'How the Moonlight Got Serious'
A story before the summer break
‘Stiff Upper Quip’ is ready for its summer break. I have the rather significant business of moving country ahead, so the plan is to come back in mid-September. For paying subscribers, the final extra post of the season will arrive Sunday.
Thank you all for your support in the second year of ‘Stiff Upper Quip’. I’m planning some exciting new strands for the newsletter in Season 3; in the meantime, please spread the word about ‘’SUQ. We’ve more than doubled our audience this year but there’s so much more to do.
I wouldn’t like to leave you without a good read, here’s a long short story to ease you into the summer break.
She got the message from him that they were on, and though she didn’t reply to it, she moved straight to lastminute.com, then ca.kayak, to book the flight. In her initial anxiety – there was a trembling going through her arms as she clicked – she was so eager to book the flights that, trying to choose amongst a series of similarly-priced options, she realized that she had booked a flight with an unnecessary four-hour layover, a flight which meant that she had to wait in London when she could have flown from Canada hours later and still connected to the same flight. Well, she thought, looking outside the window on Toronto, I had better find something to read.
She moved to the bookshelves to inspect what she had but the books were mainly monuments to the aspiration of her later years in Europe; a novel of Albert Moravia in Italian, history, some Camus in French. Wait a minute – she had read that, and sure enough, when she opened the book, there was a card of a penguin inside, with a speech bubble inside which had been written ‘I love you’. Did it mean the penguin? she smiled to herself though of course, she recognized François’ handwriting. And she remembered, just about, the day when he had given it her too, pushing it across the café table in a little blue envelope.
‘C’est pour moi?’
‘Oui, c’est un cadeau.’ François sipped his little coffee. ‘It is a card.’
‘I kind of figured.’
‘Do you like cards?’
‘It’s not my birthday,’ she said with a smile.
It had not been, but two real birthdays had passed since then, and she had edged into thirties and, her youth over, or something, returned home.
She had been back to Europe once since – many times in her head, but only once in actuality. That’s when it had all started with Pascal, the messaging, but not the actual meeting, that had happened later, in Montreal. Pascal was a curly-haired, bald-spotted French businessman who frequently came to Canada; he stooped slightly and wore grey suits. But when you liked someone you liked them. The first night they had met – after so much talk, after all the hours and hours of messaging – they had gone for dinner as friends. Pascal had a wife, it was unfortunate, but Pascal had a wife, and he had shown himself such a gentleman that evening that, when she said goodbye to him to go back to the apartment, the lovely neutral apartment, she had leant in to his older cheek and given him a suggestive friendly kiss. Sometimes your body did the talking, and Pascal had paused a little as if to absorb the kiss, and smiled.
They had never made love then, just messaged and damn messaged, even now sending pictures and emojis and GIFs. (He was quite fluent with a GIF, was Pascal, for an older man anyway. Especially since the French were technophobes). All that messaging had led them to this moment, where Pascal was going to Hasliberg, Switzerland, alone, up in the mountains, but didn’t want to be alone up in the mountains. He wanted her to come too and the invitation meant of course not just to come to visit him in the mountains – he had a meeting of property developers in Zug – but to make love to him, or at least to enter into the conditions which would make that possible.
His request was hovering in the bedroom, and her heart was beating fast. It was so absurd, the formality of waiting to reply, when both of them knew that his message had been received and read, and that they were both waiting on her reply. It was almost as if two ‘thems’ existed, the ones in the flesh and the ones chatting online, and almost as if those ‘thems’ enjoyed two distinct relationships. She pictured him sat smoking in his armchair – he still smoked, Marlboro, the poor creature – or waiting for his wife to unlock the apartment door. His wife, based on the pictures he had shown her, was an attractive woman, a little aged, perhaps just past her child-bearing years when she’d met her husband. Perhaps they had had many discussions about that, discussions which had culminated with Pascal going outside to smoke a cigarette and ended with them mutually watching television in bed. Certainly Pascal had never spoken of children, or even attempts to have children, although he did speak fondly of nephews and nieces, not that she cared.
932 Canadian dollars. Flying on Friday evening, arriving Saturday evening, with no need to take more than two days off work. She’d be back in the office by Wednesday morning and they respected her enough to let that slide, and she’d hardly used any of her holiday allowance anyway. She did dread telling Mrs. Ashram though, with her silences suggestive of disapproval, as if to say a young woman shouldn’t be gallivanting of to Europe on her own, but should be assisting in the establishment of Justin Trudeau’s 1000-year Canadian Reich, almost certainly the politest of all historical empires, or whatever. ‘Switzerland’, Ashram would say, ‘How interesting. A land-locked, German-speaking speaking country, with unusually high rates of gun ownership, by European standards.’ Anyway she was a rotten old bitch.
