by Jon Steele
The soldier nodded towards a crater of newly churned earth.
‘A stray shell landed there at seven thirty-six and twelve seconds. The blast sent a shockwave through your body. It caused an embolism in your pulmonary artery, the embolism travelled to your heart and stopped it cold.’
‘I never heard of such a thing.’
‘Nor has anyone else in this place, not yet. They’ll have a name for it soon enough, I’m sure. Rather surprising the ways men are inspired to kill each other without even trying, don’t you think?’
Edward did not know what to think.
He saw his pocket watch.
Holding at the very moment, seven thirty-six and twelve seconds.
‘It seems to have stopped my watch as well.’
The soldier lifted his helmet from the ground and set it atop his head with a tap.
‘Actually, that would be me.’
‘Sorry?’
The soldier touched the hilt of his bloodied knife.
‘I sealed off this bit of the battlefield from the rest of the devourers, I needed time to slaughter the one who was after you. Son of a bitch had an entire squad with him. Anyways, in here it’s still seven thirty-six and twelve seconds. Out there, the day has come and gone.’
Edward stared at the soldier, whose eyes were becoming all the more hypnotic.
‘How strange it is that I should believe you.’
‘Yes, well, people live their lives wondering what happens when they die. Always a jolt to find what happens isn’t quite what the prophets foretold. Like I said, it takes some getting used to, the dying I mean.’
… some getting used to … the dying …
‘Will I be left to rot, like the German soldier under the bridge?’
‘KIA in this sector are being buried in a farmer’s field near Agny. Your men will come searching for you soon. They’ll find your body and carry it down the hill to be buried with the rest of the dead. What’s left of my company is there, watching. They have orders to take care of your body when it arrives. In time, it’ll be laid to rest.’
‘In time?’
‘Yes, lieutenant, in time.’
‘I don’t understand, really I don’t. And strangely enough, I don’t seem to mind.’
‘Because you no longer need this mortal coil to exist, you’re ready to let go of it.’
‘But something holds me, something dear to me.’
‘You need to forget even the things most dear and let go.’
… the things most dear … let go …
Edward saw familiar faces now fading from his eyes.
They felt very dear to him, and he remembered.
‘Yes, I know them. My wife, my children. What will they do when I am gone?’
‘Sorry, lieutenant, no one in this place can read the future, not even the prophets. All I can tell you is their lives will go on, for better or worse.’
All are behind, the kind
And the unkind too …
‘But their names, I cannot remember their names even.’
‘Remembrance is for the living, lieutenant, not the dead.’
… no more
Tonight than a dream …
‘Tell me, please, tell me their names.’
‘I can’t. I can’t interfere in the manner of your death.’
The dark-lit stream has drowned the Future and the Past.
‘How cruel you are.’
‘Yes, I’m sure it feels that way. Then again, I’m not a poet.’
How weak and little is the light …
‘Was I a poet? I cannot remember myself.’
‘Yes, lieutenant, you were a poet who was deeply loved.’
And now, hark at the rain …
‘Please, you said you knew the words in my diary, the lines on the last pages.’
The soldier rose from the ground, pulled his rifle to his shoulder. He spoke softly:
‘The light of the new moon and every star,
And no more the singing of the bird …
I never understood quite what was meant by God.’
Edward felt the breath slip from his body. ‘Everyone goes, only her face is left in my eyes.’
… the things most dear …
‘It’s all right, lieutenant, this is what happens. It doesn’t end for your kind, it never ends. Just forget this life and let it go.’
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon …
The unmoving world began to stir.
He saw the flashes of guns.
He saw the rain, nothing but the wild rain.
‘Oh, my … my Helen.’
‘Look into my eyes, lieutenant, listen to my voice …’
book one
the forty-sixth latitude of planet earth
one
Marc Rochat pulled aside the lace curtains and watched the rain fall through lamplight and splash on the cobblestones of Escaliers du marché. Tiny streams formed between the cobblestones and ran down to bigger streams of rain from Rue Mercerie. The two roads, narrow and angled at a steep slant, met just beyond the windows of Café du Grütli. Rochat breathed against the cold glass, he drew a raw-boned face in quick spreading fog.
‘I see you, I see you hiding in the rain. You can’t fool me, en garde.’
He wiped away the face and turned back to the warmth of the café.
It was a familiar place to Rochat. He came here most evenings for his supper. He liked the round lamps hanging from the ceiling that glowed like full moons. He liked the photographs of Lausanne from long times ago hanging on the walls. He liked the chalk script menu above the bar that never changed. Monsieur Dufaux, the owner of the café, washed the slate and rewrote the menu each day, but the letters were always the same and always in the same place, just like the patrons. Madame Budry with her sixth glass of Villette, Monsieur Duvernay with his Friday night filets de porc avec pommes frites, the Lausanne University professor and his wife who rarely spoke to each other but read many books, the Algerian street cleaners who stopped in each night for espresso and cigarettes. And Monsieur Junod pushing through the curtains at the door just now, followed by his little white dog on a lead. Always at the same time, always taking the same table in the corner. And his dog always jumping on the next chair to look about the café as if demanding service. Rochat liked to imagine the little dog dressed in a very nice suit. Knife and fork in his paws and eating sausages and …
‘Still coming down, is it, Marc?’
