On the far side of the lake was Azangaro, the last proper town before the Andes. What had been a pretty good dirt road became muddy in the light and frozen in the shade. A lot of people had passed through recently; it was to do with the war in Bolivia, though the boys were too young to know much about it. When the storm arrived, the sleet was cutting. It got down collars and into lamps where it made the flames flicker and hiss. By the time the town came into view, with its cobbled-together church spire that tipped at an angle, Clem had real altitude sickness and rode with his handkerchief clamped over his nose, blooming red every hour or so.
The town was a big cluster of doorless houses and straw roofs. Raggy curtains writhed over the thresholds, sometimes enough to see people inside, wrapped up and hunched round braziers on dirt floors. I sent the boys on ahead to find a post house. I hoped we hadn’t gone too far east for them now. The idea of stopping in a mud hut instead of somewhere with a proper roof was terrible. The wind howled and I had to keep my head turned to one side.
Clem groaned and half-collapsed. I caught up with him just in time to get my arm under his shoulder and keep him more or less upright. We rode like that, awkwardly, until the boys came back with a man. He was Spanish, with a good coat and two Indians. It was just then, just before he met us, that we turned the corner into what must have been the main square. The houses had doors and windows and there was firelight inside most of them. It wasn’t anywhere near dark yet, but the storm had folded everything into a twilight gloom.
‘We’ve been expecting you!’ the man called, and I was too cold and tired to ask who he thought we were. When he was close enough, he lifted Clem down. While they headed away, I started the painful business of getting down from the saddle too. I could do it, but the horse had to be understanding, because I had to dismount at a difficult angle and hold the reins to keep the weight off my bad leg. It hurt more each time.
‘You’d better come in,’ the man shouted back. ‘It’s not much but at least you won’t freeze. It’s just here.’
His was one of the houses opposite the crumbling church. In Lima or Cuzco it would probably have seemed poky, but here it was palatial. There were shutters on the windows and, when we went inside, deep rugs over a tiled floor. I leaned gratefully on my cane and held the door open for the boys and the two Indian men who had rescued our bags without being asked. They put the bags down in the hallway and went straight back out to see to the mules and the horses, nodding for me to go in alone. I pulled the door shut behind them. It fitted well and didn’t let in a draught.
When I turned back, the hallway led out into a broad room with bearskin rugs everywhere and a fire tall enough to fill the big hearth, and candles all over the place, because the shutters were closed against the storm. In front of the fire was a table. They were halfway through a meal. Or, someone had been halfway through. It was only laid for one.
‘Sorry to have disturbed you,’ I said. I frowned into the effort that Spanish had become. I hadn’t noticed before, but parts of my mind were shut off in the anorexic air.
‘Don’t be silly,’ the Spanish man laughed. He was lifting Clem onto the couch near the fire. His face was broad, harsh strokes that would have been ugly if he hadn’t had huge eyes and a sweep of well-cut hair. His clothes were meticulous too, his coat richly cut with a green velvet collar that would have been dandy on me but suited him. Everything about him was expansive and I had a feeling he might be the Spanish version of Clem.
‘Thank you,’ I said, feeling shabby and English in the fallingapart, ill-looking way English people always seem whenever you stand them next to someone from a healthier latitude. I moved to the side as the Indians came back in with the smell of damp leather from their coats. One of them had such long hair that the tip of his plait flicked my elbow as he passed.
‘My name is Martel, I’m a trader here,’ said our unexpected host, and something about the way he inclined his head said he could see that I felt shabby and wanted me not to. ‘Will you give your coat to Hernandez there?’ He nodded to the younger of the Indians. ‘I know it seems cold now but you’ll warm up in no time.’
I did as I was told and Hernandez took my coat. ‘We can pay you for the night, if we can have some blankets and some floor.’
‘My God, don’t worry about money. There’s a spare room, you can have a whole bed.’ He was looking down at Clem. ‘Well – he’s fainted clean away, but he’ll come round soon. It’s just the altitude. Has someone got some coca?’ For a second I misheard and thought he meant chocolate, which seemed inexplicable and benign, until the other Indian handed over a little canvas bag that rustled with dry leaves.
‘You give it to him, I think, Hernandez, I don’t know how much is right. Quispe – go upstairs and fetch Raphael out. Make sure he’s fit for human company. Mr . . .?’ he added to me.
‘Tremayne. That’s . . . Mr Markham. He’s normally the one who makes the good conversation.’
‘Oh, never mind, you and I shall manage. Come and sit down, there’s plenty to go round.’
Almost as soon as I’d sat down, new crockery appeared in front of me, and a girl with more food. I gave the first serving to the boys and she looked perturbed, but fetched down two more bowls. I handed along the next one too and nearly fainted into the third. Martel motioned for the boys to sit by the fire. They knelt down with Hernandez to use the hearth as a table. If they were offended not to be invited to sit at the real table, they didn’t show it.
‘Actually, why don’t you all go into the kitchen?’ Martel said to them.
‘I promised their mother not to let them out of my sight, if you don’t mind,’ I said quickly, in case the kitchen fire was less grand.
‘They’re grown men, I’m sure they don’t need watching,’ he laughed.
‘I did promise.’
‘I suppose the world would come to nothing whatever if we broke promises to people’s mothers. Is she Spanish?’ he said curiously. ‘Are you mestizos, boys?’
‘What does mestizo mean?’ I asked before they could say anything.
‘It means half-white and half-Indian.’
‘Is that different to mulatto? My Spanish isn’t very good, sorry. Especially . . . not up here,’ I said.