Lost Footsteps

by Bel Mooney

  Ana was fascinated but repelled. She looked at the symbol sprayed three or four times on the wall – the letter ‘A’ inside a circle – and did not know what it meant. The heart was obvious enough, and she recognized the peace sign, but the ‘A’ mystifed her. On the battered door someone had sprayed the words ‘One Love’, in English. The red paint wept down to the bottom of the panel, where it disintegrated in a splintering of kick marks. There was a curious smell, compounded of damp, garlic, incense and cooking spices, and the monotonous staccato of American music blared from one of the windows. Ana checked the number. This was the place.

  She stood for a while, puzzled. There was no bell; no obvious means of entering the building. After about five minutes she heard a noise from inside, and stood just to one side of the door. A couple pushed it open, both with shoulder-length hair and long, flapping coats. The girl was laughing loudly; the man put his arm around her shoulder as he stood aside, holding the door open for Ana with ironic courtesy. Surprised, she forgot to murmur thanks, but slipped inside and found herself in a long, murky hallway, clogged with bicycles. There were more graffition its shiny cream walls: ‘Paix’, ‘L’amour libre’, ‘Commune Libertaire’, and (in English), ‘Anarchy’.

  Her footsteps echoed on the stone stairs. Each apartment had its number in curly figures on a small white metal oval, fixed to the right of the door. At last she reached 24, near the top of the building, and stood outside, breathing heavily. There was no bell or knocker, so she rapped at the door. After a long time she heard soft footsteps on the other side. They reached the door and stopped. Ana held her breath; the noise of her heart ricocheted around the landing, echoing from the dirty ceiling. She fancied she could see the brown paint trembling, as the person waited on the other side, not knowing whether to open the door. Ana tapped again, more gently this time. At last, after an interminable wait, there was a click, and the door opened a few inches.

  At first she saw nothing but the gleam of an eye. Then, the woman’s face took shape, dark against a dark background. She held the door against her face, saying nothing.

  ‘Monsieur Nayagam – ici?’ Ana said.

  ‘Qui êtes-vous?’

  ‘Je m’appelle Ana Popescu. Regardez …’

  She felt in her pocket for Ion’s photograph and held it up, not knowing what to say. The effect was instantaneous. Had she not put out her foot the door would have been slammed. ‘No please … s’il vous plaît!’ She waved the photograph. ‘Il est mon fils. Mon fils. My son. Do you understand?’

  The woman stared at her. Then she stepped back, opening the door wide, and silently inclined her head, to indicate Ana could enter.

  There was a strong smell of spices in the apartment. Ana followed the woman down the long hall, suddenly weak with hunger. Yet perhaps the shivering in her stomach was anxiety; she could not tell. When the woman paused before pushing open the last door Ana put a hand up to the wall for support. She half-expected to see him in there, waiting for her. But the room was empty – except for two battered sofas, a large table covered with papers, and a big plastic box from which spilled children’s toys in various stages of breakage.

  Dominating the space by the window was a large television set on a trolley, a video recorder on the shelf beneath it, and a mass of video cassettes and their cases, scattered around like cards. The walls were bare but for two large carved masks, with saucer eyes and lolling tongues painted vividly.

  The woman pointed. Although there was nothing welcoming in the gesture, Ana obeyed and sat down. She still held Ion’s photograph, and almost unconsciously turned it towards the woman, who glanced down, unsmiling, then stared once more at Ana’s face, as if searching for the likeness. Perhaps she saw it, perhaps it was just Ana’s anxious expression, but she seemed to relax. She hesitated in the doorway, then pointed to herself. ‘Tamara Nayagam,’ she said, and left the room.

  Alone, Ana jumped up and walked over to the window, turning to scrutinize the room – as if she might find evidence of Ion’s presence in some corner. She was bending to examine the toys on the floor when she became aware that she was being watched. Two small children stood in the doorway, hands to mouths, shifting slightly on the spot. Ana straightened, and smiled at them. They made no response, but when their mother came back they filed silently behind her into the room, and stood peeping out at Ana from behind her. Tamara Nayagam put a tray on the table.

