The Watchers

by Jon Steele

‘Then excuse me for disturbing you, monsieur.’

  Harper turned the page.

  Pictures: Hindu nationalists stoning Muslim children to death in Rajasthan, Pakistani soldiers praying before a nuke in Islamabad, shredded bodies in New York.

  Slaughter and blood. Tortured faces, hearing the desperate cries of the dying, begging to be saved. A wave of vertigo hit him hard. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Are you feeling unwell, monsieur?’

  Harper looked at the old gent again. Round face with thick white beard, green cap and red jacket, red watery eyes through thick specs. More Harper looked at him, more he looked like a down-on-his-luck Christmas elf.

  ‘Bit too much to drink last night, no worries.’

  ‘I see. I must say, it’s a sad world you hold in your hands.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The events you’re looking at in the newspaper.’

  Harper looked at the pictures again. Slaughter and blood, screams and cries. Feeling it was ever thus, but it shouldn’t be.

  ‘Yes, I agree, ever since the time of Homo ergaster.’

  Harper pulled his eyes from the paper, looked at the elf.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You said it was ever thus. I assumed you were talking about the time of Homo ergaster, two and a half million years ago when—’

  ‘—humanoids began to walk upright, shape tools from stones, control fire. But I wasn’t talking, I was thinking about something I saw on History Channel.’

  ‘Excuse me, monsieur, but I’m sure you did say it aloud.’

  Harper rubbed the back of his neck. Christ, the mother of all hangovers.

  ‘Are you working in Lausanne, monsieur?’

  Harper nodded, knowing he was giving the elf permission to babble. Still, the chatter was keeping the nausea at bay.

  ‘Yes, I’m a consultant with the IOC.’

  ‘The Olympic Committee in Vidy. A most interesting place. Lovely place, built on one of the first neolithic settlements in the world. First to domesticate animals, you know?’

  ‘I thought that was the cathedral.’

  ‘Oh, no. The settlement under the cathedral was from the palaeolithic era, much later. They were the first to bury their dead.’

  ‘Right, I remember.’ Harper signalled for another espresso, a double. ‘I saw a few of them under the altar.’

  ‘A remarkable sight, isn’t it? The skeletons in their open graves.’

  ‘Whole cathedral is a bit of a sight.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. I came here as a child in 1938 with my mother. After Stalin had my father taken to a Siberian gulag and shot for the high crime of being a good beekeeper. Such madness in the world then, such madness now. But I’ll never forget after we arrived in Lausanne, my mother took me to the cathedral to light a candle and I felt all that was good in the world, all that was left of it, was here. It is a very remarkable place, don’t you think?’

  Harper couldn’t think how to tell him that’s not quite what he had in mind about the place. Nor how to tell him the goofball look in the old gent’s eyes underscored what he did think about it: a broken-down haunt for batty nuns, tramps on altars and, now, down-on-their-luck Christmas elves with visions of goodness in their eyes. Instead Harper watched the old gent finish his own coffee and reach in the pocket of his red coat to pull out some lint and a few coins. Near his last from the look of it.

  ‘Never mind that, mate, I’ll get it.’

  ‘Oh, thank you for your kindness, monsieur. I must be going to the cathedral. They say there’s a snowman in the belfry.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘I saw it on the telly this morning. The locals are all atwitter. A schoolboy prank, they say. Wonderful, don’t you think?’

  The old gent stood, closed his red jacket, tied a purple scarf round his neck. On his merry way to see the snowman of Lausanne Cathedral. Harper checked his watch, almost eleven. The snowploughs should’ve cleared the way to Vidy Park by now. Should catch a taxi to the office and check in. See if there’s been a message from Yuriev … ‘Hang on, did you say you came here from Russia?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘You still speak Russian then?’

  ‘Well, yes. I taught Russian literature at the university for many years.’

  Harper dug through the pockets of his mackintosh. Scraps of paper, rolled-up file on Alexander Yuriev, photocopy of Sœur Fabienne’s unanswered prayers.

  ‘Could you have a look at this, tell me what it says?’

  ‘Certainly, monsieur.’

  Harper pressed out the creases on the page.

  ‘Sorry for the state of it. It’s this one here, in the middle.’

