by Jon Steele
‘Can I come out now?’
‘What?’
She poked out her head.
‘Can I come out now? I’m afraid Marie might fall on me.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘Trust me, lots of reasons.’
‘You can get the scrubber broom.’
‘What’s a scrubber broom?’
‘It lives in the winch shed. It’s behind Monsieur Buhlmann’s grill and has a long handle and stiff bristles. It’s brown.’
She scooted around the bell, edged by the snowman and went into the shed. Some contraption that must be the grill was just inside the door. She saw a large winch motor with a connecting cable running out of the top of the shack, a small generator and a few cans of petrol. Mops and snow shovels and the brown-bristled broom stood neatly in the corner. She pulled the broom free and stepped outside.
‘How am I supposed to get this up to you?’
Rochat undid the rope from the bucket and let it dangle to the floor.
‘You can tie this rope around it and I can pull it up.’
‘Do I look like a girl scout to you?’
Rochat looked down at her. Floppy black hat on her head, Monsieur Buhlmann’s black cloak with the black rubber boots on her feet.
‘You look like le guet de Lausanne.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Très cool.’
Katherine wrapped the rope round the broom and tied a knot with a nice bow. Rochat pulled it up. The handle tapped the outside of the great bell. The bell grumbled in deep tones. Rochat clicked his tongue.
‘Oh, be quiet.’
‘What?’
‘I was talking to Marie. She likes to pretend she doesn’t like strangers, unless they’re photographers. She likes to have her picture taken.’
‘One of those, is she?’ Katherine tapped the bell. ‘You and I need to talk, girl.’
‘I can hear the timbers.’
‘What?’
Just then the winch motor wound, the steel cable slapped taut and the heavy timbers around Marie-Madeleine creaked and groaned.
‘Cover your ears.’
‘Wha …’
GONG! GONG! GONG! GONG!
Even with her hands on her ears, it was like being tossed in a heaving wave, knocking her off her feet and on to the wood floor under Marie-Madeleine. The wave rolled mightily from the belfry and out over Lausanne. Katherine lowered her hands from her ears.
‘Man, that’s the loudest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.’
‘What?’
She looked up. Rochat was dangling by his legs from a cross-beam, his black overcoat down over his head. Katherine jumped to catch him.
‘Jesus! Marc!’
He poked his head from the coat.
‘Don’t worry. Marie always tries to knock me off the timbers when she rings, and I pretend she almost did. It’s a game we play. But sometimes I pretend she does, too.’
‘You mean you fall from up there?’
‘Oui, it’s a game.’
‘Well, no games, not just now, please.’
‘D’accord.’
Rochat swung back and forth, caught the cross-beam with his hands and flipped himself upright. He undid the broom from the rope and began to scrub the top of the still-vibrating bell.
‘Goodness, Marie, I should just leave all this pigeon poop on your head, that’s what I should do. And how would you like that, hmm? Not very much, I’m very sure. No one likes pigeon poop on their head. I’m told it’s very bad for the complexities. And another thing, Madame Complains-a-lot …’
Katherine leaned against a timber, watching him jump from timber to timber with the greatest of ease. She couldn’t help but laugh to herself.
‘Holy cow, Quasimodo lives.’
twenty-five
They sat under Clémence, eating their supper.
Rochat was telling Katherine the story of the bell.
‘Hold it right there. We’re having fondue under the execution bell?’
‘Oui.’
‘As in burning witches at the stake?’
‘They don’t burn witches at the stake any more.’
Katherine stuck her fork into a piece of bread, lowered it into the pot of melted cheese and stirred.
‘Gee, that’s good news.’
After scrubbing Marie and Clémence and deciding to leave the upper bells till the next day, Rochat led Katherine to the toilet under the unfinished tower so she could have another bath in the sink, then back up the tower where she changed the bandage on her face and lay down for a nap. She woke when Marie rang six times and saw Rochat’s crooked form in the open door of the loge, bowing like a butler.
