Strangers on a Bridge

by Louise Mangos

  I hoped desperately Simon and I could rediscover the magic that seemed to have gone missing from our relationship lately. Here was a place I felt sure he wouldn’t be some ghostly presence. I could have stayed on that remote island forever, relaxing in the knowledge that he could not possibly have followed us to this place.

  Except, deep in my psyche, he was there.

  After dinner each night, Simon and I went to the palm-roofed bar and chose evermore elaborate cocktails from the menu, silently competing with each other to see who could escape the need for superficial dialogue by being the first to weave our way off to bed. Before we could even consider rekindling some lost passion, we both fell into an alcohol-induced slumber.

  I hadn’t been aware that our relationship had become so threadbare. But neither was it obvious to me which of us was avoiding the elephant in the room, the irony being that the elephant was physically absent for the first time in five months. Our forays to the bar were a great way to avoid starting a discussion about unfinished business at home. We were far more comfortable making trivial conversation with other guests. If we did deign to speak to each other, it was easy to forget what had been said in the tropical light of morning.

  One afternoon, after a relaxing treatment at the spa, I joined Simon and the boys at the pool. I heard their playful voices through the palm trees and foliage. I kicked my flip-flops off and threw my book and sarong onto a spare sunbed beside the pool. Turning, I jumped into the water in an attempt to join in the frolicking. I forgot I had my sunglasses on, fumbled and grabbed them before they sank to the bottom, then had to swim awkwardly back to the side to leave them on the edge of the pool. Trying to look unruffled, my miscalculated timing was comic.

  Simon surfaced in front of the boys across the water, roaring like a sea monster, sending them into squeals of delight. These games reduced them to infancy, removing the shackled obligation of teenage coolness. I swam slowly towards the trio. But they all carried on their game as if I wasn’t there. No one came to splash my face, push my head underwater or grab my legs from below. In the past I might have been teased into some kind of tomfoolery. I now felt unaccountably left out of this tight little circle, as though my reactions were too unpredictable. The boys were obviously thrilled to have Simon’s undivided attention, and I knew I shouldn’t start reading something more into these actions than was intended.

  But there was no accounting for my recent irrationality.

  Later that evening, the boys shuffled reluctantly off to bed and Simon and I once again sat at the sand-floored bar under the palm-frond roof in soft, comfortable armchairs. This brought on instant fatigue in me and made my gritty eyelids droop. I took a sip of the potent cocktail I had ordered and, before I even had time to consider what the reaction might be, reached across to touch Simon on the knee.

  ‘What are you feeling about this horrid Manfred thing?’ I asked.

  Simon’s face clouded.

  ‘That very phrase seems to belittle the situation. I don’t know, Al. The trouble is, you said you were going to do something about him. I know you’ve been to the cops, and I know the school is aware, but no one seems to be following up, and when I think the problem has all gone away, you seem sulky and distant, and I’m sure it’s him who’s affecting you. I thought you were stronger than that, had the gumption to act, or at least to talk to me when things started going pear-shaped. You’ve convinced yourself this guy is a stalker. He’s a sick man who’s been following you. I know your intentions were good, and I know you think I blame you…’

  ‘Well, do you?’ I asked.

  Simon combed his cropped hair with his fingers.

  ‘I shouldn’t, but I do somehow. I can’t turn this blame off. I know it’s not directly your fault that this guy is still around, but I feel like I need to blame someone. A selfish part of me thinks natural selection should have taken its course that day. The idiot should have jumped. But I can see that shocks you.’

  He looked at my raised eyebrows.

  ‘I don’t know, Al, I guess I’m just pissed off you’re so preoccupied with him, and you’re not telling me anything.’

  He took a sip of his drink, looking at me pointedly. I’d had no idea he thought I was so absorbed with Manfred. What would he think if he knew I had met with Manfred, and that I had sought out his family?

  ‘Simon, you know my priority is you and the family. I’m hoping this thing will get sorted out, and soon.’

  I turned away, my face reddening. I was close to tears. This was supposed to be the holiday of our dreams.

