Читать книгу The Art of Deception - Louise Mangos - Страница 9

‘Stop! Stop it!’ I yell, with my hands pressed over my ears.

My voice rasps in my throat and fills my head. The thudding on the wall ceases abruptly, and I take my palms slowly away. The ensuing roar of silence is tuned perfectly to the blood pumping through my veins.

My gaze is fixed on a pencil-drawn sketch taped to the mottled plaster, a child’s portrayal of a chalet. The house is perched on top of a mountain with stick people skiing down one side of the hill. As my concentration wavers, I blink away a tear of frustration, and rub my temple. I was expecting to see the picture tremble with the thumping. But these partitions are solid brick; raging fists will not move them.

The subsequent stillness is painful, and I try to imagine Fatima in her two-by-four-metre space on the other side of the wall. The expectation of what might replace her anger increases the tension like the static of an impending lightning strike.

They have taken away her son, and won’t let her see him even briefly for a feed. One of the female guards simply marched in and picked the little thing up from his crib, right in front of Fatima’s eyes. We all came out to the corridor to watch in horror as the head security officer gathered Fatima’s flailing arms and held her while the guard walked away with the baby. Then they locked her in. Who knows how long they’ll keep the baby this time. An hour. A morning. A day? I suck in the musty air of my cell. Annoyance has prevailed over my sympathy. I want to scream and shout too.

Someone has also taken away my son, but I have to keep a lid on my emotions or it may backfire. Losing control would do me no favours in this place, especially as my son is far away, and I don’t know when we will be together again.

I hope they don’t keep Fatima’s baby for long. She stole three packets of Zigis from the new Polish girl who came in last week. The one whose name no one can pronounce. Lots of z’s and c’s. Who the hell risks solitary for a handful of cigarettes? I guess the nicotine-deprived are desperate. They haven’t seen fresh Marlboros for weeks. I don’t even think Fatima intended to smoke them herself. She merely wanted something to trade. The theft led to a fight in the canteen, a messy affair resulting in tufts of hair on the floor and bite marks on various limbs.

I can’t believe Fatima was caught so easily, especially after all the other stuff she helped steal, the stuff she didn’t get nabbed for in her previous life. It turns out she was only the driver when she was arrested.

We all have previous lives. I still find it hard to talk about mine, so I choose to silently observe everyone else’s.

That fight clinched Fatima’s punishment. No solitary, simply take the little boy.

Her baby is called Adnan, and he’s a sweet little thing. The guards periodically use him as a bribe to try to control her anger, but I think it makes her worse. How can they take this woman’s child away? There’s an irony to it, with the tainted history of this place. All they’re doing is building a seething resentment that will eventually rise like the stopper on the top of a pressure cooker. Fatima is close to breaking point.

I know how she feels.

Adnan reminds me of Jean-Philippe, or JP as we called him within days of his birth. Maybe Adnan’s Balkan roots have a vague link to JP’s part-Russian ones. The same penetrating Slavic eyes, a strong squarish head, an almost simian brow. My baby is much older than Adnan, and no longer an infant. But I still think of him as a baby. The name JP stuck when he started l’école maternelle last year. His friends at school even adopted the soft ‘Shay-Pee’ in French.

I’ve noticed he tries to sign his full name, Jean-Philippe, on the bottom of his little notes and drawings to me now, a challenge for one so young. I hope he’s proud he can spell such a complicated name. More likely his grandmother, Natasha, or Mimi as JP calls her, has insisted he practises his full title. She has always hated the acronym we use for his nickname, and is undoubtedly dragging him back to a more conservative tradition. Her whole philosophy seems so formal, so remote. Since I’ve been here, she’s removed the strings connecting mother and child like a heavily glued sticking plaster, painfully tearing him from his Anglo roots.

He was 6 years old last week, and I haven’t seen him this month. I have had to be content with sending cards and my own drawings and talking to him on the phone. To think he had a birthday without me, his mother. The court has obliged his grandparents to let me see him once a month. It’s the most I could engineer for the moment. His father’s family is trying to keep him from me as much as possible. It’s a punishment far harsher than my imprisonment, and my heart aches for him constantly.

Fatima knows and respects this, but cannot contain her rage, despite being aware I can hear her, somewhat muffled, behind the wall. Motherhood for her is still fresh. The fear of separation has become a raw terror that something will happen to Adnan in her absence. I understand that, and can identify with it.

It’s a love like no other.

* * *

Seven years ago

Settling on a high stool, I nursed a glass of cheap draft beer, watching the bustle of the après-ski crowd reflected in the mirror behind the bar. A figure in a red ski-school jacket, a folded ten-franc note clasped between his fingers, pushed his way between me and the customer at my side. The young man rested his hand on the polished wood. I bit back a retort as his elbow pressed against my shoulder. He leaned in, and I drew back, expecting him to address the barman.

