Tremor

  As an experiment he did not at all mind changing his identity, inventing and experiencing a new life. He always found it stimulating and exciting. He had already changed his father and his name in childhood, and continued to use one name for his own life and the other for his writing. Not to mention when he had run off as a schoolboy of seventeen, using a third name which he had picked out of The Times. (Then he had been brought back, but hadn’t minded that: he’d had his fun.)

  After two weeks at the Mount Nelson he bought a smart new yellow Austin Healey. (He had found Johannesburg extremely convenient for the changing of currency – it seemed almost as good as Switzerland.) The following week he left the hotel and took an apartment in Constantia.

  Already he was making friends: he was a cheerful, likeable, moneyed young Canadian. No one seemed to mind that he spoke English with an English accent and French with a French accent – it only showed how well he had been educated. He met a man who worked on the Cape Times, who introduced him to the editor, who took a liking to him and offered him a freelance job to observe the South African scene and write an occasional column about it. The Cape Times was bitterly and loudly anti-apartheid – it surprised Matthew to find such freedom of expression in what he had been told was a police state – and he wrote a few articles, signed Visitor, deriding the absurdities of the racist system, by which people in the Post Office were segregated into Whites and Ne-Whites, but went next door to the supermarket and stood in the same queue to pay. His tone in writing was generally light and humorous, but sarcasm was wanting in the system, and his sarcasms became more telling than the outright hostility of the editorials. He was shown some of the townships, and commented on them in language that became increasingly acrid. Then he met a Boer girl, beautiful and intelligent and eloquent, and the next article he wrote put something of the Boer history and point of view: that South Africa was their country, that they had built it into its present state of great prosperity, that it was the only such prosperous state in the continent of Africa, that the Boers had lived there for three centuries, much longer than most of the blacks and coloured people who had flocked in to participate in the prosperity; that to expect them to renounce their right to their creation was like asking the Americans to hand back Chicago to the Red Indians. This brought him popularity and unpopularity in several directions.

  The following year he moved on, taking an Italian cruise liner to Sydney. South Africa was about to leave the Empire and become a republic, and he sensed the irreconcilable ambitions of the whites and the blacks and foresaw trouble wherever he looked. Apart from this, as a writer of a weekly column in the Cape Times, he was becoming noticed. Though he wrote under a nom de plume his friends knew, and from them others who might be less well disposed towards him – particularly the government and the police. He couldn’t yet afford to be noticed. It was not time for anyone in authority to start asking questions. Also he had an affair with the Boer girl. She was one of the prettiest and most charming girls he had ever met, but his loss of Nadine was too fresh. He found he could not bring himself to commit himself in this way. Although he was officially divorced and free to marry, what legality or sincerity was there in marrying under a false name? It was not quite like writing a column for a newspaper.

  Was this, he wondered, a problem that was going to dog his footsteps for the rest of his exiled life?

  1985

  I

  The twenty-fifth anniversary of the earthquake of Agadir was not celebrated with any ceremonies of commemoration on the part of the authorities. It had been a profound tragedy with enormous loss of life, almost a mortal blow to the struggling Moroccan economy; but with help from many nations, chiefly the French and the American, it had survived. A new Agadir, as promised, had been inaugurated in 1961, and the town had mushroomed since. New hotels had been put up all along the sea front, new houses and flats and roads built, avenues replanted with palms, the port re-established, the municipal buildings set in attractive squares. It was not thought necessary to remind the inhabitants over again of the blood and tears of twenty-five years ago.

  In the Town Hall large photographs, blown up to measure six feet square, served as sufficient of a permanent reminder, and the old Kasbah on the hill overlooking the bay had not been touched: it remained a monument, a graveyard, with irregular mounds of rubble like scurf on a giant’s head.

  The Hôtel Mahraba, which had split down the middle and lost most of its ornamentation without actually collapsing, had been entirely rebuilt, but time and fashion had marched on, and it had newer and more highly rated hotels to compete with. (The Saada had never risen from its ashes.)

