Prologue-2
633 Words
To: Margaret.Saville@newyork.com
From: WaltonRachel@freemail.ch
Date: March 28
Dear Margie,
Time passes so slowly here. But with the passage of the landscape into a beautiful spring, I’m becoming more and more enamored by its beauty. The last few months of research have been revealing as I trawl through the documents and parchments stored in Château de Chillon and the private libraries of families who have resided along this placid shoreline since before the time of the Savoys. One family, who live in a wonderful Tyrolean Chalet hidden up in the forested mountainside of Hauts-de-Montreux, have entrusted me with a chest full of letters and diaries that hasn’t been opened for generations. My heart leaps whenever I touch its burnished silver latch, but methodology demands I complete my study of the Chillon papers before delving into its depths.
I acquired a lovely little studio in the outer buildings of Le Château du Châtelard—a massive fortress, now converted into apartments, that dominates the ridge above the villages of Montreux and Clarens. I suspect my small space was once a stable, and I love it even more for that possibility. It has its own private courtyard and a terrace with a view of local vineyards and across the rooftops of Montreux to the lake and mountains beyond. The rent is quite inexpensive, which I’m very glad of, as my meager savings will need to stretch much further than I had originally anticipated in finishing this project.
The true purpose of this e-mail, however, is to tell you something I never could have dreamed possible in this quest. His name is Jack and he’s from Chicago. I saw him at Harry’s Bar in the Montreux Palace Hotel and in no time found out he’s a literature teacher at the nearby American school. At twenty-three, just a few days older than me, he’s all blond, tussled hair, ridiculous smile, and powerful, tattooed arms. We hit it off right away and there’s not a day we don’t see each other. Honestly, I haven’t felt like this since college days. I spend weekends riding passenger on his Harley, my cheek pressed hard against the soft, brown leather of his jacket, which does nothing but enhance his physique. Together we’ve discovered the Valais, the myriad walled laneways that snake through the countryside among dormant vineyards, and the isolated hiking trails of Foret de Jor. In late January we rode up through rain and sleet on snow-covered roads via Les Diablerettes to view the hot-air balloon festival at Château-d’Oex. We were frozen by the time we were sipping hot chocolate densa on Le Petit Pre. The festival was canceled due to the miserable weather, but I didn’t care. It was the most wonderful day of my life.
Love, Rachel
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To: Margaret.Saville@newyork.com
From: WaltonRachel@freemail.ch
Date: July 7
I’m glad we got to talk on the phone last night. It was good to hear your voice.
I still can’t fathom what’s happened.
Officers from the Direction de la Sécurité Publique knocked on my studio door just after sunrise. I had barely finished my breakfast and was staring across the room at the unopened trunk—for the time had come to open it. The knock startled me, as Jack and I had already made plans to meet that evening, and I wasn’t expecting any other company. As soon as they entered, my heart sank. I knew from the gray pallor of their faces before they mustered even one word.
A terrible, terrible accident, they said.
His motorbike a mangled mess, they said.
Dead, they said.
RW
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To: Margaret.Saville@newyork.com
From: WaltonRachel@freemail.ch
Date: August 5
M,
I’m afraid I’ve done nothing these past weeks other than sit in my courtyard and gaze at the ivy that creeps and spills around its confines.
Dark clouds have rolled over the mountains to engulf the lake and town.
The chest remains unopened.
R
- Writer
