I, Sofia-Elisabete, Love Child of Colonel Fitzwilliam

by Robin Kobayashi

  ‘But how do the holes get there?’

  ‘Iviryone knows the elves sneak into the cottages at night an’ make the holes,’ exclaimed he.

  ‘Why, the elves must be eating the bits of cheese they carve out,’ reasoned I.

  ‘The elves need summat to eat.’

  ‘Cousin Pico, you are brilliant, thinks I.’

  ‘Yi, yi. Now, go to sleep,’ commanded he.

  The next day Señor Gonzalez hired a guide by the name of Denzler, he being a youngish man, strong and trusty and well known to the trade. Denzler took us to the lake of Zug, a hugeous, emerald body of water eight miles long and filled with a million fish – pike, carp and a red trout called rolheli. I wandered to the end of the dock where I peered into the mysterious water. Oh, how I wished to be Undine and converse with the fishes. I removed my outer-clothes and shoes, and on the count of three, I dived into the dark blue-green-blue depths. Aieeee! The water was cold, cold, cold, and my teeth began to ch-ch-chatter.

  ‘Foot-boy, where are you?’ Doña Marisa looked round, having heard a big splash.

  ‘Gad zookers! She’s in the water,’ Pico pointed to my head bobbing on the lake.

  ‘It is too cold to swim,’ advised Denzler as he and the others observed me being carried away by the current.

  Doña Marisa blurted out, ‘She is lost! She is lost!’ Her agonizing shrieks carried across the water where some boatmen heard her wild cries of ‘My child! My child!’

  The boatmen rowed like madmen, for they expected a big reward to fish me out of the lake. Thereafter, the victorious boatman unloaded me on the dock, where I sat shivering while Señor Gonzalez paid him ten francs. At the sight of my blue lips, arms and feet, Doña Marisa uttered a cry, and she fainted away into the arms of Señor Gonzalez. Denzler, calm as can be, placed me on my belly on the warm dock. He rubbed me with his coat until I became a regular colour again.

  ‘Denzler, I was as blue as the lake,’ remarked I.

  ‘Da wag – indeed.’ Denzler wrapped me up in his coat. There, in his arms, I inhaled the singular scent of a Swiss man, who brought to mind a hodgepodge of green pastures and hay and milk and cheese and cherries, so different from that of my papai’s earthy scent.

  At our rooms in Hotel Ochsen, a frantic Doña Marisa bathed me in warm water, after which Denzler brought me warm goat’s milk mixed with the juice of an herb called cheese clover to prevent any disease of the chest. When I refused to drink it, Doña Marisa shook her head. ‘Tut, tut,’ uttered she. And so I sipped the strange-tasting potion to please her.

  I awoke later that night in Doña Marisa’s snug bed, her arms wrapped round me, her sweet fragrance of blossoming myrtle tickling my senses. The light from a beeswax candle flickered on the perfect landscape of her face – the peak of her nose, the tiny fissures in her parted lips, the valleys of her sloping cheeks. Lo there! I beheld a faded, crescent moon on her left temple, and I wondered how the scar had got there.

  At dawn of day I pretended to sleep while Doña Marisa complained to Señor Gonzalez about some curse that had returned and how it would do away with her near relations. ‘Leidwerk! Witchcraft! That is what the innkeeper called it,’ fretted she. Señor Gonzalez declared there was no leidwerk because I was still alive. ‘They say misfortunes never come singly,’ warned she. Señor Gonzalez sighed, for he claimed not to be a superstitious being. He kissed his lady’s hand to bid her farewell, and he set off for a pleasant boat ride across the lake.

  ‘I wish to ride in a boat with him,’ declared I, standing up on the bed.

  Doña Marisa felt my forehead for fever. ‘You must stay in bed until it is safe for you to travel again.’

  ‘It isn’t fair.’ I stamped my feet – left, right, left, right – but to no purpose. Tucked up in bed, I spent a cursed day there, drinking the horrid goat’s milk with herbs and eating soggy rye-bread that had been soaked in the milk, while Señor Gonzalez and the others got to be explorers without me.

  In the course of the evening, I paced to and fro, imprisoned in the room with Josefina, who had been told to sit up with me. When she slumped in her chair, fast asleep, I gave her the slip, for I was a naughty child. Having thrown my red capa over my night-dress, I wandered down to the water. Apre! A heaven-sent sunset unfolded at the lake of Zug – the sky ablaze in vivid oranges, reds and violets – and I gave a thousand thank-you’s to God for it. I espied Doña Marisa and Señor Gonzalez strolling arm-in-arm near the dock and stealing a kiss or two.