‘We are all vagabonds, you know.’ His silky deep voice spoke English, almost a whisper at my temple, his breath warm on the shell of my ear. The hint of a French lilt sent a tingle down my spine. I turned, and instead of delivering admonishment, smiled into a pair of mesmerising grey-blue eyes.

‘You are new in town, yes?’ he asked.

‘Just arrived,’ I confirmed. ‘Couldn’t hitch a lift, so I rode the cog railway up from the valley. Bit freaky, didn’t know if the rickety thing was going to make it, with all that clunking and straining.’

‘That rack is over a hundred years old. You took a journey on a classic piece of Chablais transport history. What brings you here?’

‘A bit of an unscheduled stop, really. I’m backpacking through Europe and read about this village in a student travel guide. Plus a college friend once told me about this bar.’

I hesitated. In reality I was looking for a few days’ work. I had heard this resort, easily accessible on my Eurorail pass, was a good place to try. Amsterdam and Paris had sucked the money out of my wallet faster than any pickpocket. This guy didn’t need to know I was flat broke.

‘I was originally on my way to Greece for the summer. I know that’s a long way from here, but I’m getting a bit short of cash.’

‘Mm. The Med. Sounds romantic. Unfortunately you have arrived at the end of the season. There won’t be many jobs available. People will be heading off soon, travelling south, perhaps to the same beach you are dreaming about. Some of us will stay here though; we have to work.’

The barman slid a bottle of Cardinal across the bar, a slight frown on his face. My new companion took a sip from the beer.

‘You’re lucky to live in such a beautiful place. What do you do outside the ski season?’ I asked as I glanced at the barman, now moving away to serve another customer.

‘I teach French at the international college. Pays the bills.’

He sidled in to sit on a recently vacated barstool in one smooth move, his body filling the space at my side, and he reached into his jacket pocket. He took a ready-rolled cigarette from a pouch of Drum, and lit the tatty end with a loud click of his Zippo. He noted my surprise.

‘One of the few bars that still allows smokers,’ he said, studying me intently through a swirl of blue smoke. No one else in the bar was smoking. He waved at a spark rising from a burning curl of tobacco, and studied me through creased eyes.

My face flushed hot and my belly flipped. A magnetism kept my eyes locked on his, despite the commotion around us.

And then he coughed, the harshness of the smoke catching in his throat, making his eyes smart. We both burst out laughing, his slick seduction technique exposed. I saw the barman roll his eyes as he served another client at the end of the bar, and as he returned, he leaned over.

‘Buddy, you know the rules. Quit being a dick.’

My companion put his hand on my arm, pulling my attention back to him.

‘Should give up the stuff,’ he said, curling his fist towards his chest, cigarette still clasped between two fingers.

‘Absolutely,’ I agreed. ‘Tobacco should be outlawed anyway.’

He raised his eyebrows. I blushed, and mentally kicked myself for sounding so prudish. He continued to smoke his roll-up, and I wondered which rules the barman was referring to.

‘So what’s your name, Pretty Travel Girl Heading for Greece?’

He picked a sliver of tobacco from the tip of his tongue, and I couldn’t help thinking the roll-up cigarette routine was going horribly wrong for him today.

‘Lucie, actually Lucille, but everyone calls me Lucie.’

‘And my name is Matt, actually Mathieu, but everyone calls me Matt. Enchanté,’ he said, holding out his hand to shake.

I would have commented on his patronising tone, but a physical static tick connected our palms, and we both smiled. My heartbeat spiked. He brushed a lock of brown hair, a little flattened from a day under a ski hat, away from his face. His broad shoulders hunched on one side as he leaned his elbow on the bar. He stretched his ski-honed legs either side of my barstool, and my vision of a golden beach and carefree days with suntanned beach bums slipped away.

‘Do you ski?’ he asked.

With my glass to my lips, I took a sip, and shook my head.

‘You can always engage my services. Ask for Matt at the ski school.’

Now that sounded like a more practised marketing tag line.

‘I can’t afford to ski right now, though I’d love to learn.’

‘Of course you don’t ski! You are from the land of sailors. Do you sail, Lucie? Is that why you are heading to the waters of the Mediterranée? Perhaps you would like to sail with me, on my boat, on Lac Léman. Mon premier lieutenant.’

I shook my head, but not with disagreement. Did he really just say he had a boat? The concept seemed so contrary, up here on the mountain.