It was the time of year in Canada when the barbecues started, and she was going to see her new lover, and she wasn’t even thinking of François, she thought, thinking of François.
The taxi to the airport arrived very early. She had been applying mascara at 5am, underneath her tired brown eyes and the harsh bathroom light. She took the elevator down alone.
The cab driver was waiting. ‘Airport?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know the Terminal?’
‘It’s Terminal 3.’
‘OK. Please, get in.’
They drove and she watched the city give way to the industrial lands. Toronto was steely and upright in the dark, the city she left and returned to, the great crystal shining lake. There was a song playing on the Roxy Music, ‘Oh Yeah’.
‘I like this song,’ she said.
‘Yeah?’ said the driver. ‘Yeah, me too. Da-da da-da da-da da. Who is it?’
‘It’s Roxy Music. They’re a British band.’
‘That’s where you’re flying right? Britain?’
‘I didn’t want to be,’ she stated. ‘I have a layover there. I won’t even leave the airport.’
‘I’ve never left Canada,’ said the driver.
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Why haven’t you left Canada?’
‘I guess my parents worked so hard to get here I thought there must be something to it.’
‘Oh take it from me. I’ve lived in three countries. There’s something to Canada alright.’
With that they sat looking at the freeway for a moment as if waiting for Canada to provide them with a moment of transcendent affirmation, when in fact all it offered was grey and concrete.
An ordinary childhood; a quick death of supportive parents – cancer and a heart attack – and a 20s spent wandering about Europe; life had dealt with her briskly. She had never made great errors, never had grand plans. She had made various decisions when decisions were required and had achieved most of the tasks she had been assigned. The main exception to all this had been François, who had represented the moment when a story, and of all things a love story, had erupted into her life.
One afternoon, François had been sitting outside one of her classes. He had worn a black jacket; his hair had been curly and full. As she arrive he had looked up; he had a pale blue shirt on underneath his black jacket, and looked a little like the actor Jesse Eisenberg, though less Jewish and more French. He had the Frenchy look, the aquiline nose, the little hedgehog eyes and a pack of cigarettes, which he wasn’t smoking but playing with.
She stopped above him.
‘Can I help you?’
‘This - is the English class?’
‘It starts in five minutes. But you’ll have to give me five minutes to set up.’
She moved into the classroom, taking off her satchel and picking up a sponge. On the board had been written the single word ‘Asshole’. No doubt Arthur had been teaching the class before and she thought it was just like him, meandering and blagging through the lesson and then trying to seem cool with a late demonstration of expletives. Well, you could do that in your early 20s, she thought, reminding herself then with a frown that she was herself only in her late 20s.
While she had been cleaning the offensive word from the blackboard the young man had taken a step into the doorway. Washing off the final letter she turned.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s good, the class?’ he asked. His accent was very thick.
‘I think so,’ she said. ‘Well of course I do. Did you take the placement test?’
‘Yes, but I don’t speak so well. Ahhh. When I am reading a book or a newspaper I understand everything but speaking, is, ah not so easy.’
‘You speak very well. Anyway, there should be some other people here soon.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘I’m Katie. And you?’
‘It’s François,’ he said, standing in the doorway with an intrigued look. ‘You’re American?’
‘Canadian. Now please go and sit outside.’
‘Sorry. I guess I’m just enthusiastique. Enthusiastic – to improve my English. I am looking forward to improving my English with you.’
‘That’s very nice, François. I’m sure we’ll have a very good time together.’
By the end of the class François was already speaking better; what he lacked in finesse he more than made up in his self-confessed enthusiasm. In other words he was taking part, and by the end of the session he was keenly participating with the other students in the fashion show. In an exercise designed to improve their clothing vocabulary, individual students were to parade past while others of the group provided a running fashion commentary. François did this latter to great effect, saying ‘And here comes Farnaz – wearing this lovely hijab – and doesn’t she look beautiful – a Persian beauty - give a big applause –’ at which everyone laughed and applauded, the young man having judged the tone just right. And when it came to his own turn to parade François was in his element, loosening his shirt and hanging his jacket over his shoulder, all the time soundtracked from his little blue iPod by Prince’s ‘Controversy’.
He had been goofy and too young for her but there had been something loveable about him which she did indeed later deeply love.
She flew to London.
Over the Atlantic, watching a documentary about the arctic, watching the penguins and the big diving bears. Watching the massed penguin ranks – why were some of them furry? – and floating in the air above it all. She watched from time to time the basic map which showed as a gradually extending red line their progress towards London. Their progress towards Europe.
