joke on old men. When we were young we held our water like men. When we’re old we wet ourselves like babies. Where’s the piss pot?’
‘Behind the door, in the tool cabinet.’
Monsieur Buhlmann stood and opened the cabinet. He pulled out a plastic Evian water bottle with the spout chopped off. He turned away, opened his trousers, stood very still.
‘And this, this is the cruellest of God’s bad jokes.’
‘Monsieur?’
‘Waiting for your tired old dick to pee.’
After a quiet moment, Rochat heard a small trickle. Monsieur Buhlmann held up the bottle to examine the contents.
‘All that hard work for such a miserable piss.’ He picked up a Chianti jug of water from the floor and headed out of the door. ‘Come, Marc. Let’s finish the business and get the grill.’
Rochat took the keys and followed the old man around the tower to the north balcony where the tiles of the cathedral roof were only 10 metres below the railings. A rain gutter ran along under the tiles at the bottom of the slope. Monsieur Buhlmann emptied the piss pot into the gutter, rinsed out the pot with fresh water and washed his hands. Rochat thought about it. All the men who’d worked in the tower, hundreds of years of emptying piss pots on to the roof.
‘Monsieur, do you think it’s all right to pour pee on the cathedral?’
‘Why, if these blasted pigeons are free to shit all over the cathedral roof like prize cows in the Palais Beaulieu, I don’t think the creator gives a hoot about a little piss from the likes of you and me.’
‘Oh.’
Monsieur Buhlmann looked into the high carpentry to see the upper bells.
‘The bells seem very happy, Marc. You’re taking good care of them.’
‘I do all the things you showed me.’
‘How is Marie treating you?
‘Not too loud when I’m trying to sleep.’
‘And Clémence, still moody?’
‘She says she misses the good old days.’
‘Same old song. Now, I’ll run electricity from the loge, you fetch the grill.’
Rochat climbed through the timbers and squeezed around Marie-Madeleine’s bronze skirt. He unlocked the winch shed, moved things about and stumbled out with the grill, an odd-looking contraption Monsieur Buhlmann built himself. A metal tray on a short-legged table, metal brackets and adjustable clamps atop the table to hold a block of cheese, a high-powered heating lamp along the side to do the melting. Monsieur Buhlmann was very proud of his grill. Rochat slid the contraption under Marie-Madeleine, lifted it through the timbers and carried it to the south balcony where Monsieur Buhlmann was waiting in the arches near Clémence, electric cable in hand.
‘We’ll cook the raclette here, Marc. We’ll tell Clémence we’re burning a witch at the stake. That’ll cheer her up.’
‘She’ll like that very much.’
Faint bells sounded three times from the Hôtel de Ville down in Place de la Palud. Monsieur Buhlmann smiled.
‘Quarter to six, Marc. Just enough time to pop in the loge and have a glass, two if we hurry. Where’s the corkscrew?’
‘Where you left it when you retired, monsieur.’
Monsieur Buhlmann found the corkscrew hanging under the table in the loge. He opened a bottle, poured a mouthful into a glass. He sniffed at it and sipped.
‘Marc, don’t let anyone tell you there’s a better vin blanc in the world than a Villette from Lavaux. It tastes like your first kiss. Not a silly kiss, but the first kiss from the first girl you love. Which reminds me, while I was watching the milking competition, I realized we need to find you a girl.’
‘Monsieur?’
‘Now, I know I’m old-fashioned and moan about many things but this is important. We need to find a girl for you, Marc. Someone to care for you when the likes of me and Monsieur Gübeli are gone. Someone you can care for too. What do you say?’
‘I’d say you’ve been tasting the wine from very early in the day.’
‘Only a demi. With lunch. And two more with my cousin and his
‘Behind the door, in the tool cabinet.’
Monsieur Buhlmann stood and opened the cabinet. He pulled out a plastic Evian water bottle with the spout chopped off. He turned away, opened his trousers, stood very still.
‘And this, this is the cruellest of God’s bad jokes.’
‘Monsieur?’
‘Waiting for your tired old dick to pee.’
After a quiet moment, Rochat heard a small trickle. Monsieur Buhlmann held up the bottle to examine the contents.
‘All that hard work for such a miserable piss.’ He picked up a Chianti jug of water from the floor and headed out of the door. ‘Come, Marc. Let’s finish the business and get the grill.’
Rochat took the keys and followed the old man around the tower to the north balcony where the tiles of the cathedral roof were only 10 metres below the railings. A rain gutter ran along under the tiles at the bottom of the slope. Monsieur Buhlmann emptied the piss pot into the gutter, rinsed out the pot with fresh water and washed his hands. Rochat thought about it. All the men who’d worked in the tower, hundreds of years of emptying piss pots on to the roof.
‘Monsieur, do you think it’s all right to pour pee on the cathedral?’
‘Why, if these blasted pigeons are free to shit all over the cathedral roof like prize cows in the Palais Beaulieu, I don’t think the creator gives a hoot about a little piss from the likes of you and me.’
‘Oh.’
Monsieur Buhlmann looked into the high carpentry to see the upper bells.
‘The bells seem very happy, Marc. You’re taking good care of them.’
‘I do all the things you showed me.’
‘How is Marie treating you?
‘Not too loud when I’m trying to sleep.’
‘And Clémence, still moody?’
‘She says she misses the good old days.’
‘Same old song. Now, I’ll run electricity from the loge, you fetch the grill.’
Rochat climbed through the timbers and squeezed around Marie-Madeleine’s bronze skirt. He unlocked the winch shed, moved things about and stumbled out with the grill, an odd-looking contraption Monsieur Buhlmann built himself. A metal tray on a short-legged table, metal brackets and adjustable clamps atop the table to hold a block of cheese, a high-powered heating lamp along the side to do the melting. Monsieur Buhlmann was very proud of his grill. Rochat slid the contraption under Marie-Madeleine, lifted it through the timbers and carried it to the south balcony where Monsieur Buhlmann was waiting in the arches near Clémence, electric cable in hand.
‘We’ll cook the raclette here, Marc. We’ll tell Clémence we’re burning a witch at the stake. That’ll cheer her up.’
‘She’ll like that very much.’
Faint bells sounded three times from the Hôtel de Ville down in Place de la Palud. Monsieur Buhlmann smiled.
‘Quarter to six, Marc. Just enough time to pop in the loge and have a glass, two if we hurry. Where’s the corkscrew?’
‘Where you left it when you retired, monsieur.’
Monsieur Buhlmann found the corkscrew hanging under the table in the loge. He opened a bottle, poured a mouthful into a glass. He sniffed at it and sipped.
‘Marc, don’t let anyone tell you there’s a better vin blanc in the world than a Villette from Lavaux. It tastes like your first kiss. Not a silly kiss, but the first kiss from the first girl you love. Which reminds me, while I was watching the milking competition, I realized we need to find you a girl.’
‘Monsieur?’
‘Now, I know I’m old-fashioned and moan about many things but this is important. We need to find a girl for you, Marc. Someone to care for you when the likes of me and Monsieur Gübeli are gone. Someone you can care for too. What do you say?’
‘I’d say you’ve been tasting the wine from very early in the day.’
‘Only a demi. With lunch. And two more with my cousin and his
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