  ‘S’il vous plaît – mangez,’ she said.

  With the tea was a plate of small sticky cakes, oozing honey. Longing to devour them, Ana held out the plate to the children, but they shrank away, shaking their heads. The room was quiet. Traffic murmured in the distance, but the only sound here was the movement of Ana’s mouth, embarrassingly loud it seemed, as she chewed. When she moved to put the plate down, the woman and her children jumped, and Ana was transfixed by the sudden realization that for the first time in her life she was an object of fear.

  Who are these people? What are they doing in this foreign country? I looked at books about Switzerland in the library; there were snowy mountains, and people on skis, and pictures of men in strange leather shorts, and drawings of the flowers of the Alps. Clocks. Chocolate. Bankers in Zurich. And what else about this country? Oh yes – neutrality. I think the Swiss don’t like to become involved in the wars of the rest of the world…

  Why did Ion come here? That boy brought him, but why here? This is a clean country and there are kind people in it, I know that, but it doesn’t want people like us – like me, and this woman and her children. And why should it want us? Chocolate and clocks and skis have nothing to do with us. But perhaps the mountains have. I saw them in the distance when I was standing by the lake and I knew that, no matter how peaceful they looked, how lovely, how pure, they would be savage if you found yourself trying to climb those slopes alone. And for us there is no alternative but to climb, even if we are destroyed in the process. Over the cold mountains … to what?

  And this woman is afraid of me – of me!

  The children watched her. She guessed they were about four or five, twin girls, she observed, wearing identical jeans and sweatshirts bearing a picture of Minnie Mouse. Their mother wore jeans too, and a blue shirt. Ana was surprised. She would have expected a sari, maybe. She no longer knew what to expect.

  There was a sound in the hall, then the door slammed. For the first time the children showed signs of animation; they ran out, followed by their mother, who glanced apologetically at Ana, and said, ‘Il arrive – mon mari.’ She hesitated before each word, the language awkward on her tongue.

  Ana heard her whispering in the hall, and the man’s replies, slow and questioning. She thought she heard Ion’s name, and Franklin’s too, but could not be sure. Straining to listen she clasped her hands together in an unconscious attitude of prayer, pressing them until the knuckles were white.

  When John Nayagam came in she was surprised to see a prosperous-looking man in a dark suit, carrying a briefcase. He crossed the room in a couple of strides and held out his hand. ‘I am John Nayagam. You have met my wife Tamara; unfortunately she speaks no English but her French is improving. For me it is easy in both. And you are welcome to our home.’

  This short speech was delivered confidently. Her husband present, Tamara relaxed and even smiled at Ana, nodding as if she understood what he said. The children sat down and began to play with a wooden puzzle, soon squabbling quietly over its parts. There was a sense of normality resumed, which Ana’s unwelcome arrival had disturbed.

  ‘My wife tells me you are the mother of the boy, Ion.’

  ‘Yes – please, can you tell me where he is? Was he here? When was he here?’

  ‘Sit down, please.’

  He looked at her so seriously that Ana was glad to sit down. She was trembling, something cold crawling over her neck. Unnecessarily she pulled the photograph from her pocket and held it out to him. ‘This is my son,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘He was here …’ he said, aw
kwardly pulling at one ear.

  ‘When? Where is he now?’

  John Nayagam moved his hand a fraction, as if to calm her, but also to let her know that he would tell the story his way. ‘Why did he come here?’ she pleaded.

  ‘Let me explain, Madame. I am a travel agent – in business with a Swiss man, and I have to say we do very well, very well. But in addition, without people knowing, I work for my own people. The Tamil people, you understand? I am telephoned, and I do what is necessary to help.’

  ‘The boy, Franklin – he telephoned you?’

