The Watchers (23 page)

‘But, Marc, you’re having your supper.’

‘It was my lunch, monsieur, but I was very late getting home today. So now it’s my supper. Would you care to join me? It’s tuna-noodle casserole. Maman invented it before she died. And Teresa made a salad too.’

Monsieur Gübeli set his briefcase on the floor and sat down.

‘In that case, I’d be honoured to dine with you.’

Rochat set a plate, knife and fork before his guest. He almost sat down before remembering a serviette.

‘I don’t have wine, monsieur. Would you like Rivella? I have blue and red.’

‘Water’s fine, Marc, from the tap.’

Rochat filled two glasses, set them on the table. He cut a large serving from the casserole, careful to keep the crispy cracker bits on top, the way he liked it himself.

‘
Bon appétit
.’

‘
Bon appétit
, Marc.’

Rochat sat down. Monsieur Gübeli took his knife and fork and tasted a small bite …

‘Marc?’

Rochat turned to the old lady at the table. ‘
Oui, Grandmaman?
’

‘Boys who hide food in their trouser pockets should not expect sweets.’

‘But it tastes bad.’

Madame Rochat dropped her fork on her plate. She took her magnifying glass and inspected the grilled calf’s liver and onions on her plate.

‘Marc, you are untempered, but correct. I have no idea why I eat it. Other than my grandmaman ordered me to do so. No doubt her grandmaman told her the same rubbish.’

The old lady picked up a silver bell, gave it a fierce ring. The butler presented himself.

‘You rang, madame?’

‘Bernard, take this away and instruct the chef to strike it from the menu, for ever.’

‘
Oui, madame
.’

‘Advise him, in no uncertain terms, he may seek employment elsewhere if he objects.’

‘
Oui, madame
.’

‘You may bring dessert.’

‘
D’accord, madame
.’

The butler bowed, turned for the kitchen.

‘
Attendez
, Bernard. I believe Master Rochat must empty his pocket.’

Rochat pulled his serviette from his pocket, stained with bits of half-chewed calf’s liver. The butler collected it by his gloved fingertips.

‘And please, do not allow the chef to see it, Bernard. I don’t wish him slashing his wrists at my table in grief.’

‘
D’accord, madame
.’

‘Marc?’

Rochat turned his eyes from his grandmaman to Monsieur Gübeli.

‘
Pardon?
’

‘I was saying this is excellent. Very tasty.’

Rochat looked at Monsieur Gübeli’s serviette. It was folded neatly beside his plate.

‘You liked it?’

‘Very much. And your mother invented it, you say?’

‘We had it every Tuesday for lunch. I can tell you the recipe, I don’t think she’d mind. You need one can of tuna fish, some curly-kind pasta, some cream of mushroom soup and some saltine crackers to crumble and bake on top. I told Teresa the recipe and she makes it for me every Monday for my Tuesday lunch.’

They sat without speaking. Listening to the sound of the funicular train making its way up and down the hill to Lausanne.

‘It’s always refreshing to visit you, Marc. It was the same with your father.’

‘Really?’

‘Indeed it was. I’d come to his studio in Cossonay with business in mind and would end up sitting in silence for hours as he drew.’

‘I remember. Houses and buildings and things.’

‘And all by freehand, not a single ruler or drawing compass. He had an exceptional hand. His drawings for the renovation of Lausanne Cathedral were works of art. The originals are hanging in the Lausanne Museum.’

‘I go visit them sometimes. I can imagine Papa drawing them.’

‘I remember arriving many times at his studio to find you on his lap as he was working on them. Often with his hand over yours, teaching you to draw.’

‘I thought he was teaching me magic.’

‘I suppose he was, in a way. You’re a lucky young man, Marc. Your father gave you the gift of art and your mother gave you the gift of life, as well as her wonderful recipe for
la casserole de thon
. Now, before we lose all the time in the day, I’m afraid we have our own business to attend to.’

Rochat cleared the table, placing the dishes in the washing dishes machine, the way Teresa showed him. Then he took a dish towel and slapped crumbs from the table, the way Monsieur Dufaux did at Café du Grütli. Monsieur Gübeli took his briefcase from the floor and opened it, removing a stack of papers and cleaning his spectacles with a little cloth.

