The Watchers (16 page)

‘Here, and this time it’s from me. You just made my night.’

‘
Très gentille, mademoiselle. Merci beaucoup
.’

The fool darted off for more tips. Katherine kept digging in her bag for her cigarette case.

‘Damn it, left it at the fucking bar.’

She turned back to the Palace, pushed through the crowd, bumped straight into Harper. Her cigarette case was in his hands …

‘Hello, Miss Taylor.’

‘How … how did you know I’d be here?’

‘I didn’t. Came over for the
vin chaud
.’

‘With my cigarette case in your mitts?’

‘You left it at the bar, thought I’d hold it till I saw you again. I spotted you in the crowd just now.’

‘You could’ve left it at the bar with Stephan.’

‘It’s gold.’

‘You still could have left it.’

‘There’s a bloody diamond embedded in the lid.’

‘Stephan, I trust. You, I don’t know from Adam. Looks like theft to me.’

‘More like thinking I was a bit of a sod and thought I should make it up to you.’

‘Sod?’

‘You’d prefer another word?’

‘How about “arrogant piece of shit”?’

‘That’s four words. You must be one of those college girls I’ve heard so much about.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing, I was being witty. Failing miserably, it seems.’

She took the cigarette case, pulled out a smoke. Harper had a match ready. She looked at him as she touched her cigarette to the flame.

‘So, you wanted to make it up to me. What did you have in mind?’

‘How about a glass of
vin chaud
? Supposed to have a bit of a kick to it.’

The dope coming on in a nice wave, soothing the rough edges. She let herself smile.

‘Sure, why not?’

They weaved through the happy crowd to a steaming black cauldron. People huddled around for drink and warmth. A large, round woman in a Heidi outfit dipped a ladle in the cauldron, filling glass after glass. Harper managed to snatch two straightaway. Katherine watched him fumble through his pockets for twenty francs, trying not to spill the wine. Six foot something, broad shoulders, looked in pretty good shape under the beat-up Burberry. Walking back to her, she eyed him closer. Dark brown hair streaked with grey. Not bad, actually.

‘Here you go. Careful, it’s hot.’

She breathed in the steam. Warm with winter spices. An accordion struck up a tune in three-quarter time. Drunken voices sang along.

‘So how long’ve you been in Lausanne, Harper?’

‘Seven weeks. You?’

‘Six and a half.’

‘Weeks?’

‘Months. You like it here?’

‘Bit hard to settle in. Can’t sleep. Too quiet maybe. Little odd on the laundry front.’

‘What?’

‘Laundry.’

‘Yeah, I heard you. But what’s so odd about laundry in Switzerland?’

‘I needed to do laundry first Sunday morning I was here. As I’m putting things in the dryer, the police were knocking at my door.’

‘What the heck were you doing to your laundry?’

‘Heck? You say, heck?’

‘Stick to the point. Police, at your door, why?’

‘I told you, laundry. Seems there’s a law in Switzerland against doing laundry on Sundays. One-hundred-franc fine, payable at my local post office within thirty days. You never had that problem?’

‘I send mine out.’

‘Right.’

She looked at him again. The lights in the trees softened the deep-cut lines around his eyes. No, not bad at all.

‘You know, speaking of odd, I was talking to Quasimodo before you got here.’

‘Who?’

‘You missed that part. These medieval players came with their bags of tricks. One guy was made up like a hunchback. Turned out to be a really good dancer. Anyway, he told me there’s a guy in the bell tower of the cathedral who carries a lantern and calls the time at night.’

‘You’re joking me.’

‘No, why?’

‘I thought I saw a light up there, a few nights ago.’

‘Well, that makes two of us. You’re supposed to make a wish when you see him, for good luck.’

‘Bit barking for the twenty-first century.’

‘I don’t know. I think it’s sweet.’

‘I suppose it is nice to have your very own cuckoo clock.’

Katherine broke into stoner giggles. Harper watched her.

‘Something wrong?’

‘No … well, yes. I mean no. It’s just that’s what I thought when I saw him once. Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo.’

He watched her giggle some more.

They sipped their drinks.

She felt his eyes.

‘You’re staring at me again, Harper.’

‘I’m sure you’re used to it, Miss Taylor.’

