The Blue Afternoon

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 Anyway, this is a bit out of date isn’t it?”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

  A FUNERAL

  Ephraim 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.

  THE LOST FLIGHT OF PANTALEON QUIROGA

  He 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.

  Beside him Annaliese slept on, her mouth open, little mumbling snores coming from her. He had rejoined her in the marital bed these last few nights in order not to provoke any suspicions that their reconciliation was not genuine, and the thought came to him as he slid from between the sheets that he would not be sleeping in it for much longer. This brought a mild pang of sadness but it was replaced by a charge of excitement when he considered the future waiting for him. He had no animus against Annaliese, no regret about leaving her, but he did admit that their ‘reconciliation’ made what he was about to do that much harder on her. Still, there was no way he could prevent that.

  He dressed and was driven to the hospital without breakfasting. It would have been hard enough counting the hours and days without the added prospect of Pantaleon’s assault on the Amberway-Richault prize complicating matters. He was consoled by the thought that some malfunction was bound to occur and necessitate a further postponement. He might even, he thought, indulge in a spot of covert sabotage himself if the opportunity arose. But whatever happened he had to go through the motions of participating in order to neutralise Pantaleon’s threat. It would occupy some hours of a long day, in any case, keep his mind busy.

  At the San Jeronimo he made his final arrangements. He checked the rotas of the night staff for 20 May, confirmed that his theatre nurses had been given the relevant day off and ensured that certain key components in the plan were in their allotted places.

  As he set off for the nipa barn he felt a strong sense of purposeful calm descend on him, marred only by a feeling of irritation with Pantaleon and his absurd obsession with heavier-than-air powered flight. He had hoped for rain and indeed a fine drizzle was falling and the day was already overcast and muggy. As Constancio drove him over the Colgante bridge he saw the turning that led to San Miguel and the Calle Lagarda. He wondered how she was bearing up, how the strain of waiting was affecting her…But again he felt a quiet confidence return: she was strong too, they both knew exactly what they were doing, together they would come through.

  To his surprise the road to the nipa barn was busy with pedestrians and some dozens of carriages were parked on the verge of the track where the path led to the meadow. He had expected one or two official witnesses but this had all the signs of a sizeable crowd. As he pushed through the gap in the plumbago hedge he was amazed to see upwards of a hundred people standing or sitting along the western edge of the meadow. On the eastern fringe there was a roped-off area equipped with folding wooden chairs where he imagined the adjudicators and official witnesses would sit. The barn was prettified with palm fronds and bunting, strings of fluttering pennants—crimson, moss green and buttercup yellow. He eased his way through a large group of well-wishers and journalists and found himself confronted by the Aero-mobile itself, standing in the opening to the barn, the doors thrown wide. Painted on the nose in a cursive cobalt script was Aero-movil numero uno. Dr Pantaleon Quiroga-Dr Salvador Carriscant.

  Pantaleon was posing for photographs, one hand resting on an elevator strut, wearing an ankle-length leather motoring coat and a flat tweed cap that he had reversed. He looked most peculiar but something about his outfit suddenly made the prospect of the flight seem terrifyingly real and for the first time Carriscant felt a jolt of fear in his chest. This might, might, just actually happen, he thought, and he felt a squirm of nausea inside him. The Aero-mobile, caught in a chance gleam of sunlight, all at once looked modern and efficient. The twin pushing propellers were glossy with fresh varnish, the laterally mounted power plant had been regreased and repainted and looked factory-new, and the five bicycle tyres of the supporting carriage had been blacked and the spokes prinked out in white. The machine, he had to admit, appeared horribly plausible, its design, its ungainly functional shape, made it look capable of flight for the first time. It made sense, all of a sudden, a fact he thought he would have never conceded, and his stomach churned and heaved as saliva squirted into his mouth.

  Pantaleon saw him and darted forward to draw him out of the crowd. His brown face was taut with suppressed emotion and his eyes were filled with tears. He embraced Carriscant, kissing him on both cheeks, as flash powder exploded with dull magnesium whumphs around them.

  “Aren’t you a bit hot?” Carriscant asked.

  “Salvador, what are you we
aring?” Pantaleon looked him up and down with dismay.

  Carriscant contemplated his white linen suit, his black English shoes, his hand went nervously to his polka-dotted bow tie.

  “I didn’t think,” he said. “I dressed for a normal day’s work.”

  “Did you hear that?” Pantaleon called to the assembled journalists. “My dear colleague here has dressed for a normal day’s work. What calm confidence! What elan, as the French say. This is the spirit that will place the Philippines at the forefront of the great aerial adventure!”

  The journalists scribbled all this down in their notebooks, and Pantaleon translated for the English language papers. Carriscant had never seen him so self-assured, or display such zeal, such evangelical savoir-faire.

  “Everything is in order,” Pantaleon said quietly to him. “Tuned to perfection. I ran the engine for ten minutes last night. Like birdsong.”

  A shower of rain drove them inside the barn where Carriscant answered journalists’ questions as dourly and as dully as possible. No, he had no real enthusiasm for flying; it was a simple favour to a friend that brought him here; no, he did not imagine that being aloft in a flying machine would be injurious to health.

  “After all we’ve all climbed a tree before,” he said, “and Dr Quiroga assures me we shall not attain an altitude of more than ten feet above the ground. To climb a ten-foot tree can hardly be regarded as life–threatening.”

  “Unless you fall out,” said the man from the Manila Times. Everybody found this very amusing.

  Pantaleon introduced him to the official adjudicators: there was Henry K. Gallo, president of the Army and Navy Club, Agapita Castaneda of the Philippine Commission, Señor Alejandro Gimson, the deputy editor of El Renacimiento, Rafael Martinez Mascardo, curator of the Museo de Ateneo, Mr Tiam Lam of the Chinese Chamber of Commerce, and Captain Gaspar Barboza, the Brazilian consul.

  Carriscant was mightily impressed with Pantaleon’s organisational powers: facets of the man were being revealed today which he would never have believed existed.