A great sense of peace was rising within her, mixed as ever with a sense of anticipation – perhaps she grew peaceful when she committed to action – as the call came for the cabin crew to prepare for landing. She was still very still as the plane came in, although she did pick up a little whisper to her left, where the elderly passenger, crucifix in hand, appeared to be praying.
The pilot welcomed them to London.
She had no particular feelings about Heathrow airport. Once, though, she had stayed overnight there and had – she saw no particular need to keep it secret – met an exceptionally attractive hotel clerk. Jeffrey from South Africa: Jeffrey with his bright shiny smile. She had come down to the lobby to flirt with him but, as she was about to ask him when his shift was finishing, he mentioned the problems with his ‘Black guests’, which he knew about from home. Which statement was problematic to her without even brining her own mixed race heritage into it, though as ever, it was slightly comforting to her that so many people missed it. A shame because Jeffrey had been rather cute.
Heathrow airport again, then. She was remembering that book 1001 Places to See Before You Die and thinking that Heathrow airport was like from an alternative list, 1001 Places Not Worth Seeing But That You Will Get To See Again and Again. Toulouse had become like that after a while, the same old squares, the same old tired, socially-bonding racism in the cafés, the same bureaucracy. Plus François’ same old boldness, exhilarating at first but then becoming a pallid and frenzied version of itself.
He had wanted, at the beginning of their relationship, to get elected to the city council. He would become, he told her, its youngest ever member. She had thought he was joking at first – but no, his ambitions were genuine. He was, he said, going to seek election on the ticket of the Front de gauche, the hard-left party, similar to Canada’s own NDP, although of course Canadian radicalism was a little more polite and bashful. He had flirted with les verts but come round to the idea of a revival of the left, of red banners unfurling before the Toulouse town hall, of workers and loudspeakers in the streets. And he wanted to build more bike lanes. Despite his apparently sincere socialism, he also believed there was too much red tape and bureaucracy in France, and argued it would be easier to run against French over-centralization from a departing point of firmly statist sympathies. He had his own ideas did François.
So she got involved. He needed help – not financially; his job at the municipal authority got him through, and there was no fee for his management course – but help to accompany him to meeting, to make him badges, to sew buttons back onto his shirt. Why couldn’t he do that? She did it all gladly because she had – to reiterate, at that time – loved him. She had walked besides him to coffee mornings and activist parties and lefty-church services all because, in the way he talked, his eyes narrow and his beautiful soft smile spreading, there was love between them. In her, around her, anchoring her to this foreign ground.
François’ ideas were though a tough sell to his adopted party. Said party was old trade union types, agricultural workers, local activists renowned in Toulouse but of little report beyond. They saw his passion, and some were charmed by him, by his youth and precision, but wouldn’t it be better if François went out and saw a little bit of the world first? But that, François said with a smile, is precisely what I’m trying to do! Meanwhile she baked cookies – sweet, chocolatey, French-Canadian cookies. She became very good at it and baked them in an increasingly gigantic size.
Eventually François received a phone call from Bernard, his supervisor. They like you very much, Bernard said and, with an air of wonderment, you even made them laugh. But you haven’t paid your dues. François was funny, artistic and smart – but was also twenty-three. They weren’t convinced that the voters would take him seriously, Bernard said.
François waited a long time to give an answer and then said, quietly, ‘Merci.’
Initially he styled the rejection positively, telling her they would have more time to spend with each other, they would take trips, they would hire an electric car and drive around France. In reality this amounted to a few Sunday walks around the botanical gardens and for the first time, intermittent drug taking. Only from him, mind, save her occasional puff on a joint: she always had her work visa in mind. Still, for all his expert goofiness a little piece of what she had found charming in him had expired.
Perhaps she was unlucky, to meet him just when he was losing his innocence, when his charm alone was becoming not enough and he needed to survive in life from something more substantive. Perhaps her role had been to bring him to that moment and now he had to find a way forward without her. She was certainly more mature than he was. However, she still loved his soft yellowish body, his long smooth legs and his sweet boyish smell. She still loved that he loved her, still loved that he was from Toulouse.
‘You can always run again,’ she told him. She knew that he wouldn’t.
Four hours in London had passed in candies and sandwiches; she had been grazing the whole time. Now she ate some dark chocolate, now she drank some elderflower water. It was raining outside.
The flight was called for Gate 37 and she went there, dragging her small carry-on. Pulled on the walkway it made a steady purring sound, a little like the soundtrack of that weird movie she had seen a while back, Scarlett Johansson, Scotland, an alien. At the gate there was a Swiss family, a man with four boys, all dressed in denim jackets, all looking like their father, who was a bear-like little man who waited in silence. Evidently he had prepared everything in advance.
