I’d never heard that before. I assured him that, speaking from personal experience, it was just nonsense.
“I’m sure you’re right,” he said. “In fact I read somewhere recently that dreams are a natural way of clearing out the mind’s overflow. You know, like a kind of mental Smith’s Pumps system. If you don’t dream, the unpleasant things stuffed in there have no way of getting out.”
I wondered what kinds of unpleasant things a man like him might have in his mind. But he didn’t enlarge upon it and once more changed the subject.
“Do you enjoy tutoring?” he said.
I explained how I’d just drifted into the job, and, for that matter, lacked the skills to do anything else. But from what I’d seen, I didn’t really like how the mining industry acted in some of these out-of-the-way places. They polluted the earth and the air, were located where they’d no right to be, and destroyed the native cultures while they were at it. Nor did I much like the fact that I was helping them conduct their unpleasant business in good English.
The hawk eyes were locked onto mine.
“Maybe you should try another line of work,” Gordon Smith said.
I suggested that wouldn’t make any real difference to me. After what I’d been through — I meant, of course, my broken heart — I doubted I’d ever find contentment in any job, anyway.
As I said this, my voice was fuzzy from the wine and I knew I sounded melodramatic.
He nodded his head in sympathy, but his eyes were still taking my measure.
2
We moved to a screened verandah and sipped brandy. Above, the moon was breathtaking in the midst of a billion stars. The buzz of insects and the piping of tree frogs were all at once silenced by the scream of some animal in pain. But in a few seconds, everything returned to normal.
Gordon Smith remarked that these tropical regions involved perils not just for animals, but for human beings too. He himself, for example, had been smitten by a variety of illnesses in the era before modern drugs and vaccines were available.
“Yes, I caught my share,” he said. “Malaria, several times. Yellow fever, too — no one in that era knew it also came from mosquitoes. Believe me, it wasn’t a pleasant experience. And no matter how careful you were in some parts of the world, you couldn’t really avoid all the sand flies, black flies, fleas, ticks, and lice. Because of them I caught things I’d never heard of — a lot of Greek-sounding medical terms like onchocerciasis and leishmaniasis.
“Then of course there was cholera — if you had to drink unpurified water, you inevitably got it. And even if you didn’t drink the water and only used it for washing yourself, the bug went through the skin and gave you schistosomiasis. Unless you completely stopped washing yourself, as some people did, which led to even worse problems, aside from just the smell. Like most travellers, I contracted hepatitis — it was as normal as sunburn and there were so many possible causes you’d have had to stay home to be safe.” He sighed and sipped his brandy. “Just running off the names, it sounds as though I’m boasting, but believe me they took quite a toll. Thank goodness I at least managed to avoid bubonic plague — as you know, it’s not so good. Or hemorrhagic fever, where your whole body starts to bleed — if I’d run into that, I wouldn’t be talking to you today.”
After listening to this catalogue, I knew I should be grateful for only having had to deal with malaria, or whatever it was, in my own brief travels. I told Gordon Smith I’d be much more careful in future.
“Very wise,” he said. “Things are a lot safer now if you’re careful with the water and keep up with your vaccinations. In the old days, it was much riskier. I used to be strong as an ox, but I’ve paid the price.”
HE NOW BEGAN talking about his home and the home of Smith’s Pumps — Camberloo, in Southern Ontario, more or less in the middle of Canada. He lived there with his only child, a daughter, his wife having died many years ago.
“It’s a town with no remarkable landmarks, or works of architecture, or any of that sort of thing,” he said.
I’d already heard about Camberloo from Dupont: he too had thought it quite a bland place.
Gordon Smith considered that.
“Yes, I suppose Camberloo looks about as bland as a place can be,” he said. “Bland on the surface, that is.” He gestured out beyond the verandah. “Here, in the tropics, everything’s exotic and hits you over the head like a hammer, demanding to be noticed. In Camberloo, things are more subtle. The town has its quotient of drama, too, but you have to be astute and patient to spot it.” The night insects were so noisy that his voice barely rose above them. “These tropical countries have an immediate appeal to some area of the mind that’s adolescent and unformed. Whereas a place like Camberloo — it’s for adult, mature tastes. I have to admit, I’m still not sure which I prefer.”
After another drink he said he needed to get some sleep, for he had a busy day ahead. I took the hint. Before I went out the door, he invited me to join him for breakfast at seven in the morning. I thanked him and staggered across the compound to my own sleeping quarters.
THE SCREECHING of parrots and a host of noisy morning birds woke me not long after sun-up. I could have slept much longer despite the noise, but I remembered my breakfast appointment, got up, showered, and went over to the big bungalow. The general manager had already eaten and gone to his office. Gordon Smith had waited for me. We didn’t talk much as we munched orange slices and banana along with corn bread. I drank four or five cups of coffee.
“Feeling a bit better now?” he said.
I assured him I did.
“I’m just about to head for the mine and see if I can pin down whatever has been causing the problem,” he said. “I’ll have to use a machine for measuring air quality. I’d like to check in case there’s some kind of gas down there.”
The hawk eyes were on me and I could guess what was coming.
“I was wondering,” he said. “If you’re feeling up to it, would you mind helping me carry some things down into the mine? I can’t really trust any of the locals in their present state of mind— even if I could persuade one of them to come with me, which I very much doubt. Besides, I wouldn’t mind having someone else along to act as a witness, or a second pair of eyes.”
I hesitated. I didn’t feel at all brave.
“Maybe you’re a bit under the weather?” said Gordon Smith, watching me. “I’d quite understand if you don’t want to.”
I told him I just needed one more coffee. To my satisfaction, my hand was quite steady as I poured.
3
We wore coveralls and miners’ hats, Gordon Smith and I, as we went into the La Mancha mine. He had a small backpack that ticked loudly and a shoulder bag for rock samples, and was carrying a trowel. I brought a pickaxe and a long-handled shovel.
I was hoping there might be a few spectators at the mine entrance to witness my bravery. But since the incident, the workers had thought it best to stay well away from the mine, and this day was no different.
As we entered the gloom of the tunnel the sultry morning sun was cut off. By the time we’d advanced about thirty paces, a sharp bend almost eliminated any remnants of natural light, so the occasional electric bulbs strung overhead now became our main illumination. The silence was broken only by the crunch of our boots on the gravelly floor and the metallic ticking from Gordon Smith’s backpack.