Lights in a Western Sky

by Roger Curtis

  Trexler found himself at a dimly remembered threshold experienced years before in this same country when anticipation of finding the treasures he sought sent waves of pleasure surging through his body with an intensity that was almost sexual. Maia, apparently sensing this now, seemed to be searching his face, as if trying to separate the truth from the deceit, although that could not possibly be. ‘I hope we can find something to interest you,’ she said. ‘I suggest we go on a bit, down this path.’

  They entered a clearing bounded by dense festoons of purple and red bougainvillea. Rows and rows of slipper orchids, many in bloom, were laid out on low trestle tables in the shade of mimosa and frangipani trees. The entire genus Paphiopedilum seemed to be represented here. Established species mingled with hybrids that in quality matched any in Trexler’s own collection. And then he saw it, next to where the girl was looking innocently up into the tree above, where birds were twittering. It was as if all of them had been waiting for him to find it.

  Trexler approached the plant circumspectly, fearfully almost. Though there was no flower, the pattern of blotches on the leaves left him in no doubt. So rapt was he that he hardly noticed Maia had put her hand in his.

  ‘Is this one for sale?’ he asked huskily, trying to sound calm.

  ‘Everything has its price,’ she replied, laughing.

  For a moment Trexler was silent. Then he asked, ‘Are there others?’

  ‘A few. They came from one place only, in the north. As far as we know all were taken and we have them all. We searched very hard.’

  ‘And you have seen the flower?’

  ‘The collector did. But since then none of them has flowered. So I cannot help you.’

  ‘I would like to buy… all of them.’

  ‘Then you must talk to my father.’

  They drove back to Bangkok in silence, embarrassed by the awareness that each was withholding information from the other. At his hotel she left him almost no excuse not to walk away, but then called after him.

  ‘You couldn’t let a girl go hungry,’ she teased.

  Over dinner she told him that her father was away on business until the following afternoon, but would be back in time to watch the races at the Royal Turf Club. They danced, they looked at the moon with their arms around each other. Then, under the single light bulb with the moths now revelling in ecstasy, they made love. When he woke in the morning she was gone, but on her pillow lay a leaf of the orchid to which he had vowed to give his name.

  At breakfast, the waiter set a phone beside his plate, and he received instructions for the meeting with Maia’s father.

  The Mercedes that took him into the city he remembered seeing parked at the Anova Nursery. The black curtains at the window remained undrawn. He knew where he was only when the driver set him down somewhere near Chulalongkorn University.

  From the street and on its lower levels the apartment building was unremarkable, and remained so until they reached the third floor. ‘Mr Rama uses a separate entrance,’ the driver whispered, as if apologising. ‘You will be met on the top floor.’ He stood to attention at the lift entrance and remained there until the doors had closed. Trexler felt himself whisked upwards.

  The penthouse flat overlooked the racecourse. Trexler saw below him the gathering of horses that heralded the start of a race, but Mr Rama drew his attention instead to a bank of computer screens through the open door of an adjacent room.

  ‘See, Mr Jones, how we marry tradition and technology. I like to see how my investments perform. Perhaps I can tempt you to a small wager before the race begins. There are a few minutes left.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have only a few thousand baht,’ Trexler replied nervously.

  The response was an icy stare that caught him unawares. ‘If you have no money, Mr Jones, what are we doing talking about orchids?’

  ‘That is a different matter, Sir.’

  ‘Indeed it is.’ He turned to the window to contemplate the final preparations for the race. ‘I understand you got on well with my daughter, Mr Jones.’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘And found her attractive?’

  ‘What man wouldn’t?’

  ‘That’s good, very good. Because it might make the orchid affordable for you.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Ten thousand sterling for the orchid and the hand of my daughter in marriage. You see, Mr Jones, I want a life for her in your country so that she can be allowed – if you’ll forgive the euphemism – to blossom.’ He turned again to the window. ‘Ah, the race begins.’

  That night Trexler slept fitfully. The moths around the bulb were conspicuously absent, as if aware that there was just too much excitement to share. However much Trexler tried to bring logic to bear there was always the spectre of his grandfather to over-ride it: in the mirror above where he filled his glass, in the pattern of flowers in the curtain, even when he looked down at the matting on the floor. You owe me this, the cold, demanding eyes seemed to say.

  In the morning he telephoned Mr Rama’s office to convey his decision, but both father and daughter were away. With ice in his heart he left a message: tell Mr Rama that my answer is yes. ‘Mr Rama will be very pleased,’ said the receptionist. ‘What do you mean?’ Trexler replied, alarmed that his secret might be out. ‘Why, to receive such an important order,’ the voice replied.

  In the days that followed, Trexler’s attempts to see Maia seemed thwarted at every turn. First her grandmother had summoned her to Chiang Mai to give guidance on the marital state. Then, by telephone, she told him that she had visited the site of origin of his orchids, where he should join her the following day. But when he reached the rendezvous at the beginning of a forest track she was not there, and he was taken to see only patches of recently disturbed earth. On telephoning the Bangkok office he was told that her father had taken ill and required her immediate attention. Trexler asked himself if it mattered that much, and returned to his Bangkok hotel having, for the moment, written her out of the equation. The marriage and its foreseeable aftermath was a diversion, albeit a pleasant one, that was best looked upon as an embellishment of his great deed. There would be plenty of time to come to terms with it and enjoy the pleasures of the flesh.

