by A. B. Decker
By now the resignation and flatness of expression in Ellen’s eyes had vanished. She was slowly becoming hooked on Marthe’s words.
“So, it makes me wonder whether the wild stories Frank would tell his mother – and perhaps his nightmares also – were memories of a past life. And if so,” Marthe speculated further, “whether these memories were triggered again when he came to Switzerland. Like a frontalier of the consciousness, crossing a very private, unknown frontier.”
Ellen now stared at Marthe, open-mouthed. She was lost for words.
“Of course, Urs would dismiss the whole idea as absurd.”
“So you haven’t spoken to him about it.”
“Of course not,” Marthe scoffed. “He can only consider tidy explanations.”
“Maybe you underestimate him,” said Ellen. “His refusal to accept his colleagues’ assessment of Stefan suggests his mind is not the straitjacket you imagine it to be.”
“As I’ve said before, Urs is a very decent man. All he could see was a tormented, abused boy who was not receiving good care. But he doesn’t have the imagination to consider anything beyond the boundaries defined by his profession.”
“And do you really think it possible that Frank might have been reliving memories of a past life?” Ellen asked.
“Why not?”
This improbable idea lodged in Ellen’s mind and would not be budged for the rest of the day, as her memory of Frank’s odd quirks came flooding back. The books that he would buy. The Bartok LP. And the strange deformity in the bridge of his nose. These images and the notion that they could be the shadows of a past life – the markers of some dark frontier that Frank had crossed – followed Ellen every step of her way to the mortuary.
To see him laid out, as if for some ritual event, was the strangest experience in what had become a whole catalogue of bizarre experiences for Ellen. It was plainly Frank, the man she had shared so much with in their short time together. The man she had known so well. But had she?
His face looked worn. Embattled with troubles completely alien to her. She was struck by the way the strangely buckled bridge of his nose appeared more prominent than ever. She recalled Frank telling of his father’s cruel description of this odd deformity: as if shot between the eyes at birth. And that was exactly the way it looked to her now as he lay on the slab. It underlined her sense that Frank seemed to have assumed an entirely new persona in his absence from her. It was unmistakably Frank. But was it really Frank in a past life? Was that deformity the mark of an injury sustained by a different Frank from the one she had known? It seemed an absurd idea. She almost preferred Dr Zellweger’s diagnosis of a psychosis.
“Yes,” she said, turning back to Kommissar Staehelin, who stood at a discreet distance behind her. “It’s my husband.”
For all his discretion, however, the Kommissar was a persevering man. And after the identification, he left Ellen no peace. He called her into an interview room.
“Please take a seat, Mrs Goss,” he said, beckoning her to one of four seats next to a table. Aside from the table and chairs, the room was bare. The spartan air lent a particularly cold edge to the Kommissar’s rasping voice, which made every word sound as if it was being dragged over a cheese grater as he spoke.
He was joined by a colleague from the drugs squad, and together they visited one preposterous theory after another on Ellen. Each one more nonsensical even than the idea that Frank may have been reliving a past life. She was glad that Marthe had insisted on staying with her for moral support. Perhaps it was the way the Kommissar reminded Ellen of her brother-in-law, Malcolm, which caused her to dislike the man so much with his moustache, white socks and black slip-on shoes.
The colleague from the drugs squad was no exception in this respect. And while she was being bombarded with their questions and assumptions, Ellen wondered what they could be so afraid of that they felt the need to make such a pathetic show of their manhood. What are they trying to prove? Ellen wondered. She imagined that Marthe would put it down to women finally winning the right to vote.
In the case of Kommissar Staehelin it was clear. He was burdened with the obligations of protocol. And the proofs he had to bring were all as neatly defined for him as the topiary trimmed so tidily across his upper lip.
Convinced that Frank had been mixed up in some international drug syndicate, the Kommissar was bent on getting every scrap of information she could offer him on Frank’s movements. Who his friends and acquaintances were. What his job was. What he did in his spare time. And although the whole scenario he painted appeared ludicrously far-fetched to Ellen, she could not deny the glint of metal in Frank’s hand. Or the witnesses: not only had a person matching his description been seen in the house a year ago; that person had even gunned one of them down. Apparently, he had also made off with a briefcase, which they thought probably belonged to the victim.
It was at this point in his account of events that the Kommissar became especially persistent, because they had failed to locate the missing briefcase, and they suspected it might contain crucial evidence that could help break the whole syndicate. So he wanted to know exactly what Frank had been carrying when she saw him. Did he have anything which might have fitted that description and might have fallen into the hands of a bystander, he wanted to know. And had she noticed anyone suspicious lurking nearby at the time (‘As if I might have been taking notes in my panic,’ she remarked to herself).
She had often wondered whether men with moustaches are so busy trying to cope with their complexes that they have no time to consider anyone else’s feelings. It was certainly plain to Ellen that the Kommissar did not even entertain the idea she might have any feelings at all. She began to think he actually suspected her of complicity.
