‘What makes you so sure Springman is here?’
He was here,’ Vandervell corrected. ‘He won’t be here any longer. I was with Springman in Acapulco when he looked at the map. He came here.’
The woman carried her tumbler into the bedroom.
‘We’ll have dinner at nine,’ Vandervell called to her. ‘I’ll let you know if he dances again.’
Left alone, Vandervell watched the fire displays. The glow shone through the windows of the houses in the village so that they seemed to glow like charcoal. At night the collection of hovels was deserted, but a few of the men returned during the day.
In the morning two men came from the garage in Ecuatan to reclaim the car which Vandervell had hired. He offered to pay a month’s rent in advance, but they rejected this and pointed at the clinkers that had fallen on to the car from the sky. None of them was hot enough to burn the paintwork. Vandervell gave them each fifty dollars and promised to cover the car with a tarpaulin. Satisfied, the men drove away.
After breakfast Vandervell walked out across the lava seams to the road. The stick-dancer stood by his hole above the bank, resting his hands on the two spears. The cone of the volcano, partly hidden by the dust, trembled behind his back. He watched Vandervell when he shouted across the road. Vandet-vell took a dollar bill from his wallet and placed it under a stone. The stick-man began to hum and rock on the balls of his feet.
As Vandervell walked back along the road two of the villagers approached.
‘Guide,’ he said to them. ‘Ten dollars. One hour.’ He pointed to the lip of the crater but the men ignored him and continued along the road.
The surface of the house had once been white, but was now covered with grey dust. Two hours later, when the manager of the estate below the house rode up on a grey horse Vandervell asked: ‘Is your horse white or black?’
‘That’s a good question, se–or.’
‘I want to hire a guide,’ Vandervell said. ‘To take me into the volcano.’
‘There’s nothing there, se–or.’
‘I want to look around the crater. I need someone who knows the pathways.’
‘It’s full of smoke, Se–or Vandervell. Hot sulphur. Burns the eyes. You wouldn’t like it.’
‘Do you remember seeing someone called Springman?’ Vandervell said. ‘About three months ago.’
‘You asked me that before. I remember two Americans with a scientific truck. Then a Dutchman with white hair.’
‘That could be him.’
‘Or maybe black, eh? As you say.’
A rattle of sticks sounded from the road. After warming up, the stick-dancer had begun his performance in earnest.
‘You’d better get out of here, Se–or Vandervell,’ the manager said. ‘The mountain could split one day.’
Vandervell pointed to the stick-dancer. ‘He’ll hold it off for a while.’
The manager rode away. ‘My respects to Mrs Vandervell.’
‘Miss ‘Ninston.’
Vandervell went into the lounge and stood by the window. During the day the activity of the volcano increased. The column of smoke rose half a mile into the sky, threaded by gleams of flame.
The rumbling woke the woman. In the kitchen she spoke to the house-boy.
‘He wants to leave,’ she said to Vandervell afterwards.
‘Offer him more money,’ he said without turning.
‘He says everyone has left now. It’s too dangerous to stay. The men in the village are leaving for good this afternoon.’
Vandervell watched the stick-dancer twirling his devil-sticks like a drum-major. ‘Let him go if he wants to. I think the estate manager saw Springman.’
‘That’s good. Then he was here.’
‘The manager sent his respects to you.’
‘I’m charmed.’
Five minutes later, when the house-boy had gone, she returned to her bedroom. During the afternoon she came out to collect the film magazines in the bookcase.
Vandervell watched the smoke being pumped from the volcano. Now and then the devil-sticks man climbed out of his hole and danced on a mound of lava by the road. The men came down from the village for the last time. They looked at the stick-dancer as they walked on down the road.
At eight o’clock in the morning a police truck drove up to the village, reversed and came down again. Its roof and driving cabin were covered with ash. The policemen did not see the stick-dancer, but they saw Vandervell in the window of the house and stopped outside.
‘Get out!’ one of the policemen shouted. ‘You must go now! Take your car! What’s the matter?’
Vandervell opened the window. ‘The car is all right. We’re staying for a few days. Gracias, Sergeant.’
‘No! Get out!’ The policeman climbed down from the cabin. ‘The mountain — pift! Dust, burning!’ He took off his cap and waved it. ‘You go now.’
As he remonstrated Vandervell closed the window and took his jacket off the chair. Inside he felt for his wallet.
After he had paid the policemen they saluted and drove away. The woman came out of the bedroom.
‘You’re lucky your father is rich,’ she said. ‘What would you do if he was poor?’
‘Springman was poor,’ Vandervell said. He took his handkerchief from his jacket. The dust was starting to seep into the house. ‘Money only postpones one’s problems.’