  But it was to the Mahraba that some people came in February 1985, drawn by a common impulse to see the scene they had last left in devastation and despair so long ago.

  One was a good-looking Australian with glasses and a trim close-cut dark beard flecked with grey.

  Another was an elderly French lady, a doctor’s widow from Bordeaux, called Mme Vicky Badoit, with her daughter Janine and her daughter’s fiancé Hector.

  The hotel was almost full, the weather entirely different from that other time: sunshine most of the day with a strong fresh breeze rising off the sea each afternoon. Far from being too hot, the wind when it rose made it too cold for most people to remain on the beach, and the nights were chilly.

  Complex considerations had decided Matthew to make this visit at long last. He had often thought he would like to return – pure nostalgia working on old wounds, never quite healed. But it is unlikely that any of the returning survivors would have come together except for the presence of a M. Aristide Voigt. M. Voigt was about sixty, stout, round-faced, with grey stubbly hair cropped close to his skull, chubby fingers, fat feet and a powerful voice. He came from Metz. Recently widowed, M. Voigt was an expert on Agadir, having come every year in February without fail; he had been staying with his wife in the Mahraba on the night of the earthquake.

  Soon after he arrived he had spotted Mme Vicky Badoit, thought her a pretty widow taking a holiday with her children, and had scraped an acquaintance. When it became known that she too had been in Agadir on that dreadful night he claimed there was a bond between them, and when Janine and Hector were absent one evening, he invited Mme Badoit to join him for a drink after dinner.

  She had no ambitions to find another man friend, certainly not to marry again, but she was feeling lonely so she accepted. Voigt was a cheerful, talkative man, and had no hesitation in telling her all about himself and his experience that night before asking for hers. He first of all informed her that he had begun life behind the counter of a shoe shop in Metz, had married the owner’s only daughter, and in the course of time had inherited the shop and had opened four others. He had a handsome house in Verny, far too big for him now, two sons who were both married and in the business, and was thinking shortly of retiring, which he could now very comfortably do, and see rather more of the world than he had had time for. He had spent his honeymoon in Agadir in 1955 and had so much enjoyed it that they had returned every year except 1961, and last year when his wife had been too ill to travel. And always at the Mahraba, always at the Mahraba.

  Yes, they had been here all through the earthquake: indeed, he and Mme Voigt had been playing bezique, one of his wife’s great amusements of an evening; they had played a last hand and had been about to leave the lounge when the most terrible rending noise had occurred and they had both been thrown to the ground, when the very floor had seemed to oscillate, ornaments and chairs had fallen all about them, the lights had failed, and he had dragged Mme Voigt out of the hotel into the garden, where masonry and trees were falling everywhere. Some of the guests were injured, and it was a miracle that they had survived unscathed.

  Eventually, after describing his situation in even greater detail, he said: ‘And you, madame, you also were here? This is a great bond between us. Tell me of your experiences.’

  Vicky sipped at her liqueur and demurely patted her lips wit
h a lace handkerchief.

  ‘I, monsieur? I was buried for twenty-four hours.’

  At his expression of horror she began her modest story. She had been on holiday here with two school-friends – they had all been at the same convent together – they had stayed at the Saada, which completely collapsed, and they had all been buried. Laura, her oldest and dearest friend, had also been brought out alive and not seriously hurt, but her other friend, Françoise, had been killed.

  M. Voigt was shocked and deeply sympathetic. The lady had deep blue eyes which were almost violet in the artificial light, and her thick brown hair, if necessarily tinted and waved, was very becoming. Altogether he liked the look of her. In the conversation which followed she let it be known that soon after returning to Bordeaux in 1960 she met and married Dr Badoit – the great Dr Badoit as he was to become known for his research into the adrenal gland – ‘ He was much older than I, monsieur, but we were very happy together. And we had one greatly beloved daughter, who has come away with me on this holiday.’

  ‘Together with her “ young man”,’ agreed Voigt. ‘Yes, she is very handsome.’

