The Art of Deception

‘Thank you, my dear. There are some bourgeois Russian traditions we don’t want to see disappear. I usually prepare food like this to celebrate Maslenitsa before Lent, but any special occasion deserves some flair, and Didier’s birthday is a good excuse.’ She smiled at her husband as he appeared from the kitchen, a bottle of Moskovskaya in his hand, vapour flowing off the frosting glass.

‘Prepare your plates, help yourselves to food,’ Natasha urged as Didier carefully poured the viscous vodka into eight pewter shot glasses sitting on a wooden tray. Conversation lulled as everyone watched Didier’s steady hand.

‘I couldn’t help noticing those icons on your wall,’ I said, as Natasha ceremoniously passed the tray around the table to the guests. Her hand shook slightly as I spoke, vodka shivering in the tiny frosted goblets. I looked at her.

‘Those old things. They are merely copies. A sentimental reminder of my parents’ plight. Like the Russian dolls.’ Her eyes indicated a set of cheap yellow painted dolls regimented over the wide lintel of the kitchen door.

My gaze was drawn back to the icons hanging in the corridor leading to the entrance hall, directly in my line of vision.

‘They’re very handsome copies. A great example of Orthodox art. Wonderful to have a few of your cultural roots displayed in the home,’ I said to Matt.

Natasha cleared her throat, taking the last glass of vodka from the tray.

‘Quick, before it warms! Here’s to my wonderful husband, Didier, many happy returns. Vashe zdorovie!’

She threw her head back, emptied her glass. Warm lips seared the cold pewter as the oily vodka slipped down our throats.

‘Eat, eat!’ urged Natasha, and we followed the drink with a mouthful of food to soak up the wickedness of the alcohol.

She claimed we could drink all night like this and never wake up with a hangover, but even in my youthful resilience, I never quite believed her. Once the first bottle of vodka had gone, a second appeared from the freezer, and Natasha brought out a heavy tureen of borscht, tender beef strips in a well-seasoned beetroot and cabbage broth.

Towards the end of the evening, Didier told the story of the first time he set eyes on Natasha at an art exhibition in Geneva. The vodka caused his tongue to sweeten and eyes to moisten. He turned to me and began to talk about the latest book he was writing. Natasha’s eyes flashed at him as he was halfway through describing an adventure in her youth, and his sentence petered out. He changed the subject, passing the tray to collect our glasses for another round, leaving me to ponder what secrets Natasha had in her steely past.

On the way home afterwards, I asked Matt about his mother’s Russian background.

‘Mimi’s got a bit of a thing about the old country. I don’t know why really. She’s more Swiss than most Swiss people. But there’s a pride in her that doesn’t come from the Alps. Something deeper. She has a fiery character. Since the dissolution of communist Russia, they’ve wanted to travel back … But anyway, why the interest in her background?’ Matt asked, a little irritated.

I thought of the icons on the wall, the traditional fare at the table. I shrugged. ‘Curious, I guess. Have you ever been there?’

Matt shook his head. ‘Papa’s only started researching for his latest book recently, but they’re planning to travel there soon.’

‘Sounds like a great plot location for a historic romance.’

‘He says he wants to write about the experiences of Mimi’s family before the revolution. Mimi’s not keen, keeps telling him to let sleeping dogs lie.’ I looked at him curiously. ‘I don’t really know what she means, the revolution happened more than a generation ago. She’s proud, but I think she’s scared of something. She continues to look for links to her roots though. Maybe she feels like she never quite belonged in this Western society.’ Matt stopped, as though he thought he was maligning his mother.

‘I thought she fitted in well here, considering the cosmopolitan nature of Switzerland’s population,’ I said when he didn’t continue.

‘Mm. Maybe. You should hear my sister talk about her.’

I was surprised to hear him offer the opinions of the sister I hadn’t known he had until recently.

‘She calls Mimi such a hypocrite,’ he continued. ‘All this faff and ceremony about maintaining Russian tradition. MC always hated these Russian parties. Thought they were so fake, when Mimi never actually lived there, and my grandparents escaped when they were barely adults. They became more devoted Londoners than most Cockneys. I don’t know where she’d be more happy – she can’t seem to sink her roots deep enough here. But it’s important the family try and stay together. Not that MC would ever come back here. It was a bit of a blow to Mimi when she left, despite our … despite their differences. But Mimi’s happy I stayed around after college. I think she likes having me close.’

‘Marie-Claire doesn’t get on with the family?’ I asked cautiously, remembering his reluctance to speak about her the last time.

‘No … I … no not really. She’s a bit of a nonconformist. She’s … unusual. Pissed off with the world. Isn’t willing to believe that fate can sometimes deliver some tough times with the good.’

‘Do you miss her?’

‘Not really,’ Matt said hesitantly. ‘We didn’t get on. Anyway, she’s made a life for herself in California now. Ron’s a good bloke. Bit too American for my liking, but I think he looks after her.’

