Strangers on a Bridge

by Louise Mangos

  ‘We have to get you out of here,’ I said as I pushed myself off the pavement and knelt in front of him. ‘Did you drive here? Do you have a car nearby?’

  He shook his head, and looked down to the pavement.

  ‘Do you have a phone on you? Is there someone we can call?’ I asked more gently.

  As he gazed up at me without answering, I looked down at his feet. I tied his shoelaces, feeling his eyes on me as I performed this task, putting him back together. Rocking onto my heels, I reached towards his hand, and stood slowly. Manfred stared at my wrist, hypnotised by the contact. His hand, at first limp in mine, strengthened its hold. Pressing my lips together into a flat smile, I dipped my head in encouragement, and pulled him to his feet.

  I felt like brushing the dust from his jacket, handing him his non-existent briefcase like the caring wife, and sending him on his way to his high-powered job at some investment bank. But I knew he wasn’t ready to be left on his own. I kept hold of his hand to encourage him along the pavement, if only to get him off the bridge. As we walked towards a distant bus stop, I relaxed as we left behind the chasm of this man’s destiny. Manfred seemed to realise this too, gazing up into the bright sky. I was unsure whether the dampness between our palms was mine, or his.

  ‘Where are you leading me? This was not my plan,’ he said.

  ‘It’s okay. You’ll be okay. Let’s go.’ I smiled again, encouragingly. ‘Will you come with me to the bus stop? I don’t think I should leave you alone, but are you okay with that?’

  Manfred’s lips tightened into a line. I knew I should keep him talking. But what the hell do you say to someone who’s just tried to throw himself off a bridge?

  I shivered now, both from my rapidly chilling body and the influence of the adrenalin wearing off. My upper chest whirred unhealthily, and I coughed.

  ‘Come!’ My tone was falsely boisterous, trying to convince a small child to share an unwanted excursion. ‘It’s not far to the bus. At least we can get out of this damned cold.’

  Manfred frowned. In his smart suit and coat, he was unlikely to be feeling the deceptive spring chill with this blue sky and sunshine. Attempting to stop my trembling, I clenched my jaw, and had trouble speaking. It was hard to focus on the timetable once we reached the stop. The next bus to Zug was in over an hour’s time. I couldn’t wait that long. I’d freeze.

  ‘This way,’ I said as we crossed the road to check the timetable for the bus going the other way, back to Aegeri, towards home. Ten minutes. Thank God.

  As we waited, our hands fell apart. I fiddled pointlessly with my ponytail, tucking wild scraps of hair behind my ears. I rubbed my arms, occupying my fingers, trying to forget the connection of our palms. There was a steel bench, but I chose not to sit on the cold metal. Manfred stood within a pace of me, moving with me when I walked to the other end of the shelter. I was tempted to sidle up to him, absorb his body warmth. I had to remind myself he was still a stranger, despite what we had been through moments before. Instead I leaned against the glass wall to shield myself from the wind. Having held his hand for so long, I almost regretted the rift, but detected the return of some confidence in his demeanour.

  ‘You’re cold,’ he said simply, but didn’t offer me his coat or his jacket. I wasn’t sure I would have taken it anyway. I wouldn’t have wanted to infuse the post-sport odour of my body into the lining of his Hugo Boss.

  I recalled the executives at the advertising agency where I used to work in London. They’d never been part of the group of employees who sought out my psychological counselling in the HR department. My experience there had extended only to office arguments, secretaries complaining they had been treated unfairly, and personality assessments. Studying a potential suicide scenario in college was one thing. Being faced with a true-life victim was something else altogether.

  I wished Simon were there to allay my uncertainty. Even the company of my chatty running partner, Kathy, would have been welcome. I imagined she would have made light of the situation, distracting Manfred with her chirpy Northern-English accent. I wanted so desperately to bring this man out of his despair.

  The whining of a large diesel motor interrupted my thoughts. We climbed on the bus, Manfred now complying without resistance. I used the change in my money belt to purchase two tickets from the driver, strangely relieved I wouldn’t have to ask Manfred for money, and accompanied him to a seat near the middle.