She had too, although the Swiss Air flight attendant seemed to detect her friendliness. ‘You look very different in the photo.’
‘It was a few years ago,’ she said.
‘No – I don’t mean it in a bad way. You’ve grown into your face.’ The woman smiled.
‘Thank you. I suppose 30 is as good a time as any to do that. How long will the flight take?’
’90 minutes,’ said the attendant. Now all her friendliness had gone.
It was cold in Zürich as she got off the plane, and she swiftly buttoned up her cardigan. The four-headed Swiss child hydra made its way out to a waiting SUV and she went over to the train station which was, of course, integrated into the airport. Seeing it, she thought, is it possible for a country to become finished? It was difficult, really, to see what more they could do with Switzerland.
She would take the train to Lucerne, pick up a car and drive to the hotel in the mountains. There she would wait until tomorrow for Pascal to come. She had deliberately booked early – not that he knew that – to allow herself the pleasure of anticipation. She might walk down to the village tonight and eat fondue, because why not? Fondue was delicious.
From the train she saw great eddies of fresh snow and red barns on flatland. It sped on and no-one talked; she felt like she had arrived in some kind of gentle purgatory. In the carriage, the only thing that could be heard was the slow turning of a magazine’s pages, each one joining those read, and the dabbing of a finger to the lips of the reader. The man reading was grey-faced, and she wondered where the four children had gone.
An hour passed and she saw more villages and the lake now. She drank the rest of the elderflower water, which had made a surprising journey from a Heathrow Marks and Spencer to the heart of Switzerland. Funny how these things travelled – she had once bought a huge bag of sunflower seeds which she had for some reason felt compelled to transport from place to place across her European residences. It had sat in the corner of various kitchens before suddenly one day, and without particular reason, she had thrown it in the trash in her yard.
She checked her work emails – she shouldn’t but she couldn’t help it, and resisted the temptation to reply to the one sent by Karen of her new puppy, who was apparently the cutest. It was important to maintain her status in the office, as the kind of girl who would go to Europe for a weekend. Go all that way just for a few days. Well, to take pride in a truth didn’t make it false, and she was that girl, and had been rewarded for it by having her heart broken very badly by a man now incomprehensibly lost forever. At that moment, it occurred to her, Toulouse couldn’t have been more than a day’s drive away. Nothing to a Canadian.
She soon arrived in Lucerne and moved off the fast train to the car rentals desk. The salesperson placed a laminate sheet in front of her.
‘It’s this one,’ he said.
‘That’s fine.’
‘Not too small?’
‘I’m on my own.’
‘You’ve been to Switzerland before,’ said the clerk.
‘I have.’
‘Then,’ said the man, recouping the laminate, ‘You know what to expect.’
François had been consumed by his failure. Or rather he had begun to tell himself a story about his failure and, if you wanted to move on in life, telling yourself stories was never a good idea. He had begun to join the dots and tell himself that his failure to elected to the city council at the age of just 23 – ‘23, François, twenty-fucking-three!’ – would ensure later failures which, due to his assuming them, duly arrived. He got fired; he took too many drugs; he started working nights in a garage.
Pascal wasn’t like that. Pascal had a background, a successful business, might even have a kid somewhere. She wouldn’t have been surprised but she didn’t ask him that question. She was always aware where she herself was with Pascal, how she felt about him. She felt that he was giving her something too, a fair trade-off. She wasn’t exactly sure what it was he was, though – perhaps a sense that all the years in Europe had not been wasted?
All I did was age my eggs, she thought. I took my eggs all round Europe like that box of sunflower seeds. And now she had a load of slightly aged eggs on her hands and should get down to reproducing. Whoopey-do.
She drove the little car out of Lucerne. She liked the small European cars and, against the additional pleasure of the virtuosic Swiss landscape, she flicked on the radio. It was a schmaltzy ballad with some aged-sounding man singing about his Hymatlant, whatever that was. It sounded like the Swiss for gastric band. She kept flipping until she found – ha, what a stroke of luck! – a station playing Beyoncé. She couldn’t wait to hear the DJ try to pronounce it.
Onward to the mountains now, above the Lucerne lake, past alpine villages and houses and towards the snow-capped peaks. In a little car with Single Ladies playing, happier than in at least a year. She was glad she’d come.
