The Art of Deception. Louise Mangos

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СКАЧАТЬ Schutz.

      The guards have already learned to use my maiden name, their various pronunciations amusing me each time.

      I’m wary of shrinks, especially after all the interrogation I’ve been through. Each party tearing themselves apart to prove either I am or I am not mentally stable. And nobody able to make their minds up about anything.

      ‘Okay, Mz Smizzers,’ says Dr Schutz over-patiently. ‘You have requested that our interviews be conducted in English from now on, though I am not sure why. I thought you were Swiss?’

      I’m surprised her English is so precise, except for the mispronounced ‘th’s. She speaks fluently, with an American accent, but I don’t ask her how long she lived in the States.

      ‘My French might be better than yours, Dr Schutz. But my mother tongue is English. I prefer not to be misunderstood in a language that is not my own. There has been plenty of misinterpretation over the past few years. And unfortunately, I never sought Swiss citizenship.’

      Dr Schutz tilts her head to one side. I imagine she’d like nothing better than for me to break down in tears and spill all my thoughts and secrets. I’ve done enough crying for now. But I know she’s a shrewd one, and she’d be used to belligerence in this place.

      ‘I’ve heard that you are doing good things among the women on the block,’ she says, trying a different tack. ‘You have volunteered to teach them a little English. Do you think this might help to keep the peace among all these women who speak different languages?’

      She looks up from her file at me, and I feel the flicker of a smile on my own lips. My pride has not been completely broken.

      ‘And the guards are talking about your paintings. Frau Müller is interested to have your copies of Erlach’s art sold at the next Schlossmärit. You must realise that all this is helping your case to show that you are ready to integrate into society when you are free. However, it doesn’t help your case that you are so sullen with me every time we meet. You may be forgetting that it is possible my reports have an influence on your requests to be able to see your son.’

      I check myself. I sometimes forget that Dr Schutz is not an emissary sent from Natasha to confirm that I am crazy and report back to the evil mistress. I have always assumed that her evaluations are of a negative nature, to persuade those in power that it would be better for JP to be raised by his grandparents. But I now realise she is working for my benefit. I must prove myself worthy.

      ‘Maybe it would help if you can tell me exactly who you are angry with? Is it your husband?’

      ‘I was, yes. I was angry with him for deceiving me, for betraying my trust. But he’s no longer here to defend himself, and all I have is his wicked mother trying to keep me here.’

      I feel the blackness of resentment smothering me again. It clouds my judgement, makes me bitter.

      ‘But it was obvious from the circumstances that there was anger on both sides. Mrs Smithers – Lucille – I really think you need to talk about it. To help you. I want to help you.’

      I uncross my arms, push the chair back, and look at Dr Schutz with renewed curiosity. Leaning on my knee with one elbow, I tear at a tag on my thumbnail with my teeth. That will hurt later. I’m displaying guilty body language, so I sit up quickly. I hear the judge’s voice in my head. Coupable. Guilty.

      ‘This is a country of rules – right, Dr Schutz? I don’t know how easy it is to disobey those rules, but Madame Favre seems to be doing just that. She is keeping my son away from me and nearly always has an excuse to stop me from speaking to him on the phone. There are others in here, Dolores for example, who gets to speak to her children twice a day if she wants, and those are long-distance calls to Central America. My weekly phone call pales in comparison.’

      I stop, and take a breath. A trapped bee buzzes against the pane behind Dr Schutz’s desk. She rises to let it out. The bee hums out into the sunshine and she leaves the window open, as if the chill autumn air might persuade the bee to reconsider the warmth of her office.

      ‘I think she would have found a way to keep him from me even if he was still a breastfeeding infant. If I make my call on Friday and she says “JP can’t talk to you now, he’s out playing” or “he went shopping with Poppa and they’re not back yet” or, worst of all “he doesn’t want to talk to you” that’s it, that’s my one chance. She doesn’t answer if I call again. But the thing is, I’m holding up my end of the deal, and she’s not. And nobody seems to be controlling that, in this land where you love your rules and red tape. In this bullshit country where I’ve been locked up for something I promise you I didn’t do, she has the last word. Because she’s Swiss. But that’s a joke. She tells you she’s Swiss, until it’s convenient and exotic to tell you she’s Russian. That’s bullshit too. She hasn’t even set foot inside the boundaries of her motherland, or her mother’s motherland. It’s bullshit. And yes, if you were wondering, I am still really, very angry about that. Can you tell?’

      My eyes narrow at the open window. Dr Schutz sits patiently while my breathing calms.

      ‘Do you think it is Mrs Favre’s fault that your husband died?’

      ‘Of course not. I’m angry about the situation now, about not being able to see my son. I don’t need to analyse the reasons why my husband behaved as he did for all those years. Maybe that’s her fault. I don’t know.’

      * * *

       Seven years ago

      On a bright Sunday in June we drove down to the marina and took Matt’s boat out for a sail. It wasn’t all talk at the bar. He really did have that yacht. Certainly not the equivalent of a Ferrari on water, but a handsome little sloop nonetheless.

      While I was on an art excursion the previous weekend, he had spent the time sanding and painting the hull before putting it back in the water at its regular mooring after a winter on the trailer. We were ceremoniously affording the little yacht its first baptism of spring.

      Lac Léman, like any other large body of water, is home to varied and unpredictable winds. The lake, shaped like a giant upside-down croissant, is separated into three regions. Geneva sits at the west end in the narrow area called the Petit-Lac. Matt’s boat was moored in a pretty port at the southeast end in the Haut-Lac. The lie of the mountains to the north and south determined the temperamental direction of the winds, but most of the time, Matt was able to consult the forecast and know what to expect for the day.

      We sailed across the Rhône Delta and far into the Grand-Lac, the widest and greatest body of the lake. Matt showed me the tricks of sailing a boat larger than the little Optimists of my youth. He was a patient and encouraging teacher. My captain. Once the sails were hoisted, we sat together on the cushions in the cockpit and he put his arm across my shoulders.

      ‘One day we’ll take a big boat out on the ocean. I started studying for my Yacht Master’s certificate last year. I’ve done all the theory and navigation, but I’ll need to spend time on the open water soon. And I can see you have great sea legs.’

      Grinning like a kid, he smoothed his hand along the inside of my thigh. A belligerent gust caused the sail to flap, and our attentions returned promptly to the task of navigation, as we laughed into the wind. He had confidence in me, watching me judge the wind, deciding when to tack, folding the sails, and tidying the sheets, rolling them neatly from fist to elbow. I was elated, and felt our relationship had reached a different СКАЧАТЬ