The Watchers

by Jon Steele

Monsieur Buhlmann found the corkscrew hanging under the table in the loge. He opened a bottle, poured a mouthful into a glass. He sniffed at it and sipped.

  ‘Marc, don’t let anyone tell you there’s a better vin blanc in the world than a Villette from Lavaux. It tastes like your first kiss. Not a silly kiss, but the first kiss from the first girl you love. Which reminds me, while I was watching the milking competition, I realized we need to find you a girl.’

  ‘Monsieur?’

  ‘Now, I know I’m old-fashioned and moan about many things but this is important. We need to find a girl for you, Marc. Someone to care for you when the likes of me and Monsieur Gübeli are gone. Someone you can care for too. What do you say?’

  ‘I’d say you’ve been tasting the wine from very early in the day.’

  ‘Only a demi. With lunch. And two more with my cousin and his friends. And a litre of beer. There may have been a few more glasses, somewhere. But in wine there is truth, and I have found the truth.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘A girl.’

  ‘A girl?’

  ‘Yes, a girl for you. Écoute, one of my cousin’s hillbilly neighbours was at the Palais, he brought his daughter. She’s nineteen … that’s four, no two years younger than you. A lovely girl, she won the milking competition. And she’s pretty, but not too pretty. Good Swiss bones, and not too tall. Can’t have her too tall because of your limp. And she’s shy, like you.’

  ‘Not clever, you mean.’

  Monsieur Buhlmann drank his wine, poured again.

  ‘You listen to me, Marc. This town, this country, this world is full to the brim with clever people and just look at it. Never been in such awful shape. Clever people don’t give a damn about anybody but themselves. Too busy being clever. The world doesn’t need any more clever people. It needs people with wisdom.’

  ‘I don’t know what that means.’

  ‘It means someone who’s clever enough to grab a girl who knows how to milk a cow.’

  Rochat thought about it.

  ‘Are you sure you only had a demi with lunch, monsieur?’

  ‘Perhaps it was a bottle. But I speak the truth! You’re a young man now, you need a girl in your life. Now, look. I’m going to my cousin’s house for Christmas lunch. Me and my batty wife. And you are coming along. I’ll have you back in time for the nine o’clock bells, don’t worry. My cousin’s neighbour will be there with his daughter. You can meet her then. Her name’s Emeline. Isn’t that a lovely name for a girl?’

  Just then, the timbers began to creak.

  ‘But what would I tell Marie-Madeleine? What do I tell Clémence and the other bells? They’d never forgive me.’

  Monsieur Buhlmann whispered:

  ‘We won’t tell them.’

  GONG! GONG! GONG!

  The old man drained his glass and stood.

  ‘Six o’clock, Marc! La grande sonnerie! Allons-y!’

  GONG! GONG! GONG!

  They hurried along the balconies and stood near Marie-Madeleine as she finished sounding the hour, her great voice hanging in the air. Then the timbers in the tower moaned and groaned even louder as cables turned wheels, wheels strained at chains, chains pulled at gears, and heavy wood yokes above all the bells began to rock from side to side. La Lombarde sounded from the higher timbers. She was always first to answer Madame Madeleine’s voice. Then more voices sang from above, Mesdames Voyageuse, Beinheureuse and l’Aigrelette. Clémence quickly shook off her foul mood and joined in from the far side of the belfry. Then Marie-Madeleine rocked from side to side till the heavy clapper under her skirt slammed against bronze and her voice thundered and silenced all sounds in the world.

  Monsieur Buhlmann banged Rochat’s shoulder and shouted.

  ‘To the higher bells, Marc! We must see Mademoiselle Couvre-feu!’

  Rochat led the way to the northeast turret. Sixty-three stone steps circled twice around before reaching the upper balconies. They moved along to the north balcony where the old man could see the narrow wood walkway running through the centre of the tower, to the south arch looking out over the dark lake and the flickering lights of Évian on the far shore. Above the walkway, two bells whipped back and forth in a blur.

  Rochat stepped over a block of stone and up to the walkway. He guided Monsieur Buhlmann under the first bell, la Voyageuse, making sure the old man’s head stayed very low. The heavy iron clapper under her skirt flew so fast it was impossible to see and could smash open a man’s skull like an egg. They stood upright under Mademoiselle Couvre-feu. Monsieur Buhlmann held up his hand, the swinging bell brushed his fingertips like a kiss.