‘Do you really think they’ll never have kids?’

‘No, of course not! I mean, no. MC’s not really the family type. How come you’re so fascinated with my sister? Let’s drop her, okay?’

‘Don’t get short with me, Matt. I’m just curious. If I had a sister or a brother, I’d probably want to hang out with them all the time. I guess it’s because I don’t have one that the whole dynamic of having a sibling fascinates me. Surely it’s natural to want to know about you and your family.’

I had obviously hit a chord with Marie-Claire. We weren’t in a sober state for in-depth family discussions. I was trying to find reasons to like Matt’s mother, but despite her fascinating background, it wasn’t happening. I wondered how MC felt about her.

We arrived at Anne’s place. I fiddled with my key in the dark, swaying a little from too much vodka. Tonight I actually looked forward to Anne’s pull-out sofa bed, I was that tired, and was unable to analyse Matt’s irritability. I figured he’d come right in the morning. We kissed and he held me tight, as though delivering a silent apology for his reaction.

* * *

‘Why do you not draw your son?’ asks Yasmine between mouthfuls of her food. ‘She made a lot of great pictures,’ she says to the others at the table, pointing a fork speared with a morsel of grey meat in my direction.

My eyes flash. I don’t like talking about my art, but mostly I don’t like being the centre of attention.

‘I don’t know. I sometimes think I’ve forgotten what he really looks like,’ I reply. ‘I need to see him to be able to draw the essence of him. It’s harder than you think to draw my own son.’

I keep my voice neutral. Though I think it would break me to try and draw him, unable to wrest the detailed memories from my mind. The curve of his rosy cheek or the sweep of his fine hair. Those grey eyes that only started to turn green when I had to say goodbye, their colour enhanced by his tears.

‘She has drawn me, you know. She’s a real artist,’ Yasmine says to Fatima who nods with eyebrows raised and mouth turned down at the corners.

She’s vaguely impressed, or disinterested in my skills, I’m not sure which. A minuscule piece of bread crust sticks to Fatima’s lip, then falls onto Adnan’s head. She blows the crumbs from his crown as he sleeps. His fine fluffy hair puffs like gossamer. My throat tightens.

‘Perhaps you could start a business. Lulu’s Portraits,’ Yasmine continues, thinking out loud. ‘Yes, we could make a bit of money. Earn a few sous.’

‘We?’ I ask, amused. Lulu?

‘Yes, I will be your agent,’ she replies, presenting herself, flamenco fashion with a wave of her arm from head to chest, fingers splayed. ‘Of course you will give me a cut if I am to do your marketing and publicité.’

‘Caramba, Yasmine! You are to be my agent, remember? We have a business in cigarillos to organise,’ says Dolores huskily, eyes flashing.

I have no desire to fight over Yasmine’s attention, though I can see where this is going. Yasmine, with that look on her face that says she is the centre of our universe, demanding deference.

‘I am not going to sell my paintings, okay?’ I say, not wanting to darken any moods, but knowing that things like this can escalate alarmingly quickly into dissension in this place. Tiny issues can turn rapidly into thermo-nuclear reactions.

Chapter 5

‘So, Madame Favre, here we are,’ says Dr Schutz, as if we’re on a bus that has pulled up to our stop.

I look around the sparse office, eyebrows raised with fake curiosity. I turn back to stare at the psychologist.

‘I’m really sorry, I thought I’d already told you. My name is not Madame Favre. I prefer to be called Mrs, or better still Ms Smithers. I don’t answer to Madame Favre any more. Sounds like a sordid joke in an opera. It was a sordid joke, Dr Schutz, the missus bit, if that’s what we’re here to talk about. I’m guessing you’re going to get me to talk about my relationship,’ I say, crossing my arms.

I fix my gaze on the name shield on the psychologist’s desk. Frau Doktor Dagmar 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 level. Not only one of respect and potentially lasting love, but cementing my position as that significant first mate.

As we distanced ourselves from port, we lazily scoured the water for some speed. A pleasant Séchard wind blew down from the north and we stayed with it into the Grand-Lac, knowing its strength would not fill our sails back on the Haut-Lac. Wisps of clouds floated high in the summery sky and I lay back on a cushion in the cockpit, enjoying the increase in speed over the flat water.

Matt stood up to potter with a few things in the cockpit and on deck, then busied himself fixing the brass rim of the compass next to the hatch of the cabin that had come a little loose. I had one hand on the tiller, keeping watch for other boat traffic.

As though somebody had closed a door, the breeze dropped dead, and we began to rock gently in the doldrums. The sail flapped and I sat up, paying more attention to our position. We were almost midway into the Grand-Lac, abreast with the lakeside suburbs of Lausanne. I checked my watch. It was mid-afternoon. I assumed we had plenty of time to get back to port. But as I looked around, I noticed the sky darkening towards the south over the imposing square-topped Grammont Mountain and its neighbouring peaks. It wasn’t so much a cloud, as a dark-grey haze threatening the horizon. Looking directly above us at the clear blue sky, I noticed a group of birds very high up on a thermal. They were mere specks to the naked eye, and could have been kites or seagulls. My gaze was drawn back to the shore.