When she arrived at the hotel there were a man and a woman having an argument and no-one else there. The man was moving around the room, occasionally pointing at things, pictures, lampshades, and rolling out floods of agitated Swiss German while the woman stood with her head slanted. The whole time he did so, though, he was smiling, the effect being of an oddly gregarious rage. The woman her part stood in total silence, as unmoved as a lion being complained to by a zookeeper.
You could see down the valley, the huge convoluted rivets of rock, the banks of massive snow. It was quite beautiful and she had become lost in its calm when those disputing noticing her. The man didn’t even pause, sliding from his indignation to a swift ‘Ciao,’ and coming over to her with his hand raised. His face was leathery and he was pretty short, with a rabbity upper palate.
‘Hello. I’m booked here for the next three nights,’ she said. ‘It’s Ms. Chung.’
‘Frau Chung, yes, yes! At the moment you are our only foreigner. The rest of the hotel is just Swiss skiers! Otto,’ said Otto, and laughingly stuck out his arms as if skiing.
She went to the desk where the woman animated slightly and, pushing towards her a small piece of paper said, ‘We need you to fill this out.’
She read the details, happily translated: it was a form requesting the date of her arrival and departure of the hotel, together with the purpose of her visit. My love is coming, she thought, Pascal Benôit. I have met him only once before and I have never seen him naked. In your hotel, with its pastel yellow walls and brown furniture, I will give myself to him. He is not here yet.
‘You’ll need my passport, too,’ she said, having it ready. The fact of her organization was like a ray of light hitting her weary interlocutor’s face.
‘You are very organized,’ the woman said.
Otto was troubling a window, scratching at a brown speck near the corner. ‘Dirty!’ he said. Then he was next to her again. ‘We hope you have a nice stay with us, Miss. Chung,’ he said. ‘First time in Switzerland?’
‘Yes, it is. I travelled in Europe for many years but somehow missed Switzerland.’
‘Ah, it’s the best bit. The rest -’ Otto shook his head, looking to the window himself. ‘The rest is a mess. That’s the village down there. You can see it, Hasliberg. There’s a bar down there. See the black roof? Exactly. We have food at 19.00. Noodles is good for you?’
‘I think you mean what we call in English pasta.’
‘Pasta is Italian,’ said Otto. ‘These are heavier noodles, after a Swiss style.’
‘Do you have fondue?’ she asked. Otto shook his head, unmoving, and she said, ‘Noodles are fine for me.’
‘And breakfast?’
‘I would like my breakfast at eight o’clock.’
Without saying a word, the woman – after ‘Silke!’, Otto had bellowed at her – had raised the room key. It hung in her hand, a little brass glimmer on a heavy blue fob.
‘Silke!’ said Otto once again. She moved over and reached out her hand to take the key.
Otto insisted on bringing her up to the room; she opened it on a clean, nondescript chamber with a splendid view of the gorge. Yes, she thought, it’s a pretty view – but she couldn’t help thinking about two naked bodies copulating in front of it, writhing and clawing at each other. She decided to make herself a herbal tea.
As the kettle boiled she began organizing her things, putting her shoes at the foot of the cupboard and hanging up her sexiest dress. She was here the opposite of François who always, entering a hotel room, somehow managed to make it more messy, even with a very limited range of objects; separating his socks, curling up his trousers and moulting head and pubic hair. Poor baby.
She made the tea and took out the hand mirror; she looked a little tired, but not bad for such a long travelling day. She hoped François – no, Pascal, not François, François was dead – she hoped Pascal would not be disappointed in her, though he had the air of a man happy with whatever he got. Not in a desperate way, but in the way of a person rejoicing in living, satisfied, content to exist. She knew that Pascal worked hard, that he was one of the nuts and bolts of this world, the best kind of man.
It was funny, she thought, that she kept attracting Frenchmen. Or did she seek them out? The Frenchies were like a flavour her life lacked. It would frankly have been boring without them, all that unending Canadian politeness and crying at military parades. One time she had had sex with Pascal in the Toulouse tram depot – they’d had a meeting there which Pascal had ruined by getting over-caffeinated and going on about Žižek – and she couldn’t image a Canadian man doing that.
She liked these old European faces, and the combination of stagey politeness and infidelity. She liked to be hustled around a bit. It had started before François, on her first visit to France as a 17-year old. Arnaud! Arnaud with his frizzy hair, and big brown eyes and worn-out Sisters of Mercy t-shirt: Arnaud! He had been in his early 20s and had seemed then impossibly old to her.
They had driven along the coastline, and over to a château; she had spoken her best French then. They had walked up to the castle together.
‘What do you think?’ Arnaud asked.
‘It’s a castle,’ she said.
‘Is it a good castle?’
