‘Don't all houses have chimneys?’
‘They do now, but long ago it was unusual. None of the farms in this region had chimneys.’
‘What happened to the smoke?’
‘There was a false ceiling, and the smoke gathered between that and the roof. The farmers hung their meat up there to dry.’
It sounded appalling. ‘Wouldn't the house have been smoky? And dirty?’
Jacob chuckled. ‘Probably. There's a farm in Grand Val itself without a chimney. I've been inside and the hearth and the ceiling above the fire are completely black with soot. But the Tournier farm, if it is a Tournier farm, isn't like that. It has a kind of chimney.’
‘When was it built?’
‘Seventeenth century, I think. Maybe the end of the sixteenth. The chimney, that is. The rest of the farm has been rebuilt several times, but the chimney has remained. In fact, the local historical society bought the farm a few years ago.’
‘So it's empty now? Can we go see it?’
‘Of course. Tomorrow, if it's a nice day. I don't have any students until late in the afternoon. Now, where are those phone numbers?’
I explained what I wanted, then left him to it while I went for a walk. There wasn't much left to see of Moutier that Jacob hadn't already shown me, but it was nice to walk around and not be stared at. After three days here people even said hello to me first, the way no one ever did in Lisle-sur-Tarn after three months. They seemed to be more polite and less suspicious than the French.
I did find one new thing as I zigzagged through the streets: a plaque announcing that Goethe had slept at the Cheval-Blanc inn on that spot one night in October 1779. He'd mentioned Moutier in a letter, describing the rock formations surrounding it, in particular an impressive gorge just to the east of town. It was a stretch to put up a plaque commemorating one night spent there: that was how little had happened in Moutier.
I turned from the plaque to find Lucien coming toward me, carrying two cans of paint. I had a feeling he'd been watching me and only now picked up the cans and moved.
‘Bonjour,’ I said. He stopped and set down the cans.
‘Bonjour,’ he replied.
‘Ça va? ’
‘Oui, ça va.’
We stood awkwardly. I found it hard to look straight at him because he was looking so hard at me, searching my eyes for something. His attention was the last thing I needed right now. That was probably why he was drawn to me. He was certainly fascinated by my psoriasis. Even now he kept glancing at it.
‘Lucien, it's psoriasis,’ I snapped, secretly pleased to be able to embarrass him. ‘I told you that the other day. Why do you keep looking at it?’
‘I'm sorry.’ He looked away. ‘It's just that – I get it myself sometimes. In the same place on my arms. I always thought it was an allergic reaction to paint.’
‘Oh, I'm sorry!’ Now I felt guilty, but still irritated with him, which made me feel even more guilty. A vicious circle.
‘Why haven't you seen a doctor?’ I asked more gently. ‘He'd tell you what it is and give you something to put on it. There's a cream – I left it at home or I'd use it now.’
‘I don't like doctors,’ Lucien explained. ‘They make me feel – maladjusted.’
I laughed. ‘I know what you mean. And here – in France, I mean – they prescribe so many things. Too many things.’
‘Why do you get it? The psoriasis?’
‘Stress, they say. But the cream isn't bad. You could just ask the doctor to –’
‘Ella, will you have a drink with me one night?’
I paused. I should nip this in the bud: I wasn't interested and it was inappropriate, particularly now. But I'd always been bad at saying no. I wouldn't be able to bear the look on his face.
‘OK,’ I said finally. ‘In a couple of days, all right? But Lucien –’
He looked so happy that I couldn't go on. ‘It's nothing. Some night this week, then.’
When I returned Jacob was playing again. He stopped and picked up a scrap of paper. ‘Bad news, I'm afraid,’ he said. ‘The records at Berne go back only to 1750. At Porrentruy the librarian told me the parish records for the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries were lost in a fire. There are some military lists you could look at, though. That is where my grandfather got his information, I think.’
‘Probably your grandfather found everything there was to find. But thanks for calling for me.’ Military lists were no use – it was the women I was interested in. I didn't tell him that.
