The Watchers

by Jon Steele

  He rounded the tower, north, west and south, each time raising the lantern and calling the hour. He looked out over Lausanne, all was well. He hung the lantern on the railings, opened the little brass door. A gust of wind curled through the timbers, found the flame and blew it out.

  ‘And thank you, Madame Souffle, for your performance, too.’

  Thin clouds in the sky, weaving and racing between the stars and below the moon.

  ‘Look, Marie. It’s the stringy kind of clouds. That means snow is coming, the weather-teller machine in Ouchy was right.’

  He reminded Marie of all the fun things to do when it snowed. Skating around the balconies over ice-covered stones. Standing on the open roof of the belfry to catch snowflakes on his tongue.

  ‘And there’ll be icicles on the gargoyles’ noses and we can break them off and eat them. The icicles, I mean.’

  A light flashed above Rue Caroline, from the same window as the night before. Rochat pointed his eyes down to his boots and watched them shuffle along the balcony and into the loge. He pulled off his coat and hat and tossed them on the bed.

  ‘You have your duties, you can’t keep getting distracted by your imaginations.’

  He went back to his sketchbook, trying to concentrate on his drawings. But no matter how hard he tried, his imaginations kept butting in.

  ‘But what if she isn’t an imagination of something that isn’t there? What if she’s an imagination of a real thing? Maybe that’s why the detectiveman is looking for her too, because he knows the angel is a real thing.’

  He jumped from the bed, pulled the drawing of the woman’s face from his overcoat and looked at it.

  ‘That means this drawing is a very important clue.’

  He tucked the drawing in his trouser pocket, took the binoculars from the closet and slipped them around his neck. He stepped out of the loge and tiptoed past Marie-Madeleine, hoping she was snoozing soundly enough to let him pass unnoticed. She was sleeping very soundly indeed. He dashed up the northeast turret to the upper balconies. He crawled into the carpentry and shimmied up the slanting timbers above La Lombarde. His crooked foot caught an iron peg, he lost his balance and fell from the timber. His hands caught a cross-beam and he was left dangling in the air, his right boot brushing the top of La Lombarde. She vibrated with surprise.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, madame. No, no, nothing’s the matter, just solving a mysterious mystery, I think. Go back to sleep.’

  He swung like a clapper, caught the cross-beam with his boots and worked himself upright. He climbed to where he had a perfect view through the stone arches and across Pont Bessières to Rue Caroline. He raised the binoculars to his eyes, saw a blurry white light in the lenses. He turned the focus ring … and she was there in the window. Sitting at the dressing table, wearing her white robe. But she wasn’t facing the mirror and brushing her hair. She was looking out of the window, her face in full view. Rochat pulled the drawing from his pocket, studied it in the faint light of the moon. He looked through the binoculars again.

  ‘It’s the same face, Rochat, the angel you imagined. And she’s looking at … non!’

  He slid down a timber, hid behind La Lombarde.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you again, madame, but she’s looking at me. Why is the angel looking at me?’

  Before the bell could answer, all the carpentry creaked and groaned and the cables pulled taut and the giant hammer at the edge of Marie-Madeleine’s skirt cocked back.

  ‘Oh, oh.’

  The great bell exploded with two shouts that sent shivers through the timbers. Rochat was shaken loose and fell hard to the plank wood floor beneath La Lombarde. He jumped to his feet, raced down the turret and into the loge.

  ‘Beforehervoicesfades, beforehervoicefades. Where’s the lantern? Leftitoutside, leftitoutside.’

  He grabbed the matches, ran to the lantern, set it alight. He raced around the tower as fast as he could, calling the hour as loud as he could. Reaching the railings of the south balcony and calling the hour once more, his voice chasing after Marie’s fading shouts.

  ‘C’est le guet! Il a sonné l’heure! Il a sonné l’heure!’

  Out of breath, he slumped against a stone pillar. He looked at Marie-Madeleine in her timbered cage. She regarded him with severity.

  ‘I know, madame, I know. Never in eight hundred years has a watcher been late. Yes, I’m a silly fool to be out in the cold without a coat and hat. And of course it’s dark, so even if she was an angel, how could she see me? And this is what I get for snooping anyway. Yes, yes, I know. I’m supposed to be le guet de Lausanne, not le snoop de Lausanne.’