‘Dinner is served.’
She looked at the table jutting from the wall of the loge, empty but for the burning lantern.
‘Where?’
‘Outside.’
‘Where outside?’
‘In the carpentry. And I made it warm and I cleaned the dirt and feathers from Monsieur Buhlmann’s cloak and the snowman’s hat, and there’s a jumper I brought from home. I put it on the bed while you were sleeping.’
‘So we’re eating outside, for real?’
‘Oui.’
He turned and shuffled away. Katherine stretched, slipped on the rubber boots and looked for the jumper. It was on the bed under a fat grey cat, who was busily pawing it into a comfy ball.
‘Hey, fuzzface. That’s mine.’
Mew.
‘Forget it.’
She gave the beast a gentle push to the side. The beast took the hint and jumped up to his hiding place behind the radio. Katherine pulled on the woolly jumper, wrapped up in the black wool cloak and stepped on to the balcony. She saw blue-shadowed mountains under a starry sky, the smooth-as-glass surface of the lake and the lights of Évian stretching over the lake like long pieces of shimmering string.
‘Marc, it’s so beautiful up here at night. Marc?’
‘I’m over here, under Clémence.’
She found him in the west timbers of the belfry, beneath a low and wide bell. Big enough to fit two empty stools and a small wood box set with plates, fondue forks, two cups of tea and a basket of bread bits. Rochat sat on one stool and leaned over a hotplate, he stirred a pot of melting cheese.
‘Wow, we really are eating outside. I thought you were making it up. And it’s really warm up here.’
Rochat pointed to the grill at the edge of the timbers.
‘I imagined Monsieur Buhlmann’s raclette grill would make a very good outdoor heater.’
Katherine crawled through the timbers and sat on the stool. She looked up into the belly of the bell, feeling the heat gather and fall about her. She looked out over Lausanne, the lake, the mountains, the stars.
‘I can’t believe how beautiful it is up here at night.’
‘It’s nice in spring too when the swallows come back from Africa. They live in the timbers but they don’t poop on the bells like the pigeons. Swallows are very polite birds.’
‘I remember the swallows, just after I came to Lausanne. They flew by my window and I looked outside. I saw the cathedral, and I saw a light in the tower. That’s when I first saw you. Gosh, that was six months ago.’
Rochat looked at her.
‘Why didn’t you come to the cathedral then?’
‘When?’
‘When you saw the light in the lantern six months ago.’
Katherine smiled, not knowing what he was talking about.
‘I don’t know, but I’m here now.’
‘D’accord.’ Rochat lifted the pot of melted cheese to the table. ‘Bon appétit.’
‘It smells wonderful.’
They ate fondue and drank tea in silence till Katherine looked up into the belly of the bell.
‘What’s this one’s name?’
‘Clémence.’
‘Does she have a story, like Marie-Madeleine?’
‘Did I tell yo
u the story of Marie-Madeleine?’
‘No need, I sort of know that one by heart. But I’d like to hear the story of Clémence, why don’t you tell me that one?’
And so he did.
Clémence was born in 1518 and weighed four tons. Her sound was a C letter. She was long feared middles of ages for her foul moods, Rochat told Katherine. She rang when bad things happened, like fires and invaders. Then it was the duty of le guet in the belfry to make the warning sound with Clémence.
‘What’s the warning sound?’
‘Like this.’ Rochat reached up and rapped his knuckles at the bronze rim of the bell: three rings, six rings, three rings.
‘Huh, what else?’
‘She has another name sometimes.’
‘Yeah, what is it?’
‘The execution bell.’
‘The what?’
That’s when Rochat told Katherine about heretics and witches and how Clémence would ring as they were marched to their deaths. And that’s when Katherine asked about burning witches at the stake and Rochat told her they don’t burn witches any more and she said, Gee, that’s good news.
