Tomorrow he would test Mr Minct’s metal, if he could, in that acoustic game they played, and get some notion of the man’s resonances. He had not been manipulated so expertly since he was fourteen. He believed Paul Minct to be a charlatan, probably crazy, perhaps even messianic in some way. Frequently a secret faith, too insane to risk upon the air, fuelled such aggressive solipsism. The man appeared to have the tastes of a Torquemada and the savage appetites of a European warlord. Always a strong hand, thought Mr Oakenhurst. His lies would therefore be complicated and self-convincing. Mr Oakenhurst had lived for months at a time beside the Fault and knew it well. He had seen a woman from Jackson walk in at the semipermanent section known as The Custard Bowl and disintegrate, bawling for help, as soon as she reached the so-called East Wall, a turbulent tower sometimes emerging within the Bowl, usually coloured deep red and black. On another occasion he had held a rope for Cab Ras, the famous daredevil, as he went in through the glistening organic scarlet of Ketchup Cave. He had vanished. The rope had fallen to the surface as if cut and Ras was gone for good. Everything was consumed by the Biloxi Fault. Was Paul Minct merely reluctant to die alone?
Mr Oakenhurst did not doubt the enmascaro’s courage or ferocity, the man’s murderous determination, but could not fathom Paul Minct’s objectives. Perhaps Mr Minct had actually convinced himself that he could survive the Fault, and others with him. It was not a belief Mr Oakenhurst wished to put to the test. Yet, for all his evident insanity, the man continued to terrify Sam Oakenhurst who wondered if Paul Minct already had his measure, as he did not have Mr Minct’s. A game would answer most of his questions. He was no Jack Karaquazian, but he had held his own with the rest.
Most of the lights were now extinguished to conform with Captain Ornate’s tough curfew, enforced by a gang of breed blankey’s under their own vicious leaders.
The raft rocked a little in the water and a powerful shaft of moonlight broke through full on The Whole Hog as if God for a moment had turned his undivided attention on them. A voice came up to him out of the shadows. ‘Time for bed, Sam?’
‘Good evening, Carly.’ Sam Oakenhurst wanted to learn all she knew of Paul Minct. ‘I’ve a bottle of Arkwright’s I know you’ll taste.’
~ * ~
Carly O’Dowd had little more real information. She remembered a story that Paul Minct’s hatred of whites could be relatively recent, following a fire started by his own relatives from Baton Rouge. But there was a different story of how Paul Minct had been a member of the Golala sect which believed death by fire was a guarantee of heaven. She asked Sam if he believed in an afterlife.
‘I have a hunch your soul has a home to go to. ‘ That was all Sam Oakenhurst would say on the matter, but when she asked if he believed God dealt everyone a square hand, he shook his head. He had thought about that lately, he said. He had to admit that God’s dealing sometimes seemed a little uneven.
‘But I don’t think he plays dice, Carly. He plays a hand of poker against the devil and some of us believe it’s our job to help him. Some of us even do a little bit about it.’ He shrugged.
‘Jesus,’ said Carly O’Dowd. ‘I never heard anyone describe gambling as a moral duty before. Ain’t this the end of everything, Sam? Ain’t it over for us?’
‘Maybe,’ said Sam Oakenhurst, ‘but I got a feeling it evens out. Like luck, you know.’
Carly O’Dowd took a long pull on the pipe and sipped her winking Arkwright’s.
‘Quid pro quo,’ said Mr Oakenhurst.
‘Allez, los tigres,’ she sang softly. ‘Ma bebe sans merci, il est un majo sin compare. O, be be, you bon surprise, you darling ease.’
In the morning she insisted he come to the open window to look over the ragged shanty town, towards the east where the cloud had cleared and red sunlight rose in broad rays from the watery horizon, staining the whole lake a lively ruby. Against this redness a single black outline moved.
‘It’s coming closer.’ Sam Oakenhurst squinted to improve his focus. ‘It’s a big heron, Carly.’ He shivered. He took her slight body to his. ‘Bigger.’
