I stared at the tracks of blood. ‘This is the place, isn't it?’ I said aloud. ‘Je suis arrivée chez moi, n'est-ce pas? ’
Behind me the water stopped.
9
THE CHIMNEY
Isabelle stood silent in the devant-huis. She could hear the horse shifting in the barn; from the house came the sounds of digging. — Marie? she called softly, uncertain if she should say the name aloud, who might hear it. The horse whinnied at the sound of her voice, then stopped moving. The digging continued. Isabelle hesitated, then pushed the door open.
Etienne was working on a long hole near the slab of granite, extending from its base out into the room. It was not along the far wall where he had earlier decided the hearth would go, but near the door. The floor was packed hard and he was having to slice violently at it with his spade to loosen the dirt.
When the light from the door fell on him he glanced up, saying: — Is she — then stopping himself when he recognized Isabelle. He straightened up.
— What are you doing here?
— Where is Marie?
— You should be ashamed, La Rousse. You should be on your knees praying for God's mercy.
— Why are you digging on a Holy Day?
He ignored the question.
— Your daughter has run off, he said loudly. Petit Jean has gone to look for her in the woods. I thought you were he, coming back to say she is safe. Aren't you concerned about your own shameful daughter, La Rousse? You should be looking for her too.
— Marie is all I'm concerned about. Where did she go?
— Behind the house, up the mountain. Etienne turned back to the hole and began to dig again. Isabelle watched him.
— Why are you digging there rather than against the far wall, where you said the hearth was to go?
He straightened up again and raised the spade above his head. Isabelle jumped back quickly and Etienne laughed.
— Don't ask stupid questions. Go and find your daughter.
Isabelle backed out of the room and pulled the door closed. She remained in the devant-huis for a moment. Etienne had not begun digging again and it was very quiet, a silence full of secrets.
I am not alone with Etienne, she thought. Marie is here, somewhere nearby.
— Marie! she began to call. Marie! Marie! She went out into the yard, still calling. Marie did not appear – only Hannah, labouring up the path. Isabelle had not waited for her outside Chalières, but had left her with Jacob and run along the path towards the farm until she had been sure Hannah could not catch up. Now when she saw Isabelle the old woman stopped, leaning on her stick and breathing hard. Then she lowered her head and hurried past her daughter-in-law to the house, banging the door shut behind her.
It wasn't easy getting Lucien drunk. He gazed at me across the table and drank his beer so slowly that I had to let my gulps trickle back into my glass to wait for him to catch up. We were the only customers in a bar in the centre of town. American country and western played over the sound system; the waitress read a newspaper behind the counter. Moutier on a rainy Thursday in early July was as dead as a stop sign.
I had a flashlight in my bag, but I was relying on Lucien to have tools in case we needed them. He didn't know it yet, though; he sat tracing patterns in the wet glass rings left on the table, looking uncomfortable. I had a long way to go to get him to do what I wanted. I'd have to resort to desperate measures.
I caught the waitress's eye. When she came over I ordered two whiskies. Lucien stared at me with big hazel eyes. I shrugged. ‘In America we always have whisky with beer,’ I lied airily. He nodded and I thought of Jean-Paul, who would never have let me get away with such a ridiculous statement. I missed his prickly, sarcastic edge; he was like a knife, cutting through the haze of uncertainty, saying what needed to be said.
When the waitress brought two shots, I insisted that Lucien drink his in one go rather than sip it delicately. When he finished it I ordered two more. He hesitated, but after the second he visibly relaxed and began to tell me about a house he'd built recently. I let him run on, though he used a lot of technical words I didn't understand. ‘It's halfway up the mountain, on a slope – always harder to build,’ he explained. ‘And then there were problems with the concrete for l'abri nucléaire. We had to remix it twice.’
‘L'abri nucléaire?’ I repeated, not sure of the French.
‘Oui.’ He waited while I looked it up in the dictionary I kept in my bag.
‘A nuclear shelter? You built a nuclear shelter in a house?’
‘Of course. It's required. It's the law in Switzerland that every new house has a shelter.’
I shook my head as if to clear it. Lucien misunderstood my gesture. ‘But it's true, every new house has a nuclear shelter,’ he repeated more fervently. ‘And every man does his national service, did you know that? When he is eighteen a man serves for seventeen weeks in the army. And after that, for three weeks every year in the reserves.’
‘Why is Switzerland so military if it's a neutral country? You know, like during World War II?’
He smiled grimly. ‘So that we can remain neutral. A country cannot be neutral unless it has a strong army.’