  As the bus pulled away and picked up speed, we gazed out of the window. The vehicle turned in a wide arc, up towards the next village, every metre taking us away from the bridge. On the last hairpin bend before the valley disappeared from view, Manfred looked briefly back in the direction of the gorge, and nodded once, almost imperceptibly. He turned back to stare at the road ahead, then surprised me out of my thoughts.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.

  I honestly didn’t know. I was making this up as I went along.

  ‘I need to get a warm jacket or something,’ I said. ‘And I don’t think you should be on your own right now. We’ll decide what to do after I get myself sorted at home, pick up my handbag, keys and stuff. We can use my car. I need my phone and then we can decide, Mister… um… Manfred.’

  He seemed to accept this short-term first step and drifted back to gazing out of the window. I did the same, chewing my lip. I was impatient to see Simon.

  ‘You live in Aegeri? You’re not a tourist?’ Manfred’s delayed curiosity further reinforced my relief. It was as though he had joined me on the bus and asked whether the seat next to me was free. A passenger making polite conversation.

  ‘My husband works for a small trading company whose financial offices are in South London. He was offered a posting at the head office in Zug a few years ago, so we moved out here. I’m afraid I haven’t learned much German since I’ve been here. We were supposed to be here for two years, but they asked him to stay.’

  ‘You like Switzerland?’ Manfred asked with an edge to his voice, something between confused pride and disdain. I wondered again what had brought him to the bridge. Perhaps a failing in the machine that yielded Swiss bureaucracy.

  ‘It’s a beautiful country. It took me a while to get used to your… customs. But I love the rural alpine contrast to the city. I used to work in human resources at a busy advertising company, so this is a different world.’

  I gazed out of the window at newly budding cherry trees blurring past, among fields strewn with the last of the spring crocuses.

  ‘I think our language is difficult to learn for the Ausländer,’ he said.

  ‘It was hard for me at first,’ I admitted, recalling a misunderstanding with our local electrician. ‘Our family was considered somewhat of a novelty when we arrived in the village. I set up something I call the Chat Club, where mums of the boys’ friends could improve their English.’

  ‘You have good Dialekt. Easy to understand. Not like some American accents.’

  ‘Thank you. And I can tell you learned your English from a British teacher.’ I smiled, almost forgetting why we were there.

  ‘Switzerland is a multilingual nation. We have four official languages, but you will see, English will become our allgemeine language.’

  ‘It feels like the idea of a universal language is a long way from reaching our little village. I was hoping to learn some German in return for my teaching efforts,’ I continued. ‘But I was outnumbered. It never seemed to happen. My kids learned really quickly, though. Starting with some not-so-pretty language in the playground at school.’

  ‘Then they have learned two languages. High German in the classroom and Swiss German outside school,’ he said.

  I nodded, and remembered when I heard Swiss German for the first time, a more guttural dialect with a sing-song lilt, interspersed with much throat clearing and chewing of vowels.

  ‘The language barrier was much more of a challenge for me. But the priority of the Chat Club is to practise speaking English. I barely have chance
to improve my own German-language skills beyond sentences of greeting and consumer needs. My compulsion to help has not been reciprocated… returned.’

  Heat rose to my face as I remembered the things I had done wrong at the beginning of our move to Switzerland, impeding my integration into the community. It had taken me a while to get my head round some of the country’s pedantic customs.

  I realised I’d been blabbing to Manfred, overly enthusiastic as a result of this rare opportunity to speak to someone socially in my own language outside the family. I folded my hands in my lap and looked at the passing houses as we entered the outskirts of the Aegeri Valley. As the bus drove past some woodland, the sudden darkness revealed the image of our two faces in the window, heads bobbing in unison with the movement of the vehicle. Manfred continued to look at me. I swallowed, and pulled my gaze away from his reflection to the front of the bus.

