Lost Footsteps

by Bel Mooney

  ‘He stayed in this flat, day after day?’

  ‘Sometimes he went to the parks. There are beautiful parks in Geneva, Madame. He played football with Franklin. He liked to draw … and to learn – we spoke in French and in English. He was good – very clever.’

  ‘Yes – yes, he is.’

  ‘What will you do now, Madame?’

  ‘Well, I have to go to Paris.’ She looked dazed. ‘Will you help me?’

  ‘If I can, of course. If I could remember which part of Paris the restaurant was in, where the cousin worked … I think it was near a station. And I think there are many foreigners there, in that area … I am so sorry, Madame, I have no address. But – I have another idea. There is an organization in Paris, for Tamils. I will find the address for you. Perhaps they will know something …’

  ‘I have to begin somewhere,’ she said flatly, sitting down as if all strength had left her limbs. ‘But for France – I need a visa?’

  John Nayagam smiled and shook his head. ‘Well, yes … the law says so. But it is not difficult to get into France from here. I will tell you what to do. You can trust me. Have you money for travelling?’

  ‘A little. But maybe I can … can …’ She waved a hand as if to flag down a car, and added, ‘Is it a long way – to Paris?’

  ‘I will show you on the map. But now, please will you stay the night here with us? Some food and sleep, to prepare you. Then tomorrow morning I will walk with you to the bus station and tell you what to do.’

  Ana glanced at Tamara Nayagam and hesitated. As if the woman had understood her husband’s words she nodded, smiling. The two children were standing one each side of their mother now, and watching her. Ana felt touched by the anxiety in these four pairs of dark eyes, linked to her only because of Ion.

  ‘You are very kind,’ she murmured and sank back.

  I’m going to sleep now, in the bed that was your bed. I tell myself I can smell your hair on the pillow, but it is not true. When I was eating rice and rich, spicy meat earlier I persuaded myself that I was using the plate that you used … Silly game, Ionica, but it had to be true: you must have used that plate once. And so I was touching you, in the plate and the knife and the fork, and now in this bed. And all of them trying so hard to make it all right for me. When I wonder now if it can ever be so.

  Thirty-Four

  ‘Il pleure encore, le petit.’

  ‘Oui, chéri, je sais … Ah, le pauvre – que faire?’

  ‘Va – demande qu’est-ce qu’ily a.’

  ‘D’accord… et j’ai un petit cadeau dans mon sac …’

  ‘Jean, Jean – what’s the matter, little one?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Come here – that’s better. You were crying, Jean.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes, I think so! Listen, tell me – aren’t you happy here?’

  ‘Yes, I am happy.’

  ‘You don’t sound happy!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, Jean …’

  ‘Will I stay here?’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘I think so. Will I stay here?’

  ‘Perhaps. Yes.’

  ‘For ever?’

  ‘Je ne sais pas.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because everything is so complicated. But we do want you.’

  ‘It’s true?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because … because we love you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Franklin wants me to stay here. He says it is good – for me.’

  ‘He’s right. But…’

  ‘Do you like Franklin?’

  ‘Yes, very much.’

  ‘I like him.’

  ‘I know you do, Jean! And Franklin doesn’t want you to cry, does he?’

  ‘‘No.’

  ‘Good. Alors, I’ve got something for you, here in my bag. Close your eyes, go on! Now – look. You know that name, don’t you?’

  ‘MAJORETTE! I like these very much. Oh, thank you!’

  ‘Mmmm? Un autre mot, petit Jean?’

  ‘Merci!’

  ‘Merci – qui?’

  ‘Merci – Maman.’

  Thirty-Five

  The bus was empty but for two middle-aged Swiss women and an old man wearing a green felt trilby. Ana sat near the back, her bag on the seat beside her. It was cold; a chill sun glittered on the white tops of the mountains, as the bus started to climb slightly, and Geneva was left behind.

