My dear Monsieur Eiffel,
Though it is fully three weeks since last I wrote, I am delighted to report that everything is proceeding according to plan. All the principal arches have been erected and assembled, their sections being placed end to end in the usual manner, immediately drifted, and then bolted. The purlins will soon follow. I have divided my labour force into two equal groups, one working an early shift, one working late. In this way the Indians are afforded some respite from the considerable heat, though it troubles them less than it does me. The arrangement is also far more suited to their temperament; the idea of pay may appeal, but the idea of work, especially eight hours of it, does not. I often think fondly of those intrepid men, each one vying with the other in his zeal, who worked up to sixteen hours a day in high winds, rain and snow, to build the tower that now bears your name, and fall to wondering how long the job would have taken had you attempted it in Mexico. During the idle hours between shifts I eat lunch with Monsieur Castagnet, a most genial man, and a capable one too (he it was who solved the dilemma of the lifting-mast by commandeering half a dozen railway sleepers to anchor the base). We have discussed the church in detail, and I have found myself referring him to your renowned monograph, Mémoire sur les épreuves des arcs métalliques de la galerie des machines du Palais de l’exposition universelle de 1867, and those early experiments that led you so ingeniously to determine the value of the modulus of elasticity applicable to composite members. Monsieur Castagnet has always demonstrated great loyalty to timber, but even he has no choice but to agree that the galvanised wrought-iron that we are using here is a truly remarkable material. When we return to the site in the afternoon, there are invariably half a dozen children climbing among the girders, as if the structure had been provided solely for their own amusement. I always feel that this forms the perfect counterpoint to our weighty lunchtime meditations.
Such problems as we have encountered here have rarely been of a technical nature; in Santa Sofía it is the human problems that abound. We had the greatest trouble, for instance, trying to explain the notion of a working-week to the local Indians. On the Monday of the second week of construction, six of them failed to report for work. We found them two days later, almost five kilometres from the town, grilling a rattlesnake over a fire! They seem to have only two measurements of time: a day, which lasts from dawn to dusk, and an ‘ambia’ which is the period of time that elapses between one harvest of their beloved pitahaya fruit and the next (three ‘ambia’s amount to approximately one year). If they work hard, I now tell them, the church will be finished by the next ambia. This, of course, they understand.
Property is another source of confusion. With the exception of a bladder or a cow’s horn for holding water, a bow fashioned from the wild willow and a sharpened stick or bone for digging up roots, the Indians have no possessions. They simply do not understand the concept. This was illustrated last week, when a box of bolts went missing from the site. Construction was held up for three days while I endeavoured to ascertain their whereabouts; it seems that the role of an engineer in Mexico can stretch to encompass that of a police detective. Suffice to say that the bolts were recovered and are now in place on the central arches, where they belong. I have taken precautions against further thefts by enlisting the services of three Mexican soldiers from the garrison above the town. (I should just mention, in passing, that I have met the garrison commander, a gentleman by the name of Félix Montoya. In my opinion he lacks the experience to be able properly to discharge his responsibilities; he should be replaced as soon as possible — though this might be a somewhat delicate matter, since it lies beyond our jurisdiction.)
The living conditions — climate, diet, etc. — have also taken their toll. I was struck down only last week by a most unpleasant gastric infection, the result, I suspect, of eating a meal that had been prepared in a local restaurant, though the woman responsible was vociferous, to put it mildly, in her rebuttal of these charges. Whatever the true origin of my complaint, I was laid up in bed for almost two days with frequent attacks of vomiting and diarrhoea. My poor wife had to minister to me, and I am sure that I was not the easiest of patients. I have recovered now, however, and, though still weak, am back at work on the site.
Madame Valence is well (unlike myself, she has succumbed to no illness of any kind since our arrival) and is proving a most popular member of this small community, as you might imagine; Monsieur de Romblay seems to have taken quite a fancy to her. She sends her fondest regards, as do I, and I trust this letter finds you in good health — better, at least, than mine. I have the honour to be your most humble and obedient servant,
Théophile Valence.
Chapter 9
As soon as his boat had passed the harbour wall, Namu hoisted a sail and tried to coax some life out of the air. The patched canvas faltered, swelled, faltered again. Wilson could not help but think of the Pacific, less than a hundred miles to the west. The wind blew constantly on that side of the peninsula, hurling breakers shorewards, tormenting shrubs and bushes until they bent down, cowered, turned their backs. That same wind spent itself in the foothills of the Sierra de la Giganta Mountains, and not even the faintest of breezes made it through. August and September could be fresh months on the Pacific coast, but in the valley where Santa Sofía had been built the air hung like a curtain of steaming velvet and the streets turned to powder.
Namu called to him and pointed at the sail. They had picked up a light north-westerly, and maybe that was the best they could hope for with June around the corner. Wilson spoke to Suzanne, who was seated in the bow.
‘With any luck, we’ll make it to San Bruno. Namu knows a place about a mile off shore. It’s where the big fish go.’
She did not respond. She sat with her face angled away from him, her parasol turning absent-mindedly upon her shoulder.
He scoured his mind for something that he might have done to offend her, but he could find nothing.
‘Suzanne?’
‘I was wrong to come to Mexico,’ she said, still facing away from him.
‘No.’ The word had escaped before he had time to think what it might imply. ‘No,’ he said, more gently, ‘you weren’t wrong. Your place is by your husband’s side, surely.’
‘He hardly even knows I’m there. And when he does, I only disappoint him.’
‘Disappoint him? How?’
She sighed. ‘He tried to warn me what it would be like. I didn’t listen. I didn’t want to understand.’ She turned to him with a sad smile. ‘I’m sorry, Wilson. I didn’t mean to spoil the day with my bad humour. You’re so kind to have arranged all this.’
All this. She made it sound as if he had arranged the sea and sky for her, those islands in the distance, that leaping fish. Of course he would have, if he could.
‘You’re not spoiling it,’ he said. Though he was happier now that she had owned her mood; he could begin to find ways of dispossessing her of it.
He shifted down the bench towards her, then leaned forwards, forearms draped across his knees, hands dangling.
‘Someone else who thinks of nothing but his work,’ he said, ‘is Jesús Pompano.’
The boat gathered speed; water chopped against the hull. He began to tell her the latest instalment in the story of the elusive baguette.
Only the day before, as he returned from breakfast at Mama Vum Buá’s place, he had found Jesús waiting on the first-floor landing in his hotel. Jesús was tucked so deep into the gloom that he was hardly visible. If it had not been for the pale patches on his clothes, Wilson would not have noticed him at all. He showed the baker into his room and sat him down.