The Girl, the Dog and the Writer in Lucerne (The Girl, the Dog and the Writer, #3)

by Katrina Nannestad

  The girl, the dog and the writer stared, smiling. At least, Freja and Tobias were smiling. Finnegan was licking his own nose, making sure to reach right up into his nostrils.

  ‘It’s the prettiest building I’ve ever seen!’ cried Freja.

  ‘It’s jolly, that’s for sure,’ agreed Tobias. ‘Shall we go in?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Freja.

  ‘You stay here, Finnegan,’ said Tobias, patting the dog on the head.

  Finnegan wagged his tail, licked Tobias’ hand, then trotted down the street towards a butchery.

  Stepping through the door, Freja was delighted to see that Leckerbissen was every bit as pretty inside as out. One of the walls was even painted with the same rambling vines, but here, bears, cuckoo clocks and a life-sized cow also nestled in its branches.

  One half of the shop was dedicated to displaying as much chocolate as possible. A long wide table and an entire wall of shelves were filled with plates and trays and bowls of chocolates — small chocolates piled into pyramids, wide thin slabs of chocolate stacked like timber, chocolate eggs and buttons and balls filling bowls to overflowing. None of the chocolate was covered but open to the air and free to be poked or licked as the fancy might strike. A second table was covered in cake stands laden with chocolate biscuits, chocolate tarts, chocolate éclairs, chocolate cupcakes and large chocolate gâteaux that were decorated with all manner of curls and flowers and spikes and leaves, all made, of course, from chocolate!

  The other side of the shop, the one with the vine-covered wall, was set up as a café. Round marble tables and black spindle-back chairs stood in two neat rows. A dozen customers sat, sipping mugs of hot chocolate, nibbling truffles, gobbling forkfuls of cake. Conversation was quiet and muffled and seemed to consist mainly of murmurs: ‘Mmmm-mmm!’ and ‘Ooooh!’ and ‘Aaaah!’ High above, four enormous chandeliers dripped with glass pears and porcelain bluebirds in place of the usual crystals.

  At the back of the shop was a glass wall through which the kitchen and all of its chocolatey melting and moulding and baking and making could be viewed. Two men and a woman dashed about, their white aprons flapping, their chocolate-smeared fingers wriggling, their faces smiling.

  Of course they’re smiling, thought Freja. Who wouldn’t be happy to work in such a place?

  ‘My word!’ gasped Tobias. ‘Look at the size of that block of chocolate back there in the kitchen! Why, it’s so big one could hide something truly ghastly inside.’ Taking a pencil and notebook from his trouser pocket, he began to write, muttering, ‘Chocolate . . . thick and heavy . . . concealing a gun . . . or a knife . . . or a hand grenade . . .’ He stopped writing, stared at the ceiling and scratched his head with the point of his pencil. His face broke into a grin and he wrote once more. ‘Body parts!’

  ‘What about the smell?’ asked Freja.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think the body parts would smell when concealed in chocolate! No, no, no. They would be nicely sealed in — every bit as snug as if they were popped into an airtight container.’

  ‘Not the body parts,’ sighed Freja. Tobias drifted off into the world of his crime writing at the strangest of moments. ‘I’m talking about the delicious smell of this shop, Leckerbissen!’

  Tobias stared at her for a moment. He blinked, tucked his pencil behind his ear and stuffed the notebook back in his pocket. He nodded, shut his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose. ‘Mmmm! A symphony of aromas!’

  Freja smiled and shut her own eyes. She lifted her nose a little and sniffed. Once. Twice. Three times. ‘Everything good is here,’ she said. ‘Warm sweet milk, bittersweet cocoa, caramel vanilla, coffee toffee, creamy truffle, truffley cream, dusty hazelnuts, walnutty butter, almonds and joy.’

  ‘Herzlich Willkommen!’

  Freja’s eyes flew open. A pleasantly plump woman stepped through the glass door from the kitchen into the shop. She had silver-blonde hair tucked up into a white scarf and wore a large white apron. She held a bowl of melted chocolate in the crook of her arm and was stirring it with a wooden spoon. Her smile was broad with a trace of chocolate in the corners.

  Freja smiled back. ‘Hello. I mean, guten Tag.’

