by Jon Steele
‘She came to the tower in a bathrobe and nothing else and had long blond hair but I gave her a haircut and then she looked like Joan of Arc but now she’s dyed her hair black and she looks like someone else until she smiles then she looks like the angel again. And she has a friend who’s coming tonight to help her find her way home.’
There were seconds of utter silence till Monsieur Dufaux burst out laughing and all the patrons joined in at the very moment Monsieur Junod pushed through the curtains at the door, followed by his small white dog on a lead.
‘Oh, merde, I’ve missed something good, haven’t I?’
‘Bonsoir, Monsieur Junod. It appears our dear friend Rochat now has two angels in the tower and they both want apple pie! So, Marc, this other angel, was he in a bathrobe, too?’
‘Non, monsieur. He was wearing a brown coat with straps on the shoulders like detectives wear in old movies.’
The café burst out laughing again. Monsieur Dufaux put his arm around Rochat and led him to his usual table near the window with the lace curtain.
‘Forgive me, Marc, but it was too precious to pass up. Monsieur Junod, sit down and I’ll pour you a beer. And a fresh glass for everyone, on the house, in honour of le guet de Lausanne for being such a good sport!’
Everyone applauded and raised their glass. ‘Le guet!’
Monsieur Dufaux rested his hand on Rochat’s shoulder.
‘And you, Marc, your dinners are on the house as well.’
‘I have money, monsieur.’
‘Mon cher, it’s the least I can do. We miss you when you don’t come around. Not much for us poor Lausannois to do in the evenings but bore each other to death. You always give us something new and wonderful to talk about. Sit down, I’ll get your dinners, tout de suite.’
Monsieur Dufaux pulled the cloth from his apron strings and pounded tabletops on his way to the kitchen.
‘Mon dieu, two apple pies for the angels. What’s next, uh?’
Rochat sat at the table and looked about the café. The round lamps hanging from the ceiling that looked like full moons. The pictures on the wall of Lausanne from long ago, the slate that was washed and rewritten in white chalk each day but the letters were always the same, and always in the same place, like all the patrons of the café. And Monsieur Junod settling at his table with today’s edition of 24 Heures, and his little white dog jumping up on the next chair to survey the room as if demanding service. Soon dinners would be finished and cigarettes would be lit, Monsieur Junod would finish studying his newspaper and the evening’s conversation on important matters in Café du Grütli would begin. Rochat pulled aside the lace curtains and watched the rain fall and splash on the cobblestones of Escaliers du marché. Tiny streams formed between the cobblestones and ran down to bigger streams of rain from Rue Mercerie.
‘Et voilà, Marc.’ Monsieur Dufaux was standing at the table with the dinner basket. ‘Two pork fillet dinners, two slices of apple pie, and I’ve thrown in a bottle of wine.’
‘Wine?’
‘Oh, I know you’re not a drinker but maybe your angels will take a glass or two. If they’re goody-goody angels, leave it for Monsieur Buhlmann.’
‘He’s coming on Sunday for my day off.’
‘I know, mon cher.’ Monsieur Dufaux looked out of the window. ‘The rain. Still coming down, is it?’
‘The rain. Still coming down, is it?’
‘Oui, and winter’s trying to sneak into Lausanne tonight. He thinks I can’t see him.’
‘Who?’
‘Winter. Out there, hiding in the rain. He thinks I can’t see him but I do.’
‘Such an ugly night. And it’s cold. I feel it in my bones.’
‘I can blow on the glass and draw him in the fog so you can see.’
‘Who?’
‘Winter. Do you want to see?’
‘Non, mon cher, that’s all right. But I tell you what, you see old man winter from the belfry, you … say now, that’s very strange.’
‘What’s strange, monsieur?’
‘I feel like we’ve had this conversation before.’
‘We did, monsieur. Last Friday night. It was raining then, too. And you were about to say, “You see old man winter from the belfry tonight, you chase him away for me.”’
‘Why, yes, the very words. How did you know?’
‘That’s how beforetimes works, monsieur.’
