by Jon Steele
Katherine took the lobby lift down to the spa, booked a shiatsu massage for Wednesday, walked out of the back of the hotel to a small street with no one around. She opened her bag and found the Cohiba cigar tube. She unscrewed the cap and pulled out a joint. She lit up, drew a deep toke.
‘What a fucking prick.’
She took a slow walk down the dark street, rounded the corner at Café Bavaria. She thought about going in for the dinner she’d missed, but decided she’d rather get way stoned. She strolled through an underground passage. Fluorescent lights turned the world weirdly blue. Gave a nice tint to the posters advertising last year’s Jazz Festival in Montreux. The drawing was cute. Little guy in a pork pie hat standing at the edge of the lake, playing his crooked trumpet Dizzy Gillespie style. Down in the blue water under the waves, pretty mermaids all in a row, grooving on the music. Katherine smoked half the joint, smashed it out and slipped the roach back in the cigar tube.
‘That’s what I want to be. A fucking mermaid and live under the sea.’
The escalator at the end of the passage rose to the centre of Place Saint-François. Halfway up, she realized the square had been turned into a winter wonderland. Fairy lights in the bare trees, wood chalets below selling scarves and cakes and candles and toys. Fondue huts, dozens of wineries with open bottles, and much pouring and raising of glasses. Laughter and medieval music drifting through the cold night air.
‘Fa la la, this is more like it.’
She wandered through the happy crowd and looked at the displays of Christmas gifts. Maybe some hand-knit hats and gloves for her sister and the kids. Maybe some sweaters for Mom and Dad. Maybe Mom and Dad would open their presents this year. Seeing their darling girl’s naked ass in Playboy had been bad enough. Knowing she’d turned it into a profitable enterprise was like the end of the world. Not that the parental units ever said the W word. But they saw the beachfront condo and the expensive car, the designer clothes and the no real job to pay for it all.
Katherine stopped at a display of scents and perfumed oils. An African woman behind the counter explained the magic wonders inside the little bottles. This one healed the mind, this one healed the body, this one the soul. Katherine picked up the soul-healing potion and gave it a sniff. Lilacs, she hated fucking lilacs. The African woman watched Katherine turn up her nose.
‘Mademoiselle does not care for the scent?’
‘You know he was such a fucking prick.’
‘Mademoiselle?’
‘Never mind.’
Katherine returned the bottle and walked away.
Drums rolled and horns sounded as men and women in medieval costume worked their way through the crowd and formed a wide circle. Jugglers tossed rings and bowling pins to acrobats on stilts, a man dressed as an executioner swallowed swords and fire. Then came knights in shining armour, clanking over the cobblestones. Then fair maidens in high pointed hats and flowing gowns, blushing behind long handkerchiefs. Drums rolled again as guards with spears marched from the edge of the square. The crowd made way and the guards led a donkey cart carrying a fool. Black cloak, black cloth boots, black floppy hat on his head. His face twisted into grotesque shape, his scrunched-over body complete with hunchback. The fool opened a burlap sack, tossed sweets into the air. The crowd cheered and raised their glasses in salute. The fool jumped from the cart, danced in little circles, kissing every girl he could get his hands on. The crowd cheered even louder, till the fool spun in slow circles with his finger to his lips to hush the proceedings. The crowd fell quiet, waiting. The fool smiled with an impish grin and, with a quick turn, he pulled a lantern from under his cloak and hopped about like a frog.
‘C’est le guet! C’est le guet! C’est le guet!’
The crowd howled with laughter, raised their glasses again. The fool grabbed a glass from one hand and drank it down. The music quickened and the fool began to spin round faster and faster, grabbing glass after glass and drinking them down till the music stopped and he fell in a lump to the ground.
A flute played to the soft strains of a lute, and the prettiest of the fair maidens came forward and knelt near the fool. She took his hand, gently raised him to his feet and they danced. A slow and lovely dance, the fair maiden smiling as the fool changed before her eyes from the twisted hunchback with the grotesque face to a handsome man of charming grace. The music slowed to a stop. The fair maiden presented the fool with a piece of lace. He bowed and pressed the lace to his lips.
