The Watchers (14 page)

‘Why doesn’t anyone else put money in the hat?’

‘Because they don’t see me.’

‘Why not?’

‘They only see what they want to see.’

‘Why do I want to see you?’

‘Because you’re like me, you’re cool.’

Rochat looked down at his long black overcoat.

‘
Non
, I’m warm. This was my father’s coat, it’s wool.’

‘No, little dude, I’m telling you, you see things … they don’t.’

‘Who?’

‘Them, man, the locals.’

Rochat looked both ways in the tunnel. People whipping by in a blur.

‘Oh.’

‘You don’t get it, do you?’

‘Get what?’

‘You and me, we’re different from all of them.’

‘How?’

‘I told you, we
see
things, they don’t. That’s why the ones like us have to take care of each other. Like dropping some coins in the hat.’

Rochat opened his coin purse, pulled out three five-franc coins, dropped the coins in the upside-down cap.

‘Is that enough?’

‘Sure.’

‘Would you tell me something, monsieur?’

‘For fifteen francs, I’ll write you a book.’

‘What day is it?’

‘Monday.’

‘And the time?’

The saxophoneman looked at the clock above the rushing-by heads.

‘Five thirty.’

‘So I’m in nowtimes again.’

‘Been doing some back and forth have you?’

‘
Oui
. It’s happening more and more.’

‘Be not afraid, little dude.’

‘
Non?
’

‘No, because wherever you go, there you are.’

Rochat thought about it.

‘
Merci. Au revoir, monsieur
.’

‘Want me to play something for the road?’

‘Which road?’

‘How about the one you’re walking on?’

‘What was it you were playing just now?’

‘“
Les anges dans nos campagnes
”.’

‘I know that song. It’s a very old Christmas carol, about angels singing in the fields. But you made it sound different.’

‘Slowed it down, made it bluesy for nowtimes.’

‘Does that mean sad?’

‘Ain’t nothing sadder than an angel in nowtimes.’

‘Have you ever seen an angel, monsieur?’

‘All the time, little dude, all the time.’

The saxophoneman put the reed to his lips, blew the saddest sounds. Rochat watched him a moment, then he shuffled away and up the ramp to the main hall, checking all the clocks and wristwatches along the way to make sure the saxophoneman wasn’t another imagination and it really was five thirty. And he studied the dates of the newspapers at the press kiosk near the big swinging doors of the waiting room, to make sure it truly was Monday, December thirteens.

‘Dear me, Rochat. Sometimes your imaginations are so very confusing, and all this going back and forth to beforetimes. You must concentrate, Maman told you you must concentrate. And now you’re
le guet de la cathédrale de Lausanne
, you have your duties.’

He shuffled through the swinging doors and waited amid a crowd of Lausannois at Avenue de la Gare for the cartoonman in the traffic lamp to jump from red to green and say it was time to cross the road. He looked at the faces of the Lausannois, but they didn’t look at him. He wondered if it was because they couldn’t see him, just as they couldn’t see the saxophoneman. The cartoonman in the lamp jumped to green. Rochat looked down at the pavement and followed all the shadows across the road, at the same time trying to figure how much time he had to take the funicular down the hill to Ouchy and do things in his flat before he’d go back up the hill to his dinner at Café du Grütli, the way he always did when he returned from the doctors in Vevey.

‘Must be punctual in all things, Rochat.’

Across the road he hurried down the ramp to the funicular station. The two-car train was just leaving for Ouchy, but would be back in seven minutes on its way to Flon and Rochat would watch it go by, then it’d come back seven minutes later to take him home.

‘Very good, Rochat. Right in middles of things, just where you should be.’

He looked around the platform, he was alone. He watched pigeons fly through the open doors of the station, glide to the rafters above the tracks, waddle to their hiding places in the eaves. He heard scratching noises on the concrete floor. He looked down to his boots. It wasn’t him.

He looked down the tracks, saw the headlamps of the funicular coming up the dark tunnel. The rails glowed and the toothlike track in the middle of the rails made shadows on the railbed. Then tiny sparks flashed from the end of the platform and a long shadow stretched out over the floor from behind a concrete pillar. The headlamps of the oncoming funicular blinded his eyes, till the silhouette of a woman stepped from behind a pillar. A woman in a long furry coat, a halo of light shining around her blond hair.