  What was I getting myself into now? I felt a little lost in this situation. But it would have been unthinkable for me to have ignored this man and run on ahead up the valley. He was hurting enough to have wanted to take his life. Here was a scenario I had been half-trained to deal with and, alien as it seemed, I would try my hardest to find the right solution.

  ‘End Station,’ announced the bus driver.

  ‘Final stop, our stop,’ I said, standing up. ‘I live just outside the village. It’s a pretty walk.’

  Stepping from the bus, we headed away from the village centre, our increase in altitude affording an unimpeded view of the lake. Sunlight glinted off the water in shards.

  ‘This is one of Leon’s favourite views,’ I said as Manfred turned enquiringly. ‘My eldest son. He loves the view, but hates the fact that he has to walk to school every day.’

  I was making light conversation, trying to separate Manfred’s thoughts from earlier events. He said nothing, and his silence after our conversation on the bus felt awkward.

  ‘It is incredibly beautiful,’ I reiterated, then changed the subject. ‘Do you live locally? Close by?’

  He gave a slight shrug and a movement of his head that said neither yes nor no. His eyes, now clear and inquisitive, looked at the lake, and I could tell he was appreciating the view, as the ghost of a smile touched his mouth. I bit my lip and looked back towards the water.

  When we arrived at the door of the old Zuger house of which our duplex apartment was a part, I hesitated. I knew the fundamental rule was not to leave Manfred alone, but I was cautious enough to not want this man inside my home. In the porch was a bench where the kids usually sat to take off their muddy boots or brush snow from them in winter.

  ‘I need to get a few things. Just wait here. Take a seat. I’ll be as quick as possible. I’ll be right back.’ I tried a cheerfulness that sounded empty. ‘Okay?’ I put my hand on his shoulder.

  Manfred nodded uncertainly and sat on the bench. I could tell his confusion and confidence were fighting each other in waves. I took a breath, and knew I definitely wasn’t equipped for this. I hoped more than anything that Simon would be at home to support me, to talk to this stranger who I had accepted as some kind of personal responsibility. Together we would have a better chance of helping him.

  But as I crossed the threshold to our apartment, I knew immediately no one was home.

  Chapter Four

  The door was unlocked, as always, security considerations not a priority in our safe Swiss world. The place offered the kind of muffled stillness where motes of dust were the only sparking movement through the strips of midday sunlight now streaming down the hallway. No breathing bodies.

  A hurried note scribbled on the back of an envelope told me Simon had departed on a bike ride with his mates. He had dropped the boys with friends of theirs before heading out. The spidery scribble indicated he was mildly pissed off I hadn’t been home when I said I would. My first reaction was guilt, then a flash of irritation as I imagined him hurrying the note, not stopping to consider I might have sustained an injury or had a problem on my run.

  I unclipped my running belt and let it drop to the floor, prising off my running shoes. I was still cold, and wished I could stay in my warm, cosy house. I ran the tap at the kitchen sink and took several big gulps of water straight from the flowing spout to quench my thirst.

  After grabbing a fleece jacket, I pulled the car keys off the hook. Picking up my mobile, I swore I wouldn’t run without it again, despite its bulk and fragility.

  I stabbed Simon’s number on the keypad.

  ‘Come on, come on.’ The ringing tone went on and on, eventually switching to his voicemail.

  ‘Honey, please call me as soon as you get this message.’

  I imagined Simon pushing his cadence to the maximum along some winding alpine road, changing positions in the peloton as his turn came to draft the others, phone ringing unheard in the tool pouch under his seat. Placing the mobile in my pocket, I leaned over to pull off my socks and slipped my slightly sore feet into a comfortable pair of pumps.

  I was wary and didn’t want to taint my hands with a decision that might lead Manfred back down the path of self-destruction. I was no experienced psychologist, and had never really used my skills in the remedial sense. This man needed help I could not give. Above all, my lack of mastery of the language meant I didn’t have a great deal of confidence when it came to approaching anyone in authority on this matter. And it was Sunday, the obligatory day of rest. Along with washing-hanging and lawnmowing bans, the police were also entitled to a day off. They might not be around to save lost souls on bridges. I wasn’t sure who I would find to help.

