The Watchers Read Free

eyes.’
     
… the things most dear …
 
    ‘It’s all right, lieutenant, this is what happens. It doesn’t end for your kind, it never ends. Just forget this life and let it go.’
     
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon …
 
    The unmoving world began to stir.
    He saw the flashes of guns.
    He saw the rain, nothing but the wild rain.
    ‘Oh, my … my Helen.’
    ‘Look into my eyes, lieutenant, listen to my voice …’

book one
    the forty-sixth latitude of planet earth
     

one
     
    Marc Rochat pulled aside the lace curtains and watched the rain fall through lamplight and splash on the cobblestones of Escaliers du marché. Tiny streams formed between the cobblestones and ran down to bigger streams of rain from Rue Mercerie. The two roads, narrow and angled at a steep slant, met just beyond the windows of Café du Grütli. Rochat breathed against the cold glass, he drew a raw-boned face in quick spreading fog.
    ‘I see you, I see you hiding in the rain. You can’t fool me, en garde .’
    He wiped away the face and turned back to the warmth of the café.
    It was a familiar place to Rochat. He came here most evenings for his supper. He liked the round lamps hanging from the ceiling that glowed like full moons. He liked the photographs of Lausanne from long times ago hanging on the walls. He liked the chalk script menu above the bar that never changed. Monsieur Dufaux, the owner of the café, washed the slate and rewrote the menu each day, but the letters were always the same and always in the same place, just like the patrons. Madame Budry with her sixth glass of Villette, Monsieur Duvernay with his Friday night filets de porc avec pommes frites , the Lausanne University professor and his wife who rarely spoke to each other but read many books, the Algerian street cleaners who stopped in each night for espresso and cigarettes. And Monsieur Junod pushing through the curtains at the door just now, followed by his little white dog on a lead. Always at the same time, always taking the same table in the corner. And his dog always jumping on the next chair to look about the café as if demanding service. Rochat liked to imagine the little dog dressed in a very nice suit. Knife and fork in his paws and eating sausages and …
    ‘Still coming down, is it, Marc?’
    Rochat saw Monsieur Dufaux standing at his table, drying his hands on the dish towel tucked in his apron strings.
    ‘ Pardon, monsieur? ’
    ‘The rain. Still coming down, is it?’
    ‘ Oui , and winter’s trying to sneak into Lausanne tonight. He thinks I can’t see him.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Winter.’ Rochat pulled aside the curtain and pointed to the dripping dark beyond the glass. ‘Out there, hiding in the rain. He thinks I can’t see him but I do.’
    Monsieur Dufaux looked through the window.
    ‘Such an ugly night. And it’s cold. I feel it in my bones.’
    ‘I can blow on the glass and draw him in the fog so you can see.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Winter. Do you want to see?’
    ‘ Non, mon cher , that’s all right. But tell you what, you see old man winter from the belfry tonight, you chase him away for me. Would you like a dessert, espresso?’
    ‘ Non, merci .’
    Monsieur Dufaux collected Rochat’s finished plate, pulled the white cloth from his apron strings and pounded breadcrumbs from the table.
    ‘You know, every time you have your supper, I ask if you want a dessert or coffee. And every time you say the same thing.’
    Rochat thought about it.
    ‘I know.’
    ‘I know too. That’s the point. Surprise me sometime. This is Switzerland. We need surprises now and then. Keeps us from boring each other to death.’
    Rochat laughed politely, not sure what Monsieur Dufaux meant, but very sure it was a joke. Monsieur Dufaux was well known in the café for saying funny things. And watching him walk among the tables, pounding breadcrumbs to the floor and saying the same thing about Swiss people boring each other to death, Rochat knew he had