The Watchers (11 page)

‘Excuse my appearance, mesdames. I was cleaning the bells.’

The old ladies cringed at the unwelcome information. Rochat sat, scratched his head, found a feather in his hair at the precise moment the ladies were eyeing him to make sure he was keeping to his seat.

‘You see, it’s my day off but I was confused because last night …’

His words were lost in the whirring of motors as the funicular rolled back down the tunnel towards Ouchy. Rochat tugged his floppy hat down on his head to hide his messy hair, thinking what a strange night it had been.

He saw himself in beforetimes, in the belfry, looking through the binoculars at a man standing on Pont Bessières and thinking the man must be a detectiveman because … because he couldn’t remember why. Then raising the binoculars and seeing a woman appear in the window above Rue Caroline. She was surrounded by the brightest light and brushing her long blond hair. Not seeing her face, just the gentle line of her profile. And remembering he wished she’d turn just a little so he could see her face. But she didn’t turn around and the light went black and she disappeared. And then hurrying back in the loge and pulling one of his sketchbooks from the shelf, grabbing a pencil and drawing quickly as if chasing an imagination. And stopping, feeling the drawing wasn’t right, turning the page, trying again and again till finally his hand slowed and his fingers smoothed the lead streaks and lines, and the most beautiful face he’d ever seen was looking back at him.

He stared at her, quietly, for the longest time. Afraid to move lest she disappear from the page. And finally hearing his voice in the quiet.

‘She looks like an angel.’

The funicular jolted to a stop at Gare Simplon. Rochat blinked and found himself in nowtimes. He watched a crowd of people climb onboard with suitcases and backpacks. Two more stops, a few people got off, more people got on. None of the passengers chose to take the empty seat next to Rochat. They huddled in groups and pretended not to see him.

At Ouchy, the end of the line, Rochat remained seated. His crooked leg and twisted foot made it difficult to move through crowds. Passengers going up the hill to Flon were boarding by the time Rochat disembarked. They gave him plenty of room to pass. He shuffled out the station and into the cold wind ripping off Lac Léman.

‘Home again, home again, jiggity jig.’

Rochat crossed Rue du Lac to the corniche where waves crashed into the stone jetty. He felt icy spray on his face. He looked at the fog hovering over the lake like something fluffy. He hurried along a stone path through tall evergreen trees to where the weather-teller lived in a glass dome. It had lots of brass wheels and dials and arrows. Rochat studied the numbers. He shuffled to the kiosk to see Madame Chopra and give her the weather report, as he did every Sunday. She had brown skin and a red dot on her forehead.

‘
Bonjour
, Marc. You are very late today, where have you been?’

‘I forgot to come home last night, madame, because I imagined I saw an angel above Rue Caroline.’

‘An angel, how nice for you. You have such an exciting life, Marc. I always think of you in the cathedral at night and say what an exciting life that Marc Rochat must have. I saved you the London
Sunday Times
, would you like it now?’

‘
Oui, merci
. And could I have my bag of popcorn, too?’

‘Of course, Marc. What do you think of this fog? Very strange, don’t you think?’

‘The weather-teller says the fog will go away this afternoon, but it’s going to stay cold for a few days and snow is coming soon.’

‘Thank you for telling me, Marc, I was wondering. I always count on you to give me the weather report on Sundays. Here are your things. I’ll see you next Sunday. I am worrying to not see you at the usual time. I am always telling people, you can set your clock by Marc Rochat.’

‘
Oui, madame
.’

‘And I hope Monsieur Booty enjoys the
Sunday Times
.’

‘He will, madame, because it lasts all week at the bottom of his kitty litter.’

Madame Chopra laughed.

‘That will make Mr Murdoch very happy.’

Rochat laughed too, even though he didn’t know who Mr Murdoch was. But Rochat was sure he must be very nice if he was a friend of Madame Chopra. He tucked the newspaper in his overcoat so it wouldn’t get wet. He shuffled to the small harbour of bobbing sailboats, sat on a low concrete wall and dangled his boots over the side. He watched masts sway back and forth in the wind. They made clanging sounds, like tiny bells. He fed popcorn to the ducks and swans sheltering amid the boats.

‘Well, Rochat, another very busy week comes to an end.’

‘
Excusez-moi
.’

