A hop across the Andes took us to Chile and the fulfillment of a silent promise to visit Antofagasta I’d made to myself after learning of the place when Vienne and I discovered how far ranging Damon’s work really was. It’s a lovely town right on the ocean, and beyond it, the incredibly dry and inhospitable Atacama Desert. You’ll have to look hard to find a city of greater geographic contrasts, and the bulk of our time on this trip was spent there. I’m looking at Aline right now with a smile because our weirdo neighbor, a very lively and kinetic hairdresser called Lali Peña, finally convinced Aline to have a go and change her look. The result was dramatic, to say the least, and I’m still trying to get used to her new, very short style. I was too polite to tell her Lali’s expert touch left Aline looking a bit like a platinum blonde cockatoo.
We did fairly well arranging for temporary working visas because the Chilean government doesn’t seem to mind as much as others, so long as you already have enough dough lying around to prevent them from having to carry you. There’s a significant British population in Anto, and Aline spent some time helping out as a purchasing agent for a specialty store that imports various items to satisfy expats longing for a touch of home. I had no interest in doing anything beyond the borders of cultural investigation or polishing my tan on the beach, so I spent most of my days people watching and editing this narrative.
Aline has read all of it, by the way, and I wondered if my characterization of events might be met with a different perspective. Okay, I really meant to say I thought she might get pissed off about it and another brawl would ensue, but when I asked her what she thought, she just smiled and said it was fun to hear my take on things and know we’re still very much aligned.
In the evenings, when there isn’t anything more pressing, Aline takes me back for more excursions through the moments in her previous lives. She returned to Tegwen’s time, of course, and I’ve gotten pretty good at feeling her influence in each of the other lives, including this one, which she says makes her proud of me. I’ll take the kudos, but at least I’ve learned that what I don’t know still dwarfs what I do, and that’s probably as it should be.
The last phase, now that our journey is nearing its end, has been spent in Australia. Aline wanted to see New Zealand, but we blew it off in favor of another try sometime next year when we have more time. Farther west, the Barrier Reef really is as amazing as they say, and we loitered up and down the coast between Brisbane and Melbourne for almost a month. We didn’t get down to Tasmania, but Aline was determined to see Alice Springs and Uluru. I wasted our time by insisting on a side trip to Coober Pedy because scenes from Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome were filmed near there and I always loved that movie. Mel Gibson and Tina Turner moved on to other projects, and Aline just shakes her head at my impersonation of Edwin Hodgeman’s splendid Dr. Dealgood character.
We moved on through remote sheep stations to Western Australia (they’re not kidding when they say the Outback is a huge, desolate place) and didn’t stop much until we ran into the Indian Ocean at Perth. We love that city, and it will be a repeated destination at some point, but we made forays south to Fremantle and ended up here in Bunbury. The next leg we had planned was the Maldives and the Seychelles, but obviously those stops will have to wait for another time because the signal was given this morning, and everything has changed.
Burke called Aline’s phone, and when she answered, I could feel her thoughts seeping into mine in a second. I know it wasn’t intentional, but I’ve become much better at sensing those mild intrusions than I was a few years ago.
She put her phone on speaker, and Burke’s voice seemed strange somehow—alien to us and not recognizable as it once was. He didn’t begin with some grand announcement or deliberate speech to tell us it was time. Mostly, it was an oddly satisfying ramble about current events and the gossip coming up from London. Gregory Hurd, he noted with obvious amusement, had dug himself a hole with the Minister he couldn’t get out of when the reports confirmed nothing out of the way or unusual had marred our agreement. The Whitehall crowd, at least those few who even knew about us, were given to understand a disaster was coming their way at any moment, and when that proved false, they needed somebody to blame. Hurd’s proclamations made with his usual bombast and arrogance did him no good, and now he’s fighting to win his way back into the Minister’s good graces by overseeing the investigation of finance activities between British subjects and one or two Turkish nationals with dubious connections and a history of arms peddling.