  ‘I know, Al, I’m sorry.’ He stood up unsteadily to get another drink at the bar.

  ‘I’m tired, Simon. I’m heading to bed.’

  ‘Okay. I think I’ll stay on at the bar a bit. I’ll see you later.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  At about 2.00 a.m. I woke to find the space in the bed next to me empty. I slipped a sundress on and went back to look for Simon. He was still sitting at the bar. One hand propped up his dishevelled head, and he was nursing a glass of whisky. His index finger chased an ice cube around the glass. He was stone drunk. The barman appeared to be listening to him kindly, tolerating his presence while he polished the last of the glasses.

  ‘Ah,’ said Simon, slurring. ‘Here is my lovely wife. Do you know my wife?’

  The barman dipped his head, unsure whether he should answer.

  ‘Yes, my lovely wife. She has a boyfriend, you know. Someone who spends more time with her than I do. I’m not a very good husband. Away all the time. She deserves someone who can look after her more. Someone who can watch out for her all the time.’

  Simon was slurring, the wickedness of alcohol producing this acrimony.

  ‘Stop it, Simon.’

  I stood beside him.

  ‘Yes, she seems to enjoy being observed. Doesn’t seem to want to do much about stopping this affair. Oh, well, what am I? Just the breadwinner. Shit.’

  His voice sadly patronising, Simon swerved dangerously on his barstool.

  ‘I said stop it, Simon. You’re not being fair. Come to bed. It’s the alcohol talking. This gentleman has to close down the bar.’

  I nodded to the barman and took Simon’s arm as he half-slipped, half-hopped off the barstool and we made our way back to the bungalow.

  As I walked and Simon weaved slowly along the sandy path beside me, he flapped his hand on my arm in a misjudged gesture of attention. I was sure he had been about to hold my hand, but I wasn’t about to oblige so readily after his cruel words.

  ‘I’m sorry, Al,’ he said, his vitriol depleted, his voice cracking in an uncommon display of uncertainty. ‘I’m sorry. It’s juss that, why won’t you talk to me about it? You’re so distant. I feel like I don’t know you any more, can’t work out wha’s going on in your head. For all your training as a psychollologist, you’re one helluva communicator, not. S’truly like you’re with him more than you are with me, mephatorically, I mean metaphorically speaking.’

  He snorted at his own verbal error, but the comical drunken slur couldn’t even raise a laugh in my throat. I found it hard to believe that, of all the emotions Simon could have exhibited while under the influence of alcohol, jealousy had raised its ugly head. I could not hope to further this conversation tonight. Above all, Simon might not remember anything we attempted to resolve this evening. It was quite possible he would have forgotten the whole incident by the following day.

  We filled our two weeks with ocean activities, swimming, sailing, snorkelling, fishing and scuba diving. My tapered training involved the occasional run on the treadmill in the gym.

  It was our last day in paradise. Leon sat on the end of the wooden jetty near the bungalows, gazing into the turquoise shallows. Hundreds of pipefish swarmed in unison around the pillars. I stepped onto the bleached wooden slats, and sat down a little awkwardly next to him, pulling my bikini bottoms down a little to protect my backside from the hot wood. I perched on the edge, looking down with hi
m at the fish.

  ‘Leon, it’s almost time to go back to school. Have things improved?’

  ‘I knew you were going to talk to me about school,’ he said sullenly. ‘Can’t you drop it? It is half-term break after all. That’s a break, Mum. Give me a break. How come you’re getting on my case? It was just a couple of bad grades last term, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, that may not be all, Leon. I thought your dad talked to you about this. I saw your teacher at the school before the summer, and she told me you might be in some kind of trouble with another boy. Something about some teasing that might be going a bit far with the younger kids.’

  ‘Bullying, Mum. That’s what you mean. Why don’t you just say what you mean? Those farmer kids are such mongs, and they’re always taunting us. It’s not like we just pick on them, you know.’ His moroseness bordered on sarcasm.