  ‘A very small script, isn’t it? Would you have a pen or pencil? I could follow the words better with a pointer of some kind.’

  Harper dug through his pockets again. Extra packet of smokes, keys, ballpoint pen lifted from LP’s Bar. The man took off his glasses, rubbed them on his scarf.

  ‘Thank you, monsieur. My, such an elaborate hand … how unusual.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well, it appears to be a variation of a Slavonic dialect no longer used. Some of these letters were dropped from the Cyrillic alphabet in the 1960s. When was this written?’

  ‘A few days ago. Why?’

  ‘Whoever wrote this was educated in the schools of the Soviet élite, where they still practised the older alphabet. The penmanship shows their particular discipline. Education was a source of pride in the Soviet Union. Tram drivers in Moscow could quote whole passages of Pushkin.’

  ‘It’s Pushkin?’

  ‘This? Oh, no. Let’s see. “Spirits of giants on the earth …” Yes, I’ve got it now. I’ll write it in the margin. “Evil spirits walk the earth. The spirits of heaven live in heaven but this is the place of earthly spirits, born of the earth. Spirits of giants on the earth, like clouds. To occupy, corrupt, and bruise the earth.”’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Sounds like something from the Bible.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t help you there. But I do know someone who can. He’s somewhat eccentric but very knowledgeable in these things. We often play chess on Saturday afternoons. I’ll write his number down on the paper, his name’s Monsieur Gabriel. He comes from the Catalan region of Spain. A remarkable story. He was a boy soldier on the Republican side, blew up bridges with the American Brigade. After the war he dedicated his life to the study of scripture. I’m sure he can help you, monsieur. You need only to telephone him.’

  The old gent jotted down the number. Harper took the paper, folded it up and stuffed it in his mackintosh. He lit a fag, laughing to himself.

  ‘Cheers, but I’m sure it won’t be necessary.’

  ‘I gather the note isn’t what you expected.’

  Harper sucked in the smoke. All that’s good in the world … all that’s left of it … Christ. He let it go with a shrug.

  ‘Actually, considering the barking mad place I found it, it’s perfect.’

  The old telephone on the wall rang furiously and shook Rochat from sleep. He sat up from the bed, watched the hammer pound on the little bells. He lifted the listening tube from the hook and spoke into the talking cone.

  ‘Bonjour, je suis le guet de la cathédrale de Lausanne.’

  ‘Rochat! Are you in the belfry?’

  It was Monsieur Taroni, the caretaker of the cathedral, sounding quite flustered.

  ‘Oui, monsieur. You called me here.’

  ‘Are you aware there’s a snowman on the south balcony?’

  For a moment Rochat was very sure he was imagining the phone call, till he remembered there was such a snowman on the balcony, and that he had put it there.

  ‘I know, I made him.’

  ‘You? Did you get permission from the canton authorities?’

  ‘To make a snowman?’

  ‘In the belfry of an eight-hundred-year-old cathedral, yes! There are reporters here, Roch
at.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the esplanade! With television crews!’

  ‘Television?’

  ‘Yes. TSF One and Two!’

  ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘What do you think they’re doing? They’re reporting that there’s a snowman in the belfry of the cathedral! They’ve been at it all morning in French, German, Italian and Swiss Romansh. Rochat, this is a cathedral not a playground!’

  ‘I know. Marie told me last night.’

  ‘You have a woman up there with you? Oh, merde.’

  ‘I mean Marie-Madeleine, the bell. She had a bad dream last night, in the storm.’

  ‘A bell told you it had a bad dream last night?’

  ‘She said evil has returned to Lausanne.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear. What’re we going to do, Rochat?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Monsieur Taroni. I stayed up all night keeping the watch but I didn’t see anything.’

  ‘I’m not talking about what you imagined a bell told you! I’m talking about the snowman!’

  ‘We could wait till he melts.’

  ‘That’ll be in April! Were you thinking it could stay there till spring? I must call you back, after I speak to the director.’

  ‘Do you need his telephone number? I have it written down.’

  ‘No, I don’t need his telephone number, he’s here.’

  ‘His voice said he was in Les Avants.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His voice said he went to Les Avants.’