  It was in this frame of mind that he accompanied his wife to be, his prospective father-in-law and diverse family members unknown to him to a registry office somewhere across the Chao Phraya River. She made no attempt to lift her veil, whispering to him that she did not know what the impact of a kiss might make on her family. In fact they had hardly spoken since the now familiar black Mercedes had collected him from his hotel. Something was amiss, but he could not put his finger on it. It therefore came as no surprise when Mr Rama touched his arm and led him aside.

  ‘There are small problems with the paperwork for your plants – CITES permits and the like. I may have been a little less generous with the information than was expected. If I take your wife with me to sort it out she can meet you at the airport with the plants. Best to give me her ticket in case you get separated.’ Then he added, ‘It’s a good thing the documents are in her family name.’

  It was not until Trexler reached the departure hall that he felt he had played with and lost ten thousand pounds, besides having no plants and no wife. On the screen the line for his flight crept steadily upwards like the water level in some medieval aquatic torture, but still there was no sign of her. When it indicated the boarding gate he accepted defeat, cursed himself for being a fool and made his way sadly to the check-in area, vowing never to return.

  But he was wrong, at least in part.

  ‘Ah, Mr Jones,’ the girl at the check-in desk said, ‘your companion could not find you and has already gone through.’

  ‘Was she carrying a… package,’ he enquired tentatively.

  ‘We argued about it,�
� the girl said casually, ‘but it just made it as hand luggage. But Mr Jones, you must hurry. The gate will be closing.’

  At the gate the last few passengers were showing their boarding cards as Trexler joined them.

  In the plane he thought he saw her long black hair, encasing her head like a shroud, halfway down the plane. Then, to his joy, there in the open luggage rack above her was the box, clearly marked with the Anova logo and the legend ‘plants – this was up.’ Never had the English language seemed so sweet. He sat heavily in the vacant seat beside her. ‘Thank you!’ he said softly. And slowly she turned her head to acknowledge him.

  Trexler’s wife answered the knock at the door.

  ‘My husband is expecting you, Dr Bloomfield.’

  ‘Ray, please.’

  ‘Of course. How silly. I still haven’t got used to having you as a brother-in-law.’

  ‘Maia managed to keep it from you all that time?’

  Sirita blushed. ‘Well, no, of course not. We are too close for that. Actually I’ve known since you brought those plants to us from Chiang Mai.’ She brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his lapel. ‘I can’t think how one of them happened to find its way here, though.’

  ‘Oh, these things happen. We can’t all be perfect, can we?’ Suddenly Bloomfield looked embarrassed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘that was tactless of me. Please forgive me.’

  ‘No need to be, really. They say the cataract can be removed and that there’s sight behind it. I go in next month – it should be fine.’

  ‘I’m really glad,’ Bloomfield said. ‘Oh, before I see Martin – if you don’t mind me asking – is everything all right… between you, I mean?’

  Sirita smiled ruefully. ‘No, but when it happens I think the separation will be… well… cordial.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll accept me… as a member of the family, so to speak?

  ‘It will be a great shock for him.’

  ‘Yes, true. But not half as much as this.’ Bloomfield withdrew from his coat pocket a large brown envelope and laid it on the hall table. ‘I sent it off two days ago. This copy is for Martin.’

  ‘What did you decide to call it?’

  ‘Paphiopedilum bloomfieldii.’

  ‘It will hurt him.’

  ‘I know,’ Bloomfield said, making for Trexler’s door.

  Dust to Dust

  The Reverend Lucas Parsons smiled to himself as he replaced the Church Times in the rack beside his chair. Curious how the recent spate of thefts had occurred around his own minster town of Bixworth. First it had been lead from the roofs, a crime he had forestalled in his own church by installing CCTV. But that hadn’t prevented the theft of the church plate from the chest in the vestry and candlesticks from the altar, even though the church door was kept permanently shut. He rose from the chair, called to Mrs Webley, his housekeeper, to say that he was going out and ambled across the lane to the graveyard where mourners were already gathering for the interment. Drops of rain struck his starched white cuff, narrowly missing the half-concealed book of common prayer under his arm.

  The hearse was already drawn up outside the porch. He could make out in its sombre interior only a single wreath of white carnations on the teak coffin. As he approached, the incongruent simplicity of it made him slow his pace. Here had been a man whose ostentation in life had marked him out as a likely villain, a petty criminal of humble origins with a taste for cars, women and fast living. And that was how Lucas had portrayed him in that last fateful sermon; not naming him, of course, but indirectly denouncing the evils that had descended upon the village that everyone believed had only one origin. Looking back, might he have been a bit hasty in assuming that Harvey Crib’s lifestyle had been funded by crime? Hinting, even, that the theft of the church plate – upon no evidence whatsoever, as one parishioner had pointed out – could be laid at this man’s door? It came as a not unpleasant surprise to be told that, with Harvey’s suicide, the police files had been effectively closed.

