by Jon Steele
‘Lantern tower, that would be the lantern tower.’ Harper dug his hands in his mackintosh, chuffed he could remember so much from watching History Channel whilst pissed. ‘Little more effort, you’ll remember your bloody phone number. And won’t the Inspector be proud.’
From the crossing square, three steps rose again to the chancel, enclosed by a wide crescent of pillars and arches all supporting a massive dome as high as the cloudlike vault of the nave. Centre of the chancel was a simple stone altar holding a wrought-iron cross. A candlestand nearby with a solitary votive candle burning in the grey light. Harper stared at the fire, thinking it looked as hapless as the billion-to-one prayer lottery at the back of the cathedral.
Other side of the transept, in the south wall, a huge stained glass. Rounded but shaped like a massive cross. Looked dull as soap from this side of the cathedral. He walked ahead. Four steps led down to the ambulatory curving round the back of the chancel. Bottom of the steps and set even lower in a stone wall, there was a black iron gate. Looked rusting at the edges and appeared to lead somewhere under the altar. Above the gate, a marble sarcophagus set between two pillars, some long-dead chap dressed to the nines in a suit of medieval armour. Must be the entrance to the crypt, Harper thought, where the princes of God and Mammon would be buried. But from what he remembered from the telly, the gates of a cathedral crypt should be a rather grand affair. These looked fit for a broom closet. He pushed against the gate: locked. He bent down, looked through the bars into darkness.
‘You in there, Yuriev?’
Nothing but another blast of warm air and dust-smelling earth.
Harper reached in his mackintosh, found the mini-torch attached to his keys. He switched it on, pointed it through the iron bars. Dust swirled in the narrow beam of light. Then an earthen floor, a shallow pit, two skeletons lying in the dirt.
‘Christ, come to Lausanne Cathedral, see our headless virgins in the rafters and our skeletons in the broom closet.’
He switched off the light, stuffed the keys in his mackintosh. The stained-glass windows in the curving passageway pulling him along. Jesus prays, Jesus suffers, Jesus dies. The weeping women of Jerusalem at the foot of the cross. Women in black robes and veils begging for mercy, clawing at their faces, watching their loved one die.
He stepped up to the south transept. A small chapel to the left. A stone carving of Mother Mary tucked in an alcove, this time with her head on her shoulders and the child Jesus in her arms. He walked on till the ground wobbled and a deep rumble echoed through the nave like faraway thunder. He looked down. A loose block of stone underfoot. He rocked it: boom, baboom.
Flecks of colour sparkled on the stone, a band of white light crossing his shoes and racing over the flagstones. Harper looked up as the midday sun crawled across the huge stained glass in the south transept wall. Circles and squares, diamonds and crescents, all carved in a giant wheel of stone, all filled with bits of brilliantly coloured glass. What was as dull as soap from the other side of the transept was now shining bright. The light sparkling and washing through the grey light of the nave, forming into a tubular shaft of colour. Warm as it was bright, growing stronger, almost blinding his eyes.
He stepped back for a better view, squinting to see the bearded Almighty at the diamond-shaped centre of the window, busily separating form from nothing, dark from light, earth from the seas, drawing Eve from Adam’s ribs. Four panels of leaded glass, set like the cardinal points of a compass, surrounding the Almighty. Each section representing one of the seasons. Autumn, summer, spring, winter. Didn’t look right till he realized the seasons were set counter-clockwise, like time running backwards. Smaller windows grouped around each of the seasons. Images of human beings at their toil throughout the year. Pruning vines in March, tending fields in June. Slaughtering animals in November, sharing a glass of wine with a skeleton in December.
‘Swell, more skeletons.’
Next ring held the four elements. Earth, wind, fire, water, all set amid the signs of the zodiac. Then chariots pulling the sun and moon across the sky, satyrs and deformed man-beasts playing amid the four winds. And an outer ring of demigods pouring water from vases. Latin script naming the waters: Gihon, Pishon, Tigris, Euphrates. The four Rivers of Paradise, Harper thought. And as he tried to remember where the hell he remembered that one from, he felt it again. He wasn’t alone.