  ‘Rochat, what on earth are you talking about? He’s here on the esplanade, talking to reporters. All Switzerland has heard about the snowman in the belfry of Lausanne Cathedral, everyone wants to know what it means. The Italians are calling it a miracle. Thank God you put a lantern on its arm instead of a cross or we’d have the holy resurrection on our hands!’

  The connection broke off. Rochat replaced the receiver on its hook, paced the little room nervously. The telephone rang again.

  ‘Bonjour, je suis le guet—’

  ‘I know it’s you, Rochat, I called you! Listen, things are worse. The press is on its way up the tower with the director right now. They want to take pictures of the snowman from the balconies in time for the lunchtime news programmes.’

  ‘There’s lots of snow up here, monsieur.’

  ‘They don’t care. They say Switzerland needs to see the snowman, and the director now thinks the snowman is a good thing.’

  ‘He does?’

  ‘That Julien Magnollay from 24 Heures told him it was good publicity for the cathedral and we could get more money from the canton authorities for the repairs. We’ll need it, what with the scaffolding falling down, such a mess. One thing, Rochat, we want you to stay in the loge. We’ve said you’ve gone home.’

  ‘But I’m here, monsieur, in the loge.’

  ‘I know you’re in the loge! Listen, Marc, you’re a nice boy, we all like you very much. And those of us who know you, well, we know you didn’t invent gunpowder. But I’m not sure the locals need you telling them one of our bells had a nightmare and thinks evil has returned to Lausanne, not today anyway. Lock the door of the loge and stay very still. Pull the curtains over the windows. Do you understand? Stay very still. Don’t make a sound.’

  ‘Oui, monsieur.’

  ‘The forecasters say freezing rain and cold winds are coming, it’s going to make it very slippery up there. I’m closing the tower to all visitors for the next week. Can’t have anyone sliding off the tower, not after all this good publicity. I want you to shovel the balconies and the belfry tower roof, soon as you can. But be careful, Rochat, tu comprends?’

  ‘Oui, monsieur.’

  ‘And tonight, after you turn off the floodlamps, get rid of the snowman.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The director says a joke is a joke – for a day. But if your snowman falls on one of the locals from eighty-five metres, we’ll never hear the end of it. Remember, don’t make a sound while the press is up there.’

  Rochat hung up the telephone, locked the door, blew out the candles and hurried to pull curtains over the windows. There were none. He turned in little circles.

  ‘Whatdoyoudo, Rochat, whatdoyoudo?’

  He saw dish towels hanging above the glasses-and-plates shelf. He grabbed three, quickly draping them over the windows.

  He sat on the bed. Voices and footsteps rose up the tower steps. He didn’t move. Voices laughed and talked just beyond the door of the loge. He counted the seconds as they ticked and tocked around the clock above the door of the loge. He counted 947 seconds before the voices and footsteps wound back down the tower. He tiptoed across the loge, unlocked the door and looked outside. No one but the snowman and the many footprints in the snow where the voices used to be.

  Rochat stepped on to the south balcony and hid behind the snowman. He looked down to the esplanade. Hundreds of Lausannois gathered at the foot of the belfry tower.

  ‘Oh, oh. It seems you did your duty a little too well, Monsieur Neige.’

  The timbers creaked and Marie shouted her opinion with twelve mighty gongs. He waited for her to finish before asking, ‘They all came because of their dreams? What dreams?’

  Marie didn’t answer. Rochat crawled through the timbers and gave her a solid rap on her bronze skirt.

  ‘Come now, you can’t make all that noise and then pretend you have nothing else to say. What do you mean you can’t remember? And why not? Oh, I see, the photographers were fussing about taking pictures. What do you mean you hope they got your best side? You’re a bell, you’re round, you don’t have a side.’

  He was about to give her one more rap to wake her up, but he remembered her voice in the storm. So frightened by her own terrible dreams in the night. He touched her softly, feeling the chips and cracks at the edge of her bronze skirt.

  ‘I think the photographers are right, Marie. You’re a very beautiful bell. And I’m sure the photographers got your best side. Yes, yes, I’m very sure. You have a good rest and I’ll see you in a few hours. I have lots of work to do tonight, so I’ll come very early this evening. No, don’t worry, I’ll bring my dinner from Café du Grütli. Of course, madame, I’ll sleep in the tower tonight, don’t worry. You have a nice snooze.’