‘It’s not bad. We don’t really have castles in Canada, so it’s hard to compare.’
‘If you had castles, what do you think they’d have been like?’
‘Probably with a Tim Hortons,’ she said.
Generally, he had failed to get her jokes.
Otto was gone when she went down to get her noodles which were in fact creamy rigatoni. They were good, al dente in a rich cheese sauce, and Silke served them like that too, as if they were good. Silke waited for her to take the first bite and, having done so, literally walked away from her backwards to the reception.
She sat eating the pasta and thinking about Pascal and as she did so said, ‘There’s a bar in the village.’
‘There is.’
‘Can I walk there?’
‘Yes of course. It’s a little glatschig – I don’t know glatschig in English – but if you walk carefully you can.’
‘These noodles are very delicious,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll go down there later.’
‘It’s quite nice,’ said Silke.
She went to her room and got the hat and mittens she had bought last Christmas. Having pulled them on, she went back downstairs, where Silke was now eating a croissant.
‘We always have them left over,’ said Silke.
‘I wouldn’t judge you,’ she said. ‘So it’s straight down there?’
‘Yes, that’s Hasilberg. Here is Upper Hasilberg,’ Silke said.
It was very cold out there and already getting dark. She felt the vastness of the landscape and the air pulsing over her mouth.
Switzerland wasn’t how she imagined it but in truth she had barely imagined it. When she had talked with Karen at the water cooler the references had been to yodeling Heidi and itinerant cows, plus heaps of cheese and chocolate. She had made her excuses already that she was there on business and wouldn’t be tourist shopping, which meant that every chunk of Emmental or toblerone that she did bring back would be seen as especially generous. In the business world they called it ‘underpromising and over-delivering.’ You did what you had to.
Her breath was coming out in puffs of frost and she was so amused by that that she took a doubly long breath to watch the crystals surge and disperse. It occurred to her that, if Pascal did not show that she had effectively booked herself into a hotel thousands of miles from home for no reason. Toronto was boring but it wasn’t worth spending that much to avoid. Worst case she had the rental and she could maybe drive down to Lucerne, or even over to Bern for the day, if there were things there. It seemed incumbent on her to see things.
She remembered when she got the call about François. In fact she remembered it every day. She remembered the unknown number in her cell, the pause after answering, and the information: that her boyfriend was missing, that he had last been seen that morning at the garage. Then driving off towards the Pyrénées. A few hours later they had found his car on a bridge, the blue iPod still, in a detail she had learnt later, jacked and left on shuffle. She wondered what song had been playing when he jumped – if he jumped.
They never found a body. When you never find a body a certain possibility remains open, like the mind is given permission to visualize prettier outcomes, although to be honest, as she knew from her responses to people who had verifiably died, meaning her parents, the mind did that anyway. The mind sought hope, evolutionarily, although she now believed that living without hope was the sanest thing of all.
What hope was there though for François? That one day they would find a body? Desiccated and decomposed in some Pyrenees cave? No, better to remember him as on their happy days, firm and naked on the depot’s tarpaulin, strong and funny at so many events. Better to swallow the ashes of adult life and live perfectly in the present.
She continued down the road, nearly at the village now, snow cropping her sneakers’ toes.
François’ parents were one of her main memories from those days, the gaunt, nicotine-furrowed mother, and his father, tufty-haired and at a loss for words, particularly in his second tongue. (Her French, injured by grief, deteriorated then). Did they view her as the outsider who had led their son to a premature death or the girlfriend who had stood by him in his darkest days? The grave was the same. Her father had always been kind to her and when it came time to go drove her to the airport. François’ mother did not come.
‘You know,’ Gaspar said, ‘François was always dark. Even as a little boy. He used to get very upset when we changed the clocks forward, you know. He used to cry and shout, ‘Someone has stolen an hour of my life! The thieves!’ He couldn’t deal with the idea of wasting time. And now...’
She didn’t say anything. What could she? She just watched the great clean freeways of France sliding by.
‘When you have a child,’ Gaspar continued, ‘You never think things like this can happen. You know intuitively that they can happen, but you tell yourself that they could only happen to someone else. Once a neighbour’s son was killed – he was killed in a skiing accident. So it’s awful, but one of my thoughts was, That means it is less likely to happen to me and my family, to François or Adele. But you cannot judge your life in statistics.’
They drove on, the first sign to the airport appearing.
‘What will you do when you get back to Canada?’
‘I thought I might teach,’ she said. ‘If there’s enough money in it.’
‘I thought they spoke English there, au Canada,’
‘Maybe I should move to Montreal,’ she said.
‘Montreal is good, I think. I will come visit.’