It was an aircraft. A beautiful white flying boat with six pairs of wing-mounted roaring engines and whistling airscrews, moving to make a preliminary pass at the water, intending to land. The flying boat was turned a sudden, subtle pink by the sun.
Everyone on the raft was up and out in haste to see the splendid craft. Pilgrims and jugaderos all wondered at the wealth it took to squander so much colour upon an antique conceit.
And then, throttling down to a confident thud, the flying boat came to settle, light as a gull, upon the surface. The big engines fell silent. Water lapped at her ivory hull. Almost at once a door above the lower wing opened and a figure stepped out, dragging a small inflatable. The grey rubber boat blended with the leaden waters as black and yellow cloud drew itself round the sun like a cloak. Through the gloom of the new day the figure began to row, calling out in a melodious, ringing voice; ‘Ahoy, the raft! Is this The Whole Hog and Captain Roy Ornate?’
Just up from his quarters in his Monday whites and weak-kneed with wonderment, Captain Ornate could barely lift his megaphone to utter an unsteady; ‘I am Captain Roy Ornate, master of The Whole Hog. Be warned that we accept no metal. Who calls the ship?’
This was a formal exchange, as between river captains. The rower replied. ‘Mrs Rose von Bek, lately out of Guadalajara with a package for Mr Paul Minct. Is Mr Minct aboard, sir?’
The weight of the curious crowd began to tilt the raft dramatically. The shanty dwellers were set upon by the blankeys, led by a plague-pocked overseer, and beaten back into order. To add to their humiliation they were forced into their windowless dwellings, denied any further part of the miracle.
‘Mr Minct is one of our passengers,’ agreed Roy Ornate, his own curiosity undisguised. ‘What’s the nature of your goods, ma’am?’
Before the rower could answer, Paul Minct, massively fat, his body wrapped in lengths of multicoloured velvet, rolled up to Captain Ornate’s side to stand stroking his beaded veil as another might stroke a beard. He took the megaphone from the grateful master and spoke in a wet, amplified soprano. ‘So you found me at last. Is that my M&E come up from Mexico, dear?’
Mr Oakenhurst began to imagine himself back in time, taking part in one of the interactive adventure ads of his childhood. Was this, after all, no more than some misremembered bite?
Any answer Mrs von Bek might have made was drowned by six bellowing engines as the flying boat began to taxi out over the endless grey lake and, with a parting shriek, vanished into the air.
The inflatable came up against embarking-steps thick with mould. A slim, athletic woman stepped aboard, her features disguised by a cowl on her cape which fell in blue-green folds almost to the deck. Maybe a white woman. She had a small oilskin package in her left hand.
By now Mr Oakenhurst and Mrs O’Dowd, fully dressed, stood on the landing listening to the silence returning.
‘I’m much obliged, ma’am.’ Paul Minct reached for his package. ‘One would have to be Scrooge himself to begrudge that extra little bit it takes to get your M&E delivered.’ He turned, his mask on one side, as if in apology to Sam Oakenhurst. ‘I’ll admit it’s a terrible extravagance of mine. You should hear my wife on the subject.’
Had he arranged this whole charade merely to demonstrate his power and wealth?
The woman pushed her cowl back to reveal a most wonderful dark golden pink skin, washed with the faintest browns and greens, some kind of sensitive North African features, reminding Mr Oakenhurst of those aquiline Berbers from the deep Maghribi desert. Her auburn hair reflected the colour of her cloak and her lips were a startling scarlet, as if they bled. She was as tall as Sam Oakenhurst. Her extraordinary grace fascinated him. He had never seen movement like it. He found himself staring at her, even as she took Paul Minct’s arm and made her way to the main saloon.
‘What would you call that colour skin?’ murmured Carly O’Dowd.
> ~ * ~
10. LOS BELLES DU CANADA
‘I TASTED A thousand scales to reach this place.’ Mrs von Bek had been joined at her table by Sister Honesty Marvell, Mrs O’Dowd and Rodrigo Heat, but she kept a seat beside her empty and this she now offered to Mr Oakenhurst who bowed, brushed back his tails and wished her good morning as he sat down beside her. He wondered why she seemed familiar. At close quarters the greenish blush of her hands, the pink-gold of her cheeks had a quality which made all other flesh seem unnatural. He had never before felt such strong emotion in the presence of beauty.