  ‘Ah. You are English,’ said the woman, and she continued to speak with a wonderful German accent that rumbled and rolled and turned w’s into v’s and many other sounds into z’s. ‘You are warmly welcomed to Leckerbissen. That means titbit. Yummy stuff. You sound like a true lover of the chocolate, ja? You have a nose for the aromas! A heart for the joy!’

  Freja blushed. ‘I do like chocolate,’ she whispered.

  The woman smiled. ‘I, too, like the chocolate. Nein! That is a big fat lie. I lo-o-o-ove the chocolate! I live for the chocolate! Which is why I am a chocolatier and the owner of Leckerbissen. My name is Frau —’

  ‘Niederhauser,’ finished Tobias. ‘We know of you already because our friend Vivi is arriving tomorrow to work with you.’ Tobias blushed and his mouth twitched into a silly grin.

  ‘Ah, Vivi!’ cried the chocolatier. ‘The Italian chef who is coming from France to Switzerland. Delightful! And you are . . . ?’

  Tobias stepped forward. ‘I am Tobias Appleby.’ He offered his hand for a shake, then realised that the woman’s hands were already full. They both laughed.

  Frau Niederhauser held out her wooden spoon and said, ‘In Switzerland, a slurp of melted chocolate is every bit as good as a handshake. Here! Taste this.’

  So Tobias did! He leaned forward and slurped straight from the spoon. He licked his lips and grinned. ‘Sensational!’ he cried. Chocolate smeared outward from the corners of his mouth making his smile wider — and browner — than usual.

  Frau Niederhauser nodded her approval and held the spoon towards Freja.

  Freja stepped forward, ran her finger through the melted chocolate and licked it. ‘Mmmm! Delicious!’ She sighed. ‘I’m Freja Peachtree. And I’m extremely pleased to meet you and your chocolate.’

  Frau Niederhauser laughed and plopped the spoon back into the bowl.

  ‘But our germs!’ cried Freja.

  ‘It is not a problem,’ said the woman. ‘We have no germs that matter. This chocolate is the highest quality in the world. Good chocolate is powerful. It can overcome the most sinister of germs. It has the capacity to heal the body, to improve the memory, to soothe the soul and to mend the broken heart! Ask anyone in Switzerland and they will tell you the same. We are great believers in the chocolate!’

  Waving her hand to indicate the tables of chocolates and cakes, she cried, ‘We do not cover any of our chocolate here in Leckerbissen. The fragrance must be allowed to float and roam and tickle the noses of our customers. Precisely as it has yours. And if someone should poke or squeeze, dribble or lick, we do not become hysterical. Nobody has ever complained that my chocolate has made them ill. The only comments I am given are of how delicious, how soothing, how transforming are my chocolate delights!’ She popped her large stirring spoon into her mouth and pulled it out with a slurp. She smiled widely, her lips now thickly coated in dark chocolate.

  Freja beamed back at her.

  ‘Mami! We are ready!’ A tall, thin man poked his head from the kitchen door. His apron and chef’s cap were spotlessly clean, shining in their whiteness, but his smiling face was smeared with chocolate.

  ‘Ah, François-Louis!’ cried Frau Niederhauser. ‘Come! Come! You must meet our customers. They are friends of the chef, Vivi, who arrives tomorrow — Tobias Chocolatey and Freja Sweet-tea.’

  Freja giggled.

  ‘This,’ said Frau Niederhauser, inflating with pride, ‘is my oldest son, François-Louis. He is named after the great François-Louis Cailler, the Swiss gentleman who invented the first ever chocolate bar in 1819.’

  François-Louis’ smile stretched even wider. He clicked his heels and gave a bow of his head.

  A second tall, thin man, dressed also in a white chef’s hat and apron, poked his head over François-Louis’ shoulder.

  ‘And this,
’ cried Frau Niederhauser, ‘is my second son, Daniel. He is named after the great Daniel Peter, son-in-law of François-Louis Cailler and the Swiss gentleman who invented milk chocolate.’

  Daniel stepped to the side of his brother, clicked his heels and bowed. Then he reached out, grabbed a large round chocolate from the top of a pile, popped it into his mouth and smiled, lips closed, cheek bulging.

  Freja smiled back, deciding that she liked Daniel and François-Louis already.

