every afternoon. She finds it most beneficial.’
    Suzanne had met Florestine Bardou the day before, on the Calle Francesa. The two women stood on the street, their faces shaded by the fringed rims of their parasols. Florestine had been wearing a plain grey dress which constrasted most strangely with the luxuriant convolutions of her name, and she had the habit of lowering her eyes when she was speaking as if she were in the presence of someone far more important than herself. Suzane was beginning to understand how this might have come about.
    â€˜Well,’ the doctor was saying, ‘I just hope that life won’t be too dull foryou. I hope that you will not become too,’ and his eyes lifted to the ceiling as he searched for the word, ‘too jaded.’
    She smiled. ‘The town doesn’t seem to have had that effect on you, Doctor.’
    â€˜No?’ The doctor glowed. He was not a man to be dismayed by compliments.
    That afternoon, as she followed his advice and rested for an hour, she heard the piano again, only this time it was not
Carmen,
but something that she did not know. It sounded like a ballad or a show-tune, she decided, as she closed her eyes. She dreamed of people dancing in a barn, with bales of hay stacked high against the walls, rush-torches casting shadows on a sawdust floor.
    In the evening she looked for Rodrigo. She found him on the veranda, idly flicking dead flies off the tables with an ancient copy of
Le Temps.
When he saw her, his eyes brightened.
    â€˜You have been reading?’ he asked.
    She smiled at his mangled, lisping French. ‘A little.’ She let her eyes drift out over the Sea of Cortez. The water had absorbed the fading light, its surface the colour of woodsmoke, or hyacinth. It was after five o’clock. People would soon be arriving for their aperitifs.
    She turned back to Rodrigo. ‘I thought I heard someone playing the piano this afternoon.’
    â€˜Yes, Madame.’
    â€˜Do you know who it is who plays?’
    â€˜He is American.’
    â€˜There’s an American here?’
    â€˜Yes. He plays the piano. Always in the afternoon.’ Rodrigo smiled, and his sharp teeth showed. ‘He is a good man,’ Rodrigo said, ‘but he is,’ and he revolved one finger in the air beside his ear.
    â€˜Mad?’ she said.
    â€˜Yes.’ He grinned. ‘Mad.’
    The following afternoon, towards three o’clock, Suzanne was woken from a light sleep by the opening bars of Schubert’s ‘Marche Militaire’. She rose from the couch and crossed the room to her dressing-table. She had determined to seek out the American and make his acquaintance. It would be a welcome diversion; it would also be a chance to practise her English. She had only met one American before. In the summer of 1889 Buffalo Bill Cody had brought his Wild West Company to Paris as part of theWorld Fair. During his stay Mr Cody had visited the Eiffel Tower and, after signing his name in the guest book, she and Théo, among others, had taken him to lunch. He had been a man of some considerable charm, despite his long hair and his peculiar clothes.
    She made one final adjustment to her dress, then left the room. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, however, she hesitated; she did not advance into the lobby. The American was seated at the piano, less than twenty feet away. He was playing with such vigour that he remained entirely unaware of her. She drew back into the shadows.
    Light flooded through the windows behind him. His face was hard to see. He sat with a straight back, his hat wedged down to