Rochat turned to a man standing behind him. The man’s face had wrinkles and lines but didn’t look old and he was staring at the top of Rochat’s head as he spoke. He spoke with a British accent.

‘
Pardon. Où est le terminus pour le
…
le …
’

‘I speak English, monsieur.’

‘Actually, I wanted to practise my French. It’s rather bad.’

‘It isn’t that bad.’

‘No, I’m pulling your leg.’

Rochat looked at his misshapen foot, so did the man. ‘Crap, sorry. Listen, the ferry to Évian, it’s down here somewhere, isn’t it?’

‘
Oui, monsieur
. Through the trees and past the weather-teller.’

‘Is it working today?’

‘
Oui
, and it says the fog is going away by this afternoon but it’s going to stay cold all day and snow is coming.’

‘No, the ferry, I mean. Is it working today? Looks choppy as hell out on the lake.’

‘The ferry works all the time, monsieur. Except when there’s a bad thunderstorm. Then orange warning lights flash everywhere on the lake. One long, three short.’

‘Warning lights. One long, three short.’

‘Everywhere on the lake, but not today. Only in summer.’

The wind snapped. The man pulled at the collar of his coat and then shoved his hands in his pockets.

‘Nippy, isn’t it?’

Rochat watched the man, the way he tied the belt around his coat and shoved his hands in the pockets of his long brown coat, a coat with straps on the shoulders. It was him, the detectiveman he saw in the night, standing on Pont Bessières.

‘I know you, monsieur, I’ve seen you before.’

‘Doubt it. I’m new to Lausanne, and it’s my first time to this part of town.’

Rochat looked at the man’s coat again.

‘
Non
, I’m very sure it was you. You were trying to solve a mysterious mystery, but you were looking the wrong way.’

Rochat watched the detectiveman smile.

‘I was, was I? Not the first time, I’m sure. So, that way to the ferry?’

‘Past the weather-teller, monsieur.’

‘Past the weather-teller, got it.’ The detectiveman watched the birds bobbing for popcorn in the water, circling under Rochat’s boots, waiting for more. ‘Those ducks look like they’re freezing their feathers off.’

‘
Non, monsieur
, I watch them every Sunday and they keep their feathers on all year, especially when it’s cold. Would you like to feed them some of my popcorn? It’s fun.’

‘I’m sure it is, but I’d best be going. Thanks for the information. Nice talking to you.’

‘
Au revoir, monsieur. Bonne journée
.’

The detectiveman turned and walked towards the trees. He turned back, pointed to the top of his own head.

‘Mate, you’ve got something up here, on your hat. I think it belongs to one of your friends.’

Rochat reached up, found a feather and a small glob of pigeon poop.

‘Oh dear, Rochat, your hat needs a bath, and so does the rest of you. And your coat, too.
Allez
.’

He rinsed his fingers in the lake and shuffled across the road to the Hôtel de Léman. It was a funny building, half hotel and half flats, and it sat over the funicular station and there was a small clock tower on top. And there was a plaque near the building’s entrance that said a man who wrote books once lived here but he was dead now.

Rochat punched in a secret code and shuffled into a lobby of tall mirrors. He checked his hat for feathers and pigeon poop. He opened his mail box and found a postcard from his doctors in Vevey reminding him of his appointment on Monday, a small newspaper from Migros with pictures of food and lots of numbers, an official notice from the Canton de Vaud regarding new rules for sorting rubbish. Rochat studied the notice carefully. There were lots of pictures showing what trash went where. Fines would be enacted to ensure c-o-m-p-l-i-a-n-c-e. Those in violation would have their personal details registered. Rochat wasn’t sure about some of the words, but other words meant ‘write names down’. Swiss police did that on buses and trains in Lausanne to people who didn’t have tickets.

He rang for the lift, waited for it to come down in its iron cage. It was very old, from nineteens of centuries Madame Rolle told him when he moved in. When the lift stopped he pulled an iron grate to the side and stepped into a gilded compartment with a small crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He pressed the button marked R-o-c-h-a-t.

‘
Montez, s’il vous plaît
.’

The lift obeyed and rose four floors and clunked to a stop.

‘
Merci beaucoup
.’

He slid open the gate and shuffled into a small hall of two doors. One door went into the hotel, the other to his flat. He heard the scratching of a fat cat’s feet on polished wood beyond his door.

‘Hello, it’s only me, you miserable beast. And stop scratching the floors.’

