The Blue Afternoon

'No, no, no,' he said. 'You couldn't be more wrong. It's – ' he paused for effect. 'It's a heavier-than-air flying machine.'

Carriscant was late returning home. After the visit to the nipa barn he and Pantaleon had gone to the cafe opposite the Zorilla theatre in Santa Cruz and drunk a few glasses of American beer – Schlitz-and Pantaleon had tried to explain the concepts behind the flying machine he was building. Carriscant had been cheered by his friend's excitement and realised he now had the answers to the question he had posed earlier in the day regarding the expenditure of the Quiroga salary. He had taken a carromato back to Intramuros and had reached his home long after dark. The wide front door was opened for him by Danil, his cook's wife, whom he asked to bring him some coffee. He passed on through the ground-floor area of the house where, as well as providing rooms for his servants, his two carriages were stored and his ponies stabled. The taste of beer was still sour in his mouth and he felt a slight tension in his shoulders as he walked up the steps from the interior courtyard to the living quarters on the first floor. Oil lamps burned in the public rooms, their orange glow reflected in the glossy polish of the hardwood floors. At the rear of the house, overlooking the walled garden, was a wide stone patio – the azotea – and he could see A

A

She looked at him evenly, as if he were a witness and she a lawyer assessing the veracity of his evidence.

'Do you want to eat?' she said eventually. 'There's some pork left.' Her German accent was mild: Carriscant remembered how he had been attracted to it once, how it had seemed exotic and strange, how it had excited him at certain moments.

'No, thanks. I had some beers with Pantaleon. You won't believe what he's -'

'I thought you said this murder business had detained you?'

'Well, it did. But then Pantaleon asked me to see this contraption he's building. A flying machine – can you believe it?'

'He's such a child, Pantaleon.'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

This was the disagreement they had been waiting for and they had a short and vicious argument about whether it was childish to build a flying machine or inspirational. The barely covert venom in their exchange seemed, paradoxically, to reduce the tension in the air. The animosities had been freed, loosed momentarily; as with a lanced abcess the flow of purulence relieved the pain for a while.

Carriscant's coffee was served and he sipped it slowly, studying his wife's face over the rim of the cup, watching her read. She wore small oval spectacles which had the effect of ageing her somewhat, especially as her hair was pulled tight around her head, tucked behind her ears. She had never looked beautiful, he considered, but neither could she be described as plain. There was no feature of her face that could be listed as objectionable, but there was nothing particularly attractive either. He asked himself, as he often did in the aftermath of one of their arguments, what on earth had made him want to marry her.

A

They had made no private acknowledgement of this distancing, and to the outside world all was well. A

The prime indication of this state of affairs was that, for over a year now, there had been no sexual relations between them. It had begun most curiously with A

He looked at his wife now, objectively, a little sad, and tried to conjure up an image of her naked body, some detail or special character that he used to cherish -the wide-slung shape of her breasts, the fine downy hair on the areolae of her nipples, her surprisingly deep navel -that would stimulate the old feelings, cause old memories to flare up, like a hot coal breathed upon, but nothing stirred. His thoughts turned instead to a view and an idea he had had that afternoon as he stood in Pantaleon's meadow and looked over at the tin roofs of Sampaloc. Sampaloc and its notorious Gardenia Street, with its bright bars and brothels… What did they call the girls there? 'Low flying doves.' It was not natural this restraint, this forced celibacy. A man of his age masturbating on his divan in the dark like an adolescent. Perhaps a low flying dove on Gardenia Street was what he required?