by Jon Steele
‘Only ten shopping days till Christmas. Besides, life is too short.’
‘I’ve heard that. Somewhere.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘No bloody idea.’
‘Jay?’
‘Present.’
‘You’re incredibly pissed.’
‘I passed that point long ago. Which reminds me, another drink?’
‘No, thanks, Jay. I might be gagging for it, but I don’t beg.’
‘Sorry, Miss Clarke.’
She sighed. ‘I always fall for the wrong guys.’
‘What kind of guys make wrong guys?’
‘Guys like you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yeah, they wash up on the shores of Lac Léman like emotional refugees. I take them in but they’re so bruised by the time I find them, they can’t even trust a sure thing.’
‘Known a few, have you?’
‘Bags. And you, Jay Harper, make one more.’ She stamped out her cigarette, dropped the holder in her bag. ‘Well, I’m off. There’s a cute waiter down in the restaurant who might fancy a quick shag in the wine cellar.’
‘Fast work, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, well, what can I say? I feel the need to hang on to someone tonight. You ever feel the need, Jay?’
Harper watched her stand, turn to walk away, feeling something unremembered.
‘Miss Clarke?’
She turned back.
‘Do they sleep?’
‘What?’
‘The wrong guys, do they sleep?’
‘Sure, Jay, everybody sleeps. Don’t you?’
‘Not really.’
‘Why not?’
‘My telephone number in London.’
‘What about it?’
‘I can’t remember it.’
‘This keeps you up at night?’
‘Among other things.’
‘Like what?’
‘That’s just it, Miss Clarke, I can’t remember a bloody thing before coming to Lausanne.’
‘Goodbye, Jay, wish me luck.’
She blew him a kiss, headed for the door. Harper lit a smoke, scanned the room. Two clowns sitting at the bar. Tall skinny fuck blowing Lucy Clarke a prissy kiss. Short one with a goatee glancing at Harper with a wink and a nod. No idea if they were the wrong guys or not, but Harper had a visceral dislike of them. He gave the short one a ‘fuck off, shrimp’ stare, then he looked out of the window. Snow coming down hard.
As Rochat finished the three o’clock rounds the tiled roofs of the old city were covered in snow. He raised the lantern into the dark.
‘C’est le guet. Il a sonné l’heure, il a sonné l’heure.’
He crawled into the carpentry and hung the lantern on an iron spike. He quickly tucked himself in a sleeping bag under Marie-Madeleine and pulled his floppy hat down on his head. He curled up his legs and leaned against a timber. He watched lantern light glow against the great bell, seeing the tiny chips and cracks at the edge of the bronze skirt. He could sense she was still upset from the storm, still unable to slip into her usual snooze after ringing the hours.
‘It’s so quiet, isn’t it, Marie?’
Silence.
‘Pardonnez-moi, madame, but if you’re going to have me sit out here in the cold to keep you company, you should at least have the decency to chat. I have a very warm bed in a very warm loge awaiting me. Instead, I’m stuffed in a sleeping bag and looking like a big stupid caterpillar with a silly hat on his head, talking to a bell of all things.’
He reached up, rapped the hem of her bronze skirt. Marie hummed with a soft voice.
‘Yes, yes, I’m only teasing. I’m warm enough, don’t worry. Yes, I know, it always turns warmer when it snows. What? No, the bad shadows are gone and I haven’t seen anything evil returning to Lausanne. Yes, I’m very sure we were only imagining them. Yes, yes, I’ll keep a sharp eye, just in case.’
He stared off the balcony, watching the snow fall through the dark sky.
‘Hail and thunderstorms and so much snow, all in one night. It’s so strange, isn’t it, Marie?’
The great bell didn’t answer. Rochat looked at her, now snoozing comfortably in the timbers. He picked up his sketchbook from the floor-boards and looked at the pictures. While keeping Marie company, he’d been drawing the snowy rooftops and curls of wood smoke from chimneys. He’d even drawn the dark and shuttered windows above Rue Caroline. He began to draw the lantern tower when he felt himself doze off. He shook himself awake.