  ‘Spiffing!’ cried Tobias. ‘It must be a delight to have both your sons working with you as chocolatiers.’

  Frau Niederhauser frowned. ‘But of course! What else would they want to do with their lives? François-Louis is a sculptor of chocolate and Daniel is the master of fillings. They are the best in their fields — the best in all of Switzerland.’

  ‘François-Louis is the best chocolate sculptor in the world!’ cried Daniel. ‘Wait until you see what he has created this week!’

  The two young men ducked back into the kitchen, disappearing behind a tall stand filled with bowls and chocolate moulds and piping bags.

  François-Louis poked his head back into sight and yelled, ‘Close the eyes, Freja Sweet-tea and Tobias Chocolatey!’

  Frau Niederhauser raised her eyebrows and nodded at the girl and the writer. So they closed their eyes.

  When, finally, they were instructed, ‘Now open the eyes,’ they were not disappointed. In the middle of the shop, right in front of them, stood a life-sized cow, sculpted completely from chocolate. The cow’s head was crowned with a wreath of chocolate flowers, a chocolate bell hung from her neck and she stood in a chocolate meadow dotted with white chocolate edelweiss.

  The customers in the café all rose from their seats and gathered around. They oohed and aahed, then broke into a round of applause. Freja and Tobias joined in.

  François-Louis beamed. He held out the corners of his apron, curtseyed and said, ‘Danke! Danke!’ over and over again.

  Daniel held up his hand and cried, ‘But wait! There is more!’ Ducking back into the kitchen, he returned with a tottering stack of golden boxes which he placed on the edge of the table. Removing the topmost box, he opened its lid to reveal a miniature chocolate cow, no bigger than a kitten but an exact replica of François-Louis’ life-sized cow.

  ‘And the filling, Daniel?’ asked Frau Niederhauser, her cheeks glowing with pride.

  ‘Cream of caramel cow!’ Daniel announced. ‘A new caramel made with Swiss butter, pure cream from Herr Keller’s dairy, brown sugar from the Caribbean that is so dark it is almost black, and . . .’ He stopped and gave a cheeky grin. ‘Well, if I told you about the final ingredients, I would have to kill you all because it is a secret.’

  The customers chuckled, then began to push and shove and rush to the table to grab a golden box with one of the cows.

  Freja smiled up at Tobias. ‘Clementine loves cows,’ she whispered.

  ‘And chocolate,’ said Tobias.

  ‘And caramel,’ added Freja.

  ‘Gift sorted!’ cried Tobias.

  Ten minutes later, they left the store with a chocolate cow in a gold box, a cellophane bag of chocolate buttons tied at the top with a pink satin bow and a large square box of chocolate truffles tied up with a turquoise ribbon the colour of the River Reuss.

  Finnegan was waiting for them outside the door, sauerkraut, melted cheese and shreds of newspaper tangled in his fur. He had, it seemed, found some rubbish bins to raid while waiting for them. He grinned and dribbled on Freja’s boot. Freja pulled a string of melted cheese from behind his ear.

  Tobias looked at his watch. ‘It’s time,’ he said.

  Freja’s heart skipped a beat. But whether it was from joy or fear she could not quite tell.

  CHAPTER 4

  Knowing

  The clinic sat on the hill above the town, right in front of the old city wall. The building had once been a mansion, the home of a wealthy merchant, but was now a home for the sick.

  The girl and the dog sat on the deep stone steps at the front while Tobias went inside to get directions.

  Freja began to shake.

  She wrapped her arms around Finnegan and pulled him close. His enormous body felt familiar and warm, but still she shook.

  It wasn’t the cold oozing up from the steps and through her overalls. Nor was it the breeze. It was something altogether different. But what, Freja could not say.

  ‘Good view,’ she muttered to Finnegan. Although she knew that the dog couldn’t care less about the picture-postcard view before them. He was simply glad to be hugged.

  ‘Lovely, lovely view,’ murmured Freja, and she let her gaze run down the hill, across the rooftops of the old town, along Lake Lucerne and up the rocky slopes of the distant Alps. She imagined hiking along the top of the mountains, meeting ibex and marmots along the way. It was meant to be a distraction, but it didn’t work. She still shook.