  ‘Not “young man”,’ corrected Vicky. ‘ Her fiancé. Perhaps I am old-fashioned, but morals today have become so lax. I am not in favour of casual relationships. Janine and Hector are properly affianced and will be married in October.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Voigt. ‘Splendid. I too am all in favour of moral discipline. A fine young man. Very suitable for such a fine young lady, who, if I may say so, takes her good looks from her mother.’

  He looked at Mme Badoit, and received a glance from the violet eyes which was surprisingly astute and assessing.

  ‘I am, of course,’ she murmured, ‘ but recently widowed.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Voigt. ‘But it is important to avoid loneliness. I wish to travel round the globe and one day I shall look for a partner who can accompany me. Especially away from one’s native land one needs conversation and companionship.’

  Before she could reply to this, had she so intended, they were interrupted by the arrival of a tall, clean-cut, good-looking young man in his early twenties who stopped before them and said in fluent but heavily accented French:

  ‘Pardon me, did I hear you speak about the earthquake? Were you here at the time? I am – interested in what happened.’

  Voigt, not sure whether he welcomed the interruption, said: ‘Just so. Madame was recounting her experiences. I am surprised you have heard of it, young man! Many of the guests at this hotel, I believe, know nothing of it whatever. One man yesterday said to me, oh yes, he had heard something but he thought it was a tidal wave. Imagine, a tidal wave!’

  ‘No,’ said the young man, ‘it is almost forgotten.’ As well as being tall he was also thin, with those prominent bones which convey the impression some young men give, quite mistakenly, of being underfed. ‘As you no doubt guess, I was not here myself but my parents were here on their honeymoon. They were buried for four days!’

  ‘In the Saada?’ said Vicky.

  ‘Yes. Was that where you were, madame?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘She too was buried,’ said Voigt. ‘Was it for two days, madame?’

  ‘Almost,’ Vicky murmured.

  ‘I am here with my half-brother. That is him, over there, but he does not speak French. My mother was divorced and he is the son of her first marriage. Permit me to introduce myself: Thor Burford. I come from New England.’

  ‘America, is that?’ asked Vicky. ‘Yes, I imagined so. I wonder if I knew your parents?’

  ‘She is small and fair, he is dark – was dark … Leon, come on over here and meet these good people. Oh, and you, monsieur. I’m afraid I don’t know your name. We met outside the Casino today, you remember?’

  Thor was the outgoing type. Though half Anglo-Norwegian, he had grown up very much the All-American young man – friendly and frank and ready to mix, and a little naïve.

  Clearly the bearded man who had been last addressed thought so, for he came over reluctantly and remained standing, a slight disclaiming smile of acknowledgement on his face, until M. Voigt got up and pulled a chair across. Leon Heinz, now a man of forty-five, whose sturdy build and breadth of shoulder made him look enormous, also came over reluctantly and took another seat. The conversation, although now fractured into two languages, mainly continued in French.

  Mme Badoit was persuaded to recount again her story of the earthquake and her entombment and rescue.

  Then Thor said: ‘My father and mother were buried for four days. They were almost the last people to be rescued, certainly the last from the Hôtel Saada. They were buried under a fallen beam, just able to move. My mother was badly cut in the head, and my father, to staunch the bleeding, stitched up her scalp with an ordinary darning needle and thread. It still shows – the scar still shows – though normally it is hidden by her hair. She used to show it to me when I was a little boy and tell me the story.’

  ‘And how were they rescued?’ Voigt asked.

  ‘A miracle. You’d never believe. My mother had been in the wartime Resistance and they always used the beginning of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Dar-dar-dar-dar. You know. Dar-dar-dar-dar. Well, she went on tapping this out on a water pipe, and the sound travelled, and some Frenchman who’d been in the French Resistance heard it and raised the alarm! When they were dug out my father was unconscious and they didn’t think he’d live.’

  ‘But he did?’ asked Matthew.

  ‘Oh, yes. Still is. He’s in his middle eighties and still quite fit. Only gave up golf last year!’