  I glanced in the hall mirror, registering my post-sport mussed look, and hurried down the stairs to the main door.

  Manfred was still sitting on the bench with his head lowered, but his body language had changed. My mood brightened as I noticed the squaring of his shoulders, the set jaw, and his hair neatly combed. He was cleaning his glasses with a tissue pulled from a packet lying next to him on the bench. His head was no longer poised in despair, but in a position of concentration, performing the simple task with an air of purpose. I had been expecting more empty looks and the shell of a wretched soul. The change in these few minutes was remarkable. Humility and purpose were evident, and I smiled broadly at his return to life.

  ‘I cannot believe I am so dumm, so stupid,’ he said, continuing to carefully polish a lens. ‘What was I thinking?’

  A huge wave of relief washed over me. Part of me still wanted to help, but part of me wanted to turn my back on this situation now I was home. I selfishly wanted my weekend back. I wanted a hot shower and a cup of tea. I wanted to make up for my absence from our family Sunday when everyone came home.

  As Manfred stood up, on impulse I put my arms around him and hugged him.

  ‘Welcome back,’ I said with relief.

  As I felt the pressure of his arms gently hugging me back, with his palms on my shoulder blades, a blush rose to my face. I cleared my throat and released him awkwardly.

  ‘Is there somewhere I can take you? Would you like to use my phone to call someone?’ I asked, reaching for the mobile in my pocket.

  He shook his head slowly.

  ‘No, I’ve no one to call. I don’t know, but I think I’ll go home.’

  ‘Is there… someone at home who will help you?’

  A muscle ticked above his jaw as he clenched his teeth and a small sigh escaped his lips.

  ‘No, actually. On second thoughts, perhaps that is not such a good idea.’

  I began to feel awkward about Manfred being in such close proximity to the house. His case needed to be reported; he should talk to someone.

  ‘Will you drive with me in my car?’

  He looked at me, green eyes shining behind his glasses, brows slightly raised in an expression of complete trust. He fell into step beside me as we walked to the garage where our Land Rover was parked. He waited while I started the car. After reversing out of the garage, I indicated he should get in.

  �
�It’s okay, you can leave the garage door open,’ I shouted through the open passenger window as he stood for a moment wondering what to do.

  Manfred nodded once. He took off his coat and folded it carefully over his arm, then undid the middle button of his jacket before climbing into the car, as though sitting down to a meeting at a conference table. As I drove along our rough driveway, he glanced around the interior of the car, and I followed the direction of his scrutiny. A set of tangled headphones, an empty bottle of Rivella, one football shinpad and various sweet wrappers were scattered over and between the seats.

  ‘Bit of a state,’ I said. ‘Two boys. Untidy boys.’ Manfred nodded.

  ‘I have a boy,’ he said. Oh.

  His expression revealed sadness, but not the despair I had seen on the bridge. I stared back at the road. He didn’t elaborate, maintained a steady composure. I wasn’t sure if I should ask something. I released the breath I had been holding.

  ‘We need to find you someone to talk to,’ I said tentatively. ‘If you don’t feel you can talk to anyone in your family, perhaps someone else, a doctor, a friend…?’

  ‘When my English will be better I can talk to you,’ Manfred stated.

  The irony of the sudden grammatical error made me smile and without thinking I retorted, ‘You mean, when my English is better…’ I waved my hand apologetically as I realised how patronising I sounded, and when I looked at him, he was smiling. I wondered if he had made the mistake deliberately. He paused before saying:

  ‘Yes. Natürlich. Sorry.’

  ‘Where is home?’ I asked.

  ‘Home… was in the next canton, in Aargau. I don’t think I can stay there. My wife is not… with me. She… she died.’

  ‘Oh! I’m so sorry.’

  ‘That was long ago,’ he said with a matter-of-fact tone. ‘My… my sister now looks after my boy. He is a student. But I don’t have a very good relationship with my son.’ He hesitated. ‘They don’t expect me back. I have broken that bridge.’