‘I used to sail very small boats – Optimists – on a man-made lake near our home as a child. And although my dad was in the navy, we never sailed on the Med.’

I was still not entirely sure he was telling the truth about owning a boat. I might believe him more if he said he drove a Ferrari.

‘Actually, my little sloop is also not much bigger than a bathtub. It was bought with a small inheritance from a childless aunt. Sounds good as a chat-up line though, doesn’t it? Can I get you another?’

I buried my smile in my glass as I emptied the warm dregs and placed it on the bar near him. My cheeks flushed in acknowledgement of the heat in the pit of my stomach.

As we talked, other customers chatted around us, but I blocked them out, not allowing their gossip to interfere. I didn’t want this to end. I felt myself sucked into the vortex of a schoolgirl crush. Finishing his second beer, Matt reached hastily for his jacket, stood up and leaned in to me, as though he’d lost his balance.

‘Perhaps I will see you around, ma Lucille. It’s time to change out of my office gear,’ he said, indicating his ski uniform.

I’d always hated my full name, thought it made me sound like a faded Sixties’ TV star, but the way he spoke made it sound like honey slipping off his tongue.

Mathieu cast me a last curious smile as he shrugged into his jacket and wove his way through the clientele towards the exit. I frowned as I watched him leave. A wedge of disappointment remained, the warm feeling he had invoked in me already a heady memory. An air of mystery floated in his wake. Our conversation remained half-finished, as though he intended to return to it later. I wondered if he felt the same physical and emotional pull. Or was this just another day at the office?

‘He’s a Casanova, that one. Watch out,’ said the barman, absently drying a glass with a tea towel. I wasn’t sure whether his tone was one of wistful jealousy or a warning.

‘Does he really have a boat on Lake Geneva?’ I asked, ignoring the alarm bells.

‘Apparently.’ He shrugged. ‘Though I don’t know anyone who has ever seen it. Could be a bullshit line. Watch yourself there, young lady.’

He moved away to stack glasses.

The bar emptied at the end of Happy Hour, and the barman, much friendlier in Mathieu’s absence, introduced me to the manageress of the hostel.

‘We close next week for a month or so, but we will need extra staff for the few days it takes to spring-clean,’ she said. ‘I can hire you for the week. It will be tough work, moving furniture, lots of cleaning.’

‘I’m fine with that – I’d be delighted to help,’ I said, relieved to the point of making it sound like we were doing each other a favour. If I had any hope of reaching my Greek beach, I needed more than a few days of work, but this would be a start.

‘You can move into the staff accommodation and take your meals with the others. I know that look. I can tell you’re desperate for cash. We’ll deduct the rent from your earnings and you can set up a tab at the bar. You can take Sandra’s bed. She had to leave early. Some family emergency back in Australia. Normally we wouldn’t hire extra staff at the end of the season. You’re lucky.’

* * *

As I entered the bar the following evening, after a day that had magically transformed the landscape with a spring snow, my gaze was drawn to a raucous group at the bar. They were playing the inanely stupid but enticingly addictive game of spoof. It was a game I had often played in the student lounge at college. Clutched fists thrust repeatedly into a circle at each other, hands then turned to reveal the number of coins in their palms. No prizes for the eliminated victors, but shots of the Swiss schnapps Pomme for the losers, the grimaces on their faces at the harshness and raw strength of the alcohol a prize in itself for the onlookers.

‘Ah, here is our pretty Greek seaside girl. A little diversion on her way to the summer sun.’

Matt threw his arm casually across my shoulder, the weight of it implying possessiveness. Despite acknowledging the possible effects of alcohol, a flush crept up my throat at his familiarity.

‘Bonsoir, Mathieu,’ I said.

‘What have you been doing with yourself today?’ he asked. ‘How did you like nature’s last gift of winter to us? There were a few happy powder hounds on the mountain today.’

‘It would have been great to be able to ski. Perhaps next season,’ I said cautiously, not wishing to imply that I might rashly have made my mind up to stay a little longer. ‘I had a pleasant walk around town. I’m not really prepared for wintry conditions. Today was a test for the soaking capacity of my socks.’

I pointed down to my sodden sneakers.

‘Inappropriate footwear, huh?’ Matt patted me on my shoulder. ‘The slush will probably be gone by tomorrow. This little cold front was unexpected.’

The barman greeted me warmly with a tip of his head. His eyes moved away and cast Matt a steely look as he ordered us beers. Clutching our bottles in one hand, Matt returned the barman’s stare and then turned away, putting his body between me and the bar. He placed his other hand firmly on my elbow, and guided me with a little more force than necessary towards the corner.