‘We’re coming to the end of the calendar year, Marc, and I wish to make several adjustments to the cash side of your investment portfolio. The dollar will fall significantly next year, leaving us with an excellent opportunity to profit in euros. After which we will convert to …’

‘
S’il vous plaît, monsieur
. Can I ask you something?’

‘Certainly.’

Rochat sat a minute, organizing the words in his head like arranging plates in the washing dishes machine.

‘Is it true?’

‘Is what true?’

‘The reason I was brought to Lausanne?’

‘I don’t understand, Marc.’

‘Last night, I imagined Monsieur Rannou at the cathedral. He was playing the organ, like when he was alive. He reminded me Maman told me there was a reason I was brought to Lausanne.’

Monsieur Gübeli stopped cleaning his spectacles and laid them on the table.

‘Are you having lots of imaginations, Marc?’

Rochat nodded his head.

‘Did you imagine someone just now, while we were eating?’

Rochat nodded again.

‘Whom?’

‘Grandmaman, at her house.’

‘Did she say anything to you about your mother or why you were brought to Lausanne?’

‘
Non
, she was asking Bernard the butler for dessert.’

‘Can you remember what else Monsieur Rannou told you, Marc?’

‘He said Lausanne was full of lost angels and …’

‘It’s all right. Take a moment and think carefully, Marc, did Monsieur Rannou say anything else to you?’

Rochat tapped his fingers on the table, thinking about it. At the same time Monsieur Booty appeared from wherever he was hiding and sat in the doorway, wondering if the tapping was an invitation to more food. Realizing it wasn’t, the beast rolled in a furry ball and went to sleep.

‘He said an angel will come to the cathedral and I needed to help the angel because they were only made of light. And he said that without me all the angels would be lost for ever.’

Monsieur Gübeli pushed the paperwork aside.

‘Marc, why don’t we have a cup of tea?’

Harper sat in Café de l’Évêché with his second pint.

He drank through number one reading the instructions on assembling a cardboard cathedral: ‘Construction of the Apostles’ porch (piece no: 111) requires gentle fingering. And don’t forget to fold the perforated edges to reinforce the turrets. The four half-buttresses must be placed respectively, in twos, behind the Apostles’ porch.’

Pint number two was spent thinking about his tour of the cathedral, the loopy nun’s prayer collection, one prayer in Russian. Long shot at best but the Doctor wanted to be kept informed. He dug his mobile from his mackintosh and dialled. Miss Barraud picked up.

‘How may I be of assistance, Mr Harper?’

‘I’d like to speak to the Doctor.’

Miss Barraud adopted her most officious tone, telling him the Doctor was in London and would be back Thursday, and reminding him that he had a meeting scheduled with the Doctor that day at ten. Please be prompt. Unless, of course, this was an emergency. Instructions were left to have you put through in event of an emergency. Is this an emergency, Mr Harper?

Harper stared at the Russian script on the Post-it note. Lots of well-formed flourishes and swirls, looking like some prayerful drivel written by a woman more than a drunk on the run.

‘No, it’ll wait for now. Thursday at ten then. And could you arrange for a Russian speaker at the meeting?’

‘I am the Doctor’s executive secretary, Mr Harper. Translators are requested through the administrator of personnel.’

She rang off. Harper closed his mobile.

An attractive young woman stood over him with a tray of drinks in her hands, her cardigan unbuttoned at the midriff. He was eye level with the ruby-coloured stone dangling from her belly button. The stone came closer as the young woman leaned over the table, reading the wrapper of the maquette.

‘You have visited the cathedral, monsieur?’

‘I have.’

‘You will be here for New Year’s Eve? The locals will burn it down.’

‘Sorry?’

She laughed with perfectly formed white teeth.

‘It is only a play. They put red lights among the bells and use fans to blow long streams of red cloth from the belfry. It looks very real. Everyone drinks champagne on the esplanade and waits for the midnight bells. It commemorates the time, centuries ago, when the cathedral was nearly destroyed by fire.’

‘Well, three cheers for the fire brigade.’

‘
Non
, it was a miracle. A heavy snow fell and put out the fire.’

‘Three cheers for miracles then.’ Harper took a swallow of beer, nodded out of the window towards the cathedral. ‘And judging from the looks of the place these days, it could use a few more. Looks to be crumbling at the edges.’