‘And that’s why Clémence is always grumpy, because she has nothing to do now but ring with the other bells during la grande sonnerie times.’
‘The great song?’
‘Oui, when all the bells ring on Saturday evenings and say the week is over.’
‘Yeah, I remember hearing that from my flat sometimes. Hey, I bet I can see my flat from up here.’
‘Do you want to see your flat from up here?’
Katherine crossed her arms, as if holding herself.
‘Not yet.’
‘D’accord.’
She watched the light of the grill glow on the timbers of the criss-cross carpentry around Clémence.
‘Do these old timbers have a story?’
‘Oui.’
‘Tell me about the timbers.’
And so he did.
‘Long ago, Lausanne was surrounded by primeval oak forests and the trees were tall as the clouds and had never known the touch of an axe. Then the first Lausannois came and cut down some trees and built a town with a wood barricade around it. And when the cathedral was built, someone remembered a cathedral needed lots of bells to be a cathedral. So the Lausannois built a stone tower next to the cathedral and it was the tallest tower in Europe. And on top of the tower they wanted to build a house for the bells. Then someone remembered cathedral bells are very big and they needed a very big house. So the Lausannois cut down the biggest trees in the forest and brought them to the tower and built a house called “the carpentry” for the bells to live in.’
‘You made that up, didn’t you?’
‘That’s what Monsieur Buhlmann told me.’
‘Which one’s he?’
‘You’re wearing his old cloak.’
‘Ah, that guy, then it must be true. When did they build the cathedral anyway?’
‘In twelves of centuries.’
‘Wow, that’s a ways back.’
Katherine ducked under the rim of the bell and looked at the carpentry.
‘Gosh, I couldn’t get my arms around some of these timbers. They must’ve been big old trees. Twelfth century, huh? That makes them nine hundred years old.’
‘They’re much older.’
‘Monsieur Buhlmann tell you that one too?’
‘I told myself.’
‘OK, so tell me how are they older?”
‘They cut the biggest oak trees for the bells. Papa told me oak trees live for six hundred years before they grow up. That means the timbers in the carpentry are one thousand five hundred years old. I spent one whole night writing the numbers and adding them.’
‘A whole night?’
‘I’m not good with numbers. Was I right?’
‘Yeah, perfect.’ She looked at the timbers again and sighed. ‘Sad, isn’t it? They were giant living things, once upon a time.’
‘They’re still alive.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Before Marie rings, the timbers creak and groan and say, “Marie’s about to ring!” And when all the bells ring for la grande sonnerie times, the timbers stretch and sway because they think they’re still in the forest and the bells are the wind, and I’m very sure that means they’re still alive. That’s why I spent a whole night adding the numbers, I wanted to see how old they really are.’
‘That’s a sweet thought, Marc.’
‘You can see on Saturday, when they all ring for la grande sonnerie. If you don’t find your way home first.’
Katherine reached up, touched Clémence’s skirt. She was quiet a moment before looking at Rochat. He waited for her to speak. She didn’t.
‘Are you imagining something?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, sort of, I guess.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not sure where home is just now, Marc. Maybe I could stay here, just a few more days, to figure it out.’
‘You can stay a few more days.’
‘Then I could be here for la grande sonnerie. Then, maybe, I’ll be ready to leave, OK?’
They ate more fondue and drank more tea.
‘How did you get to work in the cathedral, Marc?’
‘Papa brought me here all the time when I was little. Papa was an architect. He was saving the cathedral from falling down, before he died. He brought me to the tower while he worked and showed me all the tunnels and walkways and things. And Monsieur Buhlmann showed me how to hold the lantern and say the words when Marie-Madeleine rings the hour at night.’
Just then, the timbers creaked and groaned and Marie shouted from the other side of the tower in a great deafening voice.
GONG! GONG! GONG!
‘Hurry, touch the timbers.’
‘What?’
‘Like this, hurry.’