  He stood, bowed to all the bells.

  ‘Rest assured there will be no more imagining from Marc Rochat tonight, mesdames. I will now concentrate on my duties.’

  He turned around and held the lantern over the rails, high over his head.

  ‘And excuse me, Lausanne, if I was the slightest bit late. But Rochat is here, he will always be here to watch over you.’

  He held the lantern steady in the wind for all Lausanne to see. He searched the windows of Flon, the Palud and Rotillion quarters, the old city. Dark, shutters drawn. He turned to the carpentry and listened. All the bells were snoozing.

  ‘Very good, all is well again.’

  He peeked out of the corner of his eye towards Rue Caroline. The light still burning in the dark. He ducked behind the pillars at the door of the loge. He raised the binoculars to his eyes. The angel still at the window, still looking towards the cathedral. She touched her fingers to her lips and pressed her hand to the glass. Then she floated away.

  After a time, the light in the window went out.

  Rochat shivered in the cold wind.

  ‘Goodness, you’ll freeze to death out here.’

  He went into the loge, switched on the kettle and tried to concentrate on making a very hot cup of tea.

  ‘Where’s the milk? Oh, you forgot you forget milk.’

  He sat at the table and concentrated on counting all the spare candles in all the boxes he kept in a closet. Often forgetting which number was in his head, or from which box he was counting, then needing to start over. He was just finishing his tea when the creaking timbers told him it was time for the three o’clock bells. He lit the lantern, rounded the balcony and called the hour over Lausanne for the last rounds of the night.

  He shuffled into the loge and tidied up. He blew out the candles leaving only the light of the lantern. He replaced his sketchbook of things in the loge and pulled down the one he had titled old bonz. He tucked it under his arm.

  ‘And wouldn’t they talk at Café du Grütli? Marc Rochat, le snoop de Lausanne, too stupid to come in from the cold. Found in the belfry, frozen stiff, with very good binoculars for looking at cows stuck to his face. That’s what they’d say.’

  He picked up the lantern, shuffled out of the loge and down the tower steps. He picked up his pace, hopped three steps at a time, stopping at the door leading into the women’s choir loft. The door was swinging on its hinges again. He looked for the teasing kind of shadows in the corners of the high ceiling.

  ‘I’ve had a long night of confusing imaginations and mysterious mysteries, mesdames. I don’t need any silliness from you, so there!’

  … so there, so there, so there …

  He pushed through the door, marched over the wood walkway, his boots thundering in the dark.

  ‘And Monsieur Junod would say, “Just what was he doing with those binoculars? He doesn’t have any cows.” And Madame Budry would say, “I always knew he was touched in the head.”’

  … touched in the head, in the head, in the head …

  He stopped, held the lantern over his head. He heard whispering voices spread from stone to stone, all commenting on his behaviour.

  ‘I can hear you! All of you! Go ahead and gossip! After all, why would I expect sympathy from a bunch of crumbly old stones?’

  … crumbly old stones, old stones, old
stones …

  He took a step.

  Peep.

  Then another.

  Doop.

  Then took two more steps.

  Peep, doop.

  He held his boot just above the floor, waiting one extra moment before gently touching his twisted foot to the wood.

  BOOORAHHH!

  ‘The organ? At this hour? Such a night this is.’

  He hurried over the walkway, rushed midway down the tower to an old wood door set in the curving stone wall. He unlocked the door, crouched down, scooted through a dark tunnel. He pushed through a wood hatch and tiptoed on to the tribune of the nave. The organ sounds still following his every step.

  Peedoop, peedoop, peedoop.

  A towering stained glass in the occidental wall held Jesus dying on the cross. This was the only place in the cathedral anyone could see the window any more. The tall pipes of the new organ built in Monsieur Buhlmann times had turned the tribune into a forgotten cave. Rochat held the lantern high, looked around. No one.

  ‘Hmm.’

  He crept along the giant wood box where the tall pipes lived.

  Peedoop, peedoop.