Rochat stood up, closed his black wool overcoat.
‘Wait, Marc. Let me call you a taxi.’
‘Merci, monsieur, but I need to climb the steps.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s my duty.’ He picked up the basket and moved through the crowded café towards the door. The patrons all shifted in their chairs to let him pass.
‘À tout à l’heure, Marc.’
‘À demain, Marc.’
‘Bonne soirée, Marc.’
Monsieur Dufaux called from behind the bar:
‘Fais attention, Marc. The stones will be slippery in the rain.’
‘Merci, bonne soirée, mesdames et messieurs.’
Rochat felt everyone’s eyes watching him. Everyone watching him move through the café with a clumsy limp. He stopped, turned to face them. The room fell quiet.
‘I liked your joke very much. It was funny.’
He shuffled through the curtains and out of the door and into the rain. He checked for shadows on the cobblestones. There was only his own crooked shadow stretching from his boots.
‘On y va, Rochat.’
He shuffled to the bottom of Escaliers du marché. The steep hill of hammered together and mismatched stones looked very slippery, just as Monsieur Dufaux had warned. He shuffled to the wood staircase workmen had built in middles of ages. Rochat didn’t know who they were but he was glad they did. The wood handrail was sturdy and the red-tiled roof would keep him from getting soaked to the bones. He grabbed the handrail and climbed.
‘Un, deux, trois …’
Harper saw him struggling up the wood stairs with a basket in his hands. He almost called to him till he remembered his orders. Make your way to LP’s Bar, put on a good show, abandon Miss Taylor and the boy in the cathedral. And by the way, Mr Harper, the lad with the lantern is listed, no contact or interference with the time or manner of his death.
Christ, Harper thought, what a bloody business this is.
He stepped from the wood stairs, ducked in the old market place and moved into the shadows. He heard the shuffle and thump of the lad’s steps coming closer, then the sound of his passing voice.
‘Huitante-deux … huitante-trois … huitante—’
Silence.
Harper waited, not breathing, not moving.
He heard the lad’s crooked steps turn towards him and shuffle over the wet cobblestones. Harper lowered his eyes to the ground. Some of them, the sensitive ones, he remembered, could sense when they were being watched. But with his eyes cast down, the lad shuffled by without stopping. After a moment Harper heard the lad’s voice.
‘Good afternoon, Master Rochat. I am Monsieur Gübeli. It is an honour to make your acquaintance,’
Harper looked up. The streetlamps from Rue Viret above the market place cast rain-soaked light through the bare branches of the plane trees. He saw the lad on a wood bench, sitting in the rain, mumbling to himself. He checked his watch, time to get a move on, boyo. He bit his lip instead … two minutes, just two minutes … He moved along a stone wall and slid into a dark corner near the lad, keeping his eyes to the ground and watching the lad’s shadow on the cobblestones. His hands around the basket, his crooked form rocking slowly back and forth, mumbling to himself still.
‘Tell me, do you enjoy studying the earth, Master Rochat? Oui, Maman shows me places and tells me about them. Has your mother shown you Switzerland? Where your father lives? Yes, it’s far away. All we need do is travel along this little line on the globe from here to there. Why, it’s no distance at all. Look, I can touch the two places with
one hand. Here, you try. Go on, Marc, you can do it.’
Then watching the shadow of the lad’s hand reach from the basket, the hand opening and fingers stretching over something that wasn’t there. The fingers closed slowly and moved back to the basket. The lad stopped moving.
‘The number sixteen bus will be coming soon, Rochat. You must watch it go by and then you must climb the rest of the steps and say hello to the cathedral and the statues and check all the doors, it’s your duty.’
The lad rose from the bench, shuffled over the cobblestones. Harper stood motionless, his eyes following the lad’s shadow till it stopped next to him. Harper could feel the lad’s eyes looking dead at him. He heard the lad’s voice.
‘Are you here, monsieur? I can’t see you, but it feels like you’re here.’
Harper didn’t breathe.
