InterMinas arranged for me to be transported by jeep to a regional hospital. It had been established by the company exclusively for its workers.
“HOSPITAL” WAS A grandiose name for what was a large bamboo hut in a jungle clearing. It had a tin roof, fly screens instead of glass windows, and mosquito nets over each of the twenty beds. In spite of the window screens, the place was abuzz with flying insects that didn’t seem to grasp the difference between indoors and outdoors. The only sort of cooling in this hospital consisted of three ceiling fans. These depended on an electrical supply that seemed to fizzle out regularly during the stickiest part of each day.
Three nurses took turns looking after the patients day and night, and a physician did a morning round. He diagnosed my problem as a case of dengue fever, a quite painful form of malaria inflicted by a species of daytime mosquitoes. He assured me that although the illness was painful — it was known as “break-bone fever”—it wasn’t likely to recur.
I was relieved to learn I had a mere case of dengue, which I’d heard about before. I’d been worried it might be the dreaded Guinea Worms. These worms got into the intestines from drinking untreated water. They were as thin as wire and grew to several feet long, popping their heads out through the belly of the sufferer from time to time. At other mines, I’d seen afflicted miners wind the worms out of themselves on twigs.
Only five other patients were in the hospital, all noticeably bandaged from such work injuries as fractured skulls, legs, and arms. You’d never have suspected any of these patients were in pain. Like all the miners I’d met, no matter how awful their condition, suffering in silence was the only acceptable behaviour. I did my best to muffle my own groans.
IN ABOUT A WEEK, I was starting to feel much better. One afternoon I’d had a good lunch of small meat-filled burritos, with mangoes and other fruit for dessert. I must have nodded off.
I dreamt one of those strange dreams in which I was aware I was dreaming. I was standing at the entrance of a tenement in a crowd of people, their faces as detailed and memorable as those of any strangers you see in any real street in the waking world. A man came through the entrance and looked out over the crowd. It was Gordon Smith. He eventually saw me, raised his right arm, and pointed towards me. His eyes were bulging and cold, the way they’d been that day in the La Mancha mine. I knew that was impossible, that there was a scientific explanation, and that this must therefore be a dream.
Nevertheless, to be on the safe side I tried to run away. I couldn’t move my limbs so I attempted to say something, and the sound of my own voice awakened me.
There, by my bed, looking down at me in a friendly and concerned way, stood Gordon Smith himself. I blinked to be sure I wasn’t dreaming still.
“I’m sorry I startled you,” said Gordon Smith. “May I sit down?” He pulled a cane chair towards the bed and sat. “I happened to be down in this region checking the pumping system over at the Segura mine and one of the managers mentioned that the young Scottish tutor had been brought here sick. I realized it was you he was talking about, so I borrowed a driver and a jeep and came over to pay a visit. Unfortunately, I only have fifteen minutes then I have to get to the airport — I’m flying out tonight. How’re you feeling?”
I didn’t mention just seeing him in my dream and told him instead about the dengue.
“I know it well,” he said. “It’s not the most pleasant thing.”
A nurse appeared with two cups of coffee for us. I almost thought I was dreaming again, that was so unusual. Clearly we were being given special treatment.
As we sipped, Gordon Smith asked about my work and we talked about the various mines where I’d been tutoring since I last saw him, nearly six months before. We chatted for a while about some of the managers he knew. He kept checking his watch and eventually gave me one of his keenest hawk stares.
“I don’t have much time so I’ll get to the point,” he said. “When you’re fit to travel why don’t you come to Canada and stay a while at my place in Camberloo? The change will help you recuperate properly.”
I was so surprised I didn’t know what to say.
“Look,” he said. “This isn’t a spur-of-the-moment idea. I’ve been thinking about it since we met at La Mancha — and my motives aren’t entirely benevolent. The fact is, I’m getting a bit too old myself for all this travelling, and I badly need a reliable assistant. I’ve had my eye out for someone suitable for quite a while, and I have a notion you might be just the man for the job. You’d still see lots of the world if that’s what you want — and you’d have a good income and a home base to come back to.”
He could see how stunned I was.
“If you do come and visit Camberloo, you can find out for yourself what’s involved at the business end of Smith’s Pumps,” he said. “I’m quite aware that you’re not a scientist or an engineer, and that you’re not really familiar with pumps or air-exchange systems. But your job wouldn’t be building the machinery. That’s already taken care of. All you’d need to learn is how to persuade potential clients to consider our products. And I can teach you how to do that.” He checked his watch again. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but give it some thought. Whatever you decide in the end, it’ll be a few months’ holiday for you.”
What could I do but accept his generous offer? The idea of a holiday, with no strings attached, was very appealing — and I’d certainly think over what he’d said about working with him at Smith’s Pumps.
He seemed pleased enough at that, for he shook my hand warmly. Then he reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and handed me an envelope bulging with banknotes. “This’ll cover your expenses.”
I protested that I could pay my own way.
“Not at all,” he said. “This is a business matter. As soon as I get home, my travel agent will arrange an open first-class ticket in your name on any ship of your choice from Panama to Quebec City. A sea voyage’ll give you another few weeks to relax in the fresh air — and this time you won’t be a deckhand. From Quebec, you can catch a train to Camberloo. I’ll look forward to seeing you there in the not-too-distant future.”
We shook hands again and he rushed off to his jeep. No sooner had he gone than the hospital doctor, in the best of spirits, came to see me. Apparently Señor Smith had slipped him a few thousand pesos in return for taking especially good care of me till I was ready to leave.
He did take good care of me. Two weeks later, I was fit to travel.
ALICIA
1
During the three-week voyage from Panama to Quebec City on a recently built cargo ship, the SS Gardeyloo, I avoided my fellow passengers as much as possible. It was easily done, for there were only a dozen or so and they didn’t seem all that interested in socializing with a walking skeleton. I read and ate and drank in the privacy of my cabin, which was as big as the combined living quarters of the Charybdis’s entire group of deckhands.
Some remnants of my bout of dengue fever persisted in the form of occasional dizziness and a fear of the mosquitoes that made half the voyage with us. But I’d started to put on a little weight again, despite how emaciated I might have looked to others. I was feeling alert by the time the ship was sailing up the Gulf of St. Lawrence. That sensation of slowly entering the gullet of a great beast, which must have affected centuries of immigrants, moved me too.