  He shook his head. ‘No – someone in Frankfurt telephoned me, and told me of Franklin’s family, and that the boy had said to him that he wanted to come to Switzerland. There are jobs here, you know. Many tourists. And I was told there would be another boy with him. I thought it would be a Tamil child, of course; our people, they stay together always. We help each other. When you are far from your country you have to help each other. So anyway, I made the arrangements to bring them here. We have many people, many drivers, all over Europe. Crossing the green borders is no problem for us …’

  ‘What about my son? Where is Ion?’

  ‘One moment, Madame. So anyway, they arrived here, and we were very shocked to see that the other child was so young, and a Romanian. I will be frank with you, I did not know what to do. My wife, she was very worried. She said to me, “John, we must take this little boy to the police.” She thought he had run away from home, you understand.’

  ‘No,’ said Ana.

  ‘Then Franklin was very upset, and he said they would stay together. It was a big problem for us. Normally, you see, I would help a boy like Franklin to go to the authorities and ask for asylum. In this Canton, they are not bad. But it takes a long time, and at first the boys cannot work. They stay in the refugee centre, and so on. But this Franklin, he did not want to do that, because he said he believed he would be separated from your son. He refused to go through the proper channels. So anyway, I said I could not help them. Then my wife, she felt sorry for them. And she suggested that they stayed here for a while, although it would be a risk. She said no one would know – and in this house, in this building, people come and go. The police came once, but they were looking for drugs of course. They were not interested in us, but in the anarchists down the stairs.’

  ‘But I thought – they told me Franklin knew somebody here, a relative?’

  John Nayagam shook his head. ‘Yes, he had a contact, but that young man – he is not good. Not like my people usually are. He tried drinks, he tried drugs, I think maybe he was very unhappy here. So anyway, when he saw your son was with Franklin he said he would not help them. If Franklin would give the boy to the police to look after, he would take Franklin to Berne. There are many jobs in Berne …’

  Ana shook her head from side to side. She had the sensation of sliding down an ever-steepening slope. Tamara Nayagam was watching her, and murmured something to her husband.

  ‘My wife said I must tell you that Franklin was very good to your son. He loved him like a brother,’ he said.

  She nodded impatiently, not wanting to know of this love that had nothing to do with her.

  ‘And Tamara said we looked after your son well. I think he was happy here.’

  ‘Here? But for how long was he here? Where is he?’ Ana heard her own voice rise to a wail, felt the shingle cascade around her as she lost control.

  ‘He was here for four months – in this flat. It was a big risk for us, but I did not know what to do. Franklin worked those months, the summer months, washing the plates in the kitchen of one of the big restaurants. He said he was older, you see, and though he had no papers, they did not ask questions.’

  ‘I don’t see …’

  He shrugged. ‘There are many tourists who come here; they make much money for the Swiss. So the Swiss need people like Franklin to work for very little money – in the hotels, the restaurants, in Geneva, and many especially in Berne. It is, what you might say, a shared convenience.’

  ‘But Ion?’

  ‘He stayed here. He looked after our daughters when my wife was out, and he watched television. Much television. And we have videos, you see.’

  ‘But the language …?’

  He placed the tips of his fingers together and nodded thoughtfully. ‘It did not seem to matter about the words. Maybe children are not like us. He would watch and watch all the time, and he did not stop if the film was in Tamil, or French. So anyway …’ He appeared to forget what he was about to say, abstracted for a moment, as if to think of language was to be reminded of separation. Then he looked up reflectively. ‘… French … I taught him some words, and Franklin too. And that was a good thing, because of what happened.’

  ‘Please!’

  ‘I have to tell you that after this time my wife and I were worried. It was not difficult to keep them here, and we were happy at last … we liked them both. I don’t have a son, not yet – so anyway, I liked to have the boys here. But I told Franklin that it could not go on, because one day he would be picked up on the street. So I faxed someone I know in Paris …’

  ‘Faxed? I don’t understand.’