‘Jacob, have you heard of a painter named Nicolas Tournier?’ I said instead.
He shook his head. I went to my room and got the postcard I'd brought with me.
‘See, he came from Montbéliard,’ I explained, handing him the card. ‘I just thought he could be an ancestor. A part of the family that moved to Montbéliard, maybe.’
Jacob looked at the painting and shook his head. ‘I've never heard of there being a painter in the family. Tourniers tended to have practical occupations. Except for me!’ He laughed, then turned serious. ‘Ah, Ella, Rick called while you were out.’
‘Oh.’
He looked embarrassed. ‘He asked me to tell you he loves you.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’ I looked down.
‘You know you can stay with us as long as you want. As long as you need to.’
‘Yes. Thanks. We have – there are some problems. You know.’
He said nothing, just gazed at me, and for a moment I was reminded of the couple on the train. Jacob was Swiss, after all.
‘Anyway, I'm sure everything will be fine soon.’
He nodded. ‘Until then you stay with your family.’
‘Yes.’
* * *
Once I'd said something to Jacob about Rick and me I no longer felt like I had to justify being there. It rained the next day so we put off our trip to the farm, and I felt comfortable sitting around all day reading and listening to Susanne and Jacob play. That night we ate at the pizzeria that had once been a Tournier inn but now felt decidedly Italian.
The next morning we all went to see the farm. Susanne had never been to it, though she'd lived in Moutier most of her life. At the east edge of town we took a path clearly marked with a yellow sign proclaiming it a ‘Pédestre tourisme ’ and telling us it would take forty-five minutes to walk to Grand Val. Only in Switzerland do they say how long a walk should take rather than how far it is. To our left was the beginning of the limestone gorge Goethe had written about: a dramatic wall of yellow-grey rock extending from mountains on either side, crumbled in the centre to allow the Birse to pass through. It was impressive with the sun shining on it; it reminded me of a cathedral.
The valley we followed was gentler, with a nameless stream and a railroad track along the bottom, fields on the lower slopes, then pines and a sudden steep incline into rocks high above us. Horses and cows grazed in the fields; farms appeared at regular intervals. It was all neat, in clean lines and bright, sharp light.
The men walked briskly together while Susanne and I followed. She was wearing a blue-green sleeveless tunic and loose white pants that billowed around her slim legs. She looked pale and tired, her cheerfulness tacked on. I knew from the way she kept a certain distance from Jan and glanced at me guiltily that she hadn't told him yet.
We lagged further and further behind the men, as if we were about to say something private to each other. I shivered, though it was a warm, sunny day, and wrapped Jean-Paul's blue shirt around me. It smelled of smoke and of him.
Jacob and Jan stopped where the path forked, and as we reached them Jacob pointed to a house a little way above us, near the point where the fields stopped and the trees began to climb into the mountains. ‘That's the farm,’ he said.
I don't want to go, I thought. Why is that? I glanced at Susanne. She was looking at me and I knew she was thinking the same thing. The men started up the hill, while she and I stood looking at their backs.
‘C'mon,’
I gestured to Susanne, and turned to follow the men. She came slowly behind me.
The farm was a long low structure, the left side a stone house, the right a wooden barn. The two sides were held under one long shallow roof and shared a gaping entrance that led to a dim porch like area Jacob said was called a devant-huis. A kind of porch, it was strewn with straw and bits of lumber and old buckets. I'd thought that the historical society would have done something to preserve it, but the place was slowly falling apart: the shutters were askew, the windows broken, and moss was growing on the roof.
Jacob and Jan stood admiring the farm, while Susanne and I looked at our feet. ‘See the chimney?’ Jacob pointed to a strange lumpy formation poking up from the roof – nothing like the neat line of stone up one wall that I'd expected. ‘It's made of limestone, you see,’ Jacob explained. ‘Soft stone, so they used a kind of cement to shape and harden it. Most of the chimney is inside rather than up the outside wall. Let's go in and you'll see the rest.’