  John Nayagam had said it was important to notice who was on the bus. Ana did not understand why but guessed he wished to protect her from dangerous men. He stood beside her, watching, until it was due to leave.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now you can go. No black people, you see.’ His tone was dry, matter-of-fact. Still Ana did not follow. Seeing her slight frown he explained, ‘I told you last night – at Divonne the bus will just pass through. They will not stop it, they never do. But you will see the border guard stand and look, and if he saw brown faces, he might stop it to check passports. I think in France there are enough Arabs now, and black people – so anyway, it would be a risk. But here – no risk. You can be sure.’

  ‘And if they do stop it?’ asked Ana fearfully.

  ‘They will not. Trust me.’

  ‘I do – and thank you for last night. Thank you for being kind to my son …’

  He heard her voice tremble, and looked away. John Nayagam was used to partings and was no longer affected by them. The telephone rang, refugees arrived and went on; he accepted his position as part of a process and dispensed advice, food and sometimes money with equanimity, but a minimum of involvement. It was too costly to worry about the fate of those who passed through his life. They called him ‘brother’, but that was the Tamil way. He heard their stories, and escorted them to the police station so they could formally request asylum, and sometimes went to the refugee centres to translate for the authorities … and it was all essential, he knew that. Somebody had to do it. But he wanted no tears; he said that to Tamara after the boy Franklin had left, taking the other one with him (such a bad idea, he warned again and again), and she lay on the bed worrying about what might happen. In the end, it was not their business.

  ‘I wish you good luck – and I am sure you will find Ion,’ he said, holding out his hand formally.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, retaining his grasp for a second too long, as though unwilling to relinquish this now-familiar human contact, and cast herself off again. Gently he drew away his hand, and pointed to the bus. The driver was already in his place.

  ‘If ever you come to Geneva again …’

  ‘Yes – thank you.’

  As the bus swung out of the station Ana looked back to see him, and wave, but he had already gone.

  She leaned her head against the cold window, feeling the vehicle’s vibrations pass through her body. The women, four seats away, were talking in loud, indignant voices about the price of food. Ana could understand some of it, but they spoke too quickly and she gave up, allowing the babble to wash over her. What would they think if they knew what she was doing? She knew they would be incredulous, and even perhaps disapproving; on the other hand, they were women, probably mothers, so surely they would have some pity? They could afford pity, in the West.

  I wanted so much to leave that place, yet now I am away it creeps into my mind every hour of the day. Last night, as I lay on the mattress in that small room they told me Ion had slept in, I heard Tamara singing as she went to the bathroom. Such a plaintive sound, low and wailing, yet musical, carrying all strangeness in its notes, singing to me of utter loneliness. I couldn’t even cry then, lying on that bed and trying to conjure up Ion’s face. All I kept seeing in the darkness was a little figure whirling from the cliff, under a grey sky. And he called out – nothing.

  I can’t piece together his months there. I try to imagine him sitting for hours in front of the televisio
n set, waiting for Franklin to come home. He told me Franklin had lied about his age, but they all do, to get work. He said the Swiss complain that foreigners are coming in and taking their jobs, but nobody wants to do those jobs. Franklin had to clean the kitchen; his hands were greasy, his hair smelt of food. And they can get such jobs, even with no papers … Because, even though they are not wanted, they are needed. I understand nothing at all.

  But once, a long long time ago, I had a vague thought, which turned into a dream, then transformed itself into a frenzy – I know that is true. And Radu had his own frenzy, and somehow they coincided, and now I am here. The mountains are cold … But the memory of my small room in Suceava, with the light glinting on the precious red glass, wraps me round. Mama would sing to me when I was little, and I especially loved the nonsense one about the little fish, soothing the child to sleep. Ion’s favourite too – ‘Sing to me, Mama, sing to me.’ Too old for singing now, I suppose. He must have changed. How could you travel along all those roads and not change?