He pointed to a bench where we could sit and talk. I glanced back to the barman before allowing myself to be led away. I could only think that his reaction was due to jealousy. I had to stop myself grinning broadly. Matt had forsaken his colleagues and their entertainment for me. As far as I was concerned, it was game on.

* * *

When I moved into the hostel’s staff accommodation, I enjoyed the camaraderie of my room-mates. But while they were all winding up for the end of the season, for me it felt like a beginning.

On the first evening after work, I was lying on my bed reading a novel borrowed from the hostel library. Anne, the receptionist, burst through the door with a bag of items she had purchased from the local épicerie.

‘I see you have thrilling plans for this evening,’ she said not unkindly, pointing her chin at my book. ‘Well I’m going to change them. I don’t feel like going to the bar tonight before dinner, but I need some wine and I don’t want to drink alone.’

She pulled a bottle from the bag with a packet of pretzels and a tub of olives.

‘My boyfriend and his mother are disagreeing over one of my pieces, and I’ve left them to it.’

I fetched two glasses from the shelf in the bathroom and brought them back to the dorm. As Anne emptied the rest of her bag, I studied the posters tacked to the wall above her bed. A Hodler print hung next to a photo of a Giacometti sculpture; one of his classic tall thin bronze men. Beyond them she had pinned up her own photos of the surrounding mountains, glowing with sunsets or sunrises, and one spectacular shot of a sea of cloud filling the valley against a striking purple sky.

‘You’re an artist?’ I asked over the noise of the pretzel packet being opened and the lid screeching off the plastic olive container.

‘If you consider photography an art.’

She handed me the bottle of wine and a corkscrew.

‘Of course,’ I said.

‘I love contemporary Swiss artists, as you can see. A salute to my fellow countrymen. Photography is more my own passion, a hobby inspired by our environment. My boyfriend François’ father owns the Grand Hotel in the village where he works, and they recently agreed to hang some of my photos in one of their conference rooms. But they don’t seem to want my advice as to which ones. It was as though I wasn’t even there,’ she said crossly. ‘Are you also interested in art?’

She nodded towards the posters on the wall, curiosity quashing her irritation.

‘I was halfway through a fine arts degree when I dropped out of university and decided to travel. It’s backfired really. My parents obviously weren’t happy, and I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking them to fund a trip, but I can’t believe how quickly the money I earned from Saturday and holiday jobs seems to have slipped like water through my fingers.’

I opened the bottle, poured some wine into our two glasses, and took a handful of pretzels Anne offered me as we sat on our beds facing the windows. The setting sun cast a pinkish glow on the toothy ridge of the Dents du Midi. She reached for her camera on the shelf by the bed and tucked it beside her, waiting for the perfect alpenglow.

‘Then it’s good they hired you at the hostel. But it’s poor pay for cleaning work. Your funds won’t last long in this country. I’m a bit better off on a receptionist’s salary, especially after the peanuts I earned when I travelled in the States. Bon appétit,’ she said as she offered me the pot of olives and popped one in her mouth.

‘You speak excellent English.’

‘The multilingual skills of the Swiss, I guess. What made you give up studying art?’

‘I don’t know really. I love my art, but I had the feeling I’d never be able to find a job I would enjoy. Plus I’ve always had this secret dream to travel abroad, and wanted to do it before getting bogged down with a career.’

‘I can’t wait to get out of this room,’ said Anne, looking around at the three rumpled beds and a jumble of mismatched furniture. ‘They want me to stay on for the next couple of seasons. But there’s only so long you can spend living in a dorm. I’ve saved up enough money to rent my own flat. It’ll be so much easier for François and me. Will you look for another job in the village, or move on from here?’

‘I’m not sure. It depends.’ I turned to a poster. ‘Your photos are beautiful.’

It depends on Matt, I had wanted to say, but now found it hard to admit that an impulsive decision might be based on the outcome of meeting one person. Anne’s mention of her boyfriend made the heat rise to my face.

When we had finished the bottle of wine, she showed me some more of her photographs. I swirled the last of the Valaisan gamay in the glass tumbler.

‘Do you know Mathieu, the ski instructor? The local guy?’ The wine had loosened my tongue, and I blushed as I said his name.

Anne’s smile didn’t touch her eyes. ‘Has he been flirting with you? He’s a looker. I don’t know him very well. Only that he often comes to the bar. He had … He and François don’t get on, something to do with a group of students François’ dad had to ban from the hotel after a rowdy night out in their college years. They don’t mix in the same social circles.’ Anne hesitated. ‘And I find his attitude a little arrogant for my liking. Plus, I’ve heard he’s … I would be careful.’ Anne bit her lip.

