The bed Jack was lying on was tucked in under an extremely low sloping roof in the attic of Gaston’s house. The air in the room was chilly. He put his legs out of bed and sat there, ruffling his hair with both hands.
There were several tiers of shelves running round the walls, each filled with ornaments and mementoes. In actual fact there was disorder everywhere, clear in dawn-light more than it had been under a bare bulb the night before. No dusting had been done in recent history, if ever. On second inspection, most of the ornaments looked like junk, but they were linked to memories obviously. Jack couldn’t tell when or where most of them had been purchased. Some were very old; maybe from Gaston’s youth or the times of his ancestors.
Jack got to his feet, just a T-shirt and boxers on. It wasn’t exactly freezing but a gentle tidal chill moved in and out against his legs. There was a smile on his lips when he turned to his left and saw what he’d assumed was just a small window covered by drapes to the floor, in fact covering the whole peeked wall. Now the morning had lit up the sky, he could see the silhouette frame of a French door through the swirling crosshatch stripes of the material leading out onto what had to be a balcony.
Jack drew the curtains back and pushed open the doors. There was nothing like this in his experience: a balcony right in front of him, a tree, a slope of grass falling down at forty five degrees from the upper left, and then the mountains themselves, cutting a V out there in front and to the right, dark earth rising from the bowels beneath. There was a second mountain coming in from the right and the entire valley with mountains on both sides, was filled with thick, luscious, morning mist. He’d never seen such a volume of it. There had never been a time when his view had allowed him such perspective.
Dawn in the Alps. Daybreak. There was no time of day he liked better, even in the bleakest surroundings. Somehow, dawn-light turned even the dirtiest inner city street into something better. Here, among such splendour, it enhanced the natural wonder and made it literally heavenly.
He walked out onto the balcony. The only barrier to prevent him falling was a single faithlessly carved log, barely out of the tree. Jack rested the palms of his hands against it and curled his fingers round to meet the contours.
“Good morning!”
The voice came from down below, accented French and male. Though he recognised it straight away as Gaston’s, the sound of it startled him.
“Hi there,” he replied, covering up his embarrassment. “I didn’t see you.”
“They never do until it’s too late.” Gaston grinned and raised his eyebrows and Jack laughed.
Gaston’s truck was parked out of sight round to the left. Beneath Jack’s feet was the door into the kitchen he remembered from the night before. The wooden floor in front of it was raised up into a kind of balcony to counter the slope of the mountain. There were beams holding up Jack’s balcony rising from the one beneath and Gaston was sitting with his back against one of these, his knees up in front of him. There was a pocket-knife in his hand and he was whittling away at a palm-sized column of wood.
“Isn’t it lovely?” said Jack, looking out again into the neck of the valley.
“It is. Why don’t you find yourself some trousers and then take a seat. We can talk. Little Christine has seen a lot in her short life but I’m not sure she is ready for the sight of your legs in the morning.”
Jack nodded and vanished inside.
Christine was Gaston’s daughter, still very small but sweet as anything in the time he’d had chance to meet her the night before. They had dropped by a neighbour’s house down in the village before they’d actually got back to pick her up and though she’d been sleepy she was still charming enough to smile and laugh and hug her father until he had to make her stop.
Jack opened one of his cases and whipped out a pair of baggy towelling trousers with a drawstring at the top – he didn’t bother with socks – then he stepped back outside to hear what Gaston had to say. He took a seat on the balcony, legs swinging against unseen currents down beneath him. He rested his left hand lightly on the barrier close to shoulder level.
“Have you ever been in love Jack?” asked Gaston.
The query off-balanced him. “What would you do if I replied with a question?”
“That would depend on what it was.”
“Do you think it means that you aren’t in love if you aren’t sure whether you are?”
Gaston paused for a moment, perhaps assimilating the question as he translated it in his mind. His English was very good but not one hundred percent perfect. “I think the subject as it applies to me is this: How can you be sure that what you are feeling is love? How can you be sure that there isn’t someone else around the corner who would show you what love really meant?”
Jack looked out onto the sloping pasture. The grass was thick but not overrun. There were traces left behind from cow-dung and tracks. The animals were obviously keeping it in trim.
“Funny that all we can offer as answers are more questions,” said Jack. “I guess that says more about us than any actual answers would have.”
Gaston laughed. “I think you’re right!”
“Where’s Christine’s mother?” asked Jack.
“She’s gone now.” Gaston clearly saw the sorrow and regret in Jack’s face for bringing it up and raised his hand. “No. No. It’s all right. I don’t mind at all that you ask. She died a year ago in a traffic accident. Her car went through the side of the bridge down in the village in the middle of the night. She’d been drinking.” He shrugged. “I wish I’d been there. I would have been driving and it wouldn’t have happened. For Chrissy’s sake, I wish I’d been able to avoid it.”
