1993 - The Blue Afternoon (31 page)

“Goodbye, Doctor,” Axel said. “We’ll be ready for you.” He corrected himself. “Your passengers.”

“Not a word to Udo, mind,” Carriscant warned. Axel was no fool. Carriscant said goodbye and cautiously made his way across the sagging planks between the moored cascos to the quayside, the black waters slapping the wooden hulls. He walked up to Escolta and hailed a carromato. Nobody had seen him.

Back in his consulting rooms Carriscant, in his new mood of calm, ran through the details of the plan for what seemed the thousandth time. Delphine had told her friends about her pregnancy and was fully involved in the packing up of the house in preparation for the return to America. Everything was as ready as could be. Carriscant had informed the hospital authorities that he was taking two weeks’ leave and going south to visit his mother on 21 May. Annaliese had protested a little at this news and had offered to accompany him, but as there was scant affection between daughter-in-law and mother-in-law he knew she could be easily dissuaded.

He held his hand out palm down, fingers spread. Not a tremor. Surgeon’s hands. He contemplated his new life ahead with calmness and contained excitement. Somewhere in Europe he and Delphine would settle, raise their child, and he would take up the scalpel again. To be in a centre of medical excellence after this backwater: what challenges there would be, what reputations to make! If this was indeed the golden age of surgery, as the great surgeons claimed, then it was only fitting that he…He checked himself. He should keep his ambitions more modest: it would not do to become too celebrated. Perhaps his dreams of glory would have to be set aside—a small price to pay, he conceded, a small price to pay.

He poured himself a glass of rum from the bottle he kept in his cabinet and told himself to relax, everything was in order. He merely had to live out the next few days as normally and as ordinarily as possible. He was going to make a new life in Europe with the one woman he had ever truly loved. He was, he told himself, the luckiest man alive. He grinned. Sieverance’s luck had proved to be Carriscant’s luck after all, and Carriscant’s luck was about to have its day.

He was refilling his glass when Pantaleon rapped on the door and came in. He was carrying a newspaper in his hand and his manner was both agitated and excited.

“There’s nothing for it, Salvador. Fate, destiny, demands we go!”

“Steady, steady. What’re you talking about?”

Pantaleon spread the newspaper on the desk. It was an edition of Le Figaro, about five weeks old. Pantaleon pointed to an announcement on page seven, published by ‘Le Jury du Prix Amberway-Richault’.

“My French isn’t good enough. Anyway, this is a bit out of date isn’t it?”

“I know. And as a subscriber and competitor I’m meant to be kept fully informed. But who cares about
some fool in the Philippines
. It’s just as well I get these newspapers sent out. Everything could have been lost, ruined.”

He calmed himself and began to translate. “Listen:
A spectacular concurrence, aerial concurrence—aerial challenge—for the Amberway-Richault prize is scheduled to take place in the Bois de Boulogne on thirtieth May 1903…
Something about the rules. Ah…
four flying machines are to participate…
this is the important bit,
with the expected participation of Monsieur Ferdinand Ferber and his Ferber N°6…
Then there’s a list of the other flyers: Cody, Karl Jatho, Levavasseur. Unbelievable, isn’t it?”

“I don’t follow, Panta, what—”

“That’s the prize I’m trying to win.”

“I know that.”

“Well, I’ve got to do it now, haven’t I? Before the thirtieth. I’ve calculated. I have to allow myself time to cable to Paris. Confirmation of witnesses, photographers, etcetera. Any day between now and the twenty–first should be enough.” He smiled, seizing Carriscant’s arm. “Can you imagine them in Paris, Salvador?
News has just arrived from the Philippine Islands that, in a fully validated aerial trip, Dr Pantaleon Quiroga is the winner of the Amberway-Richault prize
. Can you imagine the effect of that? A bombshell. Cataclysmic!”

“Well, yes, if you can manage, but I don’t see—”

The grip on Carriscant’s arm grew tighter. “We’re going to do it, Salvador. You and me. Some final preparations and the minute we get a pause in the wretched rain we go.”

“No, no, no. I told you, Panta. I’m not going up in that thing.” He laughed. “Get one of your other friends.”

