The Dark Frontier

by A. B. Decker

  Ellen looked quizzically over her soup at Marthe.

  “Urs insists they were pioneers. Not only in nutrition. As employers also. They provided their workers with benefits that everyone else could only dream of back in the Thirties. But all I know them for is the pact they made with the devil just before the war. Perhaps it was necessary to survive, but it left a nasty taste – until they were de-germanised by Nestlé. Even then a lot of people found their soups hard to stomach for a long time to come.”

  “Well, let’s drink to Nestlé then,” Ellen said, raising her glass. “Cheers.”

  “Santé,” Marthe replied with a smile.

  “I’d really like to thank you, Marthe.”

  Marthe reached out and placed a hand on Ellen’s arm.

  “Whatever for?”

  “For inviting me. For being there for me all the time. For being such a comfort.”

  “It’s been my pleasure. Really,” Marthe insisted, moving closer and taking both of Ellen’s hands in hers. “I enjoy your company. Urs does not always have as much time for me as I would like. He’s often at the clinic or away at conferences. Or with his protégé Stefan.”

  “Even so, I’m sure you would be relieved to have me out of your hair for a while,” said Ellen.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was thinking about Frank in the train up here. The way he’s slipping away from me. I’ve been in limbo for the last few weeks. Not knowing where he is. Or what’s happened to him. Always fearing the worst. Going round in circles chasing someone who is supposed to be him, but who keeps evading our searches.”

  Marthe clasped Ellen’s hands tighter as she spoke.

  “For all your wonderful kindness and hospitality, Marthe, this is really not a life anymore. It’s purgatory. And all the while, I have an employer back home, patiently waiting for me to get back to work.” She paused. Marthe relaxed her grip before Ellen continued: “So, I’ve been thinking that maybe it’s time I returned home. For a time at least. We’ll stay in touch of course. And as soon as you have any news for me, then I will fly over right away. But at the moment, I believe it’s the right thing to do.”

  “I understand how you feel,” Marthe said. “But you don’t have to make any hasty decisions. While we’re here in the mountains, you will have plenty of time to consider it in depth.”

  “I already have,” Ellen insisted. “I don’t need any more time. I’ve really made up my mind.”

  “Well, at least you can enjoy the mountain air for a few days,” Marthe said, withdrawing her hands and sitting back in her chair. “Tomorrow, we’ll have a late start and stroll down to Suvretta House for lunch. They have a fabulous restaurant there, where we can talk more about your plans, and then go shopping in town.”

  Ellen was adamant in her own mind that any further talk would be pointless. But she told herself that lunch and shopping would provide a pleasant distraction. So she and Marthe spent the remainder of the evening contemplating the flames of the log fire and punctuating each other’s thoughts now and then with idle chatter.

  When Ellen eventually closed the outside shutters in her bedroom, drew the quaint little gingham curtains over the windows and climbed into bed, she fully anticipated that Marthe would come knocking on the door and sneak into bed beside her. Ever since she felt her hands play appreciatively with the strawberry-blonde tresses of her hair when they arrived in St Moritz, Ellen had the feeling that she was keen to renew the intimacy they had shared a few days earlier. The prospect excited her in a curious way that she would not have imagined possible until a short time ago. As she lay in the snug warmth of her duvet, she longed for the door to open. Yet the frisson that came with this anticipation was also fraught with unease and self-doubt. And it was these misgivings that she eventually carried with her into a deep sleep. Not until the morning did her self-doubt give way to a sense of disappointment when it dawned on her that Marthe had kept her distance after all. She wondered whether it had anything to do with her decision to return home.

  Marthe was already up and about by the time Ellen woke to the sound of activity in the kitchen. And music. It was ‘Lola’. The track that Ellen was surprised to find what seemed like weeks ago to be a source of such excitement for Marthe. And she was no less surprised to hear the music now playing in the kitchen below.