‘You must keep the watch for something evil returning to Lausanne, Rochat. It’s your duty.’
He pulled his hat tighter down on his head, tucked the sleeping bag to his chin. The old wood flooring under Marie-Madeleine creaked as he shifted position.
‘But I still feel like a big stupid caterpillar with a silly hat on his head.’
He thought about it and decided he should draw a story about a giant caterpillar who was very clever and wore a silly hat on his head. And his name was Pompidou and he lived on snowflakes. Big ones, fat ones, like the ones falling tonight. And he crawled around the world – no, he flew around the world and beyond the moon.
By the time Marie-Madeleine rang for four o’clock, Rochat’s sketchbook was full of wild drawings. Ice castles and moats of fire and three-headed crocodiles. And an evil wizard named Screechy who lived in an ice castle and wore a pointy hat with a rooster on top and stole a big diamond that was a future-teller. And a band of funny pirates with wooden swords and paper hats, riding on Pompidou’s back and flying just above the waves of the Boiling Seas of Doom on their way to the land of Saskatoon where … where …
*
Five loud gongs shook Rochat awake.
He was scrunched up in his sleeping bag with his sketchbook open on his lap. Pompidou and the pirates were circling the ice castle, shouting for the evil wizard’s surrender. He looked at Marie-Madeleine, she was quiet and calm.
‘I think it’s time for a hot cup of tea, Rochat, don’t you? Yes, I think so, too.’ He closed the sketchbook and yawned. He looked through the timbers, rubbed his eyes, looked again. He rapped the great bell with his knuckles.
‘Marie, wake up! Do you see it?’
A half-metre of snow on the belfry balcony, just reaching the iron railings. He stuck his head through the criss-cross timbers. He checked to the east. The roof of the cathedral and base of the lantern tower at the far end of the building buried in even more snow. Down on the esplanade the crumbled construction site was covered. And just under the belfry, the steeple from the Apostles’ porch, long and pointed, poked through the snow like the lance of a brave medieval knight who’d fallen over in his armour and couldn’t get up.
‘Otto, what were you doing walking around in the snow, you clumsy old fool? You’re supposed to be sleeping next to the altar! Don’t worry, I’ll dig you out tomorrow, mon ami!’
Rochat looked out over Lausanne. Perfectly white, untouched, not a footprint. And all the black clouds were gone and there were thousands of stars sparkling in the still night sky. Rochat saw the vineyards in the hills to the east of Lausanne and the mountains across the lake. The whole world covered in silent white. A funny thought popped into Rochat’s head. He jumped to his feet, tapped Marie-Madeleine again.
‘The sun will be coming up in two hours, Marie, and Lausanne will have such a big surprise with all the snow. And I can make an even bigger surprise.’
He grabbed the lantern, crawled through the timbers, jumped on to the east balcony and sank to his knees in snow, his overcoat bunching up as if it was much too long. He cleared a path to the loge, set the lantern on a stone ledge. He opened the door, banged his boot against a timber and set it in the loge, then the other leg, and he stepped inside. He found his gloves and a long stick that had been in the corner behind the door from longtimes ago and nobody knew what it was for now. He dug through the closet, found an old scarf and the floppy black hat Monsieur Buhlmann wore on the nights when he called the hour
. He opened another closet and found an old broken lantern and three plastic cups. One red, two blue. He remembered Monsieur Buhlmann kept a bag of walnuts in a hiding place in the loge. The old man loved walnuts with his many glasses of wine, but Rochat was sure it would be fine if a few went missing. He carefully counted out seven walnuts. He put on his gloves, rushed back outside. He set the things in the eaves above the door of the loge and thought about his plan.
‘I’ll put him here. So the biggest one from this balcony, and one from Clémence’s side, then the last one from over by Marie.’
He kicked his way to the end of the balcony, scooped up a clump of snow and packed it into a tight ball. He rolled it the length of the balcony, then back, packing it tighter each time. He rolled it back and forth till it was a big fat ball. He rolled it to the railings directly in front of the loge. He crawled through the timbers near Clémence, rapped his knuckles on her bronze skirt.
