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 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
Similar Books