  ‘Ha! Ha! They are kissing.’ I giggled at the ridiculous sight of those two romanticking themselves again.

  ‘You, little one, ought to be in bed,’ scolded Denzler, who, unbeknown to me, had followed me to the lake.

  I spun round. ‘Denzler? Please don’t tell Doña Marisa.’

  Denzler groaned. ‘Kang – away with you now.’

  ‘But Denzler…’

  ‘Glik – at once,’ ordered he, clapping his hands twice, and he cast a watchful eye as I scurried back to the hotel.

  Having deemed it safe for me to travel, Doña Marisa announced we were for Küssnacht near the northern shore of the Lake of Lucerne. I learnt then that Denzler would guide Señor Gonzalez to the summit of the Righi, while the rest of us stayed at an inn. ‘Please, Denzler, please let me go with you,’ cried I in a burst of despair at being left behind again. But he pitied me not. And so I tugged at his sleeve, my eyes beaming with adoration, to be sure.

  ‘Denzler, you’re the handsomest man I know – well, other than my papai.’

  ‘Jo?’ Denzler seemed reserved as ever, yet I detected a slight twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Truly, you are.’ I gazed in earnest at his light brown hair and warm brown eyes. ‘Denzler, will you not take me with you to Righi?’

  ‘It is too arduous a climb for a young child, and besides, I expect flüderwetter – rainy weather – on the way.’ Denzler eyed the grey clouds in the sky.

  I hung my head in silence.

  ‘When I return, I shall teach you the secret of jodeling. Jo?’ Denzler held out his hand.

  ‘Well and good,’ said I, shaking his hand, for I had heard the Swiss children jodeling in the hills to entertain the tourists, who would give them a half-franc for a first-rate jodel. ‘Will you also teach me how to shoot an arrow through an apple – an apple atop Pico’s head?’

  Denzler grunted, his Swiss pride undeniable. ‘Wilhelm Tell, you cannot be. A jodeler, you can be.’

  When the men returned two days later after having traipsed up the Righi to see the sun rise from the summit and to make a pilgrimage to the ancient chapel of Maria zum Schnee, or Mary in the Snow, Denzler kept his promise. He taught me the art of jodeling in the Swiss way – ‘a-ho alli ho alli ho-u-u-u’. In the boat ride across the Lake of Lucerne, I drove my fellow passengers to distraction with my enthusiastic jodeling; at least that’s what Señor Gonzalez said, and he paid me a franc to stop jodeling.

  We disembarked near the foot of Mount Pilatus, where Denzler told us the legend of Pontius Pilate – the Roman Governor who had presided over the crucifixion of Jesus and who had later committed suicide – and how his body could not be laid to rest afterwards.

  ‘Wherever they sank his body – the Tiber, the Rhône – it would wash ashore and wreak all sorts of havoc on the weather,’ explained Denzler. ‘His corpse then floated to the Lake of Geneva, and violent gales ensued, so the corpse was transferred to the Lake of Lucerne, here at Mount Pilatus. Some say Pilate’s conscience troubled him for what he had done to Jesus, and that is why his soul wandered the earth until laid to rest in the dark waters of a lake.’

  ‘Hateful man.’ Doña Marisa no doubt referred to Pilate.

  I shuddered with fear that Pontius Pilate’s soul once wandered up on the mountain. Was the mountain still haunted? I kissed the cross on my necklace, the necklace that Sister Lisbet had given me an age ago, and I crossed myself and uttered a Pater Noster for double protection.

  As our old carriages lumbered down th
e rock-hewn road, some children ran alongside us, selling bottles of milk and bouquets of eidelweiss and baskets of ripe, juicy pears. On the second day we arrived at our destination near the foot of the Bernese Alps, the plan being, said Señor Gonzalez, to journey through the Gemmi pass to reach the Canton of Valais on the other side. From there, we would go to someplace called Simplon.

  Denzler agreed to guide us over the Gemmi pass but no further than Leukerbad. He mentioned that he had a cousin who lived near Leukerbad in a small village reachable by ladder and who could serve as guide to Simplon. Given that my time with Denzler would soon come to an end, I summoned up my courage to tell him what I had been hiding in my heart.

  ‘Oh, hang it!’ I stamped my foot.

  ‘Hang it?’

  ‘Denzler, I am in love with you,’ pronounced I. ‘Will you marry me?’