  Freja looked up over her shoulder at one of the watchtowers of the old city wall. It was sturdy and square with a giant clock on the front. She wondered about the clock. Why was it there? Did the guards need to know when it was time to break for a cup of tea and a biscuit? Or in Switzerland it would be a mug of coffee and a chunk of chocolate. She forced herself to laugh, but it caught in her throat and, still, she shook.

  Finnegan nibbled at the strap of her overalls.

  ‘Clementine’s in there,’ Freja whispered. ‘In the clinic. In a bed, I suppose.’

  The dog replied by poking his enormous, wet tongue into Freja’s earhole.

  ‘Clementine’s my mother,’ she murmured. ‘The one you met in London.’ And she shook even more violently, her teeth now starting to chatter.

  ‘Okay, old chap?’ Tobias appeared beside her. ‘I now know exactly where Clementine is situated — both floor and room. And they do allow dogs, as long as they’re clean and keep their cold noses and slobbery tongues to themselves.’

  Both girl and writer stared at the sauerkraut tangled up in Finnegan’s fur. Freja wrinkled her nose.

  ‘So this is what we’ll do,’ said Tobias. ‘I’ll take Finnegan into town to the pooch parlour for a shampoo and a blow-dry while you go in and spend some special time alone with Clementine. And when Finnegan is as clean as a whistle, as pretty as a picture and as fresh as a daisy, we shall return.’

  Freja felt a large lump form in her throat. She tried to swallow, but couldn’t quite manage. ‘You mean that I should see Clementine all on my own?’ she whispered. ‘Right now? Without you?’

  ‘But of course!’ cried Tobias. ‘It’s you who she’s longing to see more than anyone else on earth!’

  ‘But . . . but . . .’ Freja stood, but her knees knocked so hard she thought she might tumble down the steps.

  Tobias beamed at her. ‘You are a treasure, Freja Peachtree. A priceless treasure. Clem will be ever so pleased to have you with her once more.’ He started down the steps with Finnegan, then stopped. ‘Third floor, room five,’ he called back over his shoulder and then he was gone.

  Freja crept through the front door and along the hallway. It seemed impossibly long and, when she got to the end, the staircase seemed ridiculously steep and dark. Slowly, fearfully, she climbed the stairs — six long flights, two for each floor. On reaching the third floor, she took a deep breath and walked along the corridor, whispering the room numbers as she passed the doors. ‘One . . . two . . . three . . . storeroom . . . four . . .’ She stopped before she got to room five. Leaning against the wall she said a little prayer. A prayer that she had said many times before — in Rome, in Claviers, in churches, by a river: ‘Please God, make Clementine well.’ And this time, she added an extra bit, ‘And if she is not, please God, make me brave.’

  Freja reached out, grabbed the door frame with her fingers and squeezed until her knuckles turned white. She inched her body closer to her hand, then slid her head along the wall until just one eye could see into the room.

  Light streamed through a huge wi
ndow, and Freja could see the same delightful view of Lucerne, the lake and the Alps that had been visible from the steps. Along the side wall were two beds. The beds were made up with crisp white linen, but both seemed to be empty. The sheets and blankets were far too smooth and flat.

  Freja poked her head further around the door frame and stared.

  Clementine was not there.

  And if Clementine was not there, where on earth was she?

  ‘Freja?’ A voice came from somewhere in the room. ‘Freja, is that you?’

  The sheets on one of the beds moved — a mere flutter — and a head lifted a little from the pillow. The head was bandaged right down over the eyes.

  Freja held her breath. She stepped into the room. She stood and stared, open mouthed.

  ‘Freja?’ said the mouth below the bandage.

  Freja’s heart thumped so hard she thought it might burst through her chest.

  ‘I thought it was Freja,’ whispered the voice and the head flopped, defeated, back onto the pillow. ‘I miss my precious girl.’

  And with those last three words — ‘my precious girl’ — Freja’s heart stopped thumping, her knees stopped shaking and her body became strong and sure once more.

  ‘Clementine,’ she whispered. Then louder, more surely, she cried, ‘Mummy Darling Heart!’ and ran across the room and into her mother’s embrace.

  It couldn’t be denied that the arms were weaker, the breath shallower, the ribs sharper than they used to be, but still, the hug felt right. It was the place where Freja belonged. Here, she felt safer, more loved, more completely herself, than anywhere else in the world.