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Chapters (63)
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  63. Acknowledgements

The blonde girl has gone pale. Realising his mistake he tries to improve the mood by raising his glass in an awkward toast. Santé. But the air around them has thickened into silence, and the moment is lost. When the girl looks at him, her eyes are wide with shock. To her friends she cries, Allons-y, grabs her bag and hurries away.

A wave of shame crashes over him. What does she take him for, some kind of monster? Will he never escape the ruinous bonds that lash him to his fate?

15

Clinique Les Hirondelles
Saint-Odile, Switzerland
18 November 2008

After an excellent luncheon of poached lake perch in lemon butter sauce and parsley potatoes, Vidor settled into a lounge chair in a corner of the rock garden with a view across the valley. A breeze carrying the sharp scent of pines from a nearby copse riffled the pages of his notebook. The only bright spot left in the garden was a spray of faded pink flowers from the rambling thyme clinging to the stones. Wrapped in a wool blanket against the chill, and sated from the noonday meal, he closed his eyes and prepared to doze. An excellent repast, though a glass of chilled Pouilly-Fuissé would have been a welcome addition. A pity alcohol was forbidden. Even the coffee, he suspected, was cut with decaf.

When a blast of gunfire rent the air, Vidor leapt from his seat, heart thumping. What was that? Another two shots followed in quick succession, and he flinched at the sound. Were they under attack? But the sharp reports, still ringing in his ears, appeared to be echoes from across the valley. Was it hunting season? He’d heard one of the staff mention it. The government-sanctioned culling of deer and chamois. Vidor loathed blood sports of any kind, and he felt a sudden kinship with those innocent and terrified creatures, gunned down for sport.

Jumpy from the gunfire, his nerves refused to settle until several minutes had passed. In the quiet hour after lunch they were supposed to turn their thoughts inward. A time for meditating or writing in their journals, as if they were adherents of a religious order, where talking was frowned upon and silence king.

Through half-closed lids, he caught sight of that rather odd, older woman, keeping a tight hold on her handbag as she lurked near the sculpture of two entwined fish at the edge of the Zen garden. He closed his eyes, hoping she would go away, but at the sounds of rustling foliage, he peeked through narrowed lids to see her making a beeline in his direction. The clasp of the quilted black bag slung over her arm winked in a shaft of sunlight. He feigned sleep, but she stealthily advanced, a cat stalking its prey. Oh, dear God. Apparently, she was about to speak.