‘Thanks,’ he mumbled.
We carried the rest through with us. In the warm room among the pipes and under the creaking windmill it was cosy. Raphael went back outside to finish the laundry, but it turned into a dinner party once he returned and Aquila had finished cooking, which he did quickly. Inti brought out some wine and something brewed locally that tasted like turpentine and soon it was all a warm, laughing haze. Maria giggled when Aquila made her doll dance and gave it a voice, and Inti conjured a puppet to give it a dance partner. The dark came down outside and more lamps flared on around the stacks.
‘We had better go,’ Raphael said at last.
‘No more coffee?’ Inti said.
‘No, Maria needs to get home. And I need to take Quenti’s baby things over to Juan and Francesca. That reminds me, Aquila.’
The boy looked afraid that he’d forgotten to do something else.
‘I’ve got my hands full for a while, so you’ll have to go down to Azangaro at the end of the month to fetch the farmers’ wages from Mr Martel. This is a letter for him, it explains who you are.’ He passed a sealed envelope across the table. He had beautiful handwriting. ‘Give it to him and don’t take any rubbish from Quispe.’
Inti frowned. ‘He’s a bit young to be off by himself; can’t—’
‘It’s time he got used to it,’ Raphael said, not ungently, and there was a strange pause at the end of which Inti nodded, looking reflective.
Aquila couldn’t have seemed more pleased. ‘Should I bring more clocks if I can?’
‘If you can.’ Raphael didn’t sound overly fond of him, was briefer with him even than with me or Clem, but warmth seeped through the lines round his eyes. I couldn’t decide what had held him back. If he wanted children and Aquila wanted a father – there was no evidence of anyone else in the house – then it was hard to see the difficulty.
Maria squeezed her doll to make it lift its arms. ‘Do you think they might take you away again soon?’ she made it say to Raphael. ‘Is that why Aquila has to go?’
He made a sound that might have been anything.
‘Take you away?’ I echoed, not sure I’d heard properly.
Inti nodded. ‘Priests, you see,’ she said. ‘They always disappear in the end. The people in the woods take them back. They’re only borrowed, to help us. We thought Ra-cha had gone years ago, and there was nobody to replace him then. Everyone panicked; we thought we’d been abandoned. But then, pop, back he came, as if he didn’t know seventy years had gone by—’
‘Seventy years?’ I said.
Raphael stirred irkedly. ‘It was my uncle who was here before, how often do I have to say it was my uncle—’
‘My grandmother said it was you. She said you didn’t like goats then either,’ Inti laughed. ‘He thinks foreigners don’t know about magic,’ she added to me. ‘So he lies, so you’ll believe him about staying back from the salt and not think he’s mad.’
‘Inti . . .’
‘It’s sad,’ she said over him. While he was opposite her, it was difficult to see how he could be intimidating. It was plain that even if he had snapped at her, he’d only be told to settle down and finish his coffee. ‘But you know about it, don’t you? I expect your grandfather told you.’
‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘I didn’t know him.’
‘We really are going now,’ Raphael said. ‘Come on.’
As we left, Inti stopped me to pass on her best wishes to my mother and I thought Raphael would have gone by the time I came out, but he was waiting for me outside with Maria. Like a little girl she reached out to hold my hand too, though she already had his.
‘Aquila seems like a nice sort of boy,’ I said, in Spanish still, because it would have been over Maria’s head otherwise.
‘He is.’
‘Is he yours?’
‘No.’ He didn’t seem offended. ‘We’re probably related, but they don’t leave family histories with you on the altar.’
‘Does that not cause . . .’
‘I’ve stopped worrying about it,’ he said.
‘Are you sure you shouldn’t start worrying about it again?’
We took Maria’s weight between us as she swung up the steps. She giggled when we lifted her up the last. She was round, in shiny good health, but she was tiny and it wasn’t much more difficult than lifting a real child.
‘We don’t know until it’s ten months too late,’ he pointed out. ‘And then what do you say? I know you’ve been married for years and you’re devoted and you’re desperate for children, but that’s an especially deformed, especially stupid baby, so maybe stop at one, just in case the next one turns out to be a crocodile?’
I laughed and he looked surprised before he smiled too.
‘This is my house,’ Maria reported.
‘Keep the fire lit at the church or the pipes will crack,’ he said to me, before I could offer to come in and help.
‘I will. Night, Maria.’
Her mother met us at the door and asked in an unhappy voice if someone couldn’t come and cook some soup.
‘Night night,’ Maria said, hugging her doll. When she didn’t make any move to turn inside, Raphael towed her in backward by her apron strings. As I set out back to the church I heard them talking through the window. He was telling her how to cut vegetables, and her mother to sit down and be ill properly. I pushed my hand over my face, groggy with tiredness and Inti’s lethal wine and not sure I could have been trusted with a vegetable knife. Maria started to sing a song. It was the nursery rhyme whose words I’d forgotten, the one about the dragon. I hadn’t been able to fit the words to the tune because I’d been trying to do it in English. The Quechua fitted beautifully.
SEVENTEEN
I made some coffee at the church and drank it watching new snow float down outside. The wind spun it and the pollen in great frozen firework undulations between the pines, which creaked and leaned. I hoped Clem was all right. If he managed to keep up a good pace, he could have reached Crucero by now, although the snow must have slowed him down. With any luck, it hadn’t been so bad in the valleys.
Raphael came in with a blast of cold air and stray pollen motes. When I gave him some coffee, he looked at me in the way Navy wives do when their husbands get too much sea in them and start offering guests wine in mugs, but he drank it.
‘What Inti was talking about,’ he said, unprovoked. I turned back, surprised. I had been heating more milk for myself, hovering over the pan because everything boiled so low. ‘My uncle was the priest here seventy years ago. He was the . . . it’s complicated. There were thirty years between him and my mother so it’s odd, but he was my uncle. We look alike, says everyone. He disappeared in the woods. Priests do. We’re the only ones who can cross the border, and no one can cross to find us, so we tend to die out there. There are bears, wolves. That’s all it is.’ He sighed. ‘And people like telling stories. It’s not like there’s a playhouse to go to.’