  He shuffled along the narrow metal ramp leading out over the floor of the nave.

  Peedoop, peedoop, peedoop.

  He ducked under the long brass horns stretching out into the dark, gathered his courage and peeked around the edge of the organ console.

  BOOORAAAHHHH!

  A wizened man with a shock of white hair sat hunched over the keys.

  ‘Hello, Marc.’

  ‘Monsieur Rannou, it’s you.’

  The old man’s sticklike fingers pulled and pushed the stops at the sides of the keyboards.

  ‘I heard you walking about. I thought I’d give you a little fright. I hope it wasn’t too scary.’

  ‘Non, monsieur, it was fun. But it’s very late.’

  ‘It’s only very late till midnight, Marc, then it’s very early.’

  Rochat remembered Monsieur Rannou always said those words when he came to the cathedral to play the organ on nights he couldn’t sleep.

  ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you, monsieur.’

  ‘Yes, it has.’

  Rochat set the lantern on the floor, sat himself on the metal steps, watched Monsieur Rannou press the keys. The high tones of the choir pipes were perfect. They sailed from the tribune and circled through the cavernous dark of the nave.

  ‘I thought you might be coming down to sit at the console to play with the stops and pretend you were a space captain tonight. But I see you have one of your sketchbooks. What’s it to be tonight? The dead bishops, or is it your old friend Otto?’

  ‘I was going to the crypt to draw the skeletons.’

  ‘The crypt? Oh, then I do see.’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘You only go down to the crypt when something troubles you, Marc. Why don’t you tell me what it is?’

  Rochat bit his lip, knowing if he confessed a little, he’d confess all.

  ‘It’s all right, Marc. You always shared your secrets with me, remember?’

  Rochat took an anxious breath.

  ‘I’m imagining things, monsieur. More than usual, I mean. And now there’s a mysterious mystery.’

  ‘A mysterious mystery, well, those are the best kind.’ Monsieur Rannou played a few notes that sounded scary and silly at the same time. It made Rochat laugh. Monsieur Rannou finished the tune with a flourish and turned to Rochat.

  ‘Come now, tell me what’s on your mind.’

  ‘Two sleeps ago, I saw a face from the belfry. I mean, first, I saw a light in a window above Rue Caroline. And then a woman with long blond hair was floating in the light. Her back was to me and I couldn’t see her face, so I imagined her face in a drawing. I’m very sure she looked like an angel, monsieur, like the angels carved in stone in the nave. Then, the next day, I saw her at the funicular station at Gare Simplon. She rode La Ficelle to Flon and I followed her.’

  … I followed her, followed her, followed her …

  Rochat stopped talking, listening to his voice echo through the nave.

  ‘And what happened, Marc?’

  ‘She went into the Lausanne Palace and sat at a bar and she was talking to a detectiveman.’

  ‘A detectiveman?’

  ‘Oui, monsieur. I saw him on Pont Bessières, the night I imagined the angel’s face. He wore a coat with a belt and straps on the shoulders, like detectives wear in the old movies I watched with Grandmaman.’

  ‘Well then, I’m very sure he must be a detective. But how do you know she was talking to him?’

  ‘There was an alleyway next to the windows of the hotel and I hid in a shadow and watched her. She talked to the detectiveman and he took her newspaper and left her alone. But she never turned around so I couldn’t be sure it was her … Then the clock on the mantel said I was late for my dinner and I had to hurry to the café. And then I had to hurry to the belfry to call the hours. And tonight, after the one o’clock bells, I saw the light in the window again, and I looked through the binoculars and she was there. And she was looking at me and …’

  ‘And what, Marc?’

  ‘It was her, the angel I imagined.’

  Rochat took the drawing from his overcoat, showed it to the old man.

  ‘Yes, she’s very beautiful, but if she were an angel, what do you imagine she’d be doing in Lausanne?’

  Rochat folded the drawing, tucked it in his sketchbook. He thought about the old man’s question.

  ‘Maybe she’s lost.’

  Monsieur Rannou leaned closer to Rochat.

  ‘Would you like me to tell you what I think, Marc?’

  ‘Very much, monsieur.’

