Chapter 2

The journey south is punishing. A day’s clear flying followed by two days grounded by storms, a narrow flood escape, and another three troubling days in the air. By the time she crosses the strait from the mainland to the island of Tierra del Fuego, Ramona can no longer deny that there is something wrong with the plane. She first noticed the alarming engine noise towards the end of the job in Nazca, and over the past forty-eight hours it has been getting progressively worse. She has checked everything, but the aircraft is handling badly, yawing in the slightest wind. Maybe she pushed it too hard taking Alé to the medical centre. She levers the yoke anxiously.

‘Come on, Colibrí.’

She keeps the plane high as they drift over the island’s silver lakes, partly because it seems to respond better at altitude, and partly because she prefers her arrival not to be witnessed – at least, not by her employer. They pass briefly through mist as they cross the ridge of the mountains, but it clears on the other side. The roof of the Facility, jutting out from the face of the mountain, is marked with yellow cat’s eyes. She begins the descent, circling down in small spirals, feeling the tension in the sick aircraft. When she touches down it’s a bumpy landing on a very short runway. She pulls the plane in a sharp U-turn and skids to an ungainly halt.

The plane rocks, then settles. The motors rattle down to a quiet whine, the way they should sound all the time, before cutting out. For a moment she stays as she is, strapped into her seat, listening to the stillness until her own breathing becomes intrusive. She thinks of the dune. Cerro Blanco.

When she checks the battery level she finds it is only a quarter full, which is unusual, worryingly so. She keeps the plane’s solar-leaf cells on a maximum charge. The battery should be full again in a couple of hours. She climbs out, abruptly aware of her aching feet, and snaps the mooring tethers onto their magnetic points. At the Facility there is no need for the chameleon, but she double-locks the hatch.

It is a dull day to return to base. The sky is clouded over, entirely white, and the only sense of colour comes from the flag trees and thorny scrub that line the slopes above the Facility roof. On the other side, the road runs down to the harbour town with its pink and blue and red buildings and the high sea walls that guard them. Fishing boats rock on their tethers, but there are no ships in the harbour. Is the fleet due, or has it already left? She thinks of Félix aboard the Aires, wonders where on the ocean they are. I’d like to see you, Félix. She can see the ocean surging inland, battering the flood barriers. Further along, the looming ruins of Ushuaia City poke out of the waters. On a sunny day, the plundered city is still a source of treasures for brave divers, but today the sea trawls through the ruins in sullen white and grey, as though in collusion with the depressing bureaucracy of the Facility.

Ramona wants to put off entering the building for as long as possible so she grabs her toolkit, unscrews the panel to the engine nacelle and gets under the plane for the fifth time since leaving Nazca. For the fifth time, she cannot see what is wrong. Nothing seems broken, nothing is leaking; there’s no corrosion. She lies on her back, staring up at the cloud banks above the underbelly of the plane. She hopes Raoul has some ideas.

She braces herself and enters the building via the roof hatch. With any luck, no one from the Facility will have seen her arrival, and she can escape a briefing with supercilious Lygia until morning. The building is quiet. She hurries past the shunned second floor, where the poor souls condemned to use computers put in their hours. They always sit on the other side of the Facility’s canteen. Sometimes Ramona feels bad about that. Not always.

At ground level, the foyer is cold and grey. She is swamped with an immediate sense of gloom. Above the reception area hangs a faded Patagonian flag and the animals of the Nazca glyphs: monkey, hummingbird, spider, heron, orca. An old man with silver hair sits behind a desk. His uniform is equally faded, and the whole scene is like a tableau in a cave that has been left undisturbed for thousands of years.

But the old man’s eyes light up at her entrance. He gets awkwardly to his feet, one hand supporting the small of his back.

‘Ramona Callejas!’

‘Hello, Eduardo. It’s good to see you.’

‘It’s good to see you too, Ramona. Yes, I’m always happy to see you’re still alive.’

Eduardo’s smile does not waver but the statement is ambiguous, as is the man himself. Ramona leans against the desk. Eduardo, who sees all of the Facility’s comings and goings, is a useful man to have on side.

‘Have I missed all the excitement?’ she asks.

‘Oh, we’ve had plenty of excitement, never you worry. One mother of a storm last night, for a start. They lost a fishing boat. Sad tale, it is. Remember Pedro? His whole livelihood, that boat, and there’s three young kids. And I’ll put money on another tonight. I can feel it. My joints are telling me… But what have you been up to, our illustrious pilot, eh? You have some stories for old Ed?’

‘Mapping at Nazca. The lines. And the glyphs.’ Ramona glances up at the dusty flag. She does not mention her pilgrimage to Cerro Blanco; it is not something of which it can or should be spoken. Nor does she mention her illicit mercy dash. If Lygia finds out, she will make her disapproval very clear; she does not like Ramona going off-task. Instead, she puts on a mysterious tone. ‘On the way home I discovered a pirates’ nest.’