  ‘It is a machine … oh well, anyway, Madame, to tell you the story quickly, we discovered that someone in Franklin’s family, a cousin at a distance, I remember, was in Paris. And so one day Franklin decided he would leave here. He was bored too, he said, and hated the job. He wanted to try somewhere new, somewhere big, he said. He was like that – a person who wanted to move.’

  ‘And Ion?’

  ‘Of course where one went the other would go.’

  ‘To Paris? PARIS!’

  ‘Yes, Madame.’

  She clapped her hand to her mouth, hurting her teeth with the force.

  She dropped her head into her hands and rocked backwards and forwards. Then there was an arm around her shoulders, and a gentle voice crooning word-sounds at once unfamiliar and remembered. Tamara Nayagam’s face was close to hers. Her husband rose and walked to the window, as if he knew that his wife could do more good. The children stopped playing and watched in silence.

  ‘How did they go?’

  He shrugged. ‘These things are easily arranged. We have people. And Franklin had some money.’ At last Ana was able to speak.

  ‘Do you know where I can find them – in Paris?’ she whispered.

  John Nayagam turned and looked at her in silence, before shaking his head.

  Ana jumped up, brushing Tamara aside. ‘But the man …?’

  ‘I am sorry to tell you, he has left Paris now. Franklin was going to his address and then he would be taken to meet this cousin. I remember only the cousin’s short name – Nada, I think. And that he worked in a restaurant.’

  ‘Where? You must remember where!’

  ‘Madame, you must understand – each year we help very many of our people. They come here, I give them advice, they move on, either leaving the country or asking for asylum. Most do that … This is not a bad country for refugees, I think … So anyway, please understand, I do not always know where these people go.’

  ‘But the boys lived here with you,’ she said, accusingly.

  He spread his hands. ‘Yes, and my wife was sorry when they left. My daughters, they liked your son very much. He drew pictures for them …’ He paused and spoke to his wife. She left the room and returned a minute later holding a sheet of paper. ‘Look.’

  Ana took it. For a second an image flashed across her mind, of a woman and a boy in a boat piled with food, under an impossible blue sky, in the world beneath the well – the world of dreams that had sustained her through the months in prison, hearing the splash of the oars, and smelling the fragrance of the cakes and fruit, knowing that all the monsters were far away, on the surface. And they had left the painting glued to the wall when they went to Timişoara – lost then, like everything else she possessed.

  She looked down at the picture. It was crudely done in wax crayons, with none of Ion
’s old attention to detail. The sky in this picture was scribbled grey, like smoke from a bonfire. The left-hand third of the picture was taken up by a tall cliff face, streaked with brown, orange, green and black, with jagged grass along its top. The sky was particularly dark here; it might have been a precipice at the end of the world. At the far right, floating on the blue waves which lapped the cliff foot, was a brown boat. It was empty, except for one oar. The other oar floated beside it. And suspended half-way between the cliff top and the waves was a little figure, dressed in black, with a white moon of a face, and an O–mouth. The body was falling, wheeling over, arms and legs spread like the spokes of a wheel. From its mouth came a speech bubble … yet there was nothing written in it.

  Tamara Nayagam said something softly to her husband. He said, ‘You may have the picture. My wife says it is a good picture – but a sad one. She asked me to tell you that she is very sorry Ion is not here. He was a good boy.’

  Ana said nothing. She stood with the drawing in both hands, studying it, as if within those scribbled lines she might find some clue to the words he wanted to put in the bubble. She closed her eyes for a second and tried to imagine him, in this room, sitting at the table, making his picture. And yet her mind remained as blank as the bubble; it was as if he had receded still further from her – a little stranger, whirling in space, whose boat was floating away without him.

  You sat here, Ionica, watching films in Tamil and cartoons in French and maybe German: so many words washing over you – strange, unintelligible – like rain. What did you understand? What did you know? Who did you talk to? You left the bubble empty because you had no words to fill it … This man is standing here, telling me you seemed content, and his wife is looking at me with pity in her eyes, not blame, just pity. They had you, and then they let you go. You were here, in front of their television set, day after day, and then you were gone – the space you had filled is empty.