I thought of what the coroner had said — that it wasn’t a bad way for her to go. The image of her sliding unconscious into the warm water, her last breaths scented with spices from her candles, was somehow consoling. If I’d died like that, she’d probably have felt much the same way.
THREE DAYS LATER, we cremated Alicia. An unexpected guest, Gordon’s doctor — twenty years older now, but still wearing a polka-dot bow tie — showed up for the occasion. I was taken aback to learn from him that both Alicia and Gordon had requested their carotids be slashed before being wheeled into the incinerator.
That reminded me of how, one night not long after Gordon’s death, I’d picked up the illustrated History of Scotland he often read. The corner of a page was turned down at a section on premature burial, which was relatively common right up to the nineteenth century. To avoid this unpleasant possibility, some of the dying would ask that after being pronounced dead, their carotid arteries be cut. They didn’t want to wake up and find themselves underground in a coffin — or even worse, in the hell of a crematorium furnace.
I’d torn that page out of the book and destroyed it, thinking it might distress Alicia if she came across it. But all these years, she’d kept their pact secret, knowing it would distress me.
LATER THAT DAY, in a light rain, Frank, Jonson, and I buried her ashes under the very rose bush where Gordon’s ashes had been intermingled with the earth decades before. The bush had always looked healthy enough but had produced no roses, despite Alicia’s loving care for it.
Afterwards in the house, over drinks, Jonson asked me about the derivation of our little burial service. I told him about the South American tribes who believed that the best orchids grew on top of corpses, beauty springing out of tragedy.
“Ah” was all he said. He wasn’t the sentimental type.
But I liked the idea of the ritual, even if only as a symbol.
Surely there was no harm in wishing that out of the dust of Gordon and Alicia, two people who’d done so much for me— loved me — something beautiful might arise.
5
A year had passed since Alicia’s death. I hadn’t realized how much I’d miss her, and tried to immerse myself in work to keep my mind occupied. Notice arrived that the Annual Mining Convention of the Americas was scheduled to take place in La Verdad. I’d attended most AMCA conventions over the years and, this time, had actually been invited to give a presentation on our latest pumps. I had no intention of going, however. Frank and I had become much closer in the aftermath of his mother’s death and I didn’t like the idea of leaving him on his own. But when he heard about the AMCA meeting, he insisted that I go — a week in Mexico would be good for me.
So I went to La Verdad reluctantly. Indeed, I would have adjudged the entire trip to be a waste of time. Till that few minutes sheltering from a storm in a shabby bookstore where I discovered a book—The Obsidian Cloud.
When I brought it home, I lent it to Frank to find out what he thought.
He was excited — it was just the kind of oddity he loved. I’d mentioned to him my own Duncairn connection, but only in the most general way. That was one of the reasons why I’d spent a considerable amount of my spare time at the university library, doing whatever research I could on the book’s origins and its author. Without the slightest success.
Frank wasn’t surprised.
“Look,” he said. “I know from experience, this isn’t the kind of thing an amateur can do. You need to give the book to an expert, then you might get results.”
I thought he meant himself, for his collection of oddities included rare books. He’d already hinted he wouldn’t mind putting The Obsidian Cloud in his collection at the Emporium— not for sale, of course, but just to show it off.
In fact, of course, he had in mind the curator of rare books at the National Cultural Centre in Glasgow.
“I haven’t met him,” he said. “But I’ve read articles by him in various journals. He really knows his stuff.”
So I did what he suggested, and the curator eventually became enthusiastic about the task. While his research was underway, another important figure from my past reappeared.
DUPONT RETURNS
1
It was a Friday, and I was in my office later than usual preparing for an important meeting on Monday morning with the representatives of a consortium of mining companies. The phone rang and I picked up, expecting it to be Jonson. He’d gone over to the factory earlier to check on machinery parts and said he’d call if there were any shortages.
“Harry, is that you?”
The voice wasn’t Jonson’s.
“This is Charles Dupont.”
My mind was full of the upcoming Monday meeting, so the name didn’t quite register at first.
“You know — Dr. Dupont. We were together in Africa, more than twenty years ago?”
Dupont! I was surprised and delighted. I told him I’d often thought about him over the years and wondered what had become of him. He was one of those who’d been kind to me when I badly needed a friend.
“Well, it’s nice to hear I haven’t been forgotten,” said Dupont. “I’ve often wondered what became of you.”
I gave him a brief account of my life since we’d last met, and he did the same. After leaving Africa he’d gone on to various postings in other foreign parts. Most recently, in fact for the last three years, he’d been director of surgery in an institute of some sort in Upper New York State, near the Canadian border.
“Which is how I came to hear about you,” he said.
Apparently, a technician from Canada had been brought in to repair a defective magneto in one of the generators that ran the institute’s labs. He’d finished the job just that very day, and before heading back over the border had reported to Dupont. This technician happened to mention that he’d learned some elements of his trade at Smith’s Pumps in Camberloo, and my name came up. Dupont asked a few questions and realized it must be the same Harry Steen he’d known so long ago in Africa.
“You can imagine what a surprise that was,” Dupont said. “But it was also such a coincidence, for I’d just been thinking about you. It happens that this very weekend I’ve a visitor coming who spent some time in that little mining town in Scotland you were always talking about. Duncairn, wasn’t it?”
I was even more surprised to hear that name yet again, so soon after the discovery in La Verdad, and that Dupont had even remembered it from so many years ago.
“Well, you talked about it often enough back in those days — that and your broken heart,” he said. “Anyway, as soon as that technician left my office I found the Smith’s Pumps phone number, and I’m so glad I caught you. Here’s what I want to ask: I know I’m not giving you much notice, but is there any chance you could come down here this weekend? The two of us could catch up and you can meet my friend and hear all about Duncairn, too.”
How could I refuse such a tempting invitation? Of course I’d drive down and see him on Saturday. But I’d have to leave again early on Sunday to get back to Camberloo for an important early-morning meeting on Monday. Was there a hotel near his institute where I could stay on Saturday night?