had expected.
Deciding to leave Ventress alone so that he could slip the weapon through the port-hole, Sanders picked up his two suitcases.
‘Well, goodbye, Doctor.’ Ventress was smiling, his face even more skull-like behind the beard. He held the door open. ‘It’s been very interesting, a great pleasure to share a cabin with you.’
Dr. Sanders nodded. ‘And perhaps something of a challenge too, M. Ventress? I hope all your victories come as easily.’
‘Touché, Doctor!’ Ventress saluted him, then waved as Sanders made his way down the corridor. ‘But I gladly leave you with the last laugh – the old man with the scythe, eh?’
Without looking back, Sanders climbed the companion-way to the saloon, aware of Ventress watching him from the door of the cabin. The other passengers were sitting in the chairs by the bar, Father Balthus among them, as a prolonged harangue took place between the first officer, two customs officials and a police sergeant. They were consulting the passenger list, scrutinizing everyone in turn as if searching for some missing passenger.
As Sanders lowered his two bags to the floor he caught the phrase: ‘No journalists allowed …’ and then one of the customs men beckoned him over.
‘Dr. Sanders?’ he asked, putting a particular emphasis into the name as if he half hoped it might be an alias. ‘From Libreville University …?’ He lowered his voice. ‘The Physics Department …? May I see your papers?’
Sanders pulled out his passport. A few feet to his left Father Balthus was watching him with a sharp eye. ‘My name is Sanders, of the Fort Isabelle leproserie.’
After apologizing for their mistake, the customs men glanced at each other and then cleared Sanders, chalking up his suitcases without bothering to open them. A few moments later he walked down the gangway. On the jetty the native soldiers lounged around the staff car. The rear seat remained vacant, presumably for the missing physicist from Libreville University.
As he handed his suitcases to a porter with ‘Hotel Europe’ stencilled across his peaked cap, Dr. Sanders noticed that a far more thorough inspection was being made of the baggage of those leaving Port Matarre. A group of thirty to forty steerage passengers was herded together at the far end of the jetty, and the police and customs men were searching them one by one. Most of the natives carried bed-rolls with them, and the police were unwinding these and squeezing the padding.
By contrast with this activity, the town was nearly deserted. The arcades on either side of the main street were empty, and the windows of the Hotel Europe hung listlessly in the dark air, the narrow shutters like coffin lids. Here, in the centre of the town, the faded white façades made the sombre light of the jungle seem even more pervasive. Looking back at the river, as it turned like an immense snake into the forest, Sanders felt that it had sucked away all but a bare residue of life.
As he followed the porter up the steps into the hotel he saw the black-robed figure of Father Balthus farther down the arcade. The priest was walking swiftly, his small travelling bag held in one hand. He turned between two columns, then crossed the road and disappeared among the shadows in the arcade facing the hotel. At intervals Sanders saw him again, his dark figure lit by the sunlight, the white columns of the arcade framing him like the shutter of a defective stroboscopic device. Then, for no apparent reason, he crossed the street again, the skirt of his black robe whipping the dust around his heels. His high face passed Sanders without turning, like the pale, half-remembered profile of someone glimpsed in a nightmare.
Sanders pointed after him. ‘Where’s he off to?’ he asked the porter. ‘The priest – he was on the steamer with me.’
‘To the seminary. The Jesuits are still there.’
‘Still? – what do you mean?’
Sanders moved towards the swing doors, but at that moment a dark-haired young Frenchwoman stepped out. As her face was reflected in the moving panes, Sanders had a sudden glimpse of Suzanne Clair. Although the young woman was in her early twenties, at least ten years younger than Suzanne, she had the same wide hips and sauntering stride, the same observant grey eyes. As she passed Sanders she murmured ‘Pardon …’ Then, returning his stare with a faint smile, she set off in the direction of an army lorry that was reversing down a side road. Sanders watched her go. Her trim white suit and metropolitan chic seemed out of place in the dingy light of Port Matarre.
‘What’s going on here?’ Sanders said. ‘Have they found a new diamond field?’
The explanation seemed to make sense of the censorship and the customs search, but something about the porter’s studied shrug made him doubt it. Besides, the references in Suzanne’s letter to diamonds and sapphires would have been construed by the censor as an open invitation to join in the harvest.
The clerk at the reception desk was equally evasive. To Sander’s annoyance the clerk insisted on showing him the weekly tariff, despite his assurances that he would be setting off for Mont Royal the following day.
‘Doctor, you understand there is no boat, the service has been suspended. It will be cheaper for you if I charge you by the weekly tariff. But as you wish.’
‘All right.’ Sanders signed the register. As a precaution he gave as his address the University at Libreville. He had lectured several times at the medical school, and mail would be forwarded from there to Fort Isabelle. The deception might be useful at a later date.
‘What about the railway?’ he asked the clerk. ‘Or the bus service? There must be some transport to Mont Royal.’
‘There’s no railway.’ The clerk snapped his fingers. ‘Diamonds, you know, Doctor, not difficult to transport. Perhaps you can make inquiries about the bus.’
Sanders studied the man’s thin, olive-skinned face. His liquid eyes roved around the doctor’s suitcases and then out through the arcade to the forest canopy over-topping the roofs across the street. He seemed to be waiting for something to appear.
Sanders put away his pen. ‘Tell me, why is it so dark in Port Matarre? It’s not overcast, and yet one can hardly see the sun.’
The clerk shook his head. When he spoke he seemed to be talking more to himself than to Sanders. ‘It’s not dark, Doctor, it’s the leaves. They’re taking minerals from the ground, it makes everything look dark all the time.’
This notion seemed to contain an element of truth. From the windows of his room overlooking the arcades Sanders gazed out at the forest. The huge trees surrounded the port as if trying to crowd it back into the river. In the street the shadows were of the usual density, following at the heels of the few people who ventured out through the arcades, but the forest was without contrast of any kind. The leaves exposed to the sunlight were as dark as those below, almost as if the entire forest were draining all light from the sun in the same way that the river had emptied the town of its life and movement. The blackness of the canopy, the olive hues of the flat leaves, gave the forest a sombre heaviness emphasized by the motes of light that flickered within its aerial galleries.
Preoccupied, Sanders almost failed to hear the knock on his door. He opened it to find Ventress standing in the corridor. His white-suited figure and sharp skull seemed to personify the bone-like colours of the deserted town.
‘What is it?’
Ventress stepped forward. He held an envelope in his hand. ‘I found this in the cabin after you had gone, Doctor. I thought I should