The train pushed puffs of air up the tunnel, passing by the woman to Rochat. The air smelling like flowers. The woman had a cigarette on her lips, she shook a lighter in her hands, clicked it on and off. Sparks flashed but the fire wouldn’t light. He almost saw her face.

Rochat felt his heart skip a beat.

The woman turned, walked towards him. Rochat dropped his eyes, locked them on the concrete floor. He heard the woman’s steps coming closer, the flower smell becoming stronger. He saw black high heels and two legs in blue jeans sticking out from under a furry coat.

‘
Pardonnez-moi, monsieur. Avez-vous du feu?
’

Rochat didn’t budge. He looked out of the corner of his eyes, saw the ends of her long blond hair.

‘Say, you’re a live one, aren’t you? Never mind, train’s coming anyway.’

The funicular pulled into the station and the doors slid open. Rochat, his eyes still glued to the floor, watched the woman’s feet turn away and step aboard the forward car. He looked up, saw her sitting with her back to the doors. All the passengers on the train looked at him, the way he was rocking back and forth, mumbling to himself:

‘Always going home to do things after coming from Vevey, Rochat, that’s what you do.’

The funicular chimed to say it was leaving for Flon.

As the doors began to close, Rochat jumped aboard the rear car. The doors caught his twisted foot, he pulled and tugged but couldn’t get free. The passengers watched him pound at the doors with his fist.

‘Open up, let me go!’

The doors buzzed angrily, reopened and Rochat tumbled on the floor. The doors slammed shut again, the funicular pulled ahead. Rochat rose to his feet, brushed off his overcoat.

‘
Je suis désolé, mesdames et messieurs
.’

He shuffled to a corner of the train, peeking around the bodies and through the windows to the forward car. If only that big fat man would move, he could see her.

‘Just a little, just a little, please.’

They came to a stop at Flon. Rochat’s eyes searched through the blur of bodies leaving the forward car … there! The hair, the long blond hair.

eight

Two lifts carried people from Flon Station to Rue du Grand-Chêne. Rochat saw the woman with blond hair step into one lift as the doors closed behind her. He hurried into the second lift. People tried to push him to the back but he stood his ground so he could be first out. The counting clock above the doors ticked slowly down: 20,19,18,17 … Rochat tapped furiously at the ascend button.

‘It’s faster counting my way up Escaliers du marché than waiting for you to close the doors, and I have a crooked foot!’

He felt people step away from him. He remembered Lausannois weren’t comfortable with people who talked loudly in lifts. He stared at the counting clock.

… 4, 3, 2, 1,
bzzzzzzzz. Clunk
.

‘
Merci beaucoup
,’ he whispered.

The lift rose slowly to the street. The doors slid open and Rochat rushed out. His eyes searched the pedestrian bridge above Place de l’Europe. If she went that way she’d be going to Bel-Air and the Palud quarter. But he didn’t see anyone with long blond hair and a furry coat. He hurried to the ramp leading to Rue du Grand-Chêne. There, she was just rounding the corner. He shuffled after her, stopped at the top of the ramp and peeked around the corner. He watched her cross Rue du Grand-Chêne and disappear into a haze of light. Rochat rubbed his eyes and looked again. The façade of the Lausanne Palace, wrapped in a big red bow and awash in the glow of red floodlamps. All the pillars and balconies strung with fairylights.

‘No, it’s a real thing, Rochat. The Lausanne Palace in a big red bow means coming to Christmastimes. So maybe you’re not imagining the angel, maybe she’s a real angel like Christmastimes in Lausanne. Have to see her face, Rochat, have to see her face to know.’

He shuffled across the road, slowing his steps near the bus shelter and looking down the pavement towards the hotel. There were lots of trees with little white lights like the lights on the pillars and balconies, but no woman with blond hair and a furry coat. Tall windows at the corner of the hotel opened to a dimly lit room. A narrow dark alley ran down the side of the windows. He shuffled into the shadows where he could see inside.

The room was lit with lots of candles like the loge in the belfry. There was a square bar in the centre of the room with lots of glasses hanging upside down and a fireplace nearby with an old clock on the mantelpiece. Big windows at the end of the room looked out to the lights of Évian across the lake. He saw the woman with the blond hair, sitting on a stool at the bar with her back to the window. She let her furry coat slip from her shoulders. She wore a black sweater underneath.