  By the time Ellen emerged, it was already on ‘This Time Tomorrow’. Where will we be? What will we know? It all seemed so apposite. Why is it, she asked herself as she entered the kitchen, that every song ever written seems to have been penned for that given moment when its words carry such meaning?

  “Good morning Ellen,” said Marthe breezily, switching off the music when she turned and saw Ellen in the doorway. “I’m sorry. I hope the music didn’t wake you.”

  “It’s already well past nine. Normally I’d be awake much earlier than this. So, no. The music didn’t wake me,” Ellen said, catching sight of a cassette player on the table as she spoke.

  “Did you bring it with you?” she asked.

  “The cassette?” Marthe replied, flicking a switch to boil the kettle. “I thought it would be nice to have a little music in our retreat.”

  “I would never have taken you for a fan of the Kinks. Or of anything but classical music really.”

  “Well, Ellen. You should never be taken in by appearances,” Marthe said, throwing two spoonfuls of tea into the teapot next to the kettle and glancing at Ellen as she did so. The glance came with a smile so engaging that it struck Ellen as almost flirtatious. She felt the colour begin to rise in her cheeks.

  “I like all kinds of music,” Marthe added, instantly delivering Ellen from her embarrassment. “But my favourite song on this album is ‘Lola’.”

  “It’s one of mine too.”

  The wistful expression in Ellen’s eyes and the musing tone of voice as she spoke these words were not lost on Marthe. Ellen could see from the way she was hanging on her every word that she was expecting more.

  “It so reminds me of Frank,” she said, not wanting to disappoint. “I was constantly dropping hints and trying to persuade him to get it for me. We were always teasing each other about it, because he wasn’t so keen.”

  “Did you need his permission? Could you not buy it yourself?”

  “We have an agreement that we never buy things for ourselves, but only for each other,” Ellen explained.

  “But from what you tell me about those impulse buys, he doesn’t always keep to that agreement, does he?”

  “In his own mind, I think he does.”

  “But he never bought ‘Lola’ for you?” Marthe asked, as she poured the boiling water into the teapot.

  “No. He never did.”

  These words cast Ellen’s thoughts adrift. She sank back into a deep pause for reflection. Caught in a tangle of memories.

  “I suggest we take a walk in the snow this morning,” Marthe said at last, placing a cup of tea on the table for Ellen. “And work up an appetite for lunch. I’ve already phoned and booked a table.”

  For all her attention to detail, Marthe was not the most efficient of women. The morning was already half over by the time they had dressed for the snow and found themselves on a trail that skirted alongside the forest with only the occasional squirrel to distract them. Perhaps it was the raw chill of the morning air that reduced their conversation to pleasantries and idle chat. But Ellen was not so sure.

  Her doubts were vindicated when they eventually arrived at the hotel restaurant for lunch at noon. Their entrance was accompanied by the sound of a piano playing in some unseen corner of the lobby. There was a luxury to the place that Ellen had never experienced before – elegantly upholstered furniture, plush carpets and strategically placed aspidistras. It gave her a sense of disquiet, a feeling she was out of place here, until Marthe led her into the restaurant, where they were guided to a table with a stunning view over the snow-covered valley. It took Ellen’s breath away. And in the cosiness of the restaurant with
Marthe, she instantly felt at peace.

  “I’m going to miss you,” Marthe said once the waitress had taken their orders and disappeared with the menus. She stretched both hands around the vase of flowers on the table between them and rested them on Ellen’s hands as she spoke.

  “I will be back, you know.” Ellen gave Marthe’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I really appreciate your friendship. At the moment, though, I need to get back to work and return to some semblance of a normal life while the search for Frank continues. Being here, so close to the whole story, is just beginning to make me question everything. My own sanity. Who Frank is. Or even who I am.”

  “Believe me, there’s nothing wrong with your sanity or who you are.”

  “So you agree that there’s still a huge question mark over who Frank is?”

  “We’ll find an answer to that question eventually,” Marthe insisted. “Urs is also not convinced by the idea that he is involved in drugs. He believes Frank is suffering a schizoaffective psychosis.”

