Théo leaned forwards in his chair and executed a number of modest bows in all directions. He was still smiling, though his smile had grown somewhat bemused.
Monsieur de Romblay reached down and seized a glass of Jesuit wine. ‘But seriously,’ he said, ‘we do welcome you both to Santa Sofía, and we hope that your stay will be a happy and rewarding one.’ He raised his glass high. ‘To Monsieur and Madame Valence.’
At last the time came for the company to divide, the men retiring to the library for cognac and cigars, the women to the drawing-room, where coffee and Turkish Delight would be served. As Monsieur de Romblay passed behind Suzanne on his way out of the room, she turned in her chair.
‘A most amusing speech, Monsieur.’
Monsieur de Romblay bent close to her ear. ‘I did not go too far, my dear?’
‘My husband may be correct,’ Suzanne replied, ‘but he can take a joke. You should hear me sometimes.’
Perhaps, after all, she had drunk one too many glasses of the garnet wine herself. But the Director had thrown his head back and seemed to be threatening, in his merriment, to swallow the chandelier.
‘You are certainly a welcome addition to our little throng,’ he said, when he had regained his composure. ‘Most welcome.’
In the drawing-room the women conversed among themselves, complaining first of the laziness of Mexican and Indian maids, then of the din made by the boys who delivered the water; there was also a brief and hushed discussion of some local root that was reputed to have aphrodisiacal powers. All this talk either concerned events that preceded Suzanne’s arrival or presumed a degree of intimacy that she did not as yet possess, but she was content simply to listen, turning every now and then to gaze out of the window. The Director’s house occupied the high ground at the south end of the Calle Francesa. She could look beyond the rooftops of the houses opposite to where the sea pushed against the gravel shore. She could see white smoke rising from the smelting works like the trunk of some ghostly tree. Away to the right and far below she could just make out the dim yellow lights of the harbour.
She had suspected that, sometime during the course of the evening, she would be examined by Madame de Romblay, so when she heard the chair beside her fill with rustling taffeta she knew, without looking, who it was. She could feel those cold tin eyes travelling across her clothes, her skin. She prepared a smile for the moment when she turned from the window, back into the room.
‘Madame de Romblay, that was a truly exceptional meal.’
‘You must call me Léonie, my dear.’ Madame de Romblay lit a dark-brown cigarette and let the smoke spill from the corner of her mouth. ‘We’re such a small community here. We cannot stand on too much ceremony.’
Suzanne inclined her head, a gesture that was not unlike submitting to a guillotine. And then Madame de Romblay’s voice, soft as the blindfold that would be used: ‘How long have you been married?’
‘Almost six years.’
Madame de Romblay’s upper body moved sharply backwards. ‘I would not have thought that you were old enough.’
The two remaining women had exhausted their conversation on the other side of the room and were listening with undisguised curiosity. But Suzanne could not think of a reply. Instead, she focused her attentions on Madame de Romblay’s dress. A woman with Madame de Romblay’s colouring should not be wearing cerise. It gave her neck and shoulders an unhealthy, mottled look. A darker colour would have been more flattering. Indigo, perhaps. Or heliotrope.
In the face of Suzanne’s silence, Madame de Romblay felt the need to elaborate.
‘You must have been very young,’ she said.
‘I was twenty.’
‘So you are now, what, twenty-six?’
Suzanne admitted it.
‘You don’t look twenty-six, my dear.’ Madame de Romblay appealed to the other women, and they duly shook their heads.
‘Thank you,’ Suzanne said.
Madame de Romblay tipped an inch of ash into the metal ashtray at her elbow, one eyebrow arching. ‘He’s a distinguished man, your husband.’
‘He has done well,’ Suzanne ventured, ‘yes.’
‘And how did you meet him?’ Madame de Romblay leaned over and shut her cigarette inside the ashtray. While her back was still turned, she added, ‘After all, the age difference, you must admit, is quite considerable.’
Suzanne smiled. ‘My father taught at the École Centrale in Paris, and Théo was one of his best students. They became friends. Théo was often a visitor at our house.’ Her smile spread as a lie occurred to her. ‘In fact, I’m sure that I remember Théo babysitting me,’ she said, ‘when I was about seven.’
‘How charming,’ Madame de Romblay said.
But she knew that Suzanne had pre-empted her, and she knew that Suzanne knew, and the pot of coffee that had just arrived in the room provided her with an opportunity to excuse herself.
After leaving the de Romblays’ house, Suzanne and Théo crossed the small square that she had discovered on her first evening. They stood at the parapet, looking down into the valley. A warm breeze rose off the sea and pushed against her dress.
‘What do you think of our new friends?’ he asked.
She understood his intent, however veiled. ‘I do not regret coming here,’ she said, ‘not for one moment.’
He laughed. ‘If our conversation were bridges, I fear they would soon collapse.’
‘Oh?’ She took his arm. ‘And why is that?’
‘We advance too quickly, before we have built the necessary struts and trusses to support us.’
‘Sometimes,’ she said, feeling daring now, feeling a sudden sense of release, ‘I think you overdo the struts and trusses.’
He laughed again, though less readily. It was a reference to the tower that he had laboured on with such zeal and devotion, and it was a reference that was less than respectful. But she had wanted to dispatch his gravity with her light wand; she had meant him to understand that she loved him, not for what he had accomplished, but for what he was — not the engineer, but the man.
He turned away from the parapet, hands clasped behind his back. She followed him. They walked beneath the trees in silence. She watched the light and shade alternating on his face.
‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘they seemed satisfied with the plans, though there was one rather awkward moment.’
She saw that he had not held her piece of gentle mockery against her. Perhaps he had understood her after all.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
He set the scene for her. When he entered the library that evening he saw that his architectural drawings had been laid out on the table, their corners held down by an assortment of natural paperweights — copper, mostly, as one might have expected, though there were also some specimens of various local minerals: gypsum, chalcedony, malachite and jasper; there was even, he remembered, a fossilised shark’s tooth from the Pliocene era. This digression, so typical of him, might, at other times, have frustrated her, but on this warm night, with her arm linked through his, she found it impossible not to indulge him.
For many of the men gathered round the table, Théo said, this was a first glimpse of the church that would be built for them, since it had been purchased on their behalf by the head office of the company in Paris. They were murmuring and pointing, conferring among themselves, the air rich with the mingled fumes of brandy and cigars. Then François Pineau cleared his throat.