The Watchers by Jon Steele

climbed that tower five or six times a day. Now look at me. It’s all I can do to come on Sundays for your day off. But at least I can still make it once a week.’
    ‘You shouldn’t have troubled yourself, I could have come down.’
    ‘No, I wanted to see you today. You don’t remember what day this is?’
    Rochat took a sip of tea and remembered.
    ‘Saturday. La grande sonnerie times.’
    ‘Yes, Marc. Saturday, the day the bells sing. Anything else?’
    Rochat glanced at the calendar hanging on a nail.
    ‘December elevens.’
    ‘Yes, December eleventh, and what of it?’
    Rochat looked out the open door of the loge, saw the first flickers of stars over the Alps.
    ‘It was unusually warm today.’
    ‘Yes, it was very warm for December, too warm. The oceans will soon rise and swallow the earth. Thankfully, Switzerland should be the last to go. But that’s not it, either. Come on, don’t you remember?’
    Rochat thought about it again. Saturday, December elevens, unusually warm for this time of year.
    ‘I’m afraid not, monsieur.’
    ‘ Mon cher , it was this very day when you were ten … no, twelve … that you first came to the belfry. Your father, rest his soul, carried you up the tower on his shoulders.’
    Yes, it was colder then, Rochat remembered. And there was snow on the ground. And his father did hoist him on to his shoulders and carry him up the winding tower steps to meet le guet of Lausanne Cathedral. Monsieur Buhlmann tapped Rochat’s knee.
    ‘You came to the door and you hid behind your father’s black overcoat, the very overcoat you wear these days. You looked like you thought I might eat you.’
    ‘I was afraid you might, monsieur.’
    ‘Do you remember what we did eat?’
    ‘We ate raclette. You cooked it on the balcony.’
    Monsieur Buhlmann reached into the bag and dug around.
    ‘The very thing. And today, I went to the Swiss Farm Expo at the Palais Beaulieu to see my cousin from Fribourg. You should see the place, Marc. Cows and goats and hogs everywhere. Switzerland is the only civilized country in the world that invites its prize farm animals into public buildings and lets them shit wherever they please. Just goes to show you, scratch a Swiss banker’s skin and you’ll find a peasant trying to get out. What was I saying? Oh, my cousin. One of his milking cows won a blue ribbon so now he’s drunk as a skunk with his Swiss hillbilly friends. But another hall was filled with the most wonderful … ah, here it is.’ He pulled out a block of cheese the size of a bread loaf and held it under his nose. He took long dreamy smells. ‘Raclette valaisanne, Marc. With just a taste of black pepper, not too oily. C’est belle, non? ’
    ‘It smells very good, monsieur.’
    Next from the bag was a bowl covered in silver foil. Monsieur Buhlmann peeled back the foil, took another long sniff.
    ‘And boiled potatoes with onions and garlic. I had my batty wife cook them just now, very fresh. Where’s the grill?’
    ‘It lives in the winch shed next to Marie with the other things.’
    ‘Glad to hear it didn’t run away. Which reminds me, I ran into that mad vigneron from Grandaux, JP Riccard. Still wearing his apron and boots from the last harvest. He gave me two bottles of his Villette. Gold medal this year. I know you’ll only have one glass, so I’ll drink your share. You don’t mind, do you?’
    ‘That’s a lot of wine, monsieur.’
    ‘Not as much as I used to drink, Marc. When I was young I could drink a barrel of wine every day.’
    Monsieur Buhlmann certainly could drink, Rochat thought. He was famous for it. Rochat remembered one night when the old man began to recite the ballad of William Tell from the belfry. The Lausannois were confused and called the police. The police rushed to investigate, Monsieur Buhlmann invited them up for a glass. Rochat came to the rescue and let the old man sleep on the bed while he called the hour through the night.
    ‘Marc, I must pee. Another