He looked back over his shoulder, saw a scraggly tramp standing just where the shaft of coloured light hit the flagstones, dead centre of the crossing square. The tramp’s watery eyes wide open, looking up towards the stained glass. Arms stretched from his sides, palms turned to the light.
Some wino come in from the cold to warm up in the Gothic solarium maybe. And for a moment, Harper considered asking the tramp about the significance of the window he too was so busy staring at. But the more he looked at the blank expression on the man’s face, the more Harper knew it’d be a waste of time. Then, the shuffle of feet and creaking of wood chairs. Harper’s eyes swept the nave. Here and there, men and women, walking up the main aisle or sitting in chairs. Everyone staring at the tramp by the altar, eyes gaga with wonder.
‘Like a bloody haunted house, this place.’
He quick marched down the south aisle. Sealed wood doors in the wall midway down. Crowbars and tools stacked on the floor, drawings and photographs on the doors explaining the repairs of the Apostles’ porch beyond. End of the aisle, a glass door leading to a brightly lit room. Everything about it said gift shop. He saw a small round woman in a nun’s habit standing behind a counter. Smiling, waiting. He pushed open the door.
‘Bonjour. Je m’appelle Sœur Fabienne. Parlez-vous anglais?’
‘Yes, I do as a matter of fact, good guess.’
‘Oh, you don’t look like a local and we have so few tourists this time of year. Are you from London?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘How nice.’
Harper nodded out of the door, towards the nave.
‘Sister, are you aware there’s a tramp standing on the crossing square, near the altar?’
‘Oh yes. He comes to watch the sunlight pass through the rose window.’
‘The what?’
‘The stained-glass window. All cathedrals have one great stained-glass window. They’re called—’
‘—the Cathedral Rose. I remember it, from the telly.’
‘You do? How nice. I saw you looking at it too.’
‘Yes, I was. A bit unusual, the window.’
‘I suppose it seems so in today’s world. But things were much different when the world was flat.’
‘Sorry?’
‘When the world was flat. When people thought the earth was the centre of the universe. Now they think the earth revolves around the sun and is no more than a tiny dot in the universe. My, how times change. Imagine what they will think one hundred years from now. I’ve been here a long time, you know. I come from Languedoc. What was I saying? Oh yes, the rose window is a cosmology, the sum of man’s knowledge at the time the cathedral was built.’
‘Cosmology, right.’
‘I noticed you at the gates of the crypt.’
‘Yes, I saw a few skeletons just inside.’
‘Why yes. There’s an ancient cemetery under the cathedral, under the entire floor, in fact.’
Harper looked out through the glass door. Big bloody floor, he thought.
‘That’s a lot of skeletons.’
‘The cathedral was built on one of the first palaeolithic settlements in the world. They were the first to bury their dead, you know. Oh, dear, were the gates left open?’
‘No, sister, they were locked. But I confess, I peeked in with a mini-torch.’
‘Oh, I have one of those, too. I like to say, “Let there be light,” before switching it on. Of course, if I did that when the world was flat I would’ve been burned at the stake for witchcraft. How times change. I’m sorry, what were you saying? Oh yes, the skeletons. We have thousands.’
<
br /> Harper stared at the little old nun, wide-eyed grin on her face as if she was waiting for him to say the magic word and win a prize.
‘Right.’
‘Say, would you care to visit the belfry? Through that door and up one hundred and seventy-eight steps. Or two hundred and twenty-four, depending on how you count. It might help you see where you are.’
Harper smiled remembering the young lad on Pont Bessières, telling him the same damn thing nearly. Walk that way, monsieur. Great view, find your fucking way. Something else flashed in Harper’s brain.
‘Actually, the other night, I thought I saw someone up there, someone with a lantern.’
‘Oh yes, le guet. He calls the hour and spends the night watching over Lausanne.’
‘Le guet. That’s a French military term.’
‘Why, yes it is. Are you a linguist by profession?’
‘No, just something I heard somewhere.’