Loud applause and shouts of ‘Bravo!’ filled the square. The players removed their hats and worked the crowd for tips. The young man playing the fool stopped in front of Katherine. She opened her bag, dropped fifty francs in his black hat.
‘Merci, mademoiselle!’
‘No problem, it isn’t mine.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing. Hey, your Quasimodo act was wonderful.’
‘Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle. You are American?’
‘Yeah, but I live in Lausanne near Pont Bessières, and you know what? I’ve got a great view of the cathedral and some nights I see this guy in the bell tower. He’s got a lantern, like you, and he goes around the tower shouting something.’
‘Ah, oui. C’est le guet, mademoiselle.’
‘Le what?’
‘Le guet. The watcher, you say in English. Each night he carries the lantern around the tower and calls, “C’est le guet, il a sonné l’heure!”’
‘For real? What does it mean?’
‘No one knows. It’s just the way of things in Lausanne.’
‘Cool. Does he have a hunchback too?’
‘I have never seen him, I only know he is there. But it is very good luck to see him, mademoiselle. You must make the wish next time. This is also a very old tradition. All the children in Lausanne are taught this in school.’
Katherine took a hundred-franc note from her bag.
‘Here, and this time it’s from me. You just made my night.’
‘Très gentille, mademoiselle. Merci beaucoup.’
The fool darted off for more tips. Katherine kept digging in her bag for her cigarette case.
‘Damn it, left it at the fucking bar.’
She turned back to the Palace, pushed through the crowd, bumped straight into Harper. Her cigarette case was in his hands …
‘Hello, Miss Taylor.’
‘How … how did you know I’d be here?’
‘I didn’t. Came over for the vin chaud.’
‘With my cigarette case in your mitts?’
‘You left it at the bar, thought I’d hold it till I saw you again. I spotted you in the crowd just now.’
‘You could’ve left it at the bar with Stephan.’
‘It’s gold.’
‘You still could have left it.’
‘There’s a bloody diamond embedded in the lid.’
‘Stephan, I trust. You, I don’t know from Adam. Looks like theft to me.’
‘More like thinking I was a bit of a sod and thought I should make it up to you.’
‘Sod?’
‘You’d prefer another word?’
‘How about “arrogant piece of shit”?’
‘That’s four words. You must be one of those college girls I’ve heard so much about.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing, I was being witty. Failing miserably, it seems.’
She took the cigarette case, pulled out a smoke. Harper had a match ready. She looked at him as she touched her cigarette to the flame.
‘So, you wanted to make it up to me. What did you have in mind?’
‘How about a glass of vin chaud? Supposed to have a bit of a kick to it.’
The dope coming on in a nice wave, soothing the rough edges. She let herself smile.
‘Sure, why not?’
They weaved through the happy crowd to a steaming black cauldron. People huddled around for drink and warmth. A large, round woman in a Heidi outfit dipped a ladle in the cauldron, fil
ling glass after glass. Harper managed to snatch two straightaway. Katherine watched him fumble through his pockets for twenty francs, trying not to spill the wine. Six foot something, broad shoulders, looked in pretty good shape under the beat-up Burberry. Walking back to her, she eyed him closer. Dark brown hair streaked with grey. Not bad, actually.
‘Here you go. Careful, it’s hot.’
She breathed in the steam. Warm with winter spices. An accordion struck up a tune in three-quarter time. Drunken voices sang along.
‘So how long’ve you been in Lausanne, Harper?’
‘Seven weeks. You?’
‘Six and a half.’
‘Weeks?’
‘Months. You like it here?’
‘Bit hard to settle in. Can’t sleep. Too quiet maybe. Little odd on the laundry front.’
‘What?’
‘Laundry.’
‘Yeah, I heard you. But what’s so odd about laundry in Switzerland?’