The waitress laughed again; the ruby hanging from her belly button bounced.

‘So you will make the maquette yourself, monsieur?’

‘I’m told it isn’t too complicated. Sort it with a bottle of decent Swiss red.’

‘I made mine in school when I was ten years old, with a glass of milk.’

She turned and left with her tray of drinks, stopping at different tables to make deliveries. Harper felt a bit of crumbling at the edges himself. Right, cathedral. Next step: ‘As you can see, the base of the tower is placed across the nave and the transept.’

Too much bloody effort. Give the damn thing away for Christmas. He ran through the possibilities. So far it was a list of one. Blondie of the diamond-studded cigarette case.

He removed a calling card from his wallet, slipped it inside the maquette. The cardboard toy was somewhat below her price range, but what the hell? He drank his beer, watched the waitress walk through the room some more. Switzerland, land of perfectly formed white teeth, bouncing belly-button rings, and sad sods trying to remember what it was like to be ten years younger.

He drank down the beer, signalled for another.

They waited for the tea to brew in the pot.

Monsieur Booty uncurled from his furry ball shape on the floor and jumped into Rochat’s lap. Rochat scratched the beast behind the ears. It closed its eyes and opened its jaws with a wide yawn. Rochat slipped his finger into the beast’s gaping mouth. The fat cat always fell for the same trick. Close eyes, yawn, close jaws on finger, always opening its eyes with an expression of complete surprise. Monsieur Gübeli smiled.

‘Such a curious animal, Marc.’

‘He likes to pretend he forgets things, but he’s only teasing. He knows he’s smarter than me.’

‘Smarter than you?’

‘From the accident when I was born.’

‘You had a difficult birth with many complications. We feared for your very life. But you survived, and you’ve grown into a fine young man.’

Rochat poured the tea, remembering Monsieur Gübeli liked his with milk and two lumps of sugar.

‘Marc, do you recall when you were a boy at Mon Repos School, you often had bad dreams and nightmares?’

Mon Repos School for Special Children. In the woods outside Lausanne. A big red-brick house. Children like him from all around the world.

‘I remember.’

‘You said you saw bad shadows, bad shadows your mother told you about.’

‘And sometimes, I imagined the bad shadows were killing her, and I was too afraid to stop them. Papa came to the school some nights to tell me it was all right, that the bad shadows couldn’t find me in Lausanne. And you too, when Papa was away.’

‘Marc, your mother’s death wasn’t your fault.’

‘I know, the doctors said it was cancer. But I remembered she told me she had to die because she couldn’t protect me any more and I needed to hide in Lausanne.’

Monsieur Gübeli took a sip of tea.

‘Marc, have you seen any of these bad shadows you imagined near the cathedral?’

‘Only teasing shadows, and an angel. I was very sure she was an imagination, but now I’m very sure she’s real.’

‘An angel?’

Rochat stood and shuffled down the hall. He found the folded paper in the pocket of his overcoat and brought it to the kitchen. He gave it to Monsieur Gübeli.

‘This is her.’

Monsieur Gübeli opened the paper.

‘My, she’s lovely. Did you see her in the cathedral last night, with Monsieur Rannou?’

‘
Non
, I saw her in a window in Lausanne and I thought she was only an imagination too. But then I saw her at the funicular station at Gare Simplon. She talked to me.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She asked me if I had a light for her cigarette. Then I followed her to a bar in a hotel. I think she’s lost.’

Monsieur Gübeli laid the drawing on the table so they both could see it.

‘It’s a beautiful drawing, Marc, she appears to breathe on the paper.’

‘Because I was inspired from the angels in Lausanne.’

‘Marc …’

‘Is it true, monsieur? Is Lausanne full of lost angels? Do they need to hide in the cathedral? They need me to help them very soon. Is it true, monsieur?’

Monsieur Gübeli pulled his eyes from the drawing. Rochat was rocking back and forth in his chair, his eyes losing focus.

‘Relax, Marc, breathe very slowly. Try blinking your eyes, Marc. You know it calms you.’

Rochat took a long slow breath and slowly blinked the way they taught him at Mon Repos School. He stopped rocking, turned his eyes to Monsieur Gübeli. Monsieur Gübeli touched Rochat’s hand.

‘I’m OK now.’

‘Marc, I know the doctors give you medications.’