Free Air and Fire by Rupert Thomson Page A

Even later she would think of him, and wonder where he was. She hoped that he was still alive somewhere, and that his virgin water had kept him strong.
    Back in her room, sitting at her writing desk, she stared through the window at the landscape that she had insisted on seeing. When she first set eyes on the American, spied on him from the shadows at the bottom of the stairs, she had the feeling of returning to a piece of the past that had happened without her. He had allowed her access to a pleasure that she had always been denied. In that moment, sitting at her writingdesk, she felt as if her presence in the town was proper, natural – even earned. She felt as if she were about to be compensated for her many disappointments. This place would afford her some redress.

Chapter 8
    The cart shuffled to a halt outside the Hôtel de Paris. Wilson slid down off the tailgate, pulling his crutches after him. He thanked the boys for the ride.
    â€˜Any time, four-legs.’
    They fought briefly over the reins, then the cart moved on, its high silver churns tottering and clanking. ‘Water,’ the boys cried, in their hoarse voices. ‘Fresh water.’
    Wilson shook his head as he watched them go. There was no respect for Americans in this town, no respect at all.
    Still shaking his head, he swung round on his crutches, and there she was, standing at the foot of the hotel steps, with her green eyes the shape of leaves and that tumbling, dark-blonde hair. In a town the size of Santa Sofía coincidences were no cause for astonishment; in fact, they were practically a way of life. Yet he had been relying on coincidence for so many days now with no result that this coincidence, long overdue, took him completely by surprise. The sight of her at such close quarters when he had only imagined her at a distance closed the spaces between the beatings of his heart. He went to lift his hat, but it fell from his hand. One of his crutches toppled.
    Gracefully she leaned down, retrieved the hat.
    â€˜Here,’ she said.
    â€˜You speak English?’ He had not expected this.
    â€˜I teach it.’ She corrected herself. ‘I used to teach it. When I was young.’ She laughed.
    â€˜You speak it very well.’
    She looked away into the sky. ‘You know, it’s strange. I did not think that I would need English,’ and she brought her eyes back down to his, and they were filled with the sky’s light, ‘not here, in Mexico.’
    There was not the slightest trace either of shyness or flirtation in her manner. Her parasol revolved slowly on her shoulder, like the wheel ofa cart that has turned over in a road. He was the shy one. No words would come to him.
    â€˜You are the piano player,’ she said.
    He admitted it. ‘Though I’m a little rusty, I’m afraid.’
    â€˜Rusty? What is rusty?’
    â€˜It means I’m out of practice.’
    â€˜But I heard you from my room. You’re good. You are, how does one say it,’ and the shadow at the corner of her mouth lengthened as a smile reached her face, ‘you have enthusiasm.’
    It was for you, he almost said, but could not. He thanked her instead.
    â€˜Will you play today?’ she asked him.
    â€˜If you would like me to.’
    Her smile widened. ‘Shall we go in?’
    â€˜Give me an orange juice and a beer, would you, Rodrigo?’
    Rodrigo eyed Wilson across the cool zinc counter. Rodrigo was polishing a glass. Wilson would have laid odds on the fact that Rodrigo had been polishing that same glass for half an hour.
    â€˜You’re going to play the piano, Señor Wilson?’
    â€˜Maybe.’
    â€˜You must like the piano very much.’ Rodrigo’s eyes reached beyond Wilson’s shoulder to the Frenchwoman who was now taking a seat at the table by the window.
    â€˜I do.’
    â€˜You must like it very much,’ Rodrigo said, ‘to come all the way up here with that