Air and Fire by Rupert Thomson

pale, heavy mouth. He looked old before his time.
    â€˜Those French,’ and Jesús blew some breath out, and it turned white as it passed through his lips, ‘they’ll be the death of me.’
    â€˜Another failure, I take it.’
    â€˜See for yourself.’
    Wilson crossed the stone floor and rested his crutches against the counter. He peered into the mouth of the oven. Three blackened loaves lay smouldering on their baking tray. One of them had split open, as if somebody had taken an axe to it; a wisp of steam rose from the fissure like an apology. He turned away, leaned an elbow on the counter.
    â€˜Now they’re telling me I have to build a sloping oven.
¡Chingada Madre!
Jesús cleared his throat and spat through the doorway, then he stared at the floor again and slowly shook his head.
    â€˜A sloping oven?’ Wilson was not sure if he had understood.
    â€˜It helps with the moisture. You have to have moisture, they tell me. Without moisture it can’t be done. Well, let me tell you something. I can’t stand moisture. I loathe it. Moisture makes me puke.’
    â€˜I saw the doctor yesterday,’ Wilson said. ‘He’s getting impatient.’
    â€˜Is he the one with the fancy waistcoats?’
    â€˜That’s him.’
    â€˜He’s the worst. Always down here, poking around.’
    â€˜He just likes his French bread, that’s all.’
    â€˜He should have stayed in France, then, shouldn’t he.’
    Wilson grinned.
    â€˜They’ll be the death of me, those French.’ Jesús shook his head again. A cloud of flour rose into the air and hung in a shaft of sunlight, looking suddenly as if it were made of gold. As Wilson watched, the middle of the cloud disintegrated; the cloud became a halo. The baker still sat gloomily below. It seemed to Wilson that he had been witness to a prophecy, which was his to do with as he wished.
    â€˜It will come right in the end, Jesús,’ he said, and felt quite confident in his prediction.
    Jesús looked at Wilson for the first time since Wilson had walked in. ‘What did you do to your foot?’
    He must have been the only person in town who had not heard. He had been too preoccupied to see beyond the four walls of his bakery. An earthquake could have happened. A flood. He would not have known.
    Wilson drank from his cracked glass. Through the window he couldsee the tilting iron rooftops of the town, the steep escarpment of the Mesa de Francia and the clean blue sky beyond. In the foreground a space had been cleared, about the size of a small town-square or a ceremonial arena; Wilson could imagine that an Indian tribe might dance on that red dirt, and call it sacred. As he stared down, a man passed through his line of vision. The man was buttoned into a black frock-coat, and held a white umbrella above his head. In his other hand he clutched a handkerchief; every now and then he would reach up and dab his throat, his forehead, the back of his neck. On his feet he wore a pair of immaculate white spats. A Frenchman. No doubt about it.
    The Frenchman advanced to the middle of the arena and stood still, facing east. Then he turned about and faced the mountains in the west. His shadow crouched behind him. He began to walk westwards, his legs stiff, his stride exaggerated. He was counting the number of paces, measuring the ground. When he could go no further, he stopped and nodded to himself.
    Then, suddenly, he was running back the way he had come. It was a strange sight, a man running with an umbrella above his head, especially when that man was a Frenchman. You rarely saw a Frenchman running; there was no dignity in it. Without taking his eyes off the man, Wilson lifted his glass and drank. The man was holding up his hand as he ran and Wilson could now see why. Some Indians had filed into the square. They were carrying pieces of grey metal; some of the pieces were large, and required the combined