Ellen had the impression that he thought she was lying through her teeth when she presented such a normal picture of Frank and their marriage. That he found it impossible to imagine she had not noticed anything odd about Frank’s behaviour before he disappeared – which of course she had, but surely nothing of any relevance that would interest the Kommissar.
It was Marthe who suggested that maybe Bill Plattner was connected with the whole story. And Ellen had to admit that, when she added up all the features of Frank’s relationship with him, the theory was not implausible. The man certainly had a strange influence on Frank – she recalled the time she found them together in Bill Plattner’s studio – and he always had plenty of money to throw around. His expensively renovated cottage was only the most obvious example. And it was after becoming friendly with him that Frank started acting so strangely. Maybe that’s what he meant by “reinventing” himself, she thought. Perhaps it really was the psychosis of drug abuse. Suddenly nothing seemed impossible any longer.
The Kommissar’s ears pricked up at this part of Ellen’s story. His eyes were alight with the excitement of making what he saw as a significant discovery. It was clear that he found the Bill Plattner connection plausible as well. At last Ellen had given him something he could get his teeth into, and for once her words had left him with a satisfied smile on his face. This gave her hope that it would be the last time she would be subjected to his tedious questioning. In the last months of searching, wondering and waiting, she had become so estranged from Frank and everything about him that the flat insistence of the Kommissar’s one-track mind struck her as a huge waste of time for both of them. And it irritated her intensely. She was thankful to Marthe for her inspiration, albeit it slightly worried by the trouble that might now be brewing for Bill Plattner. For deep down, Ellen was quite sure the man had nothing to do with drug dealing or mafia-style killings any more than Frank.
When Marthe and Ellen took their leave of the two policemen, Ellen hoped dearly that she would never have to see them again. All she wanted now was to put everything behind her and get on with her life. As they left the interview room and walked into the corridor, Marthe touched Ellen on the arm, as if to detain her for a moment, and turned back to th
e Kommissar. It was a short conversation, and Ellen could not understand a word of what was said.
“I expect you would like to take Frank’s body back to England with you,” Marthe suggested when she turned back to Ellen and they were walking down the corridor.
“I hadn’t really thought about that.”
“Well, the Kommissar just explained that it will be some time before they can release the body. He will contact us when they’ve completed the autopsy.”
They did not exchange another word as they walked out of the building and back to the car. Heavy clouds loomed over them. But when the first drop of rain caught Ellen in the eye, it barely registered. She remained deep in concentration. And Marthe had no wish to disturb her thoughts.
As they drove to the Zellwegers’ house on the Bruderholz hill overlooking the city, Ellen imagined Frank wandering these streets, walking by the Rhine. He was always so fascinated by rivers, she told herself. He would surely have loved it here.
“You know,” she said, turning to Marthe at the wheel, “I’m sure Frank never thought for one moment about what should happen to him after his death. We certainly never discussed it, except to agree that we would both prefer to be cremated than buried. But I can imagine he might have liked the idea of his ashes being cast into the Rhine and carried away into the North Sea.”
Marthe looked askance at Ellen.
“How much would a funeral cost here?” Ellen asked. The question met with a long pause as they stopped and waited for traffic lights to turn green.
“I have no idea,” Martha replied after some hesitation. “But I can find out for you, if you like.”
Ellen interpreted her words as an offer rather than a commitment. But as soon as they arrived back at the Zellwegers’ house, Marthe fished out the yellow pages and began to make enquiries.
Ellen wondered how she could possibly have managed without the help of Marthe. It was not simply the way she took the onus of helping to cope with all the questions from the police, organising the practicalities of the funeral arrangements and collecting all the necessary documentation. It was also the selfless friendship she offered.
When the police eventually released Frank’s body, and they were able to set about making concrete arrangements for the funeral, Marthe even took it upon herself to select the music for the service. She noticed a flicker of discomfort in Ellen’s expression at mention of the word ‘service’ and was reminded of her difficulty with religion and the problem she had when they visited the basilica the year before. Marthe reassured her that it would be a secular event held in a chapel at the cemetery.
But when it came to the music, Ellen could not imagine even a secular service would sit comfortably with Frank’s taste, which probably would have been Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd or, at best, Miles Davis. So she was grateful for the exquisitely ethereal piece from Erik Satie that Marthe selected. And she was certain that Frank would also have approved.
But at the last minute, just the day before the service, Marthe included another piece.
“It’s just been released,” she explained. “And when I heard it on the radio, it seemed the perfect choice to close the service.”
It was Vicky Leandros singing Après toi. Luxembourg’s entry for the Eurovision Song Contest, which sounded to Ellen like a fairly crass choice. But when Marthe played the song, she had to admit that it did seem perfect. It could have been especially written for the occasion.
Even the clouds in what seemed to be an otherwise perpetually overcast sky parted briefly on the walk up the monumental steps to the chapel. This unpretentious rectangular edifice at the end of a long arcade lit up briefly in the sun as they entered, as if to welcome them. The service itself was a modest affair. Only Marthe and Dr Zellweger were there with Ellen. And she knew that this quiet departure would have been exactly the way Frank wanted it.