  I wonder if those women have children? Last night the little Tamil children lost their shyness enough to sit each side of me on the sofa, while we watched a video. I told them I had never seen a video – Ion got there before me! I could see why he loved those things. Cartoon figures shouted at each other in French, but you had no need to understand. The animals were squashed flat, then rose again, time after time, and holes could be peeled from the road and rolled up – nothing becoming something in an instant! The colours and the speed and the noise of these miracles made me dizpy, but I was content to sit there, a child each side of me, thumbs in their mouths, pretending I was a mother again.

  Whose mother?

  Your mother, Ionica.

  If those women there have children, would they ever act as I did? Could they imagine a world far from the price of cheese and meat, where people hurl themselves from precipices, under a grey sky? No – never, never, never, never, never. That’s what King Lear cried when he held his dead daughter in his arms. He knew it was impossible she should breathe again, and I know – yes, I do know this – that it is as impossible for those women to understand me, as it is for the dead to rise.

  Yet, yet – you cannot be sure of that, Ana Popescu. You don’t know what secrets they may have, what grief you could share. Michael Edwards said something like that to me once, when I was at my desk, turning over those interminable speeches made by Him. He stood by my desk so nervously. And he wanted me to agree that some things transcend differences, that the human spirit experiences universal joy and universal pain, wherever it is. What he wanted me to say, I know now, is that love is the same, whoever feels it, and in whatever place. I couldn’t tell him then, nor perhaps would I do so now – because it would be too easy. No comfort for you there, Ana Popescu … Don’t ever think about him, hear me?

  But of love – real love. What of Cale, filthy and foul-mouthed, crying for her son, battered to death? Would those women there (in their warm jackets and gold earrings, waving gloved hands about as they talk) see her lying on the cold floor of that squalid cell, and raise her up to say that she is the same as them – their equal in love? And would they say to me, yes, we understand what you did, in desperation, far though it is from our experience? Would they?

  Will they stop the bus? Will they stop the bus? Please God, don’t let them stop the bus.

  The old man stared out of the window so fixedly it was as if his head had been twisted permanently into an uncomfortable angle. The curving feather on his hat waved slightly as the bus swayed. Ana looked at it, fascinated by the tiny motion, as one might be in a dream, where the most infinitesimal details take on a momentous significance. She was reminded of something, but it eluded her. Screwing up her eyes she tried to remember, chasing the image back through time. Then it came to her. A pile of men’s hats outside a monastery, left there in reverence, and the low singing from inside rising, rising, as her father gestured towards the wall above the hats and talked of hell.

  The approach to Divonne les Bains was wide and open; not at all what Ana expected. There was no one around. It occurred to her that it would have been quite easy to alight before they reached it, and walk across a couple of hundred yards from the actual frontier. As the bus slowed behind a battered Peugeot, and she could see the low buildings which marked the border crossing, she breathed slowly and deeply, to control her fear. But saliva caught in her throat and she started to cough. Tears streamed from her eyes and her shoulders heaved as she choked. The two women looked round curiously, and Ana panicked at the attention. When one of the women said something to her in French, offering in fact to pat her on the back, Ana shook her head furiously, spluttering and waving her hand, as if to dismiss their concern. The women shrugged and turned back, murmuring to each other that there was no need to be impolite, but what could you expect from Italians?

  Ana had just regained control as the bus drew level with the building. A border guard was sitting at the window; he glanced briefly at the passengers as the vehicle slowed, then waved casually to the driver. A few minutes later Ana was alighting in Divonne, her throat aching from coughing. Still afraid someone might come and ask for her passport, she started to walk quickly in the direction of some shops, then stood for a while beneath a signpost which directed visitors to the amenities and hotels of the little town – wondering what to do next.

  ‘Excusez-moi, Madame – vous êtes perdue?’

  Ana jumped. The old man from the bus was standing next to her, his feather waving in the breeze. His face was brown, and criss-crossed with fine lines, as if he had spent a lifetime staring at the sun. He cocked his head on one side, reminding her of an inquisitive fowl, and asked again if she was lost. The habit of mistrust was hard to break; Ana glanced at him coldly, then gazed up the street. ‘Non … well … oui.’ She shrugged, as if to dismiss him.