I wasn’t sure whether my heart beat a little faster at the mention of his name or hearing the edge to Anne’s comments. Before I could dig further, she took her camera and opened the dorm window to click a few shots of the view, and I felt too awkward to ask her to elaborate.

‘Come on, I’m starving,’ she said, snapping the cover onto her lens. ‘Let’s see what chef has for the workers tonight.’

* * *

My life revolved around the hostel and the bar for the remainder of the week until I received my pay packet. The whole time I was stripping beds, scrubbing floors and cleaning windows, I couldn’t stop thinking about Matt. The drudge work I was doing was worth every cobweb and dust ball if it meant I could see him at the end of each day. The anticipation of our budding romance was delicious. I relished the apprehensive thrill of not knowing whether he would be there when I walked into the bar. Or the expectation every time the door opened to admit new customers, and the powerful heated rush when he finally appeared on the threshold. I was behaving like a besotted teenager.

But he always came. Each night he captivated me with stories of his adventures, and at the point where his descriptions verged on bragging, he would reel me in with promises to show me his world. The lure of sailing in his sloop, the desire to mirror his tracks down the ski slope, all whispered in my ear, sending shivers down my spine, with the security of his arms around me. Fuelled with a blind hormonal passion, I knew I wanted this man beyond anything else I had ever desired.

How could I let myself fall so quickly? I knew I was throwing caution to the wind. I had only met Matt days ago; I knew nothing about him, and Anne wasn’t able to provide much information, although the things she said, or didn’t say, made me think she might be hiding something. But my yearning for him eclipsed the warning bells of losing control in my head. Despite being a relatively inexperienced 19-year-old, I knew the danger of succumbing to these emotions, but could do nothing to control the fire.

* * *

I am shaken from my reverie by a gentle fluttering at the window. It sounds like a moth batting the pane, and thinking I should let it out, I look up to see the first splats of today’s rain blowing against the glass through the bars. The forested ridge to the east has disappeared in a smudge of weather released from the grey belly of the sky.

Fatima starts a keening wail. This is the one she usually saves for the middle of the night. It doesn’t seem so unsettling during the day, lends itself to comical lunacy rather than ghostly guilt without the cover of darkness. But before I can feel sorry for her, I hear a loud ‘Fertig, jetzt!’ from Müller in the corridor. Enough now!

Müller is one of the guards, or carers, as they like to call them here. Makes us sound like we’re in an old people’s home, or a mental institution, which is probably closer to the truth. She is assigned to our block and spends most of her duty time on our floor.

Fatima’s tone reduces to a series of self-pitying sobs. I barely tolerate her ranting. But when I hear Adnan crying I go to pieces. By some administrative quirk, I ended up next to Fatima when I came in. She was already pregnant, and gave birth not long afterwards. She won’t be on our floor for long though. There are only six units on the mother–child level, and one of them will become free in a couple of days when another inmate’s toddler goes to a foster home. However sad it is for the mother, at least she had some time with her baby. Fatima might face the same fate if she is still here in three years’ time. I’ve never asked how long she’s in for.

It’s a cruel coincidence that they are next to me, given that I would love to have my son at my side. There is already some confusion as to why I am here and not at La Tuilière prison in Vaud, the canton where the crime took place and where I was sentenced. My incarceration here is unprecedented in a country where the legal process is decentralised. It must be the ambiguity of my origin. Although I have lived in Vaud for several years, in the French-speaking part of the country, I never went through the procedures to become a naturalised Swiss citizen. But I have begun to suspect that’s not the only reason I am so far away from JP.

My sketchpad is open on the desk. I pick up a pencil and try to draw, but can’t concentrate with Fatima going on, so I take two paces to my window. I have to lean past the narrow shelf of the desk bolted to the wall to peer outside through drops of water on the glass. Blue curtains frame the window, a lame attempt at helping us to forget where we are, absurdly contrasting the lattice of the bars.

The sky lies like a wet blanket over the flat landscape. The prison sits on a slight mound above the village of Hindelbank. A forested ridge blocks our view of the sunrise, which isn’t visible anyway behind today’s miserable weather. Beyond the community to the north stretches the vast unexciting plateau where the River Emme meanders out of a broad valley. We are a long way from the romantic alpine meadows at the source of its waters in the Bernese Oberland, home to the cows producing the milk synonymous with the famous Emmental cheese. In the distance to the west lie the ancient mountains of the Jura, marching their sheer cliffs along the boundary of France. An almost static curtain of cloud spills slowly like Niagara down their gullies.

If only I could see the mountains on the other side, to the east. If only I could touch in my mind the familiarity of altitude, forever inciting a melancholic longing for home.

Or a place I used to call home.