‘Is that your idea of a compliment?’

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

‘Then thanks, I suppose.’

The happy crowd broke into an oom-pah-pah chorus. A ditty about a farmer’s daughter and her many suitors. At the end of each chorus they touched their glasses together and downed their drinks in a single gulp. Refills were fast in coming. Harper and Katherine glanced at each other now and again, each time turning away their eyes like embarrassed strangers.

‘So, Harper, now that you’ve had a good look, I guess you know what I do in Lausanne.’

‘I have a fair idea. Regardless, I was out of line in the bar.’

‘Nah, I had it coming.’

‘Agreed. More
vin chaud
?’

She smiled. ‘Why not? I’m off tonight.’

‘That makes two of us.’

Harper took her glass for another round. And this time Katherine watched the way he moved, the dope giving her eyes an added sense of perception. He seemed to avoid physical contact with people. Not in a timid way, more as if keeping a lid on some fierce energy that might explode at any second. Watching him come back through the crowd with the drinks, Katherine thought if the African woman had his scent in a bottle it’d be labelled, ‘Rough, handle with care’. Only made her want to unscrew the cap and take a deep huff, then hold on for the ride. He stopped in front of her and held out a glass. ‘Now it’s you who’s staring, Miss Taylor.’

‘I was just wondering what lies beneath the surface.’

He reached into his mackintosh for his cigarettes.

‘Who, me?’

‘Yeah, what’s your story?’

Harper put a fag to his lips and lit up, drew in the smoke.

‘Nothing really. I was in London a few weeks ago, now I’m here.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Maybe when I settle into this town, I’ll come up with more. Just now it’s all a bit of a jumble.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Hmm what?’

‘Nothing, just plain old hmm.’ She sipped her wine, watching the fire, swaying to the music. ‘It’s nice they do all this at Christmas. It’s like living in a fairytale.’

Harper took a pull on his fag.

‘Few nights ago, before I saw you in the brasserie, I saw you getting out of a taxi and going into the hotel.’

‘So, you are the stalker type?’

‘Just ducking out of the rain, actually, and there you were. You were looking at the lights on the portico and giggling, like someone who believes in fairytales.’

Katherine felt another round of giggles bubble to the surface.

‘Wow, way too funny.’

‘Sorry?’

‘That’s exactly what I was thinking. Guess that makes you a psychic stalker, huh?’

‘I suppose it does.’

She sipped her wine, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

‘And what about you, you believe in fairytales, Harper?’

‘I’m sure I don’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Another one of those things that seems somewhat barking for the twenty-first century.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a party-pooper, Harper. Look around, Lausanne isn’t a town. It’s a magic place in a faraway land where everyone’s happy and a handsome man in a bell tower watches over fair maidens as they sleep.’

‘Whatever gets you through the night, Miss Taylor.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘Nothing. If you’re the sort that needs a fairytale to get through the night, fine.’

She almost took another sip of wine.

‘You know what? This does have a bit of a kick to it. I think I’ll be going.’

‘Something I said?’

‘More like something you are.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Someone who doesn’t believe in fairytales. Too bad, we were on a roll.’

‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Miss Taylor.’

Katherine handed him her glass.

‘Stoner babble, Harper, forget it. And thanks for the cigarette case. It was a gift from the bass player in a big-time rock band out of Dublin. Nice guy. He sprinkled pharmaceutical cocaine on my nipples and licked it off all night long, never touched me otherwise. And you know what he said all the time he was licking my tits? He said I was the fuck of the century.’

She turned, walked away.

Harper stared at the unfinished glasses in his hands, unable to decide which one to drink first. Desperately lonely or way out of his price range.

nine

Rochat finished the midnight rounds and blew out the lantern. He climbed through the timbers, squeezed around Marie-Madeleine and unlocked the winch shed. He reached in and pulled the lever to shut off the floodlamps on the esplanade. Of a sudden, the belfry and cathedral façade were cast in shadow. He shuffled to the south balcony, watched the waning moon atop the Alps. Looking as if it had bumped into one of the jagged peaks and got stuck. He watched moonlight reflect in the slow swirling surface of the lake.

‘The weather’s changing, Marie. I’m afraid we’ve lost the year to winter.’