He ducked under Clémence and put his palms on the carpentry. She did the same, feeling vibrations pulse through ancient wood. Rochat jumped on to the south balcony, waved for her to follow quickly.
GONG! GONG!
She hurried after him to the east balcony. They stood under Marie-Madeleine and Katherine saw the iron hammer outside the edge of Marie’s skirt, cocking back and slamming down. Rochat jumped on to a timber, pressed his ear to the wood and closed his eyes. Katherine wrapped her arms around a timber as best she could, closed her eyes …
GONG! GONG! GONG!
It was like holding on to a still-living thing, feeling its mighty heart pound. The last strike sounded, shook the tower and drifted away. Slowly, Katherine opened her eyes.
‘Wow.’
Rochat jumped to the balcony.
‘Hurry, follow me.’
‘To where?’
‘Forfunthings.’
Katherine ran after him, followed him up the stone steps of the northeast turret, winding twice round before opening to a higher balcony of pillars and arches. She stopped to catch her breath, thinking the world looked so different one level higher in the tower, like stepping from one cloud to an even higher cloud. Rochat called back to her, ‘Hurryitsalmosttime,’ and he darted along the north balcony and she chased after him to the centre of the balcony. He pointed through the stone arches, to the highest of the criss-cross timbers, to the five bells hanging by old wood yokes and leather lashings. Katherine couldn’t believe her eyes.
‘Oh my gosh.’
Rochat touched his finger to his lips to quiet her.
‘Shhhhh, watch the littlest bell.’
He pointed to a small bell hanging perfectly still against the centre arch of the south balcony. Like hanging from the stars, Katherine thought. The wood yoke above the bell began to move, the bell began to sway.
… ding, dingding … ding … dingding …
Rochat stepped into the carpentry, on to the narrow wood walkway running through the centre of the tower. Katherine watched him shuffle towards the swinging bell. He turned to her, waved his hands for her to come. She stepped
up to the walkway, ducked under the unmoving bells, tiptoed towards him. Closer, she saw the clapper flying under the little bell’s skirt like a dizzy sparrow.
… dingding … dingding … dingding …
Katherine leaned against the timbers and watched till the bell slowed and quieted, till its voice faded away.
‘How beautiful. What’s this bell’s name?’
‘Mademoiselle Couvre-feu. She rings every night just after eight o’clock for five minutes. She tells the Lausannois to cover their fires for the night and go to sleep. And then she rings in the morning at seven o’clock and tells everyone to wake up and stoke the ashes to make their morning fires. That’s what she says because she doesn’t know about electric ovens and alarm clocks. She’s the oldest bell in the tower, older than the cathedral. She’s more than one thousand years old.’
‘And she’s so small, compared to Marie and Clémence.’
‘She’s only three hundred and sixty kilos.’
‘She’s so beautiful.’
‘And she has a story, but it’s a secret story. You have to promise not to tell.’
Katherine raised a finger to her heart and made a tiny cross.
‘Cross my heart.’
‘She’s the last silver bell in Europe.’
‘You mean pure silver?’
‘Oui.’
‘But she’s so dark.’
‘Because she’s very, very old. You can come close and see. Be very quiet and listen.’
Rochat reached up and held the clapper in the palm of his hand. He eased the clapper to the inside of the bell with the softest touch. A lovely delicate sound chimed through the tower, delicate as a sleeping baby’s breath.
Rochat whispered:
‘She makes a C letter.’
Katherine whispered too:
‘That’s the same sound as Clémence, isn’t it?’
‘Oui, but Couvre-feu lives higher in the tower, so her voice is higher. That’s what I imagined. Was I right?’
Katherine tried not to laugh.
‘Makes sense to me. But why is she the last silver bell, were there others?’
‘In all the cathedrals. But there was a great war in Europe and all the silver bells were melted into cannons to kill people.’
Couvre-feu’s soft voice faded under their whispers. Katherine reached for the bell and then held back.