‘I needed to do laundry first Sunday morning I was here. As I’m putting things in the dryer, the police were knocking at my door.’
‘What the heck were you doing to your laundry?’
‘Heck? You say, heck?’
‘Stick to the point. Police, at your door, why?’
‘I told you, laundry. Seems there’s a law in Switzerland against doing laundry on Sundays. One-hundred-franc fine, payable at my local post office within thirty days. You never had that problem?’
‘I send mine out.’
‘Right.’
She looked at him again. The lights in the trees softened the deep-cut lines around his eyes. No, not bad at all.
‘You know, speaking of odd, I was talking to Quasimodo before you got here.’
‘Who?’
‘You missed that part. These medieval players came with their bags of tricks. One guy was made up like a hunchback. Turned out to be a really good dancer. Anyway, he told me there’s a guy in the bell tower of the cathedral who carries a lantern and calls the time at night.’
‘You’re joking me.’
‘No, why?’
‘I thought I saw a light up there, a few nights ago.’
‘Well, that makes two of us. You’re supposed to make a wish when you see him, for good luck.’
‘Bit barking for the twenty-first century.’
‘I don’t know. I think it’s sweet.’
‘I suppose it is nice to have your very own cuckoo clock.’
Katherine broke into stoner giggles. Harper watched her.
‘Something wrong?’
‘No … well, yes. I mean no. It’s just that’s what I thought when I saw him once. Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo.’
He watched her giggle some more.
They sipped their drinks.
She felt his eyes.
‘You’re staring at me again, Harper.’
‘I’m sure you’re used to it, Miss Taylor.’
‘Is that your idea of a compliment?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
‘Then thanks, I suppose.’
The happy crowd broke into an oom-pah-pah chorus. A ditty about a farmer’s daughter and her many suitors. At the end of each chorus they touched their glasses together and downed their drinks in a single gulp. Refills were fast in coming. Harper and Katherine glanced at each other now and again, each time turning away their eyes like embarrassed strangers.
‘So, Harper, now that you’ve had a good look, I guess you know what I do in Lausanne.’
‘I have a fair idea. Regardless, I was out of line in the bar.’
‘Nah, I had it coming.’
‘Agreed. More vin chaud?’
She smiled. ‘Why not? I’m off tonight.’
‘That makes two of us.’
Harper took her glass for another round. And this time Katherine watched the way he moved, the dope giving her eyes an added sense of perception. He seemed to avoid physical contact with people. Not in a timid way, more as if keeping a lid on some fierce energy that might explode at any second. Watching him come back through the crowd with the drinks, Katherine thought if the African woman had his scent in a bottle it’d be labelled, ‘Rough, handle with care’. Only made her want to unscrew the cap and take a deep huff, then hold on for the ride. He stopped in front of her and held out a glass. ‘Now it’s you who’s staring, Miss Taylor.’
‘I was just wondering what lies beneath the surface.’
He reached into his mackintosh for his cigarettes.
‘Who, me?’
‘Yeah, what’s your story?’
Harper put a fag to his lips and lit up, drew in the smoke.
‘Nothing really. I was in London a few weeks ago, now I’m here.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Maybe when I settle into this town, I’ll come up with more. Just now it’s all a bit of a jumble.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Hmm what?’
‘Nothing, just plain old hmm.’ She sipped her wine, watching the fire, swaying to the music. ‘It’s nice they do all this at Christmas. It’s like living in a fairytale.’
Harper took a pull on his fag.
‘Few nights ago, before I saw you in the brasserie, I saw you getting out of a taxi and going into the hotel.’
‘So, you are the stalker type?’
‘Just ducking out of the rain, actually, and there you were. You were looking at the lights on the portico and giggling, like someone who believes in fairytales.’
Katherine felt another round of giggles bubble to the surface.
‘Wow, way too funny.’
‘Sorry?’
‘That’s exactly what I was thinking. Guess that makes you a psychic stalker, huh?’