  “Is he a good psychiatrist?” Ellen asked, bringing a smile to Marthe’s lips.

  “Oh yes. Perhaps not very imaginative and too quick to accept conventional thinking. But he’s very caring. The thought and care he showed when he supported me in the referendum are very typical.”

  She paused and contemplated the vase of flowers for a moment, before adding: “Which makes it strange that he’s not so good at personal relationships.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He has a problem showing his emotions. It’s probably something to do with his background. He’s from the most eastern part of the country. Very conservative. And I’m originally from the French-speaking part in the west. That’s a big difference. They call it the Rösti Curtain where I come from. It’s not quite the Iron Curtain, but it defines the cultural divide between the German and French speakers. That’s why I like it in Basel: although it’s a German-speaking city, the Rösti Curtain is so frayed at the edges that it’s more like the French-speaking part. They show their emotions more. Even vote the same way very often. In the referendum to give women the vote, more than eighty percent of men voted yes. Just like in Lausanne or Geneva. Thank goodness! Because there were some German-speaking areas where most men voted no!”

  “I didn’t realise there was a problem between you and Urs,” Ellen said, unwilling to dwell on the referendum as it reminded her too much of Frank’s mission here. “You always seem to get on so well.”

  “Oh, it’s not a problem. We do get on well. And I’m proud to say he was one of the eighty percent,” Marthe reassured her with a smile. “But we have our differences. And I think I’ve become more aware of them since you’ve been here.”

  Ellen felt the colour rising in her cheeks.

  “Oh gosh, don’t look now,” Marthe said, and unwittingly helped to spare Ellen’s blushes. “The man who has just walked in and taken the table behind you is the most perfect example of that difference I was talking about.”

  Ellen discreetly turned her head to witness the fuss being made of the man who took the table behind her. He glanced up as she looked. He had a rather doughy and slightly chinless, but inconspicuous face, wore horn-rimmed glasses and boasted a supremely confident parting in his brilliantined hair.

  “He’s a member of parliament,” Marthe explained in a whisper that succeeded in expressing extreme revulsion despite the hushed tone of her words. “From Zurich.”

  “He looks harmless enough,” Ellen said.

  “That type often does. I’ve been told he’s distantly related to Bismarck. But he’s a completely heartless beast. A throwback to darker times, when he belonged to the National Front in the Thirties. He was especially good at organising violent demonstrations to intimidate political cabarets that were critical of Nazi Germany and forcing them out of business. I can imagine what his position was on the Jews and other refugees fleeing to Switzerland at that time. Now he sits in parliament as a member of another party under a different name. But it’s basically no better than the old fascist party.

  “Last year he made a name for himself with a referendum to kick out immigrants. Especially the Tschingge, as he calls Italian guest workers. No one thought he had a chance of winning. And fortunately he didn’t. But it was very close. Much closer than anyone thought was possible. About 51 to 49, I think. Some of the German-speaking cantons even voted yes. Of course, only the men were allowed to vote then. If we had the referendum today, maybe we women would have made a difference. But now everyone is talking about foreigners. He’s made the divide in the country wider than ever.”

  “We have something similar in England. A politician who talks about rivers of blood if the tide of immigration isn’t stopped,” said Ellen. “But no one really takes him seriously.”

  “They should,” Marthe replied. “The last time anyone in this part of the world talked about a river of blood was in the 1930s. And we all know what happened then. Countries thrive on migration. Switzerland has. Almost twenty percent of the population are immigrants. In fact, many of our big companies were founded by immigrants. Most were started by Huguenots from France. Just like Frank’s Triumph motorcycles you talked about recently, built by German engineers.”

  By now, Marthe’s eyes were alight with the irrepressible fire that Professor Abegg had spoken of.

  “People like him see immigrants as a threat to their precious identity,” she continued, and nodded in the direction of the man behind Ellen. “Which is nonsense of course. Identity is not static. It evolves. Countries, like people, also evolve the more they’re exposed to what lurks beyond the boundaries that hold their identity back. And that’s what makes them prosper. I just thank God women have a vote now. Maybe we can help to change the way men think.”