  ‘Bonsoir, mademoiselle! You are so lovely this evening!’

  Monsieur Buhlmann wobbled again. Rochat settled him against the criss-cross timbers in the centre of the belfry. The ancient wood hummed and vibrated with bell song. Monsieur Buhlmann closed his eyes, Rochat watched him carefully. Here, in the highest timbers, with all the bells dancing and singing and the sound pulsing in dizzying waves, the massive carpentry itself swayed. A man could easily lose his balance and stumble through the south arch of the belfry. From there it was a 100-metre fall to the ground.

  The bells sang for fifteen minutes. But many minutes later, the final chord still filled the sky. Swelling and fading, swelling and fading again, then it was gone. Monsieur Buhlmann opened his eyes.

  ‘What would this world be without our bells? Eh, Marc?’

  Rochat thought about it.

  ‘Sad?’

  ‘Oui, Marc, sad beyond belief. This is the last good place in a world of terrible sadness. You must never fail to call the hour, you must always protect the bells and call the hour, mon cher.’

  ‘I never forget the things you taught me, monsieur.’

  ‘Good. Now, let’s go down and have another glass and toast the bells. Then we’ll make our supper.’

  Monsieur Buhlmann was an expert at raclette and Rochat liked watching him make it. Baking the edge of the cheese till it melted and then shaving the yellow goo over boiled potatoes. The grill gave off enough heat to sit outside so Rochat brought the two wood stools from the loge. They made themselves comfortable near Clémence. Her dark bronze skirt glowed in the reddish light of the grill.

  ‘See, Marc? Burn a little cheese at the stake, tell Clémence it’s a witch and she feels much better. Can’t let the old girl get too depressed.’

  After many plates of raclette, and well into the second bottle of Villette, Monsieur Buhlmann dug through his shopping bag again.

  ‘I have a gift for you, Marc.’

  ‘For me? But why?’

  ‘Marc, I told you. This is December the eleventh, the day you first came to the tower. It’s a birthday in a way. Part of you was born on that day.’

  ‘My birthday’s in October.’

  ‘Yes, Marc, but you see … Never mind. I found something for you at the Palais Beaulieu, in the farm-supply displays. You know, tractors, milking machines … Ah, here.’

  He handed Rochat something wrapped in newspaper. Rochat stared at the crumply paper with wrinkly words. It was too small to be a tractor.

  ‘Is it a milking machine?’

  ‘No, no. Open it.’

  Rochat slowly pulled at the newspaper and saw two long black tubes braced together, small rubber caps at one end, fat round lenses at the other.

  ‘Binoculars.’

  ‘Not just any binoculars, Marc. They’re Zeiss. Swiss farmers use them to watch their cows graze on far-flung hills. Imagine that? The same binoculars Swiss Army snipers use, for a herd of cows.’

  ‘But there’s already a pair in the loge.’

  ‘Those old things? They’ve been here since General Guisan used the belfry to keep an eye on the Nazis across the lake during the occupation of France. No, these glasses are sharp and clear. Have a look.’

  Rochat put the lenses to his eyes, looked off the balcony towards Place de Saint-François. The clock tower of Saint-François popped up big as if it lived next
door to the cathedral. He turned a little, saw little stone angels carved in the eaves of the old Banque Cantonal building. As if they were sitting on the iron railings of the belfry.

  ‘What do you see, Marc?’

  ‘Angels.’

  ‘Angels?’

  ‘On the Banque Cantonal, monsieur. It looks like I can touch them.’

  ‘Two kilometres away, that building.’

  Further down the hill to the shore, along Rue du Lac to Ouchy, to the sailboats moored in the harbour. They looked like toys in his bathtub. Back up the hill to the lamplit windows of Place de la Palud, below the cathedral. A young couple finishing a bottle of wine, a mother putting a baby to sleep, a man sitting alone with a deck of cards. Rochat lowered the binoculars.

  ‘They're very good, monsieur. But I’m very sure they’re expensive. You must let me pay for them. Monsieur Gübeli gave me money to keep in the belfry for emergencies.’

  ‘This isn’t an emergency, it’s a gift. And you must give them to the watcher who comes after you, that’s the tradition. You must leave something for the watcher who comes after you.’

  ‘Like your hat and cloak.’