  ‘But Leon, you’re four years older than them. You’re almost fifteen. You’re getting close to adulthood. Surely you can ignore a little badgering from some overexcited kids? I hope it isn’t still going on. I don’t want to be called in for a session with the school counsellor.’

  ‘Oh, come on! It’s not that bad.’

  I continued to look at him, but his gaze didn’t leave the water.

  ‘It’s total rubbish,’ he said finally.

  ‘Well, I won’t go on about it now when we’re having such a great time on holiday…’

  ‘And that’s another thing, Mum,’ Leon cut in angrily. ‘You act like it’s all so perfect that we’re away on this amazing island in the middle of nowhere, and you’re all happy and smiley one minute to have us all together, and miserable as shit the next because you’re being totally weird about something, I don’t know what. The atmosphere at home is, like, impossible. Maybe it’s because you and Dad can’t keep things together.’

  I drew in my breath, and Leon continued.

  ‘What you’ve done is drag us to the end of the earth, with nothing, nothing for us to do except watch a few measly fish, and you think you want to sort my problems out? Try looking at yourself. Get your own problems sorted out first, Mum. It’s a joke.’

  I swallowed. Leon had never spoken to me like that before. Actually, no one had ever spoken to me like that before. Was this what going on fifteen was about? My heart beat heavily in my chest. I didn’t want to cry in front of my eldest son, so stayed quiet while I waited for the threat of tears to subside. I got up from the edge of the jetty, my exposed skin sticking painfully to the wood.

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Leon. I am sorting some stuff out at the moment, but there are some things you don’t need to be concerned about.’

  Leon snorted again, and anger replaced my pain. I couldn’t continue, or I would be shouting. I wanted to tell him never to speak to me like that again.

  But the truth in his outburst kept me silent.

  I jogged up and down the beach a few times and, after cooling off in the water, gazed at the milky shallows off the atoll, blending to a deep turquoise near the reef. I felt as if I were playing a part in a movie. Robinson Crusoe, perhaps. Synonymous in location and emotion. No matter how many kilometres I put between me and the primary problem, it wasn’t going away, and tomorrow, rather than being rescued from my desert island, I was terrified of flying home.

  Simon was having a siesta, still sleeping off his hangover. I promised myself I would work to save the remnants of something that was going terribly wrong. Leon’s paroxysm was long overdue. At least a frustration had been aired by both of us. Surely communication would be easier now. I would let him stew in his juices for the moment.

  Simon’s outburst at the bar, however, was a sentiment that might have been festering much longer. I couldn’t wait for some policeman to maybe catch Manfred stalking my kids. My family was more important to me than anything in the world, and I needed to reinstate myself into the equation. I had to get the mammoth task of the marathon out of the way and then sort out this absurdity. Time to pack the bags, go home to Switzerland and figuratively climb a few Alps.

  As I opened the apartment door on our return from the airport the following day, I looked upon a home where not a speck of dust had settled in the two weeks we had been away. Clothes that had been strewn on the floor in a frenzy of packing were now packed neatly away in wardrobes. Sinks and taps gleamed in the bathrooms and kitchen, and the dishwasher had been emptied.

  As Simon flicked through the mail in the hallway, and the boys hauled their cases upstairs to their rooms, I stared dumbfounded at a vase of freshly cut flowers in the middle of the kitchen table, and bile burned at the back of my throat.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  OCTOBER

  It was hard to keep warm after the mugginess of the car. Simon dropped me off near the registration tent so I could collect my number before taking the boys into town for breakfast. He was a reluctant participant in the logistics for my race, but the boys wanted to soak up the atmosphere and be there to see me finish. I wasn’t even sure I would see them again before the start of the race.

  A combination of chilly morning air and nervousness made my chest whirr, wasting precious energy. This was a far cry from the tropical warmth of our Maldivian beach. I pinned my number to my shirt, took a free bottle of energy drink and walked briskly towards the starting area of the race.