  He started in surprise at my brazen proposal.

  ‘I cannot,’ replied he, his lips twitching as if he wanted to laugh.

  ‘But why?’ I became indignant.

  ‘I am married already.’

  ‘Oh.’ Disappointed, I cast down my eyes. I shuffled about, kicking a pebble or two lying near my foot. ‘You could still be my beau, my namorado, could you not?’

  Denzler eyed my gloomy countenance. ‘You, little one, remind me of a legend I heard once about a charming little girl who lived in the Jura mountains.’

  ‘I do?’ This bit of news cheered me that my hero Denzler considered me charming. ‘What did the little girl do?’

  ‘Well, many, many years ago, a knight and his lady lived in a castle high up on the Jura mountains. They had one child, a little girl of four years, and…and, oh yes, a good jodeler she was.’

  ‘Just like me.’ I smiled.

  Denzler nodded. ‘The mother took her girl into the forest to gather wood-flowers and wild strawberries and to jodel, when, of a sudden, the girl’s sharp cry echoed in the mountains. Struck with panic, the mother rushed to the precipice, but her little girl was gone. The mother hastened down the mountain path, her heart filled with dread at what she would find there. At the foot of the mountain, what do you think she discovered?’

  ‘The girl had fallen and died?’

  Denzler shook his head. ‘The little girl was alive, and she ran with joy towards her mother, jodeling in her sweet voice – a-ho alli ho alli ho-u-u-u.’

  I scratched my head. ‘But how can that be?’

  ‘According to the little girl, she was picking a beautiful flower when she stumbled. As she fell over the precipice, a great noise drew near her – a flapping of wings – and whatever it was, it grasped the back of her coat, and it lowered her onto a patch of soft grass.’

  ‘It must have been an angel,’ cried I, my eyes wide with wonder.

  A thunderous rumble broke into my thoughts. On the yonder side of a mountain, a cloud of silver dust exploded into the sky. Denzler shrugged. ’Twas an avalanche, he explained to us. Doña Marisa nervously fingered her rosary, having convinced herself that the avalanche was a bad omen, whereas Señor Gonzalez thought the avalanche the greatest spectacle on earth. ‘Qué maravilla!’ exclaimed he.

  Early the next morning we mounted mules for the ride up to the summit, while porters carried our luggage. I, being the fortunate one, got to ride with Denzler at the front of our party, inhaling his manly Swiss scent and imagining him to be my beau. ‘Trust your mules, because they are sure-footed,’ Denzler advised us. I told him that I was an expert rider, having journeyed on the steep mountainside in Monchique many a time, and that I had no fear of heights. I patted our mule Choli. I whispered in the mule’s ear that I trusted him and that he should trust me. ‘Aw-ah-aw,’ replied the mule, his ears tipping forward.

  ‘Hü Choli,’ cried Denzler.

  ‘Hü Choli,’ cried I. And away we went.

  As our mules plodded up the path surrounded by pines and meadows covered in mist, the deep silence weighed on me such that I uttered hardly a word in the ascent except to speak with Choli – ‘hüp hüp’ – to make him go faster now and then. Riding with Denzler brought to mind the times I had ridden a donkey with my papai, whom I considered the best horseman in all of England. Ai de mim! I swallowed hard, not wanting to cry in front of Denzler – a namby-pamby girl I am not – but a deep melancholy set in, and I began to wonder where papai was now. Had he followed our trail to the Black Forest and to Switzerland?

  ‘Hü-ü-ü-ü.’ Denzler brought Choli to a stand.

  Near the summit, where the land became bleak with grey cliffs, we stopped for refreshments at an old customs house, after which we walked and led our mules past the Daubensee, a small, lonesome lake filled with snow water and mud. Later, we prepared for the descent to Leukerbad on a treacherous, narrow path – Doña Marisa by litter, the porters by foot and the rest of us by mule. Señor Gonzalez wished me to go by litter, but Doña Marisa didn’t trust me to sit still in one. What luck, I told myself. And so I got to ride again with Denzler.

  We led the way on the steep, zig-zag path, inching our way down the precarious mountainside. I bravely peered down into the abyss, when I heard Josephina whimper. She heaped a thousand curses on her mule, who preferred to walk on the outer edge of the path, making her legs dangle over the precipice. ‘Tonto!’ she chided the mule. Filled with dread, she despaired that she would plunge two thousand feet and be smashed to atoms. ‘Silencio!’ shouted Señor Gonzalez, and he ordered that Josefina be blindfolded and placed in a litter. This, however, did not end her rant; for, after a minute or two, she cursed the litter carriers, the alps and Switzerland, in that order.

