The Crystal World. Robert MacFarlane
all his hidden motives for coming to Port Matarre in quest of Suzanne Clair. That Ventress, with his skeletal face and white suit, should have exposed his awareness of these still concealed motives was all the more irritating.
He ate an early lunch in the hotel restaurant. The tables were almost deserted, and the only other guest was the dark-haired young Frenchwoman who sat by herself, writing into a dictation pad beside her salad. Now and then she glanced at Sanders, who was struck once again by her marked resemblance to Suzanne Clair. Perhaps because of her raven hair, or the unusual light in Port Matarre, her smooth face seemed paler in tone than Sanders remembered Suzanne’s, as if the two women were cousins separated by some darker blood on Suzanne’s side. As he looked at the girl he could almost see Suzanne beside her, reflected within some half-screened mirror in his mind.
When she left the table she nodded to Sanders, picked up her pad and went out into the street, pausing in the lobby on the way.
After lunch, Sanders began his search for some form of transport to take him to Mont Royal. As the desk-clerk had stated, there was no railway to the mining town. A bus service ran twice daily, but for some reason had been discontinued. At the depot, near the barracks on the eastern outskirts of the town, Dr. Sanders found the booking-office closed. The time-tables peeled off the notice-boards in the sunlight, and a few natives slept on the benches in the shade. After ten minutes a ticket-collector wandered in with a broom, sucking on a piece of sugar-cane. He shrugged when Sanders asked him when the service would be resumed.
‘Perhaps tomorrow, or the next day, sir. Who can tell? The bridge is down.’
‘Where’s this?’
‘Where? Myanga, ten kilometres from Mont Royal. Steep ravine, the bridge just slid away. Risky there, sir.’
Sanders pointed to the compound of the military barracks, where half a dozen trucks were being loaded with supplies. Bales of barbed wire were stacked on the ground to one side, next to some sections of metal fencing. ‘They seem busy enough. How are they going to get through?’
‘They, sir, are repairing the bridge.’
‘With barbed wire?’ Sanders shook his head, tired of this evasiveness. ‘What exactly is going on up there? At Mont Royal?’
The ticket-collector sucked his sugar-cane. ‘Going on?’ he repeated dreamily. ‘Nothing’s going on, sir.’
Sanders strolled away, pausing by the barrack gates until the sentry gestured him on. Across the road the dark tiers of the forest canopy rose high into the air like an immense wave ready to fall across the empty town. Well over a hundred feet above his head, the great boughs hung like half-furled wings, the trunks leaning towards him. Sanders was tempted to cross the road and approach the forest, but there was something minatory and oppressive about its silence. He turned and made his way back to the hotel.
An hour later, after several fruitless inquiries, he called at the police prefecture near the harbour. The activity by the steamer had subsided, and most of the passengers were aboard. The speed-boat was being swung out on a davit over the jetty.
Coming straight to the point, Dr. Sanders showed Suzanne’s letter to the African charge-captain. ‘Perhaps you could explain, Captain, why it was necessary to delete their address? These are close friends of mine and I wish to spend a fortnight’s holiday with them. Now I find that there’s no means of getting to Mont Royal, and an atmosphere of mystery surrounds the whole place.’
The captain nodded, pondering over the letter on his desk. Occasionally he prodded the tissue with a steel ruler, as if he were examining the pressed petals of some rare and perhaps poisonous blossom. ‘I understand, Doctor. It’s difficult for you.’
‘But why is the censorship in force at all?’ Sanders pressed. ‘Is there some sort of political disturbance? Has a rebel group captured the mines? I’m naturally concerned for the well-being of Dr. and Madame Clair.’
The captain shook his head. ‘I assure you, Doctor, there is no political trouble at Mont Royal – in fact, there is hardly anyone there at all. Most of the workers have left.’
‘Why? I’ve noticed that here. The town’s empty.’
The captain stood up and went over to the window. He pointed to the dark fringe of the jungle crowding over the roof-tops of the native quarter beyond the warehouses. ‘The forest, Doctor, do you see? It frightens them, it’s so black and heavy all the time.’ He went back to his desk and fiddled with the ruler. Sanders waited for him to make up his mind what to say. ‘In confidence, I can explain that there is a new kind of plant disease beginning in the forest near Mont Royal—’
‘What do you mean?’ Sanders cut in. ‘A virus disease, like tobacco mosaic?’
‘Yes, that’s it …’ The captain nodded encouragingly, although he seemed to have little idea what he was talking about. However, he kept a quiet eye on the rim of jungle in the window. ‘Anyway, it’s not poisonous, but we have to take precautions. Some experts will look at the forest, send samples to Libreville, you understand, it takes time …’ He handed back Suzanne’s letter. ‘I will find out your friends’ address, you come back in another day. All right?’
‘Will I be able to go to Mont Royal?’ Sanders asked. ‘The army hasn’t closed off the area?’
‘No …’ the captain insisted. ‘You are quite free.’ He gestured with his hands, enclosing little parcels of air. ‘Just small areas, you see. It’s not dangerous, your friends are all right. We don’t want people rushing there, trying to make trouble.’
At the door, Sanders asked: ‘How long has this been going on?’ He pointed to the window. ‘The forest is very dark here.’
The captain scratched his forehead. For a moment he looked tired and withdrawn. ‘About one year. Longer, perhaps. At first no one bothered …’
ON the steps outside, Dr. Sanders saw the young Frenchwoman who had taken lunch at the hotel. She carried a business-like handbag, and wore a pair of dark glasses that failed to disguise the inquisitive look in her intelligent face. She watched Sanders as he walked past her.
‘Any news?’
Sanders stopped. ‘What about?’
‘The emergency?’
‘Is that what they call it? You’re luckier than me. I haven’t heard that term.’
The young woman brushed this aside. She eyed Sanders up and down, as if unsure who he might be. ‘You can call it what you like,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘If it isn’t an emergency now it soon will be.’ She came over to Sanders, lowering her voice. ‘Do you want to go to Mont Royal, Doctor?’
Sanders began to walk off, the young woman following him. ‘Are you a police spy?’ he asked. ‘Or running an underground bus service? Or both, perhaps?’
‘Neither. Listen.’ She stopped him when they had crossed the road to the first of the curio shops that ran down to the jetties between the warehouses. She took off her sun-glasses and gave him a frank smile. ‘I’m sorry to pry – the clerk at the hotel told me who you were – but I’m stuck here myself and I thought you might know something. I’ve been in Port Matarre since the last boat.’
‘I can believe it.’ Dr. Sanders strolled on, eyeing the stands with their cheap ivory ornaments, small statuettes in an imitation Oceanic style the native carvers had somehow picked up at many removes from European magazines. ‘Port Matarre has more than a passing resemblance to purgatory.’
‘Tell me, are you