  An autumnal haze drifted over the town of Lausanne in a chilled chiffon swirl. The sun had risen, but cold seeped into my bones. My movements were restricted, surrounded by so many people. Nervousness started a flow of adrenalin to my limbs. I had the urge to leap up and down doing jumping jacks, and imagined sending those around me flying like bowling pins.

  I regretted leaving my windbreaker in the car. A few of the runners were wearing black plastic bin liners with holes cut out for their arms and head, to be discarded at the side of the road when the race started. Anything to keep the body warm.

  The wait was interminable, but the buzz of excitement was palpable, and as the giant clock over the banner ticked towards the start, the runners shuffled towards the front, packing themselves alarmingly close. An army of strangers united by the claustrophobia of a thin ribbon. I could at least absorb some warmth from the bodies of others. Various aromas assaulted me. The stringent menthol of deep-muscle cream, the mild body odour of well-worn Lycra tops, laundered for this special day, but unable to hide the signs of hard-working training programmes. The smells of nervous excitement.

  I turned to survey the crowd of spectators. Joy spread in my chest as I saw Simon and the boys among the supporters. Simon’s face was neutral as he watched the crowd. Oliver saw me and punched the air with his fist in front of his face for encouragement. I could even hear Leon shouting ‘Go, Mum, go!’ between the cheers of ‘Allez allez’ from the other spectators. Simon’s face remained cool as our eyes connected, but I knew he understood how much work I had put into this. I raised my hand briefly and gave them a nervous smile.

  The MC stood on an elevated platform of scaffolding at the starting line. He announced the final minute before the start of the race and I immediately felt the need to visit the loo again. Had I drunk enough? Had I eaten enough? If only I could have forced more breakfast into my nervous stomach. Was I wearing the right clothes? Was that a fold I felt in my sock, or a piece of grit in my shoe?

  ‘Trois, deux, un…’ The starting pistol sent another shot of adrenalin coursing through my body, but despite the urge to leap out of the starting blocks, I was obliged to wait while the runners ahead spilled slowly over the starting line, a human concertina opening onto the wide, empty avenue.

  We all picked up the movement as one, first a tentative foot in front of the other, then a fast walk, finally striding into a slow lope past the starting line as the beep of a thousand microchips started our individual times. Hands simultaneously clutched the start buttons of watches on wrists, and the irregular tweets of various heart monitors mingled with the heavy breathing of the runners. No more talking now. There was busines
s to be run. All forty-two kilometres of it.

  For the first five kilometres I stayed with a pack of runners whose metronome pace slapped a steady beat on the road. As the adrenalin wore off, runners began to settle into a more comfortable pace. The course began a gentle uphill rise along the Riviera, following a road referred to locally as the Corniche. We passed through a string of Vaudois villages, where châteaux of the wine domains dominated clusters of ancient stone buildings.

  The route was framed either side by rows of vines stacked up along stone walls, all bursting with plump grapes ready for picking. As I squinted towards the lake on my right, I was glad of the peak on my cap as the sun burned the last of the mist away and glittered off the water of Lac Léman. The view was breathtaking, a beauty I could appreciate, seeing as I was only a quarter of the way through my race and still full of energy and hope.

  It hadn’t been my intention to choose the Lausanne marathon. I would rather have run a circuit marathon than an out-and-back race, and would ordinarily have chosen to run in Zürich or Lucerne. But I wanted to compete as far away from home as possible, without leaving the country. Away from Manfred.

  Kathy was upset I’d changed my mind at the last minute. We had both originally chosen to run the Lucerne marathon, closer to home. Everything had been arranged. When I told her I’d signed up at the last minute for Lausanne, I could see the disappointment in her eyes, along with the thought that I was going too far to avoid Manfred. I was lucky Simon and the boys still wanted to support me.

  Finally out on the road, I was happy to be on my own here.

  In the increasing heat, I knew I had to take on liquids at the next refreshment stand. It couldn’t come soon enough. We reached the turning point in La Tour-de-Peilz and began heading back the way we had come. The next drink station marked the beginning of a steep incline. The gentle slope on the way out had transformed into an Alp on the way back.