The Dutch Wife by Eric P. McCormack

Author:Eric P. McCormack [McCormack, Eric P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General, Psychological
ISBN: 9780143013426
Google: ObcfAQAAIAAJ
Publisher: Penguin Canada
Published: 2002-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

– 16 –

ROWLAND HAD ALLUDED, SEVERAL TIMES on their journey, to one devastating matter he’d never before spoken about. Now, apparently, the moment had arrived. The train had passed along the shore of Lake Superior and was heading south through interminable spruce forests cloaked in snow. It was dusk, and Rowland’s thin face seemed even thinner than usual in the harsh overhead light of the compartment.

“I’d been doing some work along the Pacific Coast of South America at the time,” he said. “How often I wish I’d never gone there.” He took a deep breath and composed himself.

Thomas sensed what was coming. He made himself comfortable, but alert—the perfect listener, ready for anything.

ROWLAND HAD WORKED at a variety of jobs—anything that intensified his knowledge of the Andean culture. One of the things he’d most enjoyed was assisting archaeological teams to explore Inca ruins in remote, high mountain valleys. He was on such an expedition when, on the very day of his thirty-fifth birthday, he came down with yet another bout of malaria. This time it was complicated by a pulmonary oedema brought on by the altitude—the ruins were in a hidden valley at ten thousand feet. The team’s medical doctor told him he might soon die if he didn’t get back down to Quibo, the regional capital, and rest up.

So, unexpectedly, Rowland found himself in Quibo, confined to a hospital bed for a week. When his breathing and blood pressure became normal, he left the hospital and checked into a cheap hotel in the Old Quarter. He had time on his hands and took the opportunity to explore the city. Three worlds collided in its architecture: the labyrinthine walls of the Incas, the colonial palaces of the sixteenth-century invaders, the tawdry barrios of the oppressed. Rowland found the mixture intoxicating.

During his convalescence, the position of Assistant Curator at the Quibo Museum of Andean Culture came open. He applied and was interviewed by the Head Curator, John Forrestal, an American who seemed to be in his sixties—a gangly man with greyish-ginger hair and a tall man’s stoop. The interview went well; they were comfortable with each other.

Forrestal told Rowland that the previous Assistant Curator had left for a better-paying civil service job. “But you,” he said, “seem to me the kind of man who has other interests in life than acquiring wealth.”

Rowland understood this to be both a compliment and an oblique hint that the salary wouldn’t be very high. “Thank you,” he said.

Forrestal stood up. “Welcome aboard,” he said. Through his office window, the brilliant Quiboan sunshine glinted on the fine ginger hair on the back of the hand he stretched out.

FORRESTAL HAD SPENT THE LAST TWENTY YEARS trying to preserve ancient Quiboan artifacts. He was more dedicated than were many native Quiboans. Some of the Museum’s Board members actually had a hand in the pillaging of ancient graves and archaeological sites for the international black market.

Forrestal (who was really twenty years younger than Rowland had thought) had the ability to tolerate such unpleasant realities.

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