‘Perhaps it’s only an imagination, Rochat. Yes, I’m very sure that’s what it was. You’re having so many imaginations these days. Sometimes you get confused.’
Harper listened to the lad shuffle a few steps, stop, turn back.
‘The detectiveman said he would meet me by the fountain when evening came but he wasn’t there when I came down from the tower to get dinner for the angel.’
Harper’s eyes burned to look at the lad, burned to let the lad see him.
‘Perhaps he’s waiting at the fountain now. Yes, I’m very sure that’s where he’ll be.’
Harper heard Rochat climb the wood stairs running to Rue Viret.
‘Huitante-quatre … huitante-cinq … huitante-six.’
The steps stopped.
‘Whoever you are, I’m very sorry if I frightened you. It was very nice to visit with you this evening. I didn’t know Lausanne was full of lost angels. I hope to meet you again some day. I’d stay longer but I have my duties.’
Harper heard the lad continue up the stairs to the road. He heard heavy tyres roll through the rain. He looked up, saw the lad standing in the light of passing headlamps. Tiny rainbows glistened in the rain all around the lad’s crooked shape, the light holding him for a moment like something blameless and pure till it faded and there was nothing left of the lad but the sound of his crooked steps crossing the road.
‘Christ, they’ll fucking butcher him.’
Harper rushed for the tunnel under Rue Viret, phantoms screaming in his brain: Get after him, stop him! At least let them know they’re on their own! He stopped at the edge of the tunnel’s fluorescent glare. A razor-sharp line across the cobblestones separating light from dark … They are not us and we are not them.
‘Bollocks!’
He turned back and charged down Escaliers du marché. Hard rain pelting the tiled roof of the staircase, rolling off the sides, splattering on the cobblestones and rushing down the steep slope of the uneven and mismatched stones, down towards the lights of Café du Grütli at the bottom of the stairs.
‘You want a show, Inspector? Swell, let’s get bloody started and have a drink for the fucking road.’
He pounded off the wood stairs, headed for the lights.
Black forms rushed from the shadows.
Harper reached for the killing knife in his belt.
Like a kill shot to the head.
Instant nothing.
Not even hearing the crack.
‘Jesus, Marc, you’re soaked. Get in here before you catch pneumonia. Take off your coat.’
‘Wool’s warm even when it’s wet.’
‘Yeah, but the rest of you isn’t made of wool, especially your head.’
‘I forgot to wear my hat, it’s wool.’
‘Never mind about coats and hats, Marc.’
She helped him remove his coat and sat him down. She rubbed his wet mop of a head with a dish towel.
‘Jeez, you poor thing.’
‘Wool’s very warm, even when it’s wet.’
Katherine crouched down in front of Rochat.
‘Hey, Marc, are you OK?’
‘I’m a little cold. Like you when you came to the cathedral.’
She rubbed his arms.
‘You’ll warm up soon as we get some food in you.’
She took the plates from the basket and set the cutlery, tore pieces from the baguette and stacked them on a plate.
‘Hey, there’s a bottle of wine in here. And it’s from Lavaux, the good stuff.’
‘Monsieur Dufaux gave it to me because they played a joke on me in the café because I said Monsieur Booty wanted a tarte aux pommes.’
‘They weren’t making fun of you, were they? Because I’ll march down there and break their jaws if they made fun of you.’
‘Non, they’re always very kind to me at the café.’
‘Really?’
‘Tonight the patrons all raised their glasses to me and said, “Le guet!” and Monsieur Dufaux said, “We miss you when you don’t come around. Not much for poor Lausannois to do in the evenings but bore each other to death. You always give us something new and wonderful to talk about. Sit down, I’ll get your dinners, tout de suite”.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what Monsieur Dufaux said.’
‘OK then, so let’s eat dinner.’
‘OKthensoletseatdinner.’
Katherine set the food out on the table.
‘And you know what, I’d love a glass of wine. You got a corkscrew up here?’
‘There’s one under the table Monsieur Buhlmann left when he retired and I’m very good at opening bottles because Grandmaman’s butler taught me. His name was Bernard. Do you want to see?’