‘No one uses the term any more, just this place. No one here knows why any more. We have a very nice young man from Quebec in the belfry these days. He has a small room between the lower bells, very snug and warm. You could have a peek through his window, you just need to squeeze past Marie-Madeleine. She’s the largest bell in the tower and rings the hour. Would you like to go up? It’s only two francs, and the air is very fresh.’
Harper felt his stomach reel.
‘No thanks, sister. I’m not a fan of heights, unless required.’
‘Oh, too bad. You know, I enjoy the church bells in London, too. Especially the bells of St Clement Danes. They were destroyed in the Blitz, you know. Why, of course you know. What was that old rhyme? Let’s see: “Oranges and lemons, Say the bells of St Clement’s …” What’s the rest of it?’
‘I don’t know it.’
‘No? That’s too bad.’
Harper thought he saw a look of severe disappointment cross the old nun’s face. He pointed to the assembled cardboard cathedral on the shelf behind her.
‘Actually, sister, I stopped by for one of those.’
‘One of what, monsieur?’
‘That cardboard … the maquette of the cathedral.’
‘I’m so happy you asked. I was so afraid I would have to … oh, such a relief.’
Harper watched the goofy smile on the nun’s face as she walked to a large cabinet and opened the doors. Filled to overflowing with cardboard cathedrals. She tugged at one till it slid out and laid it on the counter.
‘Fifteen francs, monsieur.’
Harper dug through his pockets for coins.
‘Tell me, do you sell many of these, sister?’
‘Oh, yes. People come from all over the world to buy them. Sometimes people send us photos after they’ve made their cathedral. It’s very nice. Little Lausanne Cathedrals all over the world. We once received a photograph from Mongolia. A family in a yurt, all sitting around one of our little cathedrals.’
‘Really? There was a Russian chap who came by last week and bought one as a Christmas present. You might remember him.’
‘No, I don’t think I do. But I’m only here for midday meditations. Madame Buhlmann runs the shop. You could ask her, but she tends to be forgetful. She gets confused about the days and thinks Tuesday is Sunday and so forth. Excuse me for asking, did you leave a prayer at la Chapelle de Saint-Maurice?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘I began a collection, you know. The prayers, I mean. Would you like to see?’ She had a thick photo album out from under the counter before Harper could say no. ‘I began collecting them when I first came to the cathedral. I used old scraps of parchment then. The world has changed so much. They use Post-it notes now. You know, with the sticky backs?’ She slowly turned the laminated pages. Yellow squares, expertly placed on each page. ‘We have so many books now, one for each year. And it’s nearly time to begin another. All the languages of the world, you see.’
‘That’s very nice, sister. But if I were you, I’d ask the Post-it notes people for a commission.’
‘Oh, wouldn’t that be nice? By the way, it’s, “You owe me five farthings, Say the bells of St Martin’s.” The answer to “Oranges and Lemons”, I mean.’
‘“Oranges and Lemons”, right. Well, I must say, it’s been very interesting speaking to you, Sœur Fabienne.’
‘Don’t forget your maquette, monsieur.’
Harper picked it up from the counter.
‘No, wouldn’t want to do that. Goodbye, sister.’
He left the shop, feeling the sudden urge for liquid reality at Café de l’Évêché. He walked towards the narthex, shot a glance at the transept. The tramp still at the crossing square, watching the magic sunbeam coming through the Cathedral Rose. A few more gaga spectators come to watch along with him. History Channel really needed to include Lausanne in a Weird Cathedrals of the World segment. Half cathedral, half haunted house, half loony bin. Three halves in the whole, that weird. He pushed through the curtains; he stopped … All the languages of the bloody world.
He walked back into the gift shop. Sœur Fabienne and her book of prayers was still waiting at the counter.
‘Sister, could I take another look at that book of yours?’
‘Of course.’
Harper opened the book to the last page. Blank. Back two more pages. There, between English and German, tiny Cyrillic letters crammed on a Post-it note.
‘Did you find something that speaks to you, monsieur?’