  He crawled through the timbers on to the balcony, hiding behind the stone pillars, staying out of the sight of the crowd below. Something caught his eye, something hanging from the window of a building in the Rotillion quarter. A white duvet with black squiggles.

  He went into the loge for the binoculars. He stood in the doorway, focusing the lenses till he could see it wasn’t a duvet, it was a bed sheet. And the squiggles were letters painted on the cloth. He stared at it, organizing the letters into words: ‘Quand ma mari matrice de mari?’

  ‘When will my husband die?’ He lowered the binoculars from his eyes. ‘What a very strange thing to write on a bed sheet.’

  He hung the binoculars in the closet, locked the loge and hurried down the tower to the women’s choir loft. He stopped, thinking he should leave another way. Perhaps Monsieur Taroni wouldn’t like it if people saw him coming on to the esplanade from the tower door, especially after telling everyone he’d gone home. He took a side passage, crossing under the roof of the nave to a set of crooked stairs winding down to the ground. He unlocked a heavy door and stepped into the nave. Another crowd had assembled outside the gift shop. Rochat shuffled quietly so no one would notice him. He moved along the edge of the crowd, listening …

  ‘My Olivier had the most terrible nightmares last night. And this morning he saw the snowman on television and said, “Maman, I must see the snowman!”’

  ‘My daughter did the exact same thing. C’est bizarre, non?’

  … and he heard a familiar voice shouting from the doors of the gift shop.

  ‘Mesdames et messieurs! I am sorry but the tower is closed.’

  Rochat peeked through the crowd and saw the top of Monsieur Taroni’s he
ad, his waving hands trying to hold back the shouting crowd.

  ‘What do you mean the tower is closed?’

  ‘We are citizens of the canton!’

  ‘Let us in!’

  ‘Mesdames et messieurs, there is a great deal of snow that we must clear away. And the Federal Office of Meteorology informs us there will be an ice storm in the next few days. We cannot allow unauthorized persons to the tower in such hazardous conditions. Mesdames et messieurs, le beffroi est fermé!’

  Children began to cry, parents became flustered. Rochat bent as low as he could to escape Monsieur Taroni’s notice. Out on the esplanade, Lausannois huddled in groups, some looking up to the belfry, others pointing to the Palud quarter.

  ‘Look, there’s another one.’

  ‘And over there.’

  Rochat worked his way to the ramparts overlooking Lausanne. Hanging from other windows of the old city, more hand-painted words on white sheets: ‘Does he return to us?’, ‘John 3:16’, ‘All is darkness without the light’.

  Nearby a reporter was talking to a man in a white smock; television cameras pointed at the two of them. Lausannois gathered around to listen.

  ‘I’m speaking with Dr Helmut Sreiff, head of psychiatric medicine with the University Hospital in Lausanne. Doctor, what do you make of this schoolboy prank?’

  ‘It has obviously touched a nerve in our communal psyche. Last night there was a frightening storm, causing much damage in our area. We are, of course, fast approaching the Christmas season. The combination of these events, as well as the general feeling of uncertainty regarding the state of the world beyond our borders, fills us with conflicting feelings and emotions. It’s natural for us to search for answers that give us a sense of comfort and stability, answers that reassure us we are safe. Unable to find these answers, we are overcome with acute anxiety, leading to a mild form of communal psychosis, I would say, and therefore …’

  Rochat didn’t know what the man was talking about.

  He shuffled through the crowd and counted his way down Escaliers du marché.

  She stretched her naked body over red silk sheets, opened her eyes.

  A large room with a crackling fire in a marble fireplace. Beautiful white orchids surrounding her bed. Sheer white curtains at the windows, glowing with soft midday light. Quiet voices coming down a mirrored hall. She wrapped her body in the top sheet and slid from the bed. She floated across the room, down the hall, seeing her reflection in the mirrors. Wrapped like a goddess in a red gown. The hall opened into a large sitting room. Monsieur Komarovsky and his attendants gathered around a table, selecting from pages of hand-written correspondence. The tall one noticed her and bowed graciously. The short one with the whiskers stared at her and smiled. Komarovsky, his silver eyes now covered in dark lenses again, opened his arms. ‘Ah, the belle of the ball now awake from her slumbers.’