Gaston concentrated on his whittling stick for a while. Out of respect, Jack let the conversation drop. He watched the flakes of wood curl up as the knife skimmed the surface and wither to the boards beneath him or drop over and onto the grass.
“Where’s Christine now?” asked Jack.
“Somewhere. I don’t know. She likes to play in the old barns. The farm is still operating but I don’t manage it. A friend of mine does, an employee really. He and his wife are the ones who look after my daughter when I have to go away on research trips or to America. He doesn’t mind her playing or watching him. She helps him out from time to time. Makes me sad sometimes that he sees more of her than I do.”
Jack wasn’t noticing Gaston’s accent much anymore. He was coming into alignment with him and when Gaston spoke there was a train of American in it that distorted the French anyway.
“I’m curious to know why you wanted to meet me,” said Gaston. “You haven’t yet provided me with a response I believe.”
Jack shifted on the balcony, feeling cramp suddenly that hadn’t been there a second before. He looked into the mist. It was starting to thin. A current was taking it gradually higher. The silhouette of the mountains was becoming less clear, but in response, the detail at the depths of the valley was more starkly drawn. Shadows were becoming hedgerows and trees, movement was almost clear within the fog of the village and the heat was increasing too. It was going to be a hot day. The mist wasn’t just rising, it was being cremated.
“Some time ago my parents were killed,” said Jack. “In a fire. It took the whole house and obliterated it with the two of them inside.”
“I am sorry,” replied Gaston, out of sight, his voice soft.
“I’ve always felt responsible: both of them dead. The whole house caved in; it was more wood than anything else. I was staying there at the time. They burned and I did nothing to get them out beyond calling the fire brigade. By the time I realised it was on fire it was too late to get to them.” He wanted to say more but couldn’t.
“That’s all anyone would have done,” said Gaston.
Jack shook his head. “I don’t know about that. I can’t know the full circumstances of anyone else in a similar position and nobody knows everything about that day. It made me feel like a killer and I’ve felt like one ever since… That’s why I wanted to meet you. You’ve done so much research. You’re the closest thing to an expert I’m likely to meet. I wanted to know why you thought your killer did it so that I could judge myself based on that. A lot of things have happened since my parents died. I’ve done terrible things that maybe led me to you; but I’ve felt like a killer since then and that, more than anything, is why I’m here.”
There were several tiers of shelves running round the walls, each filled with ornaments and mementoes. In actual fact there was disorder everywhere, clear in dawn-light more than it had been under a bare bulb the night before. No dusting had been done in recent history, if ever. On second inspection, most of the ornaments looked like junk, but they were linked to memories obviously. Jack couldn’t tell when or where most of them had been purchased. Some were very old; maybe from Gaston’s youth or the times of his ancestors.
Jack got to his feet, just a T-shirt and boxers on. It wasn’t exactly freezing but a gentle tidal chill moved in and out against his legs. There was a smile on his lips when he turned to his left and saw what he’d assumed was just a small window covered by drapes to the floor, in fact covering the whole peeked wall. Now the morning had lit up the sky, he could see the silhouette frame of a French door through the swirling crosshatch stripes of the material leading out onto what had to be a balcony.
Jack drew the curtains back and pushed open the doors. There was nothing like this in his experience: a balcony right in front of him, a tree, a slope of grass falling down at forty five degrees from the upper left, and then the mountains themselves, cutting a V out there in front and to the right, dark earth rising from the bowels beneath. There was a second mountain coming in from the right and the entire valley with mountains on both sides, was filled with thick, luscious, morning mist. He’d never seen such a volume of it. There had never been a time when his view had allowed him such perspective.
Dawn in the Alps. Daybreak. There was no time of day he liked better, even in the bleakest surroundings. Somehow, dawn-light turned even the dirtiest inner city street into something better. Here, among such splendour, it enhanced the natural wonder and made it literally heavenly.
He walked out onto the balcony. The only barrier to prevent him falling was a single faithlessly carved log, barely out of the tree. Jack rested the palms of his hands against it and curled his fingers round to meet the contours.
“Good morning!”
The voice came from down below, accented French and male. Though he recognised it straight away as Gaston’s, the sound of it startled him.
“Hi there,” he replied, covering up his embarrassment. “I didn’t see you.”
“They never do until it’s too late.” Gaston grinned and raised his eyebrows and Jack laughed.
Gaston’s truck was parked out of sight round to the left. Beneath Jack’s feet was the door into the kitchen he remembered from the night before. The wooden floor in front of it was raised up into a kind of balcony to counter the slope of the mountain. There were beams holding up Jack’s balcony rising from the one beneath and Gaston was sitting with his back against one of these, his knees up in front of him. There was a pocket-knife in his hand and he was whittling away at a palm-sized column of wood.