‘Excuse me for disturbing you, madame, but I’m making a surprise for Lausanne. I won’t be long.’
He jumped on to the west balcony and rolled another ball of snow. He picked it up, carried it around the tower, planted it atop the big ball. Then over to Marie-Madeleine’s side of the tower. He could feel her brood with disdain.
‘Oh, just mind your own business. Look the other way if you don’t like it.’
And he rolled a ball of snow the size of a watermelon and stacked it atop the pile, and now had three balls of snow standing taller than him. He stuck the long stick through the middle ball so it poked from the sides like arms. Two blue plastic cups for eyes, the red one for a nose, seven walnuts for a smile.
‘Now, this old scarf around your neck, hang this old lantern from your arm, comme çà. And to top it off, le chapeau du guet.’ He set Monsieur Buhlmann’s floppy black hat on the snowman’s head. ‘Et voilà. What do you think? Marie, Clémence?’
The two bells refused comment. He made a snowball, threw it at Marie.
Donnnng, she grumbled.
‘What do you mean, “What is it?” It’s a snowman.’
He threw a second snowball at Clémence and listened to her opinion.
‘Oh, I see. This is a cathedral, not a playground. I’ll be excommunicated and burned at the stake if the Pope sees it? Well, with all due respect, mesdames, the Pope doesn’t come here any more. And besides, there’s a big pipe organ where he used to sit. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going inside to warm up. It’s been a very long night of keeping the watch. My deputy, Monsieur Neige, will be happy to look after you. You may address any complaints to him.’
Rochat looked over Lausanne once more. Here and there lights flickering awake. He jumped in the carpentry, shuffled around Marie-Madeleine.
‘Oh, what a surprise everyone’ll have when they see a silly snowman in the belfry. They’ll be very confused and wonder if they’re imagining things. I’m sure they’ll be talking about it at Café du Grütli tonight. After their supper, they’ll all talk about the snowman, and tonight, I’ll have something to say! I’ll say, “What snowman, mesdames and messieurs?” Won’t that be funny, Marie?’
He tapped her skirt and listened, she failed to see the humour and remained quiet.
‘Bells, why do I bother? I’m going into the loge. Goodnight.’
The timbers creaked and groaned, Marie rang for six o’clock.
‘Good morning, I mean.’
Rochat gathered his sleeping bag and sketchbook from under the big bell. Climbing from the carpentry, his eyes skimmed the snowy rooftops to the unshuttered but dark windows above Rue Caroline. He leaned close to Monsieur Neige.
‘And if you see an angel in the windows over there don’t be alarmed. Lausanne’s full of them.’
He went into the warmth of the loge. He took off his snowy boots and hung his wool overcoat on the nail at the back of the door. He blew out the candles, lay down on his bed and fell sound asleep.
*
The dream coming again.
‘More, please.’
Her body floating on a silver cloud. Tasting caviar from a crystal spoon.
‘Is it good, mademoiselle?’
‘I’ve never tasted anything like it. Buttery and beautiful.’
‘This morning there was a great sturgeon swimming in the Caspian Sea. I had her drawn from the depths, her belly sliced open while she was still alive and her precious eggs poured into crystal bowls and brought to you this forever night.’
‘Lovely, so lovely.’
A light shimmering through swirls of smoke, pulsing, coming closer, like something delicious and warm, then breaking into shreds of silver mist, taking the shapes of bodies. Beautiful bodies of men and women, all floating through swirls of smoke, brushing against her.
Feeling a delicious warmth seep through her skin and flow through her blood. Cut open alive, the precious eggs poured into silver bowls. Tasting the life still breathing in the precious eggs.
‘Lovely, so lovely.’
‘A gift to honour your beauty.’
‘I want everyone to taste it. I want everyone to feel it.’
‘Is this your wish?’
‘Yes.’
Mounds of tiny black pearls glistened in the silver light. The beautiful bodies dipping their fingers into the caviar, licking it from each other’s fingers. Feeding each other, tongue to tongue, mouth to mouth. Licking the black pearls from each other’s lips.