Harper looked at the little old nun.
‘Sorry?’
‘I said, did you find something that speaks to you?’
‘Could you tell me when this prayer was posted at the chapel?’
‘Let me see, there should be a date on the page. Why, yes, last week.’
Harper remembered Yuriev’s voice. End-of-the-road desperate, maybe enough to take a billion-to-one shot on unanswered prayers.
‘Would it be possible to have this page copied?’
‘For guidance, monsieur?’
‘For guidance, right.’
‘Well, in that case, I’ll pop into the cathedral offices next door. They’re out to lunch till two o’clock. They have a photocopy machine, I’m sure they won’t mind me using it. Now, there’s something that certainly would have had me burned at the stake. When the world was flat, I mean.’
thirteen
Rochat heard the doorbell and knew it was Monsieur Gübeli with his briefcase full of papers to sign. He’d forgotten the appointment till he returned to his flat and saw it noted in green ink on the Tuesday page of his daybook. Green ink was for Monsieur Gübeli things. He had barely enough time to feed Monsieur Booty, take his own lunch from the icebox for heating in the oven, then bathe and dress in clean clothes. He’d just settled down to eat when Monsieur Gübeli rang the bell. Rochat let him in, took his coat and led him to the kitchen.
‘But, Marc, you’re having your supper.’
‘It was my lunch, monsieur, but I was very late getting home today. So now it’s my supper. Would you care to join me? It’s tuna-noodle casserole. Maman invented it before she died. And Teresa made a salad too.’
Monsieur Gübeli set his briefcase on the floor and sat down.
‘In that case, I’d be honoured to dine with you.’
Rochat set a plate, knife and fork before his guest. He almost sat down before remembering a serviette.
‘I don’t have wine, monsieur. Would you like Rivella? I have blue and red.’
‘Water’s fine, Marc, from the tap.’
Rochat filled two glasses, set them on the table. He cut a large serving from the casserole, careful to keep the crispy cracker bits on top, the way he liked it himself.
‘Bon appétit.’
‘Bon appétit, Marc.’
Rochat sat down. Monsieur Gübeli took his knife and fork and tasted a small bite …
‘Marc?’
Rochat turned to the old lady at the table. ‘Oui, Grandmaman?’
‘Boys who hide food
in their trouser pockets should not expect sweets.’
‘But it tastes bad.’
Madame Rochat dropped her fork on her plate. She took her magnifying glass and inspected the grilled calf’s liver and onions on her plate.
‘Marc, you are untempered, but correct. I have no idea why I eat it. Other than my grandmaman ordered me to do so. No doubt her grandmaman told her the same rubbish.’
The old lady picked up a silver bell, gave it a fierce ring. The butler presented himself.
‘You rang, madame?’
‘Bernard, take this away and instruct the chef to strike it from the menu, for ever.’
‘Oui, madame.’
‘Advise him, in no uncertain terms, he may seek employment elsewhere if he objects.’
‘Oui, madame.’
‘You may bring dessert.’
‘D’accord, madame.’
The butler bowed, turned for the kitchen.
‘Attendez, Bernard. I believe Master Rochat must empty his pocket.’
Rochat pulled his serviette from his pocket, stained with bits of half-chewed calf’s liver. The butler collected it by his gloved fingertips.
‘And please, do not allow the chef to see it, Bernard. I don’t wish him slashing his wrists at my table in grief.’
‘D’accord, madame.’
‘Marc?’
Rochat turned his eyes from his grandmaman to Monsieur Gübeli.
‘Pardon?’
‘I was saying this is excellent. Very tasty.’
Rochat looked at Monsieur Gübeli’s serviette. It was folded neatly beside his plate.
‘You liked it?’
‘Very much. And your mother invented it, you say?’
‘We had it every Tuesday for lunch. I can tell you the recipe, I don’t think she’d mind. You need one can of tuna fish, some curly-kind pasta, some cream of mushroom soup and some saltine crackers to crumble and bake on top. I told Teresa the recipe and she makes it for me every Monday for my Tuesday lunch.’