‘Hey, Matt, the storm lights are on full.’

Matt stopped polishing the brass rim of the compass he had now fixed and stood to look around the lake. The storm light in Lutry harbour was the closest to us.

‘It’s flashing at sixty. I think we should head back. There must be a change of weather coming. It wasn’t predicted until tomorrow. Let me check the barometer.’ He peered at the instrument on the inside of the cabin. ‘De Dieu. Something big is about to hit.’

As soon as he had spoken, the storm light at Lutry increased its rate to the maximum ninety flashes per minute. I noted all the storm lights in the ports around the lake were now winking brightly at the same rate. We had to get back to port.

‘I think it’s best we start the engine. When the next wind picks up, it might not be very helpful for us. It will be a southerly, which means a lot of work to get back up the lake. I’ll keep the mainsail up and take the jib down for the moment until we know how strong this will be.’

Matt started the outboard motor.

‘Here, take the tiller,’ he said as I shuffled along the seat to the rear of the cockpit. ‘Just head directly back to port. I’ll get the sail down.’

I was puzzled by his urgency. The sky above us was still a calm summery blue, the lake still flat, and the sun was still shining. We floundered in the doldrums with no wind, and I found it hard to believe that anything would change in the next few hours.

But it wasn’t hours. It was minutes. The wispy clouds were soon masked by a muddy haze, through which the sun still shone, but cast a foreboding brassy light on the water. Matt came back to the cockpit and took the tiller.

‘Allez, ma belle, plus vite,’ he said quietly to the boat, urging the motor to make headway. And as I was about to open my mouth to question this absurd urgency, a gust of wind hit us in our faces like the slap of a cardboard box. I felt the boat shudder in the water, and even without a headsail we heeled over.

‘Chier. C’est le Bornan,’ said Matt. ‘We have to head directly into it, then maybe we will be protected by the French coast and we can use a little sail to tack back to port. Lucie, can you close the hatches on the cabin here? I will keep the tiller. I think we’ll have some waves.’

As soon as he said this, the surface of the lake whipped up in front of us. I could see it travelling towards us: a battalion of ripples followed by the frothing heads of horses. The boat seesawed, hull banging into the irregular waves, and spray flew at us over the deck into the cockpit. I scrambled to batten the hatches. My experience sailing Optimists in my youth had not prepared me for this. Matt only had one set of wet-weather gear on board. He made me put it on over my already sodden clothes.

The water felt freezing in the wind. It soaked Matt’s cotton T-shirt, his muscular arms glistening. He ripped it off and put on a fleece I had retrieved from below before closing the hatch. It wouldn’t keep him dry, but the synthetic material would keep him marginally warmer than the cotton of his shirt.

We made pathetic headway into the gale, the wind whipping my hair from my face. An angry purple sky loomed over the mountains ahead. We were experiencing the full force of the unpredictable weather patterns on an alpine lake. The enormity of its power was to be respected at all costs.

And then the motor died.

‘Merde, merde, merde,’ muttered Matt. I looked at him questioningly, wondering why he wasn’t attempting to restart it.

‘We’re out of fuel. I had meant to refill the canister before we set out today. I completely forgot. I didn’t think we would get this far down the lake. We’ll have to sail home.’

I was prepared to go up on deck and hoist the jib back out of the forward hatch, but Matt shook his head.

‘We’ll stay with the main. I need to reef it. When we come round, you’d better hold on tight.’

I took the tiller as Matt hauled up the outboard motor, and pulled the kicking strap tight on the boom. I stowed the loose items in the cockpit under our seats, including the cushions on which we had been soaking up the early summer sun only minutes beforehand, and which were now soaking up gallons of the spuming lake.

The process of tacking up the lake back to port proved laborious. Matt didn’t want to leave the protection of the hills near the coast as we could see the water rising in the centre of the lake, giant waves running into each other from all directions as the lie of the land caused the wind to swirl. The boat heeled, even with such a small sail area. Water banged against the hull, halyards screeched, and I swallowed my fear. Matt yelled his instructions at each tack, his face set in determined concentration, but not losing his cool. I had confidence in him, and tried to suppress the panic that lay squirming in my belly.

When we eventually limped back into port, it was with some embarrassment we were forced to use the emergency oars to bring the sloop back to its berth. With rain now lashing down, there were few witnesses to our homecoming, and relief shone from both our faces. The three of us were intact. Matt, me, and the boat.

‘In any other wind I can usually sail right into her berth,’ he boasted.

As I tied up to the ring on the jetty and Matt hooked the buoy to the stern, a satisfying exhaustion infused our limbs. We stood in the cockpit, the boat still rocking on the rough water lapping into the port. He wrapped his arms around me, and we shivered together. Despite my discomfort, I felt elated.