In amused recognition of his admiration, she smiled. Clearly, she was also curious about him. ‘You are of the jugadiste persuasion, Mr Oakenhurst?’
‘I make a small living from my good fortune, ma’am.’ Had he ever felt as he did now, at the centre of a concert while the music achieved some ecstatic moment? Was he looking on the true face of his lady, his luck? Where would she take him? Home?
He realized to his alarm that he was on the verge of weeping.
‘Well, Mr Oakenhurst,’ Mrs von Bek continued, ‘you would know a flat game, I hope, if one turned up for you. And Granny’s Claw? Is that still played in these parts?’
‘Not to my knowledge, ma’am.’
I need an ally, she said in an urgent signal, which marked her as his peer. Paul Minct is my mortal enemy and will destroy me if he recognizes me. Will you help?
He returned her signal. At your service, Mrs von Bek.
No sworn jugador could have refused her. Their mutual code demanded instant compliance. Only in extreme need did one of his kind thus address a peer. But he would have helped her anyway. He was entirely infatuated with her. He began to wonder what other allies, and of what calibre, he might find here. Did fear or some profound sense of loyalty bind Rodrigo Heat to Paul Minct? Carly O’Dowd, given to sudden swings of affection, would be unreliable at best. Roy Ornate was also Paul Minct’s man. Sister Honesty Marvell might side with them, if only out of an habitual need to destroy potential rivals. Meanwhile, Mr Oakenhurst would have to follow Mrs von Bek’s lead until she told him to do otherwise.
Her fingers dropped from the grey-green pearls and coral at her throat while his own hands lost interest in his links. Their secret exchange was for a moment at an end.
It had been seven years - twenty-eight seasons by current reckoning - since Mr Oakenhurst had been in a similar situation and that had been the start of his friendship with Jack Karaquazian. On this occasion, however, the intellectual thrill, the thrill of the big risk, was coupled with his overwhelming desire for her given extra edge by his own anxious guess that perhaps she was at least a little attracted to him. Even the chemistry with Serdia had not been so strong. The sensation attacked his mind as well as his flesh while the cool part of him, the trained jugador, was taking account of this wonderful return of feelings he had thought lost for ever, and considering new odds.
‘Do you think it will be long before we reach the Frees, Mr Ornate?’ She looked up as the skipper returned with a tray on which stood an oak cafetière and some delicate rosewood cups. ‘Here you go, ma’am, here you go. I fixed it myself. You can’t trust these blankeys to fix good coffee.’ The man was blushing like a rat on a hot spot, oblivious of the open derision on Rodrigo Heat’s old-fashioned head.
Mr Oakenhurst relaxed his body and settled into his chair. Paul Minct would make his entrance at any moment.
~ * ~
11. LAS BON TEMPS ARRIVÉE
‘MR OAKENHURST INFORMS me that you might be willing to come in on our special play, Mrs von Bek.’ Paul Minct brushed dust from his mask. One of his pale eyes peered from the ragged hole in the Rocky Mountains where Quaker marked Colorado. It was as if he brushed a tear.
After an exhausting week-long game in which the three of them had emerged equals in all but specific skills and appetites, Paul Minct, Rose von Bek and Sam Oakenhurst believed they had learned almost everything they would ever know about one another. All were prepared, in appropriate circumstances, to risk everything on the flick of a sensor, the turn of a card, an instinctive snap judgement.
Paul Minct’s topical half-face glittered in the flamelight and behind his whispering curtain of beads his ruined lips twisted in an involuntary grin, as if flesh remembered pain his mind refused.
Sam Oakenhurst cursed his own quickened blood, the vast emotions he seemed to be riding like a vaquero on a runaway bronc, barely able to haul hard enough on the reins to avoid the worst disasters as they approached.
