The Art of Deception. Louise Mangos

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.