‘If only she’d turn around, then you’d see if she really is the angel you imagined, Rochat.’

He watched her take a gold cigarette case from her coat pocket and wave a cigarette while flicking her broken lighter. A young man behind the bar gave her a book of matches. She lit her cigarette; a small cloud of smoke floated above her. The young man behind the bar took a tall glass, poured a glass of champagne and set the glass before her. She took a newspaper from her bag, turned slowly through the pages. Then Rochat saw someone else at the far end of the bar. He wore a sports coat and a loosened tie around his neck. He looked familiar, Rochat thought. The face had lines and wrinkles but he didn’t look old. Rochat remembered him in a long brown coat with a belt and straps on the shoulders … the detectiveman from the bridge … and he was looking at the woman with the long blond hair.

‘
Pourquoi vous me regardez, monsieur?
’

Harper didn’t answer.

‘Hey, buster.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You’re staring at me.’

‘Actually, I was looking at your newspaper.’

‘That’s the best you can do?’ She opened her cigarette case and pulled out another smoke. She dug through her bag for the matches. ‘Second lunatic I’ve met in one day.’

‘You have one going.’

‘What?’

‘In the ashtray, you already have one going.’

‘So who are you, the smoking police? Come to stamp out the last smokers’ playground in Europe?’

‘Fellow smoker in residence, actually.’

‘You say “actually” a lot. You must be a Brit.’

‘Yes, actually.’

‘Bingo.’

‘I know this may sound odd, but could I buy you a drink for your newspaper?’

‘I already have a drink, but don’t let that stop you. You want a drink? Here, I’ll help. Stephan, would you give the gentleman a drink?’

‘
Avec plaisir
, Mademoiselle Taylor. Another beer, monsieur?’

‘Cheers.’

The bartender filled a fresh glass, set it on the bar. Katherine drew on her cigarette, blew the smoke in Harper’s face.

‘See? Easy as can be. Anything else you want?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Another favourite word from the Brit vocabulary. Have I seen you in here before?’

‘No, but I’ve seen you. La Brasserie, a few nights ago. You were with a rather well-heeled chap.’

She fiddled with her cigarette case.

‘My stockbroker.’

‘He looked the type.’

She gave him the once-over.

‘And what about you, what type are you, besides the stalker type?’

‘I work for the IOC.’

‘The Olympic Committee, no way.’

‘Why?’

‘You really don’t look the IOC type. You look cop. What’s your name?’

He took a packet of smokes from his jacket and lit up.

‘Name’s Harper, Miss Taylor. Jay Harper.’

‘Hold it, how did you know my name?’

‘The bartender just said it when you so graciously ordered me a drink.’

‘Clever. You sure you’re not a cop?’

‘I’m not a cop.’

She took a sip of her champagne.

‘In that case, what can I do for you, Mr Harper?’

‘I’d like to look at your newspaper.’

‘Still going with that line, are we?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Come on, you dress cheap but you look smart. And I admit the newspaper line’s cute, but let me ask you something. Is it that I look desperately lonely to you? Or were you just hoping I might be in your price range?’

The bartender leaned over the bar. ‘
Pardonnez-moi
, Mademoiselle Taylor. The chef recommends the fish soup. Should I bring it to the bar?’

‘Fine, Stephan, with a glass of the Clavien Chardonnay.’

‘Of course, mademoiselle.’

‘Oh, and tomorrow, could you reserve the table by the fireplace for me? I’m meeting someone for aperitifs at eight. And could you make sure the flames are cooking?’

‘Of course, mademoiselle.’ The bartender nodded to Harper. ‘May I ask if the gentleman will be joining you for dinner tonight?’

Katherine looked at Harper and smiled.

‘No, I think this gentleman will be taking care of himself tonight. Isn’t that right, Mr Harper?’

Harper stamped out his smoke, smiled at the bartender.

‘Seems so.’

The bartender bowed.

‘In that case, monsieur, I hope you will join us again.’ He turned away, took an order for drinks from one of the waiters.

‘Nice place,’ Harper said. ‘Staff has better manners than the clients.’