  ‘You are English?’

  She hesitated, then nodded. It was easier.

  ‘I like the English very much!’ he said. ‘In the war, Madame, I was one of those Frenchmen who never lost faith with Britain.’

  Ana nodded, feeling guilty at her deception. He chattered on. ‘I have one grandchild who lives in London. Do you know London?’ Again she nodded. ‘Near Hampstead. Do you know Hampstead Heath? It is very beautiful … My grandchild, Marie-Céline, is married to an Englishman. He is a very nice man, but we wish, my daughter and I, that they would come back to live in Switzerland, though my daughter is an exile too; she lives here in Divonne! But she likes London; when she has grandchildren they will speak two languages from the beginning – which is good, but I told her they must learn German too, because Germany will be very important soon. For people like me, with memories, that is sometimes … Do you know Hampstead, Madame?’

  She nodded again, feeling dazed. He pointed up at the signpost. ‘Which part of Divonne do you want? Are you looking for a hotel?’

  ‘No … I …’

  ‘Perhaps you would let me help you. I have time – the old always have time. Sometimes I make that as a joke – that when our time is running out we have much time.’

  He grinned at her, head still on one side. Then she realized this was a disability, and explained his awkward posture on the bus. There was something so benevolent yet touching about him, that she smiled for the first time, and opened her mouth to speak. But he went on, ‘When I was a child, I remember my mother was always saying, Dépêche-toi! Dépêche-toi! and then we said it to our children … Before my wife died she told me that she had been running through her lifetime in a hurry, and now she was hurrying towards death … Ah … Do you have children, Madame?’

  ‘No.’

  For a moment Ana tried to imagine him as a small boy, late for school, boots clattering on a wooden floor as he searched for his book as his mother shouted, ‘Dépêche-toi!’ Ion was never late; in his methodical way he would prepare his bag the night before and leave it by the door – so serious, so anxious that sometimes she longed for him to be l
ike other boys, careless and selfish. But, ‘Shall I make you tea, Mama?’, and ‘You must have one apple, Mama’ … So good. Until the day he was made a monitor. She saw him crying on his bed, and heard her own scream of shame.

  ‘I am Monsieur Jaquet – Pierre Jaquet.’ He was holding out his hand, looking at her expectantly.

  ‘Ana … er … Edwards,’ she said.

  ‘So, Madame Edwards, how can I assist you?’ he asked.

  ‘I am going to Paris, and …’

  ‘Today?’

  She nodded.

  ‘So, you will take a train to Dijon, and then take another train for Paris. It is very easy. Come, I will take you to the station. You passed it already …’

  ‘Please – is it possible to take a bus? I think the bus is cheaper …’

  He looked at her carefully then, eyes darting over her clothes. She had put on her old brown trousers, and wore a beige sweater over her checked blouse, saving the smarter clothes for Ion. She knew she looked shabby – and that it would serve her well.

  ‘Ah – je comprends…’ Suddenly he hit his forehead sharply with his hand, making Ana jump. ‘Madame, I have an idea – my son-in-law travels very much, he is a … what is the word? … a … salesman. Today maybe he goes to Dijon. I think my daughter told me on the telephone. Come … we will go to their house. It is not far from here – come with me!’

  He plucked her sleeve. Ana had the sensation of being dragged by forces beyond her control, and that for once these spirits were amicable. That she could be so lucky! She made a small show of shaking her head and murmuring doubt, but fell in happily at his side, altering her stride to suit his and sending up small prayers of thanks.

  The daughter’s home was about twelve minutes walk from the town centre: a single-storeyed white house in a street lined with slender trees. Its shutters were pale blue, and looked as if they had been painted yesterday. The small front garden was immaculate: tulips spaced at regular intervals marched in straight flowerbeds around a central white-paved island. Ana hesitated at the blue iron gate. But Pierre Jaquet went ahead up the path, calling, ‘Come with me – my son-in-law is at home. His car is there.’