  ‘Yes, Marc. Like my old hat and cloak. Still in the closet are they?’

  ‘Oui, monsieur.’

  ‘I do like putting them on to call the hour, you know. But when I’m gone, you take them home. Don’t want them lying around.’

  ‘I know, monsieur.’

  Monsieur Buhlmann stretched his arms and yawned.

  ‘I suppose I’d best get home, before my batty wife forgets I’m still alive, again.’

  Monsieur Buhlmann made several attempts at getting up but kept falling back on his stool. Rochat went into the loge and dialled for a taxi, then he called Madame Buhlmann to say all was well and that her husband was still alive and on his way home and could she please remember to unlock the door because he was very drunk. The old man objected, going on and on what nonsense it was and that he could find his own way home. During one arm-waving objection, Rochat excused himself for the nine o’clock rounds. Dashing into the loge, lighting the lantern, waiting for Marie-Madeleine to ring. Then rounding the tower to call the hour and returning to the south balcony, only to find Monsieur Buhlmann on his stool, still protesting that it was all so much nonsense, as if Rochat had never left.

  By the time he got the old man down the tower and into the waiting taxi it was three minutes before the ten o’clock bells. Rochat rushed back into the cathedral and raced up the tower.

  four

  It was a late call.

  Katherine wasn’t enamoured with late calls. They reminded her of her job description. But Simone Badeaux pointed out that at five thousand Swiss francs for dinner, and dinner alone, she was far removed from what could be described as a whore.

  ‘Really, Katherine, I do think you forget the impression you leave with the members of the Two Hundred Club. Mr Duncan-Bowles thought you most charming and decided to stay another night just to visit with you again.’

  ‘He must have believed all those things I whispered in his ear when I gave him the squeeze.’

  ‘Indeed, reduces them to whimpering schoolboys. By the way, I have details regarding our Middle Eastern friend. Two weeks in Zermatt, December twenty-fourth through January eighth. You’ll have accommodation at the Monte Rosa Hotel. The client asks that your mornings be kept free for coffee, and your late afternoons free for an aperitif.’

  ‘Consultation fee?’

  ‘Fifty thousand Swiss francs plus open accounts at shops and restaurants. He would also like to meet with you just after midnight of the New Year. Discreetly, of course. The usual paparazzi trash will be chasing his actress wife about, gorgeous creature that she is. Really, I am jealous, darling. I knew his father, you know. A man of great dignity and charm, not to mention stamina. I understand the son to be of similar calibre.’

  ‘Why not come along, Simone? Make it a threesome.’

  ‘Oh, you are naughty, but it’s all I can do to manage the club. You found a restaurant for this evening? The client wishes for something Italian.’

  ‘Not an easy trick on a Saturday night, but Pippo is holding a table at La Grappa.’

  ‘Oh, the divine Pippo, do give him my love. Next week I’ll have details regarding your trip to the Maldives with our Bollywood friend. Things aren’t going well with wife number four. He needs your particular attention. Ciao.’

  She finished dressing and dropped her cellphone in her Louis Vuitton bag, along with a taser gun. Not that it was entirely legal in Switzerland, but what the hell? Sometimes a girl needs a few thousand volts of equalization. She checked herself in the mirror.

  ‘Go get ’em, tiger.’

  Pascal drove her to the narrow lanes of the Rotillion quarter. The usual compliments followed by silence ate up the five-minute drive.

  ‘When should I collect you, mademoiselle?’

  ‘Give me three hours, Pascal. I’ll let you know if things change.’

  She walked around the corner to the beige stone building with candle-lit windows. The doorman smiled and bowed, he pulled open the door. Music and laughter drifted outside.

  The divine Pippo was standing at the white grand piano with a microphone in his hands. Grappa wasn’t just Pippo’s restaurant, it was his stage. Hair slicked back, handlebar moustache curled at the tips, waving his arms and pointing out the beautiful people sitting at his tables come to be fed and entertained by him. A genuine lounge lizard, Katherine thought, but a lounge lizard with style.

  ‘And now, mesdames et messieurs, you must excuse me. A beautiful woman has just walked into my life.’ Pippo laid the microphone on the piano, greeted Katherine with open arms and three kisses. He took her mink, led her through the restaurant. ‘I have table twenty-one for you. Close to the fireplace.’