I came from a country with a huge military budget and no sense of neutrality at all; it seemed to me that the two had little to do with each other. But I wasn't here to talk politics; we were getting further and further away from my intended topic. I had to find a way to get onto the subject of chimneys.
‘So what's this nuclear shelter made of?’ I asked awkwardly.
‘Concrete and lead. You know, the walls are a metre thick.’
‘Really?’
Lucien began to explain in detail how a shelter was constructed. I closed my eyes. What a nerd, I thought. Why on earth am I getting him to help me?
There was no one else. Jacob was too shaken by Susanne's miscarriage the day before to go back to the farm and Jan wasn't a rule-breaker. Another wimp, I thought grimly. What is it with these men? Again I wished Jean-Paul were here: he would argue with me about the usefulness of what I wanted to do, he would question my sanity, but he would back me if he knew it was important to me. I wondered how he was. That night seemed so long ago now. One week.
He wasn't here; I had to rely on the man at hand. I opened my eyes and interrupted Lucien's soliloquy. ‘Ecoute, I want you to help me,’ I said firmly, deliberately switching to the familiar form in French. Up until now I'd persisted in remaining formal with him.
Lucien stopped, looking surprised and suspicious.
‘Do you know the farm near Grand Val with the old chimney?’
He nodded.
‘We went to see it yesterday. It used to be my ancestors' farm.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. There's something I need to get from it.’
‘What?’
‘I'm not sure,’ I replied, then added quickly, ‘but I know where it is.’
‘How can you know where it is when you don't know what it is?’
‘I don't know.’
Lucien paused, peering into his empty shot glass. ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked after a moment.
‘Come with me to the farm, to look around. Do you have any tools?’
He nodded. ‘In my truck.’
‘Good. We might need them.’ He looked alarmed and I added, ‘Don't worry, we don't have to break in or anything – there's a key to the lock on the door. I just want to look around. Will you help me?’
‘You mean now? Right now?’
‘Yes. I don't want anyone to know I'm going there, so it has to be at night.’
‘Why don't you want anyone to know?’
I shrugged. ‘I don't want people to ask questions. To talk.’
There was a long silence. I braced myself for his no.
‘OK.’
When I smiled, Lucien returned it hesitantly. ‘You know, Ella,’ he said, ‘that's the first time you've smiled all evening.’
It was beginni
ng to rain when Isabelle entered the woods. The first drops filtered through the new leaves on the beech trees, shaking them gently and filling the air with a soft, rustling sound. A musky smell rose from the dampening mix of dead leaves and pine needles.
She began to climb the slope behind the house, calling Marie's name occasionally, but more often standing still and listening to the sounds behind the rain: crows cawing, the wind in the pines further up the mountain, horse hooves on the path towards Moutier. She didn't think Marie would go far – she didn't like being alone or away from home. But she had never been shamed before either, in front of so many people.
It comes with your new hair, Isabelle thought, and with being my daughter. Even here. Yet I have no magic to protect you with, nothing to keep you safe from the cold and the dark.
She headed further up, reaching a ridge of rock halfway up the mountain and turning west along it. She knew she was being drawn to a particular place. She entered the little clearing where she and Jacob had kept the goat all summer. She had not been back since Jacob traded the goat for the cloth. Even now there were signs that an animal had been kept here: the remains of a shelter of branches, a ragged bed of straw and pine needles, droppings dried into hard pellets.
I thought I was so clever with my secrets, Isabelle brooded sombrely, looking at the goat's bed. That no one would ever know. It seemed a long time ago to her, a winter away.
Once she had visited one secret place she knew she would go to the other. She did not try to fight the impulse, even knowing it was unlikely Marie would be there. When the ridge descended towards the gorge she threaded her way through the rocks to the spot where Pascale had knelt and prayed. Here there was no trace of the secret: the blood had been absorbed in the ground long ago.
— Where are you, chérie? she said softly.
When the wolf stepped from behind the rock, Isabelle jumped and screamed, but did not run. They faced each other, the flames of the wolf's eyes alert and penetrating. It took a step towards Isabelle and stopped. Isabelle stepped backwards. The wolf stepped forwards again and Isabelle found herself moving backwards down through the rocks. Fearful of falling, she turned round but kept glancing over her shoulder as she walked to make sure the wolf came no closer. It kept the same distance from her, slowing down or stopping when she did, speeding up when she did.
It is driving me like a sheep, Isabelle thought, forcing me to go where it wants. She tested this by veering to one side. The wolf jumped to that side and ran close to her until she turned forwards again.