It was not until Ellen saw the coffin disappear behind the curtains to the melody of Après toi that she was overcome with emotion. She had said goodbye a year ago, had seen him fall before her feet without a word only recently, and now she was watching the final moment of his obliteration. After all that she had been through since Frank left their flat over twelve months ago and her slow acceptance of the likelihood that she would never see him again, this moment did not come with the eviscerating sense of loss she would have originally expected. But still it was the most bitter moment of her life. The tears were unrelenting. Marthe held her hand, squeezing it until the music eventually faded.
As they were leaving the chapel, and Ellen slowly regained her composure, Marthe and her husband tried to persuade Ellen that one of the cemetery vaults would be the ideal place for the urn. But Ellen had got it into her head that Frank’s ashes should be dispersed into the Rhine and left to journey their way north. It was a proposal that drew a look of disapproval from Dr Zellweger.
“It’s not the kind of thing that is encouraged here,” Marthe explained in a whisper. “But I think it’s a very romantic idea. We will go together when Urs is in work.”
Dr Zellweger remained silent as they walked back down the steps from the cemetery to the car. And the quietus cast over that day was punctuated by the sound of the car doors closing with a thud.
Apart from that brief moment of sunshine in the cemetery, the sky remained overcast for the rest of the week. But it remained dry. And when Ellen was driven into town a few days later to cast Frank’s ashes into the Rhine, she detected a sense of spring in the air.
As they were approaching the bridge, Marthe’s attention was caught by a voice behind her.
“Salü Marthe!”
Marthe span round. And Ellen’s gaze followed. They came face to face with a man Ellen estimated to be about forty. She found him strikingly handsome, with dark eyes that had an intensely magnetic attraction and an engaging smile that would have made her heart leap, had she not had Frank’s ashes in her arms.
“Salü Jack,” Marthe said, and gave the man her hand. “This is Mrs Goss from England,” she added, switching to English for Ellen’s benefit. “Ellen, this is Jack Hruby.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” the man said in perfect English and gave Ellen his hand. He was carrying an object wrapped in a blanket. It looked to her like a picture.
“How is Anna?” Martha asked
“She’s well. We just got back from Locarno. We had a wonderful time, together with Esther. I think it did Anna a lot of good. She even persuaded me finally to get rid of this painting,” he said, lifting the blanket-covered object.
“Where are you taking it?” Martha asked.
“A gallery has offered to take it off my hands.”
“Can I see it?”
Jack rolled back the blanket to reveal a painting of a woman with long tresses of red hair that fell down over an emerald green dress.
“Lola,” he said. “It’s an old painting my mother bought in an auction here many years ago.”
“She’s beautiful,” Ellen chipped in, and was mesmerised by the smile in his eyes when he looked up at her.
“You should offer it to Urs. He would love it,” Martha said, then added with a knowing smile: “and we could then move your own painting to a more suitable location.”
“That’s a good idea,” Jack replied, returning the smile.
This brief exchange intrigued Ellen. It gave further nourishment to her suspicion that Marthe was one of the women in the painting on the wall of her lounge.
“Look, why don’t you take it with you now,” he continued, and handed it to Marthe, “and see what Urs thinks. If he likes it, he should make me an offer. It’s an unknown artist from the Twenties, so it’s probably not worth much. The gallery offered me 400 francs.”
“It was a pleasure meeting you,” he added, turning to Ellen to give her his hand, and then headed off in the direction he had come from.
“Come on,” Marthe said to Ellen, the painting now tucked under her right arm. She then locked her left arm around Ellen’s right and t
hey continued on their way.
When they reached the middle of the bridge, Ellen stopped and contemplated the river. Again, by what seemed to her to be the strangest of coincidences, the clouds briefly parted, allowing the sun to cast its sparkling light onto the water. All at once, a barge silently appeared from under the bridge, heading north. Ellen instantly thought of Frank’s mysterious words on Putney Bridge – ‘a boat, beneath a sunny sky’ – and smiled. Stooping down to take the urn from the bag she had been carrying, she felt Marthe’s cautionary hand on her arm.
Ellen looked up. The other side of Marthe, a few metres further along the bridge, stood an older woman, probably in her sixties, with a large scarf draped over her shoulders and a bag on her arm. She was staring over at Ellen with what Marthe took to be a disapproving curiosity.
“Not here,” Marthe said. “I think it best if we throw the ashes in from the side of the river, where it’s more discreet.”
She led Ellen back over the bridge and down some steps to a mooring point for boats. Here Marthe watched Ellen deep in contemplation before she slowly cast the ashes into the river, where they followed in the wake of the now distant barge until they disappeared from view.
It was on their way back up the steps that Marthe suggested Ellen take a few days’ break in Ticino before returning home.
“I’ve been thinking, Ellen. When Jack said he had just come back from Locarno, it occurred to me that this would be a perfect place for you to relax by the lake and take your mind off everything for a few days before you return to England.”
Ellen was not sure she needed any further reprieve from the reality of life without Frank. But when Marthe insisted that she would join her in a few days’ time, Ellen was persuaded.