  ‘Thanks, Pippo.’

  She saw Enzo at the piano, looking up from the keys and blowing her a kiss without missing a note. She smiled, sent one back. Pippo pulled out the table and Katherine settled in the corner from where she could see the entire room.

  ‘And I saved the last of the white truffles for you. So beautiful for the mouth. The head of the Solzdorf Investment Bank is here with his mistress. He wanted to impress her with my truffles, I told him they were finished. His mistress wasn’t impressed.’

  ‘Poor boy, he’ll get over it.’

  She pulled a cigarette from her bag. Pippo pulled a lighted match from thin air. ‘Champagne, mademoiselle?’

  ‘Please, and send a glass to Enzo.’

  ‘I will cut his throat instead. Tell me you are alone tonight, Mademoiselle Taylor. Tell me and I will melt.’

  ‘I’m expecting someone, Pippo. Posh and rich, so get out your most expensive red.’

  ‘If he touches you, I will die.’

  ‘Then I wouldn’t get my white truffles.’

  Pippo jabbed an imaginary knife into his heart.

  ‘This life, c’est tragique. I can only make love to you with my food.’

  ‘Well, at least you know how to satisfy a woman, Pippo.’

  ‘I burn with love.’ He bowed and kissed her hand, waltzed to the piano and grabbed the microphone. ‘Champagne for Mademoiselle Taylor! Champagne for everyone! Mesdames et messieurs, tonight, I am in love with a beautiful lady from America!’

  Enzo broke into a chorus of ‘New York, New York’. Wrong fucking coast but Katherine smiled anyway. She liked Enzo. He had long, delicate fingers. The kind a girl dreams about.

  She sipped champagne till Mr Duncan-Bowles arrived. He looked half in the bag already. He laughed when Pippo presented a starter of prosciutto and sausages while complaining to the next table that ‘this Englishman’ had stolen the love of his life from under his handlebar moustache. Pippo poured the Conterno Barolo with the look of a love-sick puppy. He walked to the piano and announced to the crowd he was now heartbroken. He sang his way through a sad Italian melody.

  ‘Encora … encora …’

&n
bsp; There was loud applause. Mr Duncan-Bowles tasted the wine.

  ‘Odd little chap, isn’t he?’

  ‘Pippo? He and his moustache are part of the wallpaper in Lausanne. And he appreciates men of quality, such as yourself.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Savile Row suit, gold monogrammed cufflinks, the watch on your wrist.’

  Handmade Patek Philippe. Forty grand at least, Katherine figured. And it wasn’t there yesterday. Mr Duncan-Bowles admired it himself.

  ‘Picked it up today, bonus to myself. Just closed a huge merger in Lausanne. That’s why I thought I’d like to see you again. Stay another night, celebrate.’

  Katherine’s mind kicked into gear. One of the perks of dating men of immeasurable means. They loved to brag their way into her stock portfolio. She scooted over a smidge, sipping her wine and letting her hair fall over her eyes so she could slowly brush it away.

  ‘Really, what kind of merger?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t say.’

  She reached under the table, rested her hand on his thigh.

  ‘Hey, I thought you wanted to celebrate.’

  Katherine got home after two in the morning, made a note to call her banker to put in an order for 2,500 shares of Norton-Blessed Ltd. She dropped her clothes on the bathroom floor, rolled a fat marijuana cigarette and lounged in a hot bath.

  Supply running low, must call Lili.

  Lili always had the best dope. Hydroponic and home-grown in a converted barn full of sculptures. Women’s elongated bodies in bronze. Some of them modelled from Katherine’s body. Katherine liked getting stoned and posing for Lili. She liked the way Lili looked at her while shaping her body in soft mounds of hot wax. Yes, must call Lili and have a nice girlie afternoon.

  She drew a deep toke, held the smoke in her lungs.

  Outside the window Lausanne sparkled like diamonds for the picking.

  ‘So easy, so nice …’ She closed her eyes and floated away. ‘… and it always tastes like more.’

  Rochat sat in the loge, listening to the wind.

  He drummed his fingers on the wood table and waited for a thought. Sometimes they blew in with the wind. He was very sure a thought was coming to him when the telephone rang. Rochat jumped and fell off his stool. He looked at the old wood telephone on the wall near his bed. Two tiny bells on top, a tiny hammer pounding furiously between the bells.