  But Lucas was not one to dwell on such matters. Whatever the weather he enjoyed these outdoor services: the mown grass between graves in the shadow of the great yew, the dashes of colour that flecked the graveyard after recent inhumations. Especially, he savoured the rich loam walls of freshly dug graves – and an order of service more in harmony with these outside elements than with the sullen interior of his somewhat dilapidated church.

  Besides the bearers there were precisely seven people, stiff and erect, peering into the void. They included the deceased’s nephew, Tony Crib, and his wife Samantha, whom he knew as neighbours. The rest he assumed were relatives; it seemed unlikely that the surly Harvey had had any real friends, and his business acquaintances would have thought it in their best interests to stay away. But one never could tell.

  Lucas was soon in full flight, revelling in the drama of the words. ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay…’

  Accustomed to fixing his gaze on the church tower at such times it took several seconds before he realised the gathering had been joined by a young man shabbily dressed in black who looked about him nervously before bowing his head. Unaccustomed to being interrupted Lucas ignored him and continued, ‘…in the midst of life we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased…’ He could see the mourners’ sidelong glances, but the flow could not be interrupted, not now. ‘…yet, O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal…’

  ‘Reverend,’ the intruder whispered.

  ‘… eternal death. Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not thy merciful…’

  ‘Reverend!’

  ‘… merciful ears to our prayers; but spare us…’ Suddenly his resolve was broken. ‘What?’

  ‘I need to speak with you.’

  ‘Can’t you see I’m burying someone?’

  ‘That’s just it, Reverend.’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘You’re not.’

  Lucas beamed at the mourners and soldiered on. ‘…spare us, Lord most holy, O God most mighty…’ Then he gave up. ‘Friends, I think my colleague has a special message of condolence that must precede the casting of the earth. Pray bear with us for just one moment.’

  ‘Who are you?’ he hissed. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Palin, Sir, from the undertakers. There’s been a… em… mix-up.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘He’s not in there.’

  Sensing something was amiss Tony Crib shuffled up to them. ‘Something up, Reverend?’

  ‘A small technicality, Anthony. Sorted in a moment.’

  Palin was now becoming agitated. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? I said that’s not him in there.’

  ‘Where is he then – soaring over the treetops?’

  ‘Boring his way downwards, more like,’ Tony said.

  Tony Crib grasped Palin’s lapels. ‘Look, you. My uncle’s waited a lifetime for this – but not half as much as we have – and you’re not going to spoil it.’ A look of enlightenment crossed his face. ‘Hey! Penny’s just dropped. Local uni. It’s rag day, isn’t it?’ To Palin he said, ‘You’re a bloody student aren’t you?’

  ‘Do I look…’

  ‘Admit you’ve been rumbled. Good try but now you can just bugger off. Empty handed.’

  ‘Alright,’ Palin said. ‘I tried to tell you but you wouldn’t listen. On your own heads be it. I’m off.’

  ‘Well spotted Anthony,’ Lucas said. He turned to one of the bearers. ‘You know that man?’

  ‘Seen him about. Trainee I think.’

 
Samantha, who had been listening intently, came across to them. ‘Well, we’re not burying anything until we’re sure it’s Uncle Harvey.’

  ‘Here, Sammy,’ Tony said. ‘You got your mobile? Telephone the undertakers, there’s a good girl.’

  ‘So resourceful, your husband. Try 801349. Always remember it – year of the black death.’

  But she was beaten by the phone ringing.

  ‘Who’s that?… Who?… Aunt Ada’s in Australia… Well, fancy that, I’d never have believed it. She grinned at Lucas. ‘It’s Harvey’s sister – she’s on her way. Now we’ll have to wait.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘At the station.’

  Lucas lost no time in addressing the bearers. ‘Look, we have to wait for the deceased’s sister. Can you chaps come back in an hour?’

  ‘Well, I dunno, it’s a bit irregular. Is the pub still open?’

  ‘Assuredly, assuredly. They’ll make you most welcome.’

  When the bearers had left the churchyard Lucas said, ‘Now, we must think. How can we be absolutely certain that…’

  ‘Try lifting the coffin. He didn’t weigh much.’

  ‘Think you can tell?’

  ‘If we rock it a bit, he’d roll wouldn’t he. He, he, geddit… rock and roll…’

  ‘Good one, Tony,’ Sam said. ‘Hey, look, it’s beginning to rain again.’

  They lifted the coffin. ‘Bloody heavy,’ Tony said.

  Sam was becoming agitated. ‘Now it’s pouring. We can’t leave him here, but I’m going home. I suggest you take him inside.’

  Lucas and Tony grabbed the handles and manoeuvred the coffin into the porch. Lucas grappled with the door, which failed to budge. ‘Does this when it’s wet,’ he said. They tried again. The door gave way and they were in. They placed the coffin on the floor.

  ‘Thirsty work,’ Crib said.

  ‘There’s some red in the cupboard. If the ringers haven’t beaten us to it.’

  Cribb returned with a bottle. ‘No goblets, Vicar?’