‘You’ll stay in touch?’
‘If you like,’ said Gaspar.
He had driven her right to the terminal. She went to embrace him, standing beside the big hold-all with her carry-on stacked against it. She held him, the little buckled Frenchman, the funny one, the older one. When they withdrew from the hug they were both crying and there were only some pleasantries left to say.
She had arrived at the bar; she stood a little up from it, listening to the music, boingy Swiss pop filtering out into the still cold night. She waited a while to enjoy the moment and, having found it sufficient, walked inside.
It was cute in there. There was a long plastic counter, a man sitting at the other end, and, as a peculiar centrepiece, a twirling disco-ball. Really! A full-sized disco ball twirling above the plastic counter where the dour barman stood bent forward. She approached him.
‘I’d like glass of wine please.’
‘A big little one or a little one?’
‘A big one.’
The barman fumbled around for a bottle of wine and, finding it to the right of the sink, poured her out a glass which he handed over. He then returned to silence like it was a book he was reading.
She sipped the wine; it wasn’t bad at all. She gave herself small internal congratulations that she had come and went to sit in the corner. She checked her phone – no messages. Was the roaming package working? Maybe he was waiting, seeking the latest possible moment to ask his wife, coupling it with an action of leaving so immediately that no discussion could arise. Or maybe he wasn’t...
She tried to subdue that thought.
The best way was via interaction, and she looked over to the man sitting at the bar, drinking his tall bubbling beer. He looked over and returned her smile.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Hey,’ she replied.
‘Not busy is it?’
‘It’s a quiet Saturday night,’ she smiled. ‘I wonder if it ever gets busy.’
‘I was hoping maybe I’d see some of the skiing group,’ said the man. ‘I’ve been imagining them today.’
‘Is that what you like to do, imagine skiing groups?’
‘More than actually skiing, anyway. Where are you from?’
‘Canada.’
‘Oh, Canada.’
‘O – Can – ada!’ She spoke the national hymn. ‘What are you doing in the mountains?’
‘I’m thinking about my life. Can I join you?’
‘Sure.’
He crossed the distance between them and sat at her table facing her. The light was bright on his face.
‘Whereabouts in Canada?’
‘I live in Toronto.’
‘Is it nice – Toronto?’
‘It’s a very clean city. New York run by the Swiss is what they say. Well, I can tell you, in that regard we haven’t got anything on Switzerland. Where are you from?’
‘I’m from the UK.’
‘Oh right, London?’
‘Yes, London actually. I grew up on the south coast though. Have you heard of Portsmouth?’
‘I have not heard of Portsmouth, no. Is it nice?’
‘It isn’t nice.’
‘I’m Katie by the way,’ she said.
‘Hi Katie. I’m Pavel.’
‘So what do you do in life, Pavel?’
Pavel smiled; he was leaning forward a little. ‘I’m an international spy!’
‘Really?’
‘Yes! You know the guy in the hotel, Otto? I’m here to kill him!’
‘Why?’
‘He’s a money launderer. He’s got 50,000 dollars stashed in a safe up there. Stolen from the poor,’ said Pavel.
‘So why do you have to kill him?’
‘Actually, I don’t. That’s just a personal touch. Anyway want to help? Like that film, you know, with John Cusack.’
‘Hot Tub Time Machine?’
‘No, the other one. Grosse Point Blank!’
‘That’s a really good movie. Joan Cusack is in it too.’
‘Anyway, I work in IT,’ Pavel said.
She laughed. ‘In addition to the spying.’
‘Of course. What about you?’
‘I’m an administrator at an insurance firm. It’s incredibly boring; my life is really incredibly boring.’
‘But you’re in Switzerland.’
‘That’s the good part.’
‘It’s beautiful here,’ said Pavel. ‘I try to come once a year. April is really busy, so I sneak over on easyJet and have a few days snowboarding.’
‘Are you married?’ she asked.
‘No, I’m not married,’ he answered.
‘Kids?’
‘Not that I know of. You know, we IT people have very bad social skills.’
‘Oh I don’t know. We’re talking aren’t we?’
‘That appears to be the case, yes.’
‘Well,’ she spoke with some defiance, ‘I like making new friends.’
‘Me too.’
‘Well, cheers then Pavel.’
‘Cheers.’
They chinked glasses.
‘You know what Pavel: you’re my best friend in Switzerland.’
‘I appreciate it. Are you expecting a phone call?’
‘No,’ she said, embarrassed, ‘I’m just checking my battery life.’
They stayed for another drink; she had a G&T this time, why not, and then it was apparently time to go, although who set the rules on holidays anyway.