Pantaleon’s face had frozen, his mouth slightly open, and Carriscant saw his body visibly tense. “No, Salvador,” he said in a quiet voice. “I told you already. I can’t trust anyone else. The Aero-mobile will be ready in a few days. I think we could make the attempt as early as the thirteenth, weather permitting. It’ll be perfectly safe.”

“No, Panta, I’m not doing it.” Carriscant had heard the neurotic edge of madness in Pantaleon’s voice. The man’s obsession had driven out all reason. He spoke firmly, giving him no option for a misinterpretation. “I won’t do it. I’ll help all I can. But I won’t go up.”

Pantaleon looked at him, bitterly, miserably, his jaws clenched tight, the fingers of one hand tapping a coat button, one after the other.

“Please don’t make me remind you of your obligation to me,” Pantaleon said. “I’ve been determined from the outset that it should be the two of us. All the design calculations have been based on your weight. The precision is vital. And you know exactly what has to be done.”

“Panta, you could teach a child of ten what to do in one hour. This insistence on me being the partner is nonsensical.”

“Then why did you allow me to believe you would help?”

“I never said I would.”

“You never said you wouldn’t. You went along with it. Allowed me to believe you would be there.”

“Because I like you, that’s why. I never thought for one second we’d get to this stage. I didn’t want to be harsh. I thought it was just a harmless pastime for you, a toy—”

“A toy?” He was furious now, Carriscant saw. He had gone far too far.

“I’m sorry. I never realised it was so important to you.”

“What about your obligation to me?”

“What obligation, for heaven’s sake?”

“It’s thanks to me that you’ve achieved everything. Without me you’re no better than that butcher Cruz. It’s my skill that has allowed you to flourish.”

Carriscant could not believe what he was hearing. What delusions were these? What fantasies were being aired now? He felt his own anger rise in him at this preposterous claim.

“What are you talking about? Are you mad?”

“You cut and you sew, you cut and you sew, that’s all. Nothing more than the skills of a competent tailor. All the magic lies in anaesthesia. Without that enchanted sleep you’d still be barbers’ assistants, sawbones, killing people.”

“Enchanted sleep? Enchanted sleep?” Carriscant felt his spine stiffen with a keening intense rage. He’d never heard such nonsense: the self-deluding dreams of a disappointed man. “You’re out of your mind. You’re just a chemist. You mix your potions and drip them on a gauze mask. How dare you spout such disgusting nonsense. For the sake of our friendship I’ll forget I heard this. But never, ever, talk to me like this again.”

He turned away from him, shocked, deeply offended. The man was lost.

“You don’t accept you owe me anything.”

“Nothing more than would exist between colleagues.” He turned back to face him, furious. “What do you owe me, come to that? How do you think you paid for your precious flying machine, your barn, your wooden roadway? Thanks to the fees you earn because you work for Salvador Carriscant!” His voice had risen to a shout. His whole body was in spasm, his fists clenched tight. They faced each other, their faces ugly with pride and resentment. It was astonishing how a friendship of years could dissolve within seconds, Carriscant thought, vanish like a chimera. He felt desperately unhappy and profoundly ill at ease. He dragged his fingers down his cheeks. This had to be stopped now, before all ground was irrevocably lost.

“Panta, this is terribly wrong. Let’s not ruin—”

“What about your other obligations to me?” His voice was implacable, unmoved. “What obligations, for pity’s sake?”

“That I let you and your concubine fornicate in my bed.”

“Oh for God’s sake be a man, Pantaleon!”

“If you don’t partner me in the Aero-mobile I will be obliged to inform Colonel Sieverance of his wife’s infidelity. And with whom.”

The absurd formality of the expressions made the appalling threat all too real. Carriscant felt an awful, debilitating fear spread through him, weakening him, infecting him with a terrifying uncertainty about everything he had regarded as safe and secure. He walked to the dark window, and looked out at the garden, seeing only his own shadowed, blinking, demoralised reflection staring back.

“Under those circumstances, I agree.”

“Good, excellent!” Pantaleon’s voice was vibrant again, all his old enthusiasm returned at once. Carriscant turned slowly, incredulous. Pantaleon strode across the room to him, beaming, a hand extended. Not thinking, Carriscant meekly accepted it.

“I’m so pleased, Salvador, so pleased. We’ll never mention this horrid business again. Everything is perfect now, as it was meant to be.”