‘Pirates? Lots of them?’

‘Three ships. No markings. Not a renegade in sight. Quiet as the dead, they were. The bay was almost hidden… but I saw it from the air.’

‘Not El Tiburón?’

‘If it was, he didn’t dare show his face to me.’

‘Ha!’ His laugh is short and breathy. ‘You’re the lucky one. Where were they?’

‘Can’t say, Ed. Classified, isn’t it? Shouldn’t have told you this much.’

He loves that.

‘You staying with us long, Ramona?’

‘You know me, Ed. I never stay any longer than I can help. It’s not the company, but…’

He nods and offers her a wink, as though they share a conspiracy. Perhaps they do, she thinks. Perhaps Eduardo dislikes it here as much as I do.

‘I’ll sign you in.’ The old man enters Ramona’s name in a large, heavy book. His writing is slow, the letters solemnly etched. ‘You’ve got your key?’

She lifts the chain hanging around her neck.

‘Ed, I need to get hold of Raoul—’

The telephone interrupts; Eduardo holds up a hand. She waits as he takes the call.

‘Yes? Oh. I see. No, if it’s run out, it’s run out. No, I can’t get you another one. No, the energy room is closed.’ A pause. Eduardo’s expression is tight with annoyance. ‘Not until morning. No, there’s no one there now. I can’t help you. No. That’s too bad. Goodbye.’

Eduardo whistles through his teeth.

‘Unbelievable.’

‘Who was it?’

‘The Tarkie on the fifth floor. Used his energy ration. Now he expects me to whistle up a brand-new supply just for him. Those Tarkies come over all charming, but they take what they want when it comes to our precious resources. All right for them, isn’t it? They’ve got wind farms of their own. They don’t have to go begging for African solar cells.’

Ramona frowns. ‘We don’t beg. Who is he, anyway?’

‘A researcher, so he says. A botanist.’

Eduardo’s tone of voice encourages her to lean in closer.

‘So he says?’ she echoes.

Eduardo looks to left and right, as though there might be hidden eyes surveying them. He has spent too long in this dusty foyer. Nothing happens in the Facility except for the creaking laws of government; if it’s news you want, you need the harbour.

‘I’ve never seen him collecting flower seeds, is all. Not that kind anyway. One day he comes in all worked up and when I asked him nice as anything to sign in – three times I had to ask – he starts shouting all kinds of things. So I know what he really does – or did, that is.’

‘What’s your theory, Ed?’

‘I reckon he’s been disgraced. Exiled. In fact, I’ll bet you on it.’

Ramona rolls her eyes. ‘What are you betting?’

The old man hesitates. He loves a bet. It must bring a ripple of excitement to his monotonous routine.

‘I’ll bet you a week’s hot water ration.’

‘All right. You’re on.’ Ramona knows she won’t take it from him, even if she wins. Probably Eduardo knows that too, but they both play the game. She tosses her key and catches it, thinking of the jugglers in Cataveiro.

‘Now what were you saying, before we got interrupted?’

‘I was saying, I need to get hold of Raoul.’

‘Can’t be doing that. He’s off island.’

Why, she thinks, does Eduardo always sound happy when he delivers bad news?

‘Off island?’

‘His dad got taken sick. Didn’t say what it was. Didn’t sound good.’

‘Shit. I need a mechanic.’

‘Problems with the plane?’ Eduardo asks slyly.

‘It could do with some fine-tuning, that’s all.’ The last thing she needs is Eduardo babbling to Lygia, and Lygia trying to chain her to a desk for a week, or worse, sitting her next to a drone while they set her maps on a computer.

‘Well, you should try him upstairs.’

‘Who?’

‘The Tarkie! Didn’t I say he let slip his old job? “I was an engineer,” he says. All high and mighty as if I was supposed to be impressed.’ Eduardo drums the desk gleefully. ‘Get him to make himself useful. Fifth floor, same as you. Can’t miss him, green eyes, a bit spooky. I should warn you, though, that Tarkie Portuguese will make your ears hurt. Barbarism to a decent language, that’s what it is.’

‘Well, maybe. If Raoul’s not back tomorrow, I could try him. Night, Ed. Don’t tell Lygia I’m here, will you? I don’t want to see her before I have to. And I’ll tell you the rest of that pirate story… tomorrow.’

Eduardo winks.

‘You know old Ed. Your secret’s safe with me.’

* * * *

Eduardo is always here, however long she has been away; there is some consolation in that. Even if he is an unrepentant gossip. She climbs the back stairs of the building. Five flights, down another corridor. Same floor as the Antarctican – worth remembering. She walks past metal door after metal door. Only a small percentage of them are occupied at any given time. The rooms are home to a peculiar assortment of staff: governors, army officers and ad hocs, researchers, data entrants, ambassadors, the occasional freelancer like herself.