The great bell didn’t answer. Rochat turned to her.

‘What’s wrong, Marie? You never miss a chance to disagree about the weather.’

He reached through the timbers, gently tapped the edge of her skirt, listened to her voice.

‘I know, I’ve been very distracted the last few days but I’m very sure I’m fine. I’m going in for a cup of tea now. You have a nice snooze, I’ll be back in an hour. Yes, yes. I promise.’

He went into the loge, took off his overcoat and hat, set the kettle to boil.

On the table a sketchbook lay open at his drawings of the loge. The funny-shaped walls built between the criss-cross timbers, the crooked ceiling with the brass candle lamp hanging down, all the candles set alight on the table and things on shelves. Bubbles rattled in the kettle, Rochat poured steamy water in a cup with tea and sugar and no milk.

‘With all your distractions you forgot to bring milk, Rochat. Tsk, tsk on you.’

He picked up the sketchbook, put three drawing pencils between his teeth and carried the cup of tea to the bed. He settled down and continued to draw, adding shadows and shades to the pictures. A radio lived in an oak wood box on the shelf above his bed. The radio was from before Monsieur Buhlmann times. It was the only radio Rochat had ever seen with names of cities instead of numbers to tell you what part of the air you were listening to. Tonight the dial was pointing to the air over Paris. A man said they would now hear Beethoven’s Second Symphony performed by the Orchestre de Paris under the baton of Daniel Barenboim. It was nearly time for the one o’clock bells when the music ended and the man thanked Rochat for listening and invited him to please tune in again for next week’s programme.

‘
Et merci à vous
, monsieur. And please thank Monsieur Barenboim and the Orchestre de Paris. And don’t forget Monsieur Beethoven.’

Rochat hopped from the bed, put on his overcoat and pulled his floppy hat down on his head. The carpentry groaned and cables stretched and Marie shook the loge with a single thunderous gong. He lit the lantern and shuffled to the east balcony. He waited for the great bell’s voice to begin to fade.

‘
C’est le guet! Il a sonné l’heure! Il a sonné l’heure
!’

He rounded the tower, north, west and south, each time raising the lantern and calling the hour. He looked out over Lausanne, all was well. He hung the lantern on the railings, opened the little brass door. A gust of wind curled through the timbers, found the flame and blew it out.

‘And thank you, Madame Souffle, for your performance, too.’

Thin clouds in the sky, weaving and racing between the stars and below the moon.

‘Look, Marie. It’s the stringy kind of clouds. That means snow is coming, the weather-teller machine in Ouchy was right.’

He reminded Marie of all the fun things to do when it snowed. Skating around the balconies over ice-covered stones. Standing on the open roof of the belfry to catch snowflakes on his tongue.

‘And there’ll be icicles on the gargoyles’ noses and we can break them off and eat them. The icicles, I mean.’

A light flashed above Rue Caroline, from the same window as the night before. Rochat pointed his eyes down to his boots and watched them shuffle along the balcony and into the loge. He pulled off his coat and hat and tossed them on the bed.

‘You have your duties, you can’t keep getting distracted by your imaginations.’

He went back to his sketchbook, trying to concentrate on his drawings. But no matter how hard he tried, his imaginations kept butting in.

‘But what if she isn’t an imagination of something that isn’t there? What if she’s an imagination of a real thing? Maybe that’s why the detectiveman is looking for her too, because he knows the angel is a real thing.’

He jumped from the bed, pulled the drawing of the woman’s face from his overcoat and looked at it.

‘That means this drawing is a very important clue.’

He tucked the drawing in his trouser pocket, took the binoculars from the closet and slipped them around his neck. He stepped out of the loge and tiptoed past Marie-Madeleine, hoping she was snoozing soundly enough to let him pass unnoticed. She was sleeping very soundly indeed. He dashed up the northeast turret to the upper balconies. He crawled into the carpentry and shimmied up the slanting timbers above La Lombarde. His crooked foot caught an iron peg, he lost his balance and fell from the timber. His hands caught a cross-beam and he was left dangling in the air, his right boot brushing the top of La Lombarde. She vibrated with surprise.

‘Sorry to disturb you, madame. No, no, nothing’s the matter, just solving a mysterious mystery, I think. Go back to sleep.’