‘Is it open?’ I asked reluctantly, wanting there to be a lock on the door, a sign saying ‘Propriété privée ’.
‘Oh, yes, I've been in before. I know where the key is hidden.’
Damn, I thought. I couldn't explain why I didn't want to go inside; after all, we had come here for my sake. I could feel Susanne looking at me helplessly, as if I were the one who had to stop everything. It was like we were being dragged inside by a cool male logic we couldn't fight. I held out my hand to her. ‘Come,’ I said. She put her hand in mine. It was ice-cold.
‘Your hand is cold,’ she said.
‘Yours too.’ We smiled grimly at each other. I felt like we were two little girls in a fairytale as we entered the house together.
It was dim inside, with only the light from the door and a couple of narrow windows to see by. As my eyes adjusted I was able to make out more lumber and some broken chairs lying on the packed dirt floor. Just inside the door was a blackened hearth, jutting lengthwise into the room rather than laid parallel to the wall. At each corner of the hearth stood a square stone pillar about seven feet high, supporting arches of stone. Leading up from the arches was the same lumpy construction as outside, an ugly but serviceable pyramid to channel out the smoke.
I let go of Susanne's hand and stepped onto the hearth so I could look up the chimney. It was black above me; even when I stood on tiptoe, holding onto a pillar and craning my neck, I couldn't see an opening. ‘Must be blocked,’ I murmured. I felt dizzy suddenly, lost my balance and fell hard into the dirt.
Jacob was next to me in a second, giving me a hand up and brushing me off. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, concern in his voice.
‘Yes,’ I replied shakily. ‘I – I lost my balance, I think. Maybe the stone isn't even.’
I looked around for Susanne; she was gone. ‘Where's –’ I started to say before a sharp pain jabbed at my stomach, propelling me past Jacob and outside.
Susanne was doubled over in the yard, arms crossed over her abdomen. Jan stood next to her, speechless and staring. As I put my arm around her shoulder she gasped and a bright red flower appeared on the inner thighs of her pants, spreading rapidly down her leg.
For a second I panicked. Holy Mother, I thought, what do I do? Then I had a sensation I hadn't felt in months: my brain switched over to automatic, a familiar place where I knew exactly who I was and what I had to do.
I put both arms around her and said softly, ‘Susanne, you must lie down.’ She nodded, bent her knees and slumped forward in my arms. I lowered her carefully onto her side, then glanced up at Jan, still frozen in place. ‘Jan, give me your jacket,’ I commanded. He stared at me until I repeated myself loudly. He handed me his tan cotton jacket, the kind I associated with old men playing shuffleboard. I stuffed it under Susanne's head, then took off Jean-Paul's shirt and draped it over her like a blanket, covering her bloody groin. A red patch began to seep outward on the shirt's back. For a second I was mesmerized by the two colours, made the more beautiful by contrasting with each other.
I shook my head, squeezed Susanne's hand and leaned toward her. ‘Don't worry, you're all right. Everything will be OK.’
‘Ella, what is happening?’ Jacob was towering over us, his long face screwed up with worry. I glanced at Jan, still paralyzed, and made a quick decision. ‘Susanne has had a–’
What a time for my French to fail me; Madame Sentier had never prepared me for using words like miscarriage. ‘Susanne, you must tell them. I don't know the word in French. Can you do that?’
She looked at me, eyes full of tears. ‘All you have to do is say it. That's all. I'll do the rest.’
‘Une fausse couche,’ she murmured. The two men stared at her, bewildered.
‘Now,’ I said evenly. ‘Jan, do you see that house down there?’ I pointed to the nearest farm, a quarter of a mile down the hill. Jan didn't respond until I spoke his name again, sharply this time. Then he nodded.
‘Good. Now, run there, quickly, and use their telephone to call the hospital. Can you do that?’