Rochat saw Monsieur Dufaux standing at his table, drying his hands on the dish towel tucked in his apron strings.
‘Pardon, monsieur?’
‘The rain. Still coming down, is it?’
‘Oui, and winter’s trying to sneak into Lausanne tonight. He thinks I can’t see him.’
‘Who?’
‘Winter.’ Rochat pulled aside the curtain and pointed to the dripping dark beyond the glass. ‘Out there, hiding in the rain. He thinks I can’t see him but I do.’
Monsieur Dufaux looked through the window.
‘Such an ugly night. And it’s cold. I feel it in my bones.’
‘I can blow on the glass and draw him in the fog so you can see.’
‘Who?’
‘Winter. Do you want to see?’
‘Non, mon cher, that’s all right. But tell you what, you see old man winter from the belfry tonight, you chase him away for me. Would you like a dessert, espresso?’
‘Non, merci.’
Monsieur Dufaux collected Rochat’s finished plate, pulled the white cloth from his apron strings and pounded breadcrumbs from the table.
‘You know, every time you have your supper, I ask if you want a dessert or coffee. And every time you say the same thing.’
Rochat thought about it.
‘I know.’
‘I know too. That’s the point. Surprise me sometime. This is Switzerland. We need surprises now and then. Keeps us from boring each other to death.’
Rochat laughed
politely, not sure what Monsieur Dufaux meant, but very sure it was a joke. Monsieur Dufaux was well known in the café for saying funny things. And watching him walk among the tables, pounding breadcrumbs to the floor and saying the same thing about Swiss people boring each other to death, Rochat knew he had guessed correctly. All the patrons laughed.
A single chime rang through the café. Rochat glanced at the old clock above the bar. Little hand between eight and nine, big hand on three.
‘Mustn’t be late, Rochat. You have your duties.’
He looked at his bill and read the numbers. He opened his wallet, carefully counting out his Swiss francs. He checked everything three times, making sure his calculations were correct.
‘Very good, Rochat. Numbers can be very silly things. Always moving about when you’re trying to read them.’
He tied a black scarf around his neck and slipped on his long black wool coat and eased through the crowded café towards the door. The patrons shifted in their chairs to let him pass. Monsieur Dufaux called from behind the bar:
‘Fais attention, Marc, the stones will be slippery in the rain.’
Rochat felt everyone’s eyes at his back, everyone watching his clumsy limp. He pulled his floppy black wool hat from his pocket, tugged it down on his head.
‘Merci. Bonne soirée, mesdames et messieurs.’
He shuffled through the curtains and out of the door and into the rain. He checked for shadows on the cobblestones. There was only his own crooked shadow stretching from his boots.
‘On y va, Rochat.’
He shuffled to the bottom of Escaliers du marché. The steep hill of cobbled-together and mismatched stones looked slippery in the rain just as Monsieur Dufaux had warned. Rochat shuffled to the wood staircase workermen built in middles of ages. Rochat didn’t know who they were but he was very glad they had built it. The wood handrail was sturdy and the red-tiled roof would keep him from getting soaked to the bones. He grabbed the handrail and climbed.
‘Un, deux, trois …’
The thud of his crooked right foot marking his pace.
‘… seize, dix-sept, dix-huit …’
The old stone buildings along the hill looking hammered into place by the same cobblers who built the road. Skinny flats with painted shutters, empty flower boxes at the windows, small shops on the ground floor. An antique dealer, a hairdresser, Vaucher the Boulanger, a gunsmith, an Indian restaurant with funny statues at the doors and the Place de la Palud bureau of the Swiss Police, who, like all good citizens, closed up shop at night and went home.
‘… vingt et un, vingt-deux, vingt-trois …’
He quickened his pace till the stone buildings began to bend in the corners of his eyes and he could imagine beforetimes.
‘… quarante-sept, quarante-huit, quarante-neuf …’
And another cobblestone road ….
‘… cinquante, cinquante et un, cinquante-deux …’
… and another stone house, with a garden at the back. The place he lived with his mother through the first ten years of his life. The place he learned to walk on his uneven legs. The only place in the world Rochat had known till a strangerman came knocking at his door. He was tall and had a bald head and there were reading glasses with no arms balanced on the tip of his nose. Rochat’s mother said the stranger had been sent by his father. Rochat had never met his father, only knew him from a photograph. Standing with his mother on a summer’s day on the Plains of Abraham above the St Lawrence River. His mother wore a blue dress, she looked pretty. The photograph taken in the days before she changed. She grew tired and weak, she took lots of medicines. Then her hair fell out and she stayed in bed most of the day.
‘… soixante-quatre, soixante-cinq, soixante-six …’
The man at the door shook Rochat’s hand.
‘Good afternoon, Master Rochat. I am Monsieur Gübeli. It is an honour to make your acquaintance.’
He came into the house and sat at the kitchen table. He opened his briefcase and removed some papers for his mother to sign. He helped her hold the pen steady. Then the man showed Rochat a small red book with a white cross on the cover.
