Her first idea had been to ride to Captain Montoya’s house and warn him. But that would have been a mistake, she realised, a terrible mistake. It would be far better to ride in the opposite direction. To put as much distance as possible between herself and the event. For she now believed that it could not happen if she were not watching. Without her, the table could not be raised against that cairn of stones. Without her, the naked women could not dance.
This new belief had come from nowhere, with the force of a revelation. Her dream’s appendix. Ride away from the town; ride up into the hills. It was the only way to save his life.
Chapter 14
Back in his hotel room Wilson sat with his boots on the table and his guitar cradled in his hands. He had decided to put the finishing touches to that song of his. It would complement her message to him, which he had got so late. It would be the tune of their reunion.
He was still tinkering with the first two lines when somebody rapped on the door. He jumped so hard, his thumb caught in the strings. An edgy, chaotic chord. He put the guitar down and reached for his shovel. If it was Indians again, they’d be in for a surprise this time. The same went for those half-brothers of the Bony One. The blade’s edge had a blunt grin where he had cleaned the dirt away; the steel gleamed. It was rapidly becoming a traditional weapon in town. But it would do the job, no question. He had seen men killed with far less elegance.
‘Who is it?’ he called out.
He stood to one side of the door with the shovel raised.
‘It is I. Monsieur Valence.’
‘One moment.’
He leaned the shovel against the wall and, looping his suspenders over his shoulders, tucked his shirt into the waistband of his pants. What could the Frenchman want? It must be urgent, for him to venture down into El Pueblo on such a night. He opened the door. Valence peered through the gap.
‘I’m sorry to intrude on you.’
Wilson held the door open. ‘Come on in.’
Showing Valence to a chair by the window, he was momentarily embarrassed by the poverty of his surroundings.
‘You’re taking a big risk coming here,’ he said. ‘I was almost lynched tonight.’
Valence sat with a straight back, both hands balanced on the carved head of his cane. He had the stillness, the solidity, of a piece of furniture. A dresser, maybe, or a chest of drawers. A place where things were tidy, ordered, stored. And yet Wilson had the feeling, looking at the man, that if he slid a drawer open, any drawer, then chaos would be revealed. Moths. A nest of mice.
‘You have a nice view of the church,’ Valence said.
Then he fell quiet again.
‘Is there something I can do for you?’ Wilson asked eventually.
Valence began to tell him about a priest who had visited the site during the first days of construction. The priest had delivered a sermon to a gathering of Indian workers. Afterwards one of the Indians had approached the priest. The Indian was curious about the new building. He wanted to know what it was. ‘It’s a church,’ the priest said. Then, so as to make himself quite clear, he added, ‘A house of God.’ ‘A house of God?’ The Indian looked puzzled. ‘What does God want with a house?’ The priest gazed at the Indian with an expression of kindly tolerance. ‘It’s a place where we can go and meet Him,’ he explained. ‘You too will be able to meet Him there.’ The Indian’s look of puzzlement remained. ‘But I thought you said that God was everywhere.’ There was a silence, then the priest suddenly remembered that he had an important engagement on the Mesa del Norte. If he did not leave immediately he would be late.
‘It’s not the first time the Indians have got the better of a priest,’ Wilson said with a smile.
But Valence did not seem to have heard. He was still staring out of the window.
‘Suzanne has disappeared,’ he said.
‘What?’ Wilson was not sure that he had understood.
‘My wife, Suzanne. She has disappeared.’
‘When?’
‘This morning.’
‘Where did she go?’
‘I have no idea.’
Both men were still, one sitting on the chair, the other standing over by the wall. There was the power and secrecy of this information between them now, binding them the way blood does. It was as if they had suddenly become fingers of the same hand.
Valence began to mutter in his own language. Wilson stepped forwards and put one hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder.
Valence looked up. ‘I’m sorry. You cannot understand.’
‘Could she be somewhere in the town?’
‘I don’t know. She stole a horse.’
Wilson had to smile. His father may not have trusted green-eyed women, but he would surely have warmed to a green-eyed woman who could steal a horse.
‘It is not a laughing matter, Monsieur.’
The Frenchman’s eyes had mustered some hostility. Wilson chose to ignore it.
‘If she stole a horse,’ he said, ‘she could be anywhere.’
She could be dead, he thought. Nobody rode out into that landscape without knowing its secrets and its dangers — even somebody who seemed blessed, like her. The heat of the sun, the dearth of water. There was no mercy in the land. It would kill you as soon as look at you.
‘I thought perhaps,’ and Valence was lifting his face again, in hope this time, in supplication, ‘that you could find her.’
Wilson turned away.
Valence rose out of his chair. ‘You understand the country. You know it.’ His voice dropped, like someone taking cover. ‘You are her friend.’
When Wilson did not reply, Valence spoke again. ‘Am I wrong?’
‘You’re not wrong.’
‘Then for the sake of friendship.’ Valence spread his hands. ‘You have to.’
Wilson shook his head. There was no avoiding her. It did not matter which way he turned. She was round every corner, at the end of every street. If she did not appear in person she appeared in what was being said. When he closed his eyes to keep her out, she stepped into his dreams.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said slowly, ‘that you’re in any position to make demands.’
‘I don’t follow you,’ Valence said.
It was too late for Wilson to hold back now. ‘If you had truly loved your wife,’ he said, ‘she would not have gone.’
The Frenchman’s face tightened.
‘What do you know about it?’ he said.
‘I know enough.’
The two men stared at each other without speaking. The silence thickened in the room.
Then Valence turned away, one hand thrust into his hair. ‘She loved me first. I could never — ’ He had walked into the corner of the room. He was facing the wall.
Wilson could not think of anything to say.
‘If I loved her, she always loved me more. I wanted balance, equality. She would not allow it.’
Valence swung round. ‘I knew she should not have come to Mexico with me. I knew that it would be difficult. But she insisted. She can be so strong.’ He smiled. It was a hopeless, foolish smile, deformed by circumstance. It was not something that he could really permit himself. ‘She said it was the place of a wife, that she should be with her husband.’
‘And isn’t it?’
Valence shrugged. ‘It depends who you listen to.’
‘Maybe you’re the wrong man for her,’ Wilson said.
‘And who is the right man? You?’ Valence was almost glacial. His confessions had given him strength.
‘No.’ Wilson looked round at his rented room, his few belongings. And had to chuckle. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not me.’
And suddenly he found the way forwards. This was nothing to do with love. A man had come to him and asked for help. It did not matter which man, what help. He had no right to turn the man away.