They came out from the rocks to the path by the edge of the trees that led from Moutier to Grand Val, the way back to the farm. Trotting towards her from the Moutier direction was the Tourniers' horse, carrying Petit Jean and Gaspard. It was the horse she had heard moving in the barn and, she now understood, galloping along the path earlier.
Isabelle turned to look at the wolf. It was gone.
* * *
Lucien had an old Citroën truck stuffed with tools – exactly what I'd hoped. It rattled and coughed down the main street so loudly I was sure the entire population had come to their windows to watch our departure. So much for discretion.
It had just begun to rain, a fine mist that slicked the streets and made me pull my jacket tight around me. Lucien switched on the windshield wipers; they scraped against the windshield, setting my nerves on edge. He drove cautiously through town, not that he needed to: at nine-thirty not a soul was on the streets. By the train station, the only place showing any signs of life, he turned onto the road toward Grand Val.
We were silent during the drive. I was grateful that he didn't ask a lot of questions the way I would have if I were in his position: I didn't have any answers for him.
We turned into a small road which dipped under the railroad tracks and headed up a hill. At a cluster of houses Lucien swung onto a dirt road I recognized from our walk that morning. He drove about 300 yards, stopped and switched the engine off. The windshield wipers came to a blessed halt, the truck coughed several times, then with a long wheeze went dead.
‘It's over there.’ Lucien pointed to our left. After a moment I could make out the outline of the farm fifty yards away. I shivered; it was going to be hard to get out of the truck and walk up there.
‘Ella, can I ask you something?’
‘Yes,’ I replied reluctantly. I didn't want to tell him everything, but I knew I couldn't expect him to help me blindly.
He surprised me. ‘You are married.’ It was more a statement than a question, but I confirmed it with a nod.
‘It was your husband who called the other night, during the fondue.’
‘Yes.’
‘I was married too,’ he said.
‘Vraiment?’ I sounded more surprised than I'd intended. It was like his telling me he suffered from psoriasis: it made me feel guilty that I'd assumed he wouldn't have the kind of life I did, with stress and romance.
‘Do you have children?’ I asked, trying to give him back his life.
‘A daughter. Christine. She lives with her mother in Basle.’
‘Not too far from here.’
‘No. I see her every other weekend. And you, do you have children?’
‘No.’ My elbows and ankles started to itch, the psoriasis demanding attention.
‘Not yet.’
‘No, not yet.’
‘The day I found out my wife was pregnant,’ Lucien said slowly, ‘I had been planning to tell her I thought we should separate. We'd been married two years, and I knew things weren't going well. For me, anyway. We sat down to tell each other our big news, our thoughts. She went first. After she told me I couldn't tell her what I'd been thinking.’
‘So you stayed together.’
‘Until Christine was a year old, yes. It was like hell, though.’
I don't know how long it had been growing in me, but I realized suddenly that I felt nauseous, my stomach swimming in concrete. I swallowed and took a deep breath.
‘When I heard you on the phone with your husband it reminded me of phone calls I used to have with my wife.’
‘But I hardly said anything to him!’
‘It was your tone.’
‘Oh.’ I stared out at the dark, embarrassed.
‘I'm not sure my husband is the right man to have children with,’ I said then. ‘I've never been sure.’ Saying it aloud, to Lucien of all people, felt like breaking a window. The very sound of the words shocked me.
‘It is better that you know now,’ Lucien said, ‘so that if you can help it you don't bring a child into a world without love.’
I swallowed and nodded. We sat listening to the rain; I concentrated on calming my stomach.
‘Do you want to steal something from there?’ he asked suddenly, nodding toward the farm.
I thought about it. ‘No. I just want to find something. Something that is mine.’
‘What? You left something there yesterday? Is that it?’
‘Yes. The story of my family.’ I sat up straight. ‘You'll still help me?’ I asked briskly.
‘Of course. I said I would help you, so I'm going to help you.’ Lucien met my eyes with a steady gaze.
He's not so bad, I thought.
It seemed that Petit Jean was not going to stop. Isabelle stepped into the middle of the path, forcing him to pull up the horse. She reached up and grasped the bridle. The horse pressed its muzzle into her shoulder and snorted.
Neither Petit Jean nor Gaspard would look her in the eye, though Gaspard removed his black hat and nodded at her. Petit Jean sat tensely, eyes fixed ahead, waiting impatiently to be released.
— Where are you going? she asked.
— Back to the farm. Petit Jean swallowed.
— Why? Have you found Marie? Is she safe?
He did not reply. Gaspard cleared his throat, keeping his blind eye towards her.
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