He opened the door locks and jumped in his flat. There was a big sign on the back of the door: ‘LOCK UP!’ But sometimes he forgot and sometimes he found strangers from the hotel who had got lost and walked straight into his flat. Sometimes they were standing at the big windows of the sitting room admiring the view of the dungeon tower of Château d’Ouchy from one window or the corniche and Lac Léman all the way to the Alps above Montreux from another. Sometimes he even found strangers unpacking their bags or looking in his icebox machine. Rochat was always polite, telling the strangers he was very sorry, but this wasn’t their room, it was his house. He thought it important to be polite. The funny building with the hotel and flats was his, given to him by his grandmother and father before they died.

‘Monsieur Booty! Where are you, miserable beast?’

And each month on number fifteen day, Monsieur Gübeli, the man with the bald head and glasses on his nose who’d brought him to Switzerland, came to the flat and sat at the kitchen table for a cup of tea. He’d open his briefcase and there’d be lots of papers to sign. The papers were confusing but Rochat’s father told him to always trust Monsieur Gübeli, so he did. On the day he learned he owned the building atop the funicular station, Rochat asked Monsieur Gübeli if signing so many papers all the time meant he was rich.

‘You know the château in Vufflens, Marc. The family fortune is substantial, indeed, but you are not part of that fortune. However, your grandmother put aside this property with all its revenues for you and you alone. If there is anything you want, anything you need, you only have to tell me, or my assistant Madame Borel. Do you understand?’

‘
Oui, monsieur
.’

‘Is there anything you need, Marc, anything you want?’

Rochat thought about it. He had a big sitting room, two bedrooms, two large bathtubs with catlike feet. He had a dining room overlooking the lake with lots of light and a big round table he used for drawing things he saw from the windows. He had two fireplaces and the plaster walls were covered with his drawings and the handmade marionettes his father brought from Venice. Harlequin, Pinocchio, Baron Münchausen in the drawing-pictures room. A Venetian Plague Doctor, Peter Pan and Napoleon in the sitting room. Next to his bed he had the photograph of his mother and father standing on the Plains of Abraham. And Teresa came three times a week to scrub the floors and clean the flat. Teresa was from Portugal and did the ironing and cooked lunches and stored them in the icebox. Rochat did his own laundry because he liked to watch the clothes go around in the washer machine. He had a TV that had sixty-seven channels but was always tuned to Cartoon Network so he could watch Tom and Jerry because they were funny. If he wasn’t drawing or watching cartoons, or his clothes in the washing machine, he’d take Napoleon from his hook on the wall and chase Monsieur Booty around the flat shouting, ‘Charge!’ Other than that he spent most of his time at the cathedral.

‘
Non
, I can’t think of anything.’

But just now, standing in the foyer of his flat, Rochat had another thought. If there was nothing he wanted or needed, why did his flat, full of things, feel so empty? A fat grey cat curled around Rochat’s boots.

‘And how are you this afternoon, Monsieur Booty?’

Mew
.

‘Yes, yes, I am very late and you’re hungry. And I had a very busy night. I forgot to get some bread on the way home. Can I have some of your cat food?’

Monsieur Booty dug his claws into Rochat’s overcoat and began to climb.

Mew.

‘Never mind, I’ll see what Teresa left me in the icebox machine.
Alors
, I’ll feed you, clean my coat and hat and the rest of me. Then I’ll go for fresh bread for my lunch.’

He was soaking his head when he remembered there would be no fresh bread today. He remembered when the bell in the clock tower above the building rang for three o’clock. It was Sunday, Switzerland was closed.

*

‘Thirty-five minutes shore to shore. 227,000 tons of
bateau
powered by twin diesel motors below decks. Champagne and fondue Thursday evenings, weather permitting.’

So read the tourist pamphlet Harper received with his ticket. He was trying to read the damn thing and drink at the same time. Wasn’t easy. Bit of a rough crossing with 2-metre swells. On a bloody lake. Better than the ride over. That was like drifting near the end of the world. Come out of the fog into a patch of nowhere. Grey water, grey sky, thin grey line on the horizon marking the place you fell off and never came back. He set the pamphlet on the next seat, took a swig of Coca-Cola. His diet so far today: three aspirin, packet of crisps, one Chinese lunch, three Chinese beers, one Coke.