‘Yeah.’
Rochat reached under the table for the corkscrew. He carefully folded and laid a dish towel over his left arm. He bowed, opened the bottle, poured her a glass and bowed again before sitting down.
‘Wow, that was very professional, Marc.’
‘Merci.’
Rochat watched her sip slowly from the glass.
‘Does it taste good?’
‘It tastes very good. And this dinner with you is really good.’
‘Would you like me to turn on the old radio? There’s music in the air.’
Katherine giggled.
‘Man, where did you get your sense of humour?’
Rochat thought about it.
‘From Grandmaman.’
‘Really?’
‘She liked to take out her false teeth and make them talk.’
Katherine laughed, wine splooshed from her mouth.
‘What a hoot.’
‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘It means really, really funny. Come on, let’s eat.’
Rochat jumped up.
‘I forgot to look by the fountain.’
‘What’s wrong, Marc?’
‘I forgot to look by the fountain for the detectiveman.’
He shuffled three steps, opened the door of the loge, stepped out on to the south balcony. Katherine watched him bending over the iron railings. He came back into the loge, closed the door.
‘He still isn’t here yet.’
‘Don’t worry, he’ll come.’
Rochat started to rock back and forth on his heels.
‘Marc, is something wrong?’
‘Maybe I can’t see him any more.’
‘Who?’
‘I thought it was him on Escaliers du marché but I couldn’t see him. I pretended it was another lost angel because … because …’
‘Don’t worry, Marc. He promised he’d come back.’
‘Hepromisedhedcomeback.’
‘Yeah. Come on, sit down.’
Rochat sat. He stared at the burning candles on the table. Katherine took the black cloak from the hook on the wall, wrapped it round Rochat’s shoulders.
‘This is Monsieur Buhlmann’s cloak for you to use,’ Marc said.
‘I know, but it’s dry, we need to warm you up. I think you got a chill in the rain. That’s all you’re feeling, Marc. Just a nasty chill, and we’re going to chase it away.’
/> ‘Like chasing away the bad shadows.’
‘That’s right, let’s chase them all away.’
She rubbed his arms and shoulders through the cloak. She sat down, looked at him, brushed strands of damp black hair from his forehead.
‘Marc, Harper will come back and take me home and you’ll have your tower back to yourself. Everything will be like it was before. Just you, your beautiful bells, Otto, Monsieur Booty and all those crazy skeletons in the basement.’
‘Cathedrals don’t have basements. Cathedrals have crypts.’
‘Whatever, as long as the skeletons stay there.’
‘Do you want to see them before you leave?’
‘No, but after I’m gone, you be sure to tell them I said hello. Come on, eat before your food gets cold.’
‘You said Maman’s words again.’
‘Yeah, what words?’
‘“C’mon and eat before your food gets cold”.’
‘Well, you know what they say, if it’s not one thing it’s your— Wait a sec, when did I say her words before just now?’
‘Outside on the balcony when we were watching the Christmas lights and you said when the time comes I don’t think I’ll know how to say goodbye.’
‘When did she say it?’
‘Before she died, but she never said goodbye.’
‘What?’
‘One day she was gone.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I made tea and went into her room with a cup of tea I made for her and she was gone.’
‘She was dead, you saw her?’
‘I didn’t see her. She was gone.’
‘What?’
‘Monsieur Gübeli was in the room, and told me Maman had gone away. And we put her box in the ground.’
‘You never got to say goodbye to her.’
‘I never got to say goodbye to her.’
Katherine touched her fingers to her lips.
‘Oh, Marc, no wonder you’re upset.’
‘I thought it was the detectiveman on Escaliers du marché, but I couldn’t see him.’
‘Hey, Harper didn’t go away like your mother. He’ll come back, he promised.’
‘He’ll come back, he promised.’
‘Yeah, it’s going to be OK.’
‘OK.’
‘Shhh, just take a breath. I’m with you, so you’re not alone.’ She waited a moment. ‘Can I ask you something, Marc?’