‘I feel them. I feel so … so …’
‘Feel their hunger.’
‘Yes, oh, yes. I feel it.’
A shuddering rush of pleasure.
‘What’s happening to me?’
‘You have become one with the woman in the looking glass.’
‘Yes, yes, please. I want her. I want to be her again.’
Touching her, feeling her.
Another delicious rush.
‘Oh, God. Never so good, never so good.’
‘Swear it.’
‘I swear, I swear, never so good.’
‘Swear that you will always want more.’
‘Yes, I swear.’
Music vibrating, a murmuring voice.
Too much love … never too much love.
The beautiful bodies coming closer again. Feeling their breath on her skin.
‘More. I want more.’
Drums pulsing, voices swirling.
Radiance … absolute radiance … so wonderful.
Waiting to ride the next wonderful wave.
Sacrifice of love … our sacrifice of love.
Her body rising, lifted by unseen hands, carried through the beautiful bodies. Feeling every heart in passing, pounding in one impassioned pulse.
She breathed deep, holding the breath to the edge of blackness. Gasping and breathing even deeper.
The rush burned deeper and the voices cried with joy, faces coming close to her and inhaling the scent radiating from her skin. Mouths and lips and tongues hungry for more.
Too much love … never too much love.
She opened her arms to receive them.
Worshipping her, licking her skin, sucking at her breasts, biting her flesh.
‘Take my body, take my blood.’
The beautiful bodies covering her, their flesh melting into shreds of silver mist, smothering her, her heart pounding faster.
‘Never so good. Never so good.’
The delicious warmth seeping into her skin again. Filling each hungry pore. Floating higher and higher on the crimson cloud.
Faces, thousands of beautiful faces emerging from the mist, licking at her flesh. ‘Where am I?’
‘At the gates of Paradise.’
‘Who am I?’
‘You are your reflection made flesh.’
‘Yes, so beautiful, I want it for ever and ever.’
Feeling the warmth sink deeper into her flesh, rushing through her blood.
Higher, higher.
Breathless.
Feeling her legs open, feeling them touch her.
‘Don’t stop, please, don’t ever stop.’
Rushing into her, lifting her higher, so much higher.
‘I love you, I love you, baby.’
Panting, tingling … suspended in a perfect moment of never-before pleasure.
Then slipping away and falling.
‘No, my darling, not yet.’
Wanting the rush again.
Wanting to stay there forever.
Too much love … never too much love.
‘Please, monsieur, can I have more?’
sixteen
The snowplough clanked down Rue Pépinet. Harper waited for the heavy machine to pass. Freak thunderstorm followed by one of the biggest snowfalls on record and the Swiss have most of the city’s streets cleared by ten in the morning. He crossed the road to Place de Saint-François, ducked into the newsagent, picked up two packets of smokes. He saw the Guardian amid the Swiss newspapers and grabbed it. Catch up on the state of the world maybe. He paid the assistant, went back outside.
Ye olde Christmas village on the square had taken a battering but workers were already drinking glasses of vin chaud and singing merry tunes about the farmer’s daughter and hammering the place back together again. The noise reminding Harper of the state of his head. He stopped at the chemist.
‘Aspirin, please.’
Back outside and around the corner to Café Romand. Place was filled with men and women enjoying their midmorning coffee break. He found a spot next to the windows, ordered an espresso and croissant. He opened the aspirin, downed two pills. He opened the Guardian to check on the state of the world. Headlines: ‘Pakistan and India Arm Nuclear Missiles as Riots Continue’, ‘Civil War in Iraq as Iran Threatens West’, ‘Second Suicide Attack on New York Subways Claims Hundreds’, ‘More Genocide in West Africa. 700,000 Slaughtered in Six Weeks’.
‘Christ, “depressing out there” is the polite way of putting it. More like “going down in flames”.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Harper lowered the newspaper. Old gent at the next table, the kind that had ‘talker’ written across his face.
‘Sorry?’
‘You were speaking to me, monsieur?’
‘Actually, I was reading the newspaper, to myself.’