The Watchers by Jon Steele Page B

friends. And a litre of beer. There may have been a few more glasses, somewhere. But in wine there is truth, and I have found the truth.’
    ‘To what?’
    ‘A girl.’
    ‘A girl?’
    ‘Yes, a girl for you. Écoute , one of my cousin’s hillbilly neighbours was at the Palais, he brought his daughter. She’s nineteen … that’s four, no two years younger than you. A lovely girl, she won the milking competition. And she’s pretty, but not too pretty. Good Swiss bones, and not too tall. Can’t have her too tall because of your limp. And she’s shy, like you.’
    ‘Not clever, you mean.’
    Monsieur Buhlmann drank his wine, poured again.
    ‘You listen to me, Marc. This town, this country, this world is full to the brim with clever people and just look at it. Never been in such awful shape. Clever people don’t give a damn about anybody but themselves. Too busy being clever. The world doesn’t need any more clever people. It needs people with wisdom.’
    ‘I don’t know what that means.’
    ‘It means someone who’s clever enough to grab a girl who knows how to milk a cow.’
    Rochat thought about it.
    ‘Are you sure you only had a demi with lunch, monsieur?’
    ‘Perhaps it was a bottle. But I speak the truth! You’re a young man now, you need a girl in your life. Now, look. I’m going to my cousin’s house for Christmas lunch. Me and my batty wife. And you are coming along. I’ll have you back in time for the nine o’clock bells, don’t worry. My cousin’s neighbour will be there with his daughter. You can meet her then. Her name’s Emeline. Isn’t that a lovely name for a girl?’
    Just then, the timbers began to creak.
    ‘But what would I tell Marie-Madeleine? What do I tell Clémence and the other bells? They’d never forgive me.’
    Monsieur Buhlmann whispered:
    ‘We won’t tell them.’
    GONG! GONG! GONG !
    The old man drained his glass and stood.
    ‘Six o’clock, Marc! La grande sonnerie! Allons-y !’
    GONG! GONG! GONG !
    They hurried along the balconies and stood near Marie-Madeleine as she finished sounding the hour, her great voice hanging in the air. Then the timbers in the tower moaned and groaned even louder as cables turned wheels, wheels strained at chains, chains pulled at gears, and heavy wood yokes above all the bells began to rock from side to side. La Lombarde sounded from the higher timbers. She was always first to answer Madame Madeleine’s voice. Then more voices sang from above, Mesdames Voyageuse, Beinheureuse and l’Aigrelette. Clémence quickly shook off her foul mood and joined in from the far side of the belfry. Then Marie-Madeleine rocked from side to side till the heavy clapper under her skirt slammed against bronze and her voice thundered and silenced all sounds in the world.
    Monsieur Buhlmann banged Rochat’s shoulder and shouted.
    ‘To the higher bells, Marc! We must see Mademoiselle Couvre-feu!’
    Rochat led the way to the northeast turret. Sixty-three stone steps circled twice around before reaching the upper balconies. They moved along to the north balcony where the old man could see the narrow wood walkway running through the centre of the tower, to the south arch looking out over the dark lake and the flickering lights of Évian on the far shore. Above the walkway, two bells whipped back and forth in a blur.
    Rochat stepped over a block of stone and up to the walkway. He guided Monsieur Buhlmann under the first bell, la Voyageuse, making sure the old man’s head stayed very low. The heavy iron clapper under her skirt flew so fast it was impossible to see and could smash open a man’s skull like an egg. They stood upright under Mademoiselle Couvre-feu. Monsieur Buhlmann held up his hand, the swinging bell brushed his fingertips like a kiss.
    ‘Bonsoir, mademoiselle! You are so lovely this evening!’
    Monsieur Buhlmann wobbled again. Rochat settled him against the criss-cross timbers in the centre of the belfry. The ancient wood hummed and vibrated