  Vicky was staring at Matthew. ‘And you, monsieur? Did this gentleman say you were here at the time?’

  ‘I was, yes. I was on my own, but I lost a dear friend.’

  Vicky still stared at him, puckering her eyes. She exclaimed suddenly and then said: ‘But were you not the – the man – the Englishman – who – who helped to pull me out?’

  Matthew hesitated, then half smiled. ‘I believe so.’

  Vicky was on her feet. ‘Monsieur, you saved my life! This gentleman saved my life! When I was completely buried. I was sure we should all die!’

  ‘I only began to dig,’ Matthew said. ‘I was pretty shell-shocked myself. Then I heard you cry out …’

  Vicky moved to him and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘I thought we would never live. You saved me! And you saved Laura too! You were a great hero! I never knew your name! We too, as you can imagine, were shell-shocked at that time!’

  ‘Actually,’ said Matthew, ‘I am not English, though I spent some years there. My name is Henri Delaware and I am French Canadian.’

  ‘This makes it necessary for us to have further drinks,’ said Voigt. ‘M. Burford, could I ask you to oblige me by pressing the bell?’

  Thor pressed the bell, came back, a thoughtful look on his face. He said to Matthew: ‘Your name is Henri Delaware?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘D’you come from Australia, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I have made my home in Sydney for many years. But what made you think that?’

  ‘Your name, sir. Delaware. Henri Delaware. It just seemed to me that you might – I suppose it’s a long throw – you might be one of the Outbacks?’

  Again Matthew hesitated. An extraordinary chance – or mischance – had thrown this up. Had he been wise even to come? But the risk was now so small.

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes.’

  ‘Gee, that’s great! Really great! You’re the leader of the group, then, aren’t you?’

  ‘I started it off – oh, what? – fifteen years ago. The three of us really began it together.’

  ‘Henry, Floyd and Greener. A lot of the guys were mad about you at Law School. Now the CDs are coming out, it’ll be wild. You ever been to the States? I mean recently?’

  ‘No, not since we began the group. It was intended, you see, for the Australian market. We didn’t really expect it to spread.’

  ‘Well, it su
re has! You’re big everywhere now. America, England, fair bits of the rest of the world. I guess they’ve caught a new market right in between pop and country and western. This is great luck meeting you like this! I’d no idea what you look like; there’s never pictures on the sleeves!’

  ‘We decided we were all getting on a bit,’ said Matthew evenly. ‘Didn’t think our photos would be much recommendation.’ Not true: in the late 1970s when the music really took off they were all still in their forties and they had been under intense pressure from the record company to get a picture done, but they hadn’t agreed. Green, the other guitarist, had sided with Matthew, clearly for some reason of his own which he had never divulged. Green had come from Manchester and had known the Beatles. He had come to be called Greener in Sydney because his broad Lancashire voice accentuated the last letter of his name so that it sounded like a second syllable. Floyd was a Tasmanian who had thrown up his job in a shipping office and settled in Sydney, as he said, ‘ to beat the drums’. They had all got fair voices, ‘not Pavarotti’, as Greener said, ‘but better than Rex Harrison’, and able enough to sing the simple lyrics of the songs they wrote.

  Everybody was talking together now – except for Leon, who bit at his fingers and tried to catch the French. He had come back to America and was living and working in Philadelphia near his wife’s parents. He had three children, all now almost grown up, and it had been a good marriage. Thor had always wanted to go to Agadir to see the site of the earthquake of which he had heard so much. His father not wanting to make such a long journey, he had arranged this holiday with his mother, but a week before they were due to leave his father had heard of the death of his first wife, Ann. She was eighty-three and had died of a heart attack after hauling a dinghy up the shingle in some seaside part of New Zealand where she was living. Although he had not seen her for many years (Thor had only ever seen photographs of her) this had upset Lee a lot, and Letty had felt she could not leave him on his own at this time. So sooner than cancel and waste their bookings, Thor had persuaded Leon to come in her place.