‘I’ll pay for these,’ said Pavel.
’50-50,’ she insisted, notes in her hand.
Why, she thought, a little drunk and aggressive, should she owe anybody a favour? Pavel was perfectly nice and as the Brits said a good laugh, and he was cute, but there was no need for him to play the hero as if – fuck! She had nearly fallen in the snow and he had grabbed her.
‘You alright?’
‘I’m a little drunk. You see,’ she said, solemnly, ‘I am in actual fact quite small.’
‘I did notice that,’ he said. ‘Here, come up.’
She stood and looked at him. ‘You, on the other hand, are a tall man.’
‘I’m six foot two.’
‘A tall man!’ she shouted. In the distance, snow probably fell from the mountains, and house lights turned on hostilely.
They began the walk up the slope together, gently talking and enjoying each other’s company, even the pauses. Pavel was telling her about his brothers and sisters, a big Polish family, all close. She was particularly intrigued by the figure of his brother Łukasz, an Olympic bronze medallist ‘for rowing’ whom Pavel spoke of with modest pride. A nice man, the mountains, the hotel coming up ahead.
Just before they reached the entrance of the hotel she said to him ‘Stop.’
‘What?’
‘It’s beautiful.’
For it was, the light of the villages and the great silvery blankness of the hills and peaks, stretched out like a dozing giant, like the land had absorbed all these centuries of peace.
In the hotel reception Otto was stood there and Silke was gone. He was looking out of the big bay windows with a concentrated and analytical air. He turned slightly as they wintered, Pavel going to the fridge to take a beer.
‘Hello,’ Otto said.
‘Hi.’
‘You went to the village?’
‘We did.’
‘It’s a nice walk. Peaceful.’ Then he said, ‘You know, I’m really German.’
Otto looked at her expectantly.
‘Are you?’
‘Yes, I am. That’s alright isn’t it?’
‘Of course, why wouldn’t it be?’
‘You know, with all the problems.’ Otto nodded. ‘It’s not so easy.’
Pavel was raising a bottle of beer behind them and when they turned he pointedly laid a Swiss coin on the counter, saying ‘For the beer.’
Otto said, ‘You want me to open it for you?’
They walked upstairs, Pavel holding his open beer.
‘You’re here?’
They laughed – as it turned out, they were in adjacent rooms.
‘So... it was nice meeting you.’
‘It was nice meeting you too.’
‘Knock if you fancy a chat.’
She smiled. ‘How do you plan to spend the rest of your evening?’
He leant back against his door frame. ‘I might, you know, read about this traditional petting zoo.’ He waved the promotional leaflet in his hand, which bore the images of a tiger and a penguin.
‘That does sounds thrilling.’
‘What about you?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ll probably watch something I’ve already seen on Netflix. Actually I think there’s a new documentary about puffins.’
‘Do you like puffins?’
‘Big, big fan.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you to your puffins.’
There was a pause after which they both started to laugh.
‘It does sound filthy doesn’t it?’ said Pavel.
‘I think “I’ll leave you to your puffin” sounds much worse.’
‘Plurals are very important,’ said Pavel, and made a small snigger.
‘They are. Very. How long are you here for?’
‘Mmm?’ Pavel lowered his bottle. ‘Oh, I’m here until Tuesday.’
‘Oh great. Well – I’ll see you at breakfast.’
‘Sweet dreams.’
‘I think,’ she said, growing a little more sober now, ‘that I’m too drunk to dream.’
In her room she moved to the window. It was calming looking out there, no doubt. She plugged in her phone and doing so checked the messages: de nada, de niente, de rien. Perhaps Pascal had – no, what was the fucking point.
She was suddenly aware that François was behind her. She was sure, just for a moment, that he was sitting in the chair behind her and if she turned she would see him. He was smiling and sad, and his body gave off a vapour of regret, but it was just the merest hint, and when she turned the chair was of course empty. The reality of the room, its facts of tables and chairs, was asserting itself, and he had been reduced to a picture in her eye. There was no time to ask him, How are you? or to say to him I still love you, I think. I met you early in my life but now I can say with confidence that you François Berger were the love of my life.
The chair was empty.
She looked out on the great torn gorge, beautiful, and clearer as she sobered more, which fact was also good. Maybe Pascal would phone tomorrow and maybe he would not; suddenly it didn’t feel very important. All that seemed important was this juncture, this interaction of options, that she had decisions. They were hers and nobody could make them for her. She was surviving – perhaps it was time she had another cup of tea. Before that, though, that thought just made her so happy to be here, away from the suffering, tucked up in the mountains, sailing on into the tremendous emptiness of another night.