  “So, is Urs anti-immigrant?” Ellen asked.

  “Good heavens no! That’s not what I wanted to say. Urs is a very decent man. I was trying to explain the difference between the language regions here. Then I got carried away when that awful man came to sit on the table behind you. I forgot that St Moritz is his favourite haunt. You know, only a couple of years ago an Italian guest worker was beaten to death in this town just after he started his campaign. He’s a disgusting man.

  “Perhaps it’s time to order coffee and then settle up,” Marthe added with an abruptness that was completely at odds with the cosy prospect of roasted coffee beans.

  “No coffee for me thanks,” Ellen said, feeling moved to decline the offer by the sight of a Marthe who was visibly seething and could plainly not to wait to get out of the restaurant. This was another side of her that Ellen had not seen before. It surprised her almost as much as the more appealing, intimate side.

  Once they were out of the hotel and strolling in the crisp mountain air again, Marthe had calmed down. She linked arms with Ellen.

  “Come on. Let’s go shopping.”

  They strolled down into St Moritz and spent the rest of the afternoon browsing the upmarket shops. Ellen had already eaten into much of her savings in the last few weeks, and there was no way she could consider splashing out on any of the luxury clothes or accessories on the shelves. But Marthe was intent on spending her way out of the anger she had allowed to upset her mood and also, to put Ellen’s mind at rest, on buying her a silk scarf from Chanel.

  “Please, I insist,” Marthe said, when Ellen attempted to turn down her offer. “I’d really like you to have it. As a souvenir. Something to remember me by when you get back home.”

  Framed in this way, it was impossible for Ellen to refuse. So she politely tucked it away in her handbag and allowed Marthe to spoil her for the rest of their stay in St Moritz.

  They spent the next few days shopping, walking in the snow and strolling over the frozen lake. Although there were plenty of other people wandering there, Ellen sensed a flutter of nerves the first time she stepped out onto the expanse of ice.

  “You really don’t need to worry, Ellen,” Marthe reassured her with a smile. “They
hold horseraces on the lake. So I’m sure it will take your weight.”

  The thought of thoroughbreds pounding their way over the snow and ice seemed improbably bizarre to Ellen. But she glanced around at the other people promenading on the ice, and she had to admit they all looked perfectly at ease.

  “Sadly, we missed the racing by a week or two,” Marthe added. “You would have enjoyed it. When you stand on the corner and watch the horses come round the bend, it’s so exciting. The drumming of their hoofbeats on the ice and the tourbillon of snow behind them. There’s nothing quite like it.”

  The passion in Marthe’s words as they stood there on the lake brought the scene so vividly to life that Ellen could just imagine the excitement all around her. Could almost hear their hoofbeats on the ice, almost see the horses bunching up and jockeying for position before they raced away down the straight, kicking up the snow behind them.

  She looked about at the women in their expensive furs and the men keeping themselves warm with their fat, pungent cigars as they strolled over the lake. She could just imagine them cheering on their favourites. And for just the fraction of a second, she caught a familiar movement among them. A mop of thick brown hair bobbed into view. Then vanished again. For the briefest of moments, Ellen’s heart appeared to stop. She clutched Marthe by the arm.

  “Are you all right?” Marthe asked.

  “Yes, of course. I’m fine,” Ellen lied.

  At that moment, specks of snow landed on her face as if from nowhere and bathed her in a singular sensation. As she looked up through the flurry of snow at the mountain peaks above, she wrapped an arm around Marthe.

  “This is another world,” Ellen said.

  The audible thrill in her words concealed a nervous tension. It really was another world. So remote from life as she had known it until a few weeks ago – and from Frank himself, who with every twist and turn in the search for him had become increasingly unfamiliar, her memory of him vanishingly faint. It was almost as if he had ceased to exist, while she was discovering a new part of herself each day. If it had not been for that mop of dark brown hair.