Finally he snapped out of it. ‘Yes, Ella, I will hurry to that farm for to telephone the hospital,’ he said.
‘Good. And ask the people at the farm if they can help us with their car, in case an ambulance can't come. Now go!’ The last word was like a whip cracking. Jan crouched down, touched the ground with one hand and took off like he was in a playground race. I grimaced. Susanne has to get rid of this guy, I thought.
Jacob had knelt next to Susanne and placed his hand on her hair. ‘Will she be all right?’ he asked, trying to muffle his desperation.
I addressed my answer to Susanne. ‘Of course you'll be all right. It probably hurts a little now, yes?’
Susanne nodded.
‘That will stop soon. Jan has gone to call an ambulance to come and get you.’
‘Ella, this is my fault,’ she whispered.
‘No. It's not your fault. Of course it's not your fault.’
‘But I didn't want it and maybe if I had this wouldn't have happened.’
‘Susanne, it's not your fault. Women have miscarriages all the time. You didn't do anything wrong. You had no control over this.’
She looked unconvinced. Jacob was staring at the two of us like we were speaking in Swahili.
‘I promise you. It's not your fault. Believe me. OK?’
Finally she nodded.
‘Now, I need to examine you. Will you let me look at you?’
Susanne held my hand tighter and tears began to roll down the side of her face. ‘Yes, it hurts, I know, and you don't want me to look, but I have to, to make sure you're all right. I won't hurt you. You know I won't hurt you.’
Her eyes darted to Jacob, then back to me; I understood. ‘Jacob, take Susanne's hand,’ I ordered, transferring her thin hand into his. ‘Help her onto her back and sit here next to her.’ I positioned him so he was facing her and couldn't see what I was doing.
‘Now, talk to her.’ Jacob looked at me helplessly. I thought for a moment. ‘Do you remember you told me you have one good student of piano? Who plays Bach? What will he play for the next concert? And why? Tell Susanne about him.’
For a second Jacob looked lost; then his face relaxed. He turned to Susanne and began to speak. After a moment she relaxed as well. Trying to move her as little as possible, I managed to wriggle her pants and underwear down her legs far enough to get a look, mopping up the blood with Jean-Paul's shirt. Then I pulled her pants up again, leaving them unzipped. Jacob stopped talking. They both looked at me.
‘You've lost some blood, but the bleeding has stopped for now. You'll be fine.’ 240
‘I'm thirsty,’ Susanne said softly.
‘I'll look for some water.’ I stood up, pleased to see they were both calm. I circled the farmhouse, looking for an outdoor spigot. There wasn't one; I would have to go back inside.
I slipped into the devant-huis and stood in the doorway of the house. Sunlight was falling in a thin beam across the hearthstone.
In the shaft of light I could see thick dust, kicked up by our visit. I looked around for a source of water. It was very quiet; I couldn't hear anything, no comforting sounds like Jacob's voice or the wind in the pines above us or cowbells or a distant train. Just silence and the sheet of light on the slab before me. It was a huge piece of stone; it must have taken several men to set it in place. I looked at it more closely. Even discoloured by soot it was clearly not local stone. It looked foreign.
In a corner opposite the door there was an old sink with a tap. I doubted it worked but for Susanne's sake I would have to try it. I walked around the hearth, heart racing, hands clammy. When I reached the sink I wrestled with the tap for a minute before I managed to turn it. For a moment nothing happened; then there was a sputter and the tap began to shake violently. I stepped back. A great spurt of dark liquid suddenly gushed out into the sink and I jumped, cracking the back of my head against the corner of one of the pillars holding up the chimney. I cried out sharply and whirled around, stars shooting before my eyes. I sank to my knees next to the hearth and pulled my head down. The back of my head was damp and sticky. I took several deep breaths. When the stars disappeared I lifted my head and lowered my arms. Drops of blood left the broken psoriasis patches in the creases of my elbows and rolled down my arms to meet the blood on my hands.
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