The room with her name on it is a one and a half by two metre box. The key grates when she opens the door. She has been out for several weeks – another reason Lygia will want to pick her brain for information. She can never decide if it is her controlling nature that repels her the most, or the manipulative way she tries to befriend you. Typical politician. And yet it was Lygia who first took her seriously when she said: Let me fly this, and I’ll make you all the maps you need. It was Lygia who persuaded her colleagues to make Ramona an exception.

Inside the room everything is dusty; she draws a fingertip through the fine coating on the table and pulls the bunk down from the wall. A tangle of old army blankets fall out. She shakes them out and stands on the bunk to open the tiny window and let in some air.

Originally built by northerners for an entirely different purpose, this is one of the few buildings in the country to use bufferglass. Glass and solar cells have made the Pan-African Solar Corporation rich, and rumour has it they plan to buy up the Australian continent next. The new energy will go north, fuelling the glittering techno-cities of the Boreal States. In exchange for the Patagonian poppy harvest, a lean trickle of cells will come here.

The Facility might not be Ramona’s idea of home, but it is a familiar quantity. She has spent enough recovery time in here. The worst was a broken leg, seven years ago, and because she was impatient, it still aches sometimes when she is tired. She thinks of Eduardo’s words earlier. You’re the lucky one. The way the surgeon at Titicaca looked at her. People assign luck to her, good and bad. If she has it, it is a peculiar kind. Sometimes she wonders what a life would be like without the charm of the plane, a life not marked by luck and all its expectations.

She turns on the radio. Tango, nice. Pulls off her boots and socks and examines her feet. Red but only a couple of blisters, despite all the walking in the desert. She takes out her maps of the Nazca Desert and studies each one, feeling the simple satisfaction of a job well done. Cartography is not about power, as some would have it. It is always an act of translation: the rendering of something unknown into something intelligible, and it has a beauty all of its own.

She climbs into the bunk and lies flat, feeling her body slowly relax, taking deep breaths of the fresh air through the window. She feels cooped-up but safe. The feeling of safety makes her uncomfortable in other ways, reminding her that she has had this room a long time, that it is easy to become reliant. On people. On places. Even on a job.

A spider runs across the ceiling: small-bodied, long-legged. She thinks of the spider in the Nazca Desert, and remembers how it felt to walk along the lines, the sense of a history so great it seemed present in the air around her. But not all of the glyphs can be seen. Some have been blurred by erosion; some are lost forever.

On her left thumb, the barest of fine lines marks where the skin has healed. She is still not certain why she went. Sometimes, such as when you stand on the Nazca lines, it is easy to believe in something greater, even if it is only your own purpose. Other times, like Alé, like the unlucky ones that did not make it, it is not.

A knock at the door interrupts her thoughts. She is surprised to see Eduardo, one hand clutched to his chest, panting.

‘Ramona, I forgot to give you this.’

He holds out a letter. She takes it and examines the writing on the front. It is addressed to her, simply enough – Ramona Callejas, The Facility, Tierra del Fuego.

‘One of the pedlars brought it down from the highlands,’ Eduardo explains. ‘You know I don’t trust those vagabonds, but this one seemed smart enough.’

The highlands, where Ramona and Félix grew up. It looks like Félix’s mother’s handwriting: Carla. She likes to keep in touch. Ramona feels a well of pleasure.

‘Thanks, Ed.’

‘You’re welcome. You know, you could get a telephone in this room.’

‘I could. But then people would call me.’

He shuffles away, still breathing heavily from the exertion of the climb. Ramona shuts the door and sits on the bunk, her legs tucked under her. She tears the letter open.

Dear Ramona,

I hope this letter finds you and finds you well. I wasn’t sure where you might be so I asked the pedlar to take copies to Fuego and the garage in Cataveiro and one or two other places on his route in case you passed through.

If one of them has reached you safely then I have to tell you your mother has been taken very sick. The doctor says it’s the jinn and she’s converting. I offered for her to stay with us down on the slopes but you know how she is. There’s not much we can do here. Perhaps you know some people from your travels that might help, or you could get her something for the pain she’s in now. Either way, I thought you should know. Inés would be angry if she found out I had written. But you know how it goes with the jinn. Any little thing might be enough to end it.

Please, come soon.

Your friend, Carla.

PS – if you see Félix, give him my love.

Ramona reads the letter several times. She thinks of Inés, her stubborn, difficult mother. She thinks of the sliding city, with its red dust and its landslides, and she sees the shack with the little veranda built by Ramona and the chair outside where Inés always sits, and the graves nearby of Paola and Camilo.

Patagonian medicine has no cure for the jinn.