  ‘I think it wouldn’t be the first time an angel had come to Lausanne and found themselves lost. And I’m sure if you look around a bit more carefully, you’ll see Lausanne is full of angels.’

  ‘You might see them in Lausanne because you’re a great artist. Papa always said, “Monsieur Rannou is a great artist.”’

  ‘And what about you, mon cher? Show me your sketchbook.’

  Rochat held the book, slowly turning the pages so Monsieur Rannou could see the drawings of the old bones in the crypt.

  ‘Why, these aren’t simple drawings of skeletons in their graves. They’re wonderful stories of life and death.’ Monsieur Rannou looked at Rochat. ‘Remarkable, it’s all so remarkable. Looking in these pictures, looking at you, I understand everything now.’

  ‘Monsieur?’

  ‘Just listen a moment.’

  Monsieur Rannou turned and touched the keys. Rochat listened to the music as it sailed through the cathedral, imagining it flying around the pillars and altars and rising to the vaulted ceiling. The music stopped.

  ‘That was beautiful, monsieur, what was it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I closed my eyes and an angel showed me what to play.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Inspiration, Marc. The same way you draw pictures. You are inspired to draw.’

  ‘I don’t know what that word means.’

  ‘It’s a very old word, it means “to breathe into”. That’s how it works, an angel breathes into men and shows us what to play, what to draw. How to find the truth of who we are and why we are here.’

  Rochat looked suspiciously at the old man.

  ‘You think I’m teasing you, don’t you? Like all those teasing shadows hiding in the belfry.’

  Rochat rested his head in his hand.

  ‘There are so many imaginations in my head these days. I’m very confused.’

  ‘Be not afraid, Marc.’

  ‘The saxophoneman said those words at the train station. Just before I saw the angel. And I asked him if he ever saw an angel in Lausanne and he said, “All the time, little dude, all the time,” and I gave him three five-franc coins and he played “Les anges dans nos campagnes”, but it sounded sad because there’s nothing sadder than an angel in nowtimes, t
hat’s what he said. But why are the angels sad, monsieur?’

  Monsieur Rannou pointed into the darkness of the nave.

  ‘Tell me, Marc, what do you see now, out there?’

  Rochat looked into the darkness of the nave.

  ‘A big dark space.’

  ‘Yes, a big dark space that you fill each night with the light of your lantern.’

  ‘A very small light, monsieur.’

  ‘There’s no such thing in a big dark space. The smallest fire burns like the brightest star. Especially to creatures born of light, creatures men call angels.’

  ‘That’s what Maman said before she died.’

  ‘Yes, she did. And she told you that once upon a time the angels inspired men to build cathedrals. Places where angels could rest and hide.’

  Rochat slipped into beforetimes.

  Sitting with his mother in the days before she was lowered into the winter ground at Cimetière Saint-Charles. Watching her move her hands over a candle and make shadows on the ceiling, hearing her voice …

  ‘Because the bad shadows were trying to hurt them. And they wanted to hurt me too, and that’s why she needed to die and I needed to leave. Because I’d be safe and I’d learn things, because one day one angel will come to Lausanne Cathedral and I’ll need to protect the angel from the bad shadows and … and …’

  He blinked, found himself sitting with Monsieur Rannou in nowtimes.

  ‘I can’t remember the rest of the story, monsieur – and I can’t remember the beginning. I just know the middle part about this place.’

  ‘That’s all right. You remember why you were brought to Lausanne. That’s enough for now.’ Monsieur Rannou began to play. ‘Why don’t you take your sketchbook to the crypt and draw? It’ll be dawn soon and Vaucher the Boulanger will be taking the first of the day’s bread from the ovens. That’s when it’s best, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oui, that’s when it’s best.’ Rochat tucked his sketchbook under his arm, picked up the lantern and stood. ‘Would you like to come with me? We can have coffee and croissants together.’

  ‘No, I’ll just sit here a moment, then I must be going.’ Monsieur Rannou smiled. ‘But off you go now. And, Marc, don’t tell anyone at Café du Grütli that you saw me tonight.’

  ‘But why? Everyone knows you like to come to the cathedral when you can’t sleep.’