‘I suppose it does.’
She sipped her wine, watching him out of the corner of her eye.
‘And what about you, you believe in fairytales, Harper?’
‘I’m sure I don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Another one of those things that seems somewhat barking for the twenty-first century.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a party-pooper, Harper. Look around, Lausanne isn’t a town. It’s a magic place in a faraway land where everyone’s happy and a handsome man in a bell tower watches over fair maidens as they sleep.’
‘Whatever gets you through the night, Miss Taylor.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Nothing. If you’re the sort that needs a fairytale to get through the night, fine.’
She almost took another sip of wine.
‘You know what? This does have a bit of a kick to it. I think I’ll be going.’
‘Something I said?’
‘More like something you are.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Someone who doesn’t believe in fairytales. Too bad, we were on a roll.’
‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Miss Taylor.’
Katherine handed him her glass.
‘Stoner babble, Harper, forget it. And thanks for the cigarette case. It was a gift from the bass player in a big-time rock band out of Dublin. Nice guy. He sprinkled pharmaceutical cocaine on my nipples and licked it off all night long, never touched me otherwise. And you know what he said all the time he was licking my tits? He said I was the fuck of the century.’
She turned, walked away.
Harper stared at the unfinished glasses in his hands, unable to decide which one to drink first. Desperately lonely or way out of his price range.
nine
Rochat finished the midnight rounds and blew out the lantern. He climbed through the timbers, squeezed around Marie-Madeleine and unlocked the winch shed. He reached in and pulled the lever to shut off the floodlamps on the esplanade. Of a sudden, the belfry and cathedral façade were cast in shadow. He shuffled to the south balcony, watched the waning moon atop the Alps. Looking as if it had bumped into one of the jagged peaks and got stuck. He watched moonlight reflect in the slow swirling surface of the lake.
‘The weather’s changing, Marie. I’m afraid we’ve lost the year to winter.’
The great bell didn’t answer. Rochat turned to her.
‘What’s wrong, Marie? You never miss a chance to disagree about the weather.’
He reached through the timbers, gently tapped the edge of her skirt, listened to her voice.
‘I know, I’ve been very distracted the last few days but I’m very sure I’m fine. I’m going in for a cup of tea now. You have a nice snooze, I’ll be back in an hour. Yes, yes. I promise.’
He went into the loge, took off his overcoat and hat, set the kettle to boil.
On the table a sketchbook lay open at his drawings of the loge. The funny-shaped walls built between the criss-cross timbers, the crooked ceiling with the brass candle lamp hanging down, all the candles set alight on the table and things on shelves. Bubbles rattled in the kettle, Rochat poured steamy water in a cup with tea and sugar and no milk.
‘With all your distractions you forgot to bring milk, Rochat. Tsk, tsk on you.’
He picked up the sketchbook, put three drawing pencils between his teeth and carried the cup of tea to the bed. He settled down and continued to draw, adding shadows and shades to the pictures. A radio lived in an oak wood box on the shelf above his bed. The radio was from before Monsieur Buhlmann times. It was the only radio Rochat had ever seen with names of cities instead of numbers to tell you what part of the air you were listening to. Tonight the dial was pointing to the air over Paris. A man said they would now hear Beethoven’s Second Symphony performed by the Orchestre de Paris under the baton of Daniel Barenboim. It was nearly time for the one o’clock bells when the music ended and the man thanked Rochat for listening and invited him to please tune in again for next week’s programme.
‘Et merci à vous, monsieur. And please thank Monsieur Barenboim and the Orchestre de Paris. And don’t forget Monsieur Beethoven.’
Rochat hopped from the bed, put on his overcoat and pulled his floppy hat down on his head. The carpentry groaned and cables stretched and Marie shook the loge with a single thunderous gong. He lit the lantern and shuffled to the east balcony. He waited for the great bell’s voice to begin to fade.
‘C’est le guet! Il a sonné l’heure! Il a sonné l’heure!’