‘Your father has secured this Swiss passport for you, Master Rochat, so you may come to live in Lausanne.’
Rochat trembled. His mother took his hand.
‘Don’t be afraid, Marc. I have to go away soon. Your father is a very nice man, he’ll take care of you. You’ll go to a very nice school with children like yourself.’
‘… septante, septante et un, septante-deux …’
The kitchen opened on to a sitting room, and near the window there was a floor-stand globe of the world.
‘Tell me, do you enjoy studying the earth, Master Rochat?’
‘Oui, Maman shows me places and tells me about them.’
‘Has your mother shown you Switzerland? Where your father lives, where you’ll go to school?’
‘Yes, it’s far away.’
‘Pardonnez-moi?’
The look on Monsieur Gübeli’s face made Rochat laugh, his mother laughed too. The stranger removed the glasses from his nose and laid them on the table. He walked to the sitting room and returned with the globe. He stood it next to the table and gave it a spin to the west.
‘All this travelling has left me somewhat lost. I can’t quite find where I am in the world.’
‘Because you made the world go backwards, monsieur.’
The stranger looked at Rochat and smiled.
‘Very good, Master Rochat. Perhaps you could show me the correct way to see where I am?’
Rochat looked at his mother. She brushed his black hair from his forehead.
‘Go ahead, Marc. You can do it. Remember how I showed you to see things.’
Rochat stopped the wrong-way world. He turned it slowly to the east and found a tiny dot along the St Lawrence River.
‘You’re here, monsieur, in Quebec City.’
The stranger refitted his glasses for a better look, almost touching his long nose to the globe.
‘And this river on the globe would be the same river I see from your sitting room window?’
‘Oui, monsieur.’
‘D’accord. How do I find Switzerland?’
Rochat turned the globe eastward again till he found a small country curving around a slender lake in the centre of Europe.
‘Switzerland is this place, the red one.’
The man set the index finger of his left hand on the dot by the St Lawrence River in Canada and the index finger of his right hand at the lake in Switzerland. He studied the distance carefully.
‘Now, Master Rochat, I’m going to show you a little secret. Are you ready?’
‘Oui.’
Rochat watched the man trace the finger of his left hand along one of the thin lines drawn around the globe. From Quebec City, crossing the maritime provinces of Newfoundland and Nova Scotia and then over the Atlantic Ocean. Then through France, to find the finger of his right hand waiting in Switzerland.
‘You see? Quebec City and Lausanne both lie on the forty-sixth latitude of planet Earth. So all we need do is travel along this little line from here to there. Why, it’s no distance at all. Look, I can touch the two places with one hand. Here, you try.’
Rochat looked at his mother.
‘Go on, Marc, you can do it.’
Rochat’s hand was very small and only stretched to the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. But he saw the thin line on the globe and it didn’t seem too much further beyond the tip of his little finger to the place he would go a few days later, after watching his mother’s coffin lowered into the winter ground of Cimetière Saint-Charles.
And that day, the strangerman was there to hold Rochat’s small hand. And he helped Rochat pack his clothes, the photograph of his mother and father on the Plains of Abraham, some colouring books and a box of crayons. Special care was taken with the photograph of his mother and father to make sure it’d be safe as they travelled to Lausanne and nowtimes, cli
mbing this wood staircase on a cobblestone hill in the icy rain.
‘… quatre-vingts, quatre-vingt-un, quatre-vingt-deux …’
There was a pedestrian passage under Rue Viret. Rochat never went that way. The neon lights flickered and made bad shadows on the graffiti-splattered walls. He took the wood stairs that climbed above the old market place, where people used to sell grain and pigs and chickens and geese longtimes ago. It was a small park now with nine chestnut trees and four benches. But Rochat liked to imagine it in the old days, thinking it must have been very noisy and smelly and fun.
‘… quatre-vingt-dix, quatre-vingt-onze, quatre-vingt-douze …’
He came to Rue Viret as the headlamps of the Number 16 bus rounded a bend and made flashes of reds and blues and greens in the rain. The bus splashed through a puddle, rolled by Rochat, rounded another bend and disappeared.
‘Right on time, Rochat. Must be punctual in all things.’
Rochat hurried across the road and up the last of the wood stairs.
‘… cent et vingt et sept, cent et vingt et huit, cent et vingt et neuf …’
He pulled hard on the handrail and jumped over the last step and landed on the stones of the esplanade. The great floodlit façade of Lausanne Cathedral filled his eyes.
‘Bonsoir. Still standing, are you? Good for you. Listen, you old pile of stones, we must be ready. Old man winter is trying to sneak into Lausanne tonight and Monsieur Dufaux wants us to chase him away. Do you hear?’
He shuffled towards the cathedral. The limestone arch above the great wood doors dripping with rain and sparkling in the floodlamps. The cathedral seemed to grow bigger in his eyes.
‘What do you mean you don’t need me to tell you winter is hiding in the rain? What do you mean you already know? How could you already know? Oh, I see, because you know everything already. And why should I believe you?’ He pressed his ear to cathedral stone and listened. He rolled his eyes. ‘Because cathedrals don’t lie? Says who?’