  I caught Denzler’s eye, and we shared an intent look, one that only true adventurers could understand, and I wondered if his fingers and toes tingled just like mine. But that excitement soon turned to terror. On a sudden, some rocks crashed down the mountainside. They tumbled over the precipice near us, and as they hurtled down into the chasm, the sharp echoes of the rocks being dashed to pieces filled me with fear and dread. Would we be swept away by an avalanche? Would I never see my beloved papai again? Startled, I held my breath when Denzler tightened his grip on me.

  ‘Cuidado!’ Doña Marisa warned us to be careful.

  Just then, Choli, our trusty mule, stepped back to avoid another falling rock, when his hind foot stumbled over the edge. Doña Marisa screamed in terror, the echoes of her shriek ringing in our ears. Denzler had cautioned us never to meddle with a mule’s instincts, but surely a little coaxing would not hurt, I thought to myself, given that Choli, with us upon him, seemed a few seconds from doom.

  ‘Hü Choli!’ I urged him.

  Choli obeyed my command, and with a violent lurch, he mustered up his strength to pull himself upright, and in a matter of seconds we were on our way again. Doña Marisa cried a thousand tears of relief, claiming it was a miracle that Denzler and I had not perished before her eyes, this after I had prodded Choli. She, nevertheless, praised me for my presence of mind. I turned to face Denzler, whose broad grin betrayed his usual calm self.

  ‘Denzler, did you hear the angel wings flapping?’

  ‘Angel wings?’

  ‘An angel helped push Choli back onto the path.’

  Denzler gave a hearty laugh, it being the first time I recalled him having done so.

  In Leukerbad, I passed a restful night, dreaming of my beau Denzler, the two of us riding Choli up and down the Emmental cheese wedges of the alps, and each time we came across a cheese hole, we would climb inside to listen to our jodels echo within. When morning arrived, I wished to tell Denzler of my alpine dream. Where could he be?

  I sneaked into the men’s bathing-house, hoping to surprise him. There, a dozen men dressed in long flannels sat stewing in the stinking hot spring water – what an odd sight it was – and near each of them floated a wooden table for their coffee-cup, newspaper and writing thing-em-bobs. One gentleman, who diligently scribbled in his journal, seemed familiar to me. I knelt to dip my hand into the spring water, and I sprinkled some drops
onto his head.

  He started in surprise. ‘Undine?’

  ‘Good morning, Herr Fouqué.’ I held out my hand to shake his.

  ‘What are you doing here in Leukerbad?’ He gazed at me, wonderstruck.

  ‘We’re going to someplace called Simplon.’

  ‘The Simplon pass?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Do you know,’ said he, ‘I met a Colonel Fitzwilliam in Baden-Baden.’

  I gasped, my heart thump-thumping, and I wished to know what I already knew. ‘Is my papai looking for me?’

  ‘He is, indeed. And then I met him by chance in Lucerne. I dare say he was destined for Geneva.’

  ‘Ai de mim! Is he going the wrong way?’ I frowned.

  ‘It seems he is. Perchance I shall see him in Sion on my way to Geneva?’

  ‘If you do, pray tell him to listen for my drum signal.’

  Herr Fouqué knitted his brows. ‘Drum signal?’

  Before I could respond, Denzler called for me, his stern countenance making me giggle.

  ‘I must go. My Denzler awaits me.’

  ‘Your Denzler?’ Herr Fouqué turned round to stare at the young Swiss man who stood with his arms folded.

  ‘Ay. He is my beau.’ I rose to leave. ‘Good-bye, Herr Fouqué.’

  ‘Hmm…a beau. Well, good-bye to you, Undine.’

  Denzler introduced our party to his cousin who also went by Denzler. This Denzler No. 2 rarely spoke a word, and if you asked him a question, he would grunt – one grunt meaning yes, two grunts meaning no. I observed the two Denzlers sitting side by side, drinking their glasses of beer, having some kind of silent conversation, for they never uttered more than a few words or grunts. My Denzler, having caught me watching them, summoned me to his side to bid me good-bye.

  ‘Denzler, now that you’re my beau, will you not tell me your Christian name?’

  Denzler considered this for a moment. ‘You may call me Oskar.’

  ‘Oskar?’ I had never heard of the name before, and so I committed it to memory. ‘Oskar…Oskar…’