Colonel Halliwell fared better, and he moonlights as a special consultant to the Home Office’s liaison to major media outlets in the UK. Burke says Halliwell acts as an intermediary between legitimate information the British public is entitled to know and “deliberate fabrications made by the shitty damned BBC because they simply can’t help themselves.” Aline asked him bluntly if there was a point to the call, so Burke recounted a visit to London the previous week and a conversation with his Minister. During the discussion, he said, a recent debate in the Commons referred to the inherent risks associated with anything resembling enhanced interrogation techniques when the practice becomes known to an outraged public. He mentioned Aline’s unique skills, and the Minister responded with near indifference and a distant, “Oh yes; the Welsh girl and her American gent.” In that moment, Burke understood the events that led to our disappearance were forgotten, right on schedule.
This afternoon has been spent sending e-mails to friends and family to let them know our world tour is at an end. Quite a few have already replied with excited anticipation, and Jeremy made a point of assuring us all’s well and my landscaping will look better than it did the day we left. Vienne asked…no, that’s not correct, she demanded to know when we land in Montreal, and it’s clear our return to Denbighshire will be delayed by a week or two in Canada. She thinks we should make our relationship “official,” but that is due to her sense of romance and an inexplicable enjoyment from going to weddings. Aline didn’t come right out and say it, but I think she’s waiting for me to take charge on that issue. I told them both the future is an interesting place, but it didn’t help much.
Aline wondered if I would be comfortable letting my sister in on the big secret, but I wasn’t sure how far it should go. We’ve agreed to show her the thought-reading stuff at some point, but the jury is still out on the six previous lives part. We hesitate mostly because it would require the same levels of immersion I’ve endured over nearly two years for her to understand it wasn’t a clever trick.
Aline tried to contact her parents an hour ago, but they’re obviously offshore and headed who knows where. She spoke with her dad a few weeks ago when they stopped for a while on Ibiza, and our cover story seems to have held; her mom and dad believe we’re doing pretty much the same thing they’re doing, but we’re getting to it before our retirement years.
I’m going to leave it here because there’s nothing more to say, and we have a big job ahead getting things boxed for shipment to Wales. Aline is checking online right now, stubbornly researching travel options to the Seychelles because, she insists, it’s on the way (it isn’t) and one of the alternate “always wanted to go there” places on her list. I thought she would zero in on the most direct flights to Heathrow available, but Aline is never in a hurry, and I’m learning to embrace the journey instead of watching the clock. I’ll remind her Montreal is an eastward journey and that will put the Seychelles on a temporary back burner.
We’re going home; time to pack.
Chet Benson, Editor
Rebecca Rue, Editor
Erik Johnson, technical and IT support, musical director
Phil Bourassa, webmaster and creative consultant
John Jorgensen, geographic and cultural support
Vern and Joni Firestone, biznis enablers
Warren Kovach, historical perspective
Heather Rose Jones, onomastics in absentia
Ian Anderson
Alan Parsons
&n
bsp; Evángelos Odysséas Papathanassíou
Jeff Beck
Robin Trower
Stanley Clarke
Jack Wall/Sam Hulick
Jimmy Hinson/David Kates
Chris Velasco/Sascha Dikiciyan
Anthony Banks/Michael Rutherford
Earl Klugh
Noddy Holder
Avigdor “Spoofy” Avidan
About the Author
Robert Davies is a born-and-raised Michigan kid with an overactive imagination and love of literature that eventually became a disease, curable only through the odd, frustrating therapy of writing fiction. A Navy veteran, musician, private pilot and erstwhile traveler, he crossed oceans and countless borders to find and understand Earth, only to leave it behind in the pages of his first novel. Released from the University of Portland with a Bachelor’s in Journalism, Rob has spent the last twenty years as a contract manager in the information technology and telecommunications industries. He currently lives in southwest Washington with his wife Stephanie, daughter Natalie and four mildly overbearing female tabbies.
The Seventh Life of Aline Lloyd Page 39
