Air and Fire Read Free Page A

first day of April found us lying off Mexico. They say that one knows when one is entering the Gulf of California on account of the numerous sea serpents that appear in the waters alongside one’s vessel, but, I must say, I have noticed no such phenomenon. Is it not more likely that we are simply entering a part of the world about which much remains unknown, a part of the world where the imagination – especially, it would seem, the imagination of sailors – can take hold and run riot? They were eager to assure me that it was a fact, that the serpents had been seen. I pointed downwards through the floor. ‘In the hold of this ship,’ I said, ‘there are two thousand, three hundred and forty-eight component parts which, when assembled, will fit together with the greatest perfection. That, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘is a fact.’ Sea serpents or no, we will arrive at our final destination this morning, some four months after leaving Le Havre.
    You may remember that I was anxious regarding my wife’s desire to join me on this undertaking. I need not have worried. She has acquitted herself admirably. After my many attempts to discourage her, mentioning, above all, the very real danger to her health, it will no doubt amuse you to hear that she has proved to be a far better sailor than her husband. While I lay below deck, prostrated by the most tenacious bouts of seasickness, she was usually to be found up on the bridge, sketching! She knows that I am writing to you and asks me to convey her most respectful regards. Please accept mine also, with your customary kindness, and know that I am, as always, your humble and obedient servant,
    Théophile Valence.

Chapter 3
    Wilson Pharaoh dreamed that all his veins were filled with gold; he only had to cut his wrists and he would be rich.
    Awake, there was a moment when he still believed the dream. That he could take his hunting-knife and open up a vein. That gold would pour in liquid abundance from the wound. He had seen maps of his own body, drawn up by a mining company of international repute. He had seen the proof with his own eyes.
    He lay still, limbs swimming heavily at some distance from his body. Mosquitoes hung in the air. They were greedier here than anywhere that he had ever been. Kill one in the morning and you could watch your blood spring clear across the room.
    His eyes moved along one edge of a green tin ceiling, down a yellow wall. This was not his hotel. He turned his head slowly on the pillow, discovered a girl sleeping beside him. One glimpse of that narrow face, that cataract of coarse black hair, and his memory returned.
    He saw Pablo Fernández wiping the counter with a rag, his eyebrows reaching high on to his forehead and curving slightly, like the arms on spectacles. Pablo ran the Bar El Fandango, a cantina at the back of town. He also owned the hotel where Wilson was staying.
    â€˜There’s a couple of men here say Americans can’t drink.’ Pablo slid the words casually past his thin dark lips, his eyes angled sideways and downwards.
    Wilson glanced along the bar. The couple of men in question were Indians. Men hired by the company to mine copper. Men who carried future grievance in their bellies like an embryo. They were Seri Indians, famous for their treachery: you could never read their faces, but you could be sure that one of them would have a knife.
    Wilson could not back down or walk away. He knew it, and Pablo knew it too. He could think of few distances more dangerous than the distance between the bar of El Fandango and the door. At least twenty men hadperished in the space of those few yards. So there was really only one response:
    â€˜Line them up, Pablo.’
    He had been drawn into a contest that lasted half the night. They drank cactus liquor from tin mugs, with strips of salted fish to take away the taste. Pablo distilled the liquor himself, in a shack behind the bar. The first shot lowered your