“Isn’t it lovely?” said Jack, looking out again into the neck of the valley.
“It is. Why don’t you find yourself some trousers and then take a seat. We can talk. Little Christine has seen a lot in her short life but I’m not sure she is ready for the sight of your legs in the morning.”
Jack nodded and vanished inside.
Christine was Gaston’s daughter, still very small but sweet as anything in the time he’d had chance to meet her the night before. They had dropped by a neighbour’s house down in the village before they’d actually got back to pick her up and though she’d been sleepy she was still charming enough to smile and laugh and hug her father until he had to make her stop.
Jack opened one of his cases and whipped out a pair of baggy towelling trousers with a drawstring at the top – he didn’t bother with socks – then he stepped back outside to hear what Gaston had to say. He took a seat on the balcony, legs swinging against unseen currents down beneath him. He rested his left hand lightly on the barrier close to shoulder level.
“Have you ever been in love Jack?” asked Gaston.
The query off-balanced him. “What would you do if I replied with a question?”
“That would depend on what it was.”
“Do you think it means that you aren’t in love if you aren’t sure whether you are?”
Gaston paused for a moment, perhaps assimilating the question as he translated it in his mind. His English was very good but not one hundred percent perfect. “I think the subject as it applies to me is this: How can you be sure that what you are feeling is love? How can you be sure that there isn’t someone else around the corner who would show you what love really meant?”
Jack looked out onto the sloping pasture. The grass was thick but not overrun. There were traces left behind from cow-dung and tracks. The animals were obviously keeping it in trim.
“Funny that all we can offer as answers are more questions,” said Jack. “I guess that says more about us than any actual answers would have.”
Gaston laughed. “I think you’re right!”
“Where’s Christine’s mother?” asked Jack.
“She’s gone now.” Gaston clearly saw the sorrow and regret in Jack’s face for bringing it up and raised his hand. “No. No. It’s all right. I don’t mind at all that you ask. She died a year ago in a traffic accident. Her car went through the side of the bridge down in the village in the middle of the night. She’d been drinking.” He shrugged. “I wish I’d been there. I would have been driving and it wouldn’t have happened. For Chrissy’s sake, I wish I’d been able to avoid it.”
Gaston concentrated on his whittling stick for a while. Out of respect, Jack let the conversation drop. He watched the flakes of wood curl up as the knife skimmed the surface and wither to the boards beneath him or drop over and onto the grass.
“Where’s Christine now?” asked Jack.
“Somewhere. I don’t know. She likes to play in the old barns. The farm is still operating but I don’t manage it. A friend of mine does, an employee really. He and his wife are the ones who look after my daughter when I have to go away on research trips or to America. He doesn’t mind her playing or watching him. She helps him out from time to time. Makes me sad sometimes that he sees more of her than I do.”
Jack wasn’t noticing Gaston’s accent much anymore. He was coming into alignment with him and when Gaston spoke there was a train of American in it that distorted the French anyway.
“I’m curious to know why you wanted to meet me,” said Gaston. “You haven’t yet provided me with a response I believe.”
Jack shifted on the balcony, feeling cramp suddenly that hadn’t been there a second before. He looked into the mist. It was starting to thin. A current was taking it gradually higher. The silhouette of the mountains was becoming less clear, but in response, the detail at the depths of the valley was more starkly drawn. Shadows were becoming hedgerows and trees, movement was almost clear within the fog of the village and the heat was increasing too. It was going to be a hot day. The mist wasn’t just rising, it was being cremated.
“Some time ago my parents were killed,” said Jack. “In a fire. It took the whole house and obliterated it with the two of them inside.”
“I am sorry,” replied Gaston, out of sight, his voice soft.
“I’ve always felt responsible: both of them dead. The whole house caved in; it was more wood than anything else. I was staying there at the time. They burned and I did nothing to get them out beyond calling the fire brigade. By the time I realised it was on fire it was too late to get to them.” He wanted to say more but couldn’t.
“That’s all anyone would have done,” said Gaston.
Jack shook his head. “I don’t know about that. I can’t know the full circumstances of anyone else in a similar position and nobody knows everything about that day. It made me feel like a killer and I’ve felt like one ever since… That’s why I wanted to meet you. You’ve done so much research. You’re the closest thing to an expert I’m likely to meet. I wanted to know why you thought your killer did it so that I could judge myself based on that. A lot of things have happened since my parents died. I’ve done terrible things that maybe led me to you; but I’ve felt like a killer since then and that, more than anything, is why I’m here.”
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