Strangers on a Bridge. Louise Mangos

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СКАЧАТЬ pride and disdain. I wondered again what had brought him to the bridge. Perhaps a failing in the machine that yielded Swiss bureaucracy.

      ‘It’s a beautiful country. It took me a while to get used to your… customs. But I love the rural alpine contrast to the city. I used to work in human resources at a busy advertising company, so this is a different world.’

      I gazed out of the window at newly budding cherry trees blurring past, among fields strewn with the last of the spring crocuses.

      ‘I think our language is difficult to learn for the Ausländer,’ he said.

      ‘It was hard for me at first,’ I admitted, recalling a misunderstanding with our local electrician. ‘Our family was considered somewhat of a novelty when we arrived in the village. I set up something I call the Chat Club, where mums of the boys’ friends could improve their English.’

      ‘You have good Dialekt. Easy to understand. Not like some American accents.’

      ‘Thank you. And I can tell you learned your English from a British teacher.’ I smiled, almost forgetting why we were there.

      ‘Switzerland is a multilingual nation. We have four official languages, but you will see, English will become our allgemeine language.’

      ‘It feels like the idea of a universal language is a long way from reaching our little village. I was hoping to learn some German in return for my teaching efforts,’ I continued. ‘But I was outnumbered. It never seemed to happen. My kids learned really quickly, though. Starting with some not-so-pretty language in the playground at school.’

      ‘Then they have learned two languages. High German in the classroom and Swiss German outside school,’ he said.

      I nodded, and remembered when I heard Swiss German for the first time, a more guttural dialect with a sing-song lilt, interspersed with much throat clearing and chewing of vowels.

      ‘The language barrier was much more of a challenge for me. But the priority of the Chat Club is to practise speaking English. I barely have chance to improve my own German-language skills beyond sentences of greeting and consumer needs. My compulsion to help has not been reciprocated… returned.’

      Heat rose to my face as I remembered the things I had done wrong at the beginning of our move to Switzerland, impeding my integration into the community. It had taken me a while to get my head round some of the country’s pedantic customs.

      I realised I’d been blabbing to Manfred, overly enthusiastic as a result of this rare opportunity to speak to someone socially in my own language outside the family. I folded my hands in my lap and looked at the passing houses as we entered the outskirts of the Aegeri Valley. As the bus drove past some woodland, the sudden darkness revealed the image of our two faces in the window, heads bobbing in unison with the movement of the vehicle. Manfred continued to look at me. I swallowed, and pulled my gaze away from his reflection to the front of the bus.

      What was I getting myself into now? I felt a little lost in this situation. But it would have been unthinkable for me to have ignored this man and run on ahead up the valley. He was hurting enough to have wanted to take his life. Here was a scenario I had been half-trained to deal with and, alien as it seemed, I would try my hardest to find the right solution.

      ‘End Station,’ announced the bus driver.

      ‘Final stop, our stop,’ I said, standing up. ‘I live just outside the village. It’s a pretty walk.’

      Stepping from the bus, we headed away from the village centre, our increase in altitude affording an unimpeded view of the lake. Sunlight glinted off the water in shards.

      ‘This is one of Leon’s favourite views,’ I said as Manfred turned enquiringly. ‘My eldest son. He loves the view, but hates the fact that he has to walk to school every day.’

      I was making light conversation, trying to separate Manfred’s thoughts from earlier events. He said nothing, and his silence after our conversation on the bus felt awkward.

      ‘It is incredibly beautiful,’ I reiterated, then changed the subject. ‘Do you live locally? Close by?’

      He gave a slight shrug and a movement of his head that said neither yes nor no. His eyes, now clear and inquisitive, looked at the lake, and I could tell he was appreciating the view, as the ghost of a smile touched his mouth. I bit my lip and looked back towards the water.

      When we arrived at the door of the old Zuger house of which our duplex apartment was a part, I hesitated. I knew the fundamental rule was not to leave Manfred alone, but I was cautious enough to not want this man inside my home. In the porch was a bench where the kids usually sat to take off their muddy boots or brush snow from them in winter.

      ‘I need to get a few things. Just wait here. Take a seat. I’ll be as quick as possible. I’ll be right back.’ I tried a cheerfulness that sounded empty. ‘Okay?’ I put my hand on his shoulder.

      Manfred nodded uncertainly and sat on the bench. I could tell his confusion and confidence were fighting each other in waves. I took a breath, and knew I definitely wasn’t equipped for this. I hoped more than anything that Simon would be at home to support me, to talk to this stranger who I had accepted as some kind of personal responsibility. Together we would have a better chance of helping him.

      But as I crossed the threshold to our apartment, I knew immediately no one was home.

       Chapter Four

      The door was unlocked, as always, security considerations not a priority in our safe Swiss world. The place offered the kind of muffled stillness where motes of dust were the only sparking movement through the strips of midday sunlight now streaming down the hallway. No breathing bodies.

      A hurried note scribbled on the back of an envelope told me Simon had departed on a bike ride with his mates. He had dropped the boys with friends of theirs before heading out. The spidery scribble indicated he was mildly pissed off I hadn’t been home when I said I would. My first reaction was guilt, then a flash of irritation as I imagined him hurrying the note, not stopping to consider I might have sustained an injury or had a problem on my run.

      I unclipped my running belt and let it drop to the floor, prising off my running shoes. I was still cold, and wished I could stay in my warm, cosy house. I ran the tap at the kitchen sink and took several big gulps of water straight from the flowing spout to quench my thirst.

      After grabbing a fleece jacket, I pulled the car keys off the hook. Picking up my mobile, I swore I wouldn’t run without it again, despite its bulk and fragility.

      I stabbed Simon’s number on the keypad.

      ‘Come on, come on.’ The ringing tone went on and on, eventually switching to his voicemail.

      ‘Honey, please call me as soon as you get this message.’

      I imagined Simon pushing his cadence to the maximum along some winding alpine road, changing positions in the peloton as his turn came to draft the others, phone ringing unheard in the tool pouch under his seat. Placing the mobile in my pocket, I leaned over to pull off my socks and slipped my slightly sore feet into a comfortable pair of pumps.

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