He was still shaking Carriscant’s hand. “You’ll see, my friend, this prize will make your name live for ever.”

E
phraim Ward and Maximilian Braun were buried during a steady downpour. The graves in the military cemetery at Paco were half filled with water and the lowered coffins floated for a second before submerging with a syrupy gurgle. Caramel bubbles floated on the surface for a moment before the first shovelfuls of mud and gravel splashed in. Carriscant took the envelope containing the men’s death certificates from his pocket and passed it to Paton Bobby.

“Before I forget,” he said.

Bobby tucked the envelope away in his jacket. “Thanks,” he said. “Uplifting little ceremony.”

Apart from the burial party and the army chaplain, Carriscant and Bobby were the only others present. They trudged back through the puddles past the mildewed rows of wooden crosses to Bobby’s motor car, a new acquisition for the constabulary, a neat little Charron 628, and climbed inside where they sat morosely while the burial party filled the grave and hammered in two fresh and sappy wooden crosses. Bobby waved a goodbye to the chaplain as his carriage pulled out of the cemetery and headed off down the road that would take him back to the barracks at Pasay, a mile or so distant.

Bobby took out a cigar and lit it, a disgruntled expression on his face. Beyond the tattered screen of banana trees that marked the northern boundary of the cemetery was the long thin shape of the Concordia cigar factory. For an idle moment Carriscant wondered if the cigar Bobby was smoking had been made there and wondered further if there was any significance to be drawn from this morbid conjunction of factory, smoker and graveyard. His tired brain could not come up with one so he let it drop.

“It annoys me,” Bobby said slowly, “it annoys me intensely that we couldn’t pin these killings on anyone. Those are two murdered American boys lying in their graves in this godforsaken hole and the killers are still out there.” He paused. “And that fucking annoys me.”

Carriscant shrugged. “You did your best,” he said. “It was an impossible case to solve. No one could criticise you.”

“Yeah, well…Did you bury the woman?”

“Last week. Nobody claimed her.”

“That’s what really finished me. I mean, where’s the connection there? How do you make that fit?”

“You don’t. I don’t think the woman’s death had anything to do with the other two.”

“Yeah, well,” Bobby said grumpily. He looked uncomfortable again and Carriscant wondered anew why Bobby had placed his scalpel by the body. He looked round at the sound of carriage wheels as a victoria with its canopy up turned into the cemetery and pulled up beside them.

Sieverance leaned out. “I guess I’m too late,” he said. “Sorry.”

They watched him go to the graveside and bow his head for a minute or two before he rejoined them at the motor. He looked suitably pious.

“Great shame,” he said. “Braun was a fine soldier. Real professional. You know, it kind of makes you sick. You survive everything the plains Indians can throw at you then you get cut up by some damned gu-gu.” His outrage seemed a little willed, Carriscant thought, a little cooked up. They listened patiently as Sieverance outlined some of Braun’s military exploits against the Oglalas and the Unkpapa Sioux.

“It’s a fucking disgrace,” Bobby said, with feeling. “A damn fucking disgrace.”

“I’d better get along,” said Sieverance. “By the way, Carriscant, Mrs Sieverance is feeling fine, in fine fettle.”

“I’m so pleased.”

They watched him go. Bobby took a long slow draw on his cigar. “It never ceases to amaze me,” he said, “how some pissant little cocksucker like that gets to be a full colonel.”

“I suppose if your Daddy’s a general and a friend of Teddy Roosevelt that might have something to do with it.”

“You don’t say…”

“Did you tell him we were burying the men?”

“Sure. I figured he’d need to inform Taft.”

“Yes…” Carriscant thought further. “Did you ever tell him that the
Brown
we found was the
Braun
who used to be in his regiment?”

“No. No, I don’t think so,” Bobby said reflectively. “I guess he must have made enquiries. Why?”

“Just curious.”

When he returned to Manila Carriscant found a note from Pantaleon on his desk. There had been some further problems with the Flanquin engine. The attempted flight on 13 May was now postponed: the new day set was to be 15 May.

H
e woke well before dawn on the morning of 15 May 1903. He had a slight headache and he lay still in the bed for a while, watching the room lighten slowly, telling himself not to think any further ahead than the next hour. If he took the day at that pace, with that absolute concentration on the present moment, he might be able to survive it, he told himself.