‘I take it you are considering some unusually high stakes, Mr Minct.’ Her voice had grown warmer, more musical, like a well practised instrument. She was all of a piece, thought Sam Oakenhurst admiringly, a perfect disguise. There was, however, no evidence that Paul Minct had been deceived by either of them.
The week’s play had left the Rose and Sam Oakenhurst uncertain lovers, but it was of no interest to Paul Minct how they celebrated their alliance. He appeared to be under the impression that a more reckless Rose von Bek had persuaded Mr Oakenhurst to let her join him.
‘Here’s my say in the matter,’ declared Sam Oakenhurst, to open the bidding. ‘Your luck and mine, Paul Minct. Even shares. Try it once? Double our luck or double our damnation, eh?’
Sam Oakenhurst knew Mr Minct viewed treachery as a legitimate instrument of policy and that nothing he offered would guarantee Mr Minct’s consistency. But he was hoping to appeal to Paul Minct’s gambler’s soul, to whet his appetite for melodrama and catch him, if possible, in a twist or two before the main game began. At present it was the only strategy he could pursue without much chance of detection.
‘You’ll stake your life on this, Mr Oakenhurst?’
‘If you’ll give us some idea of the odds and the winnings, sir.’
‘Good odds, limitless reward. My word on it. And your word, Mr Oakenhurst. How do you value it?’
‘I value my word above my life, sir. In these troubled times a jugador has nothing but honour. I will need to know a little more before I stake my honour. So I’ll fold for the moment. Save to say this, sir - you play an honest game and so will I.’
‘And you, Mrs von Bek?’ Paul Minct made an old-fashioned bow. ‘Do you also offer an honest game?’
‘I have played no other up to now, Mr Minct. I’ll throw in all I have, if the prize suits me. We can triple our luck, if you like. We all have some idea of the size of the stakes, I think. But not the size of the bonanza. Whatever it shall be, I’ll put in my full third and take out my full third - or any fraction decided by any future numbers.’
‘You can’t say fairer than that, ma’am. Very well, Mr Oakenhurst. We have another pard.’
Sam Oakenhurst could not fathom her style, but he recognized that she was a peerless mukhamir. It was as if she had trained in the very heart of Africa. She was his superior in everything but low cunning, that instinctive talent for self-preservation which had proven so useful to him and which had resulted in his becoming kin to the machinoix, rather than their prey. He had never underestimated this useful flaw in his character. But now it could only serve his honour and help him keep his word to the Rose. He had no other choice.
She had played Paul Minct well so far. Mr Minct’s weakness was that he had less respect for a woman than he had for a man. Yet the enmascaro was in no doubt about her worth to their enterprise, so long as, in his view, Mr Oakenhurst kept her under control.
‘I have always preferred the company of women,’ said Paul Minct. ‘It will be a pleasure to work with you, my dear.’
‘I like the feel of the game,’ she said. As yet she had given Sam Oakenhurst no clue as to the nature of her quarrel with Mr Minct or why the masked man did not recognize her (or did not choose to recognize her. He was the master of any five-dimensional bluff on the screen and a few more of his own invention.)
‘We shall form a family as strong as our faith in our own strengths,’ said Paul Minct. For once his eyes looked away from them, as if
ashamed. ‘We are peers. We need no others. The three of us will take our sacrifice to the Fault and reap the measureless harvests!’
‘You anticipated my sentiments, Mr Minct,’ said the Rose, almost sweet, and Sam Oakenhurst thought he caught a swiftly controlled flicker of emotion in Paul Minct’s bleak eyes.
~ * ~
12. UN HOMME DE PITIE
THE RULES AT last agreed, Paul Minct promised to tell them more after they reached the Frees and were off the raft. Then the three of them settled down to an easy companionship, playing a hand or two of old flat and a simulated folded paper version of Henri’s Special Turbulence which could only be modified with difficulty and which they eventually abandoned by mutual consent.
One evening, as Captain Ornate pumped his melancholy squeezebox in a corner and a couple of whiteys capered to the old familiar zee tunes, the conversation turned to the subject of animals and whether it was possible to have significant communication with them.
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