The Art of Deception. Louise Mangos
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me in with promises to show me his world. The lure of sailing in his sloop, the desire to mirror his tracks down the ski slope, all whispered in my ear, sending shivers down my spine, with the security of his arms around me. Fuelled with a blind hormonal passion, I knew I wanted this man beyond anything else I had ever desired.
How could I let myself fall so quickly? I knew I was throwing caution to the wind. I had only met Matt days ago; I knew nothing about him, and Anne wasn’t able to provide much information, although the things she said, or didn’t say, made me think she might be hiding something. But my yearning for him eclipsed the warning bells of losing control in my head. Despite being a relatively inexperienced 19-year-old, I knew the danger of succumbing to these emotions, but could do nothing to control the fire.
* * *
I am shaken from my reverie by a gentle fluttering at the window. It sounds like a moth batting the pane, and thinking I should let it out, I look up to see the first splats of today’s rain blowing against the glass through the bars. The forested ridge to the east has disappeared in a smudge of weather released from the grey belly of the sky.
Fatima starts a keening wail. This is the one she usually saves for the middle of the night. It doesn’t seem so unsettling during the day, lends itself to comical lunacy rather than ghostly guilt without the cover of darkness. But before I can feel sorry for her, I hear a loud ‘Fertig, jetzt!’ from Müller in the corridor. Enough now!
Müller is one of the guards, or carers, as they like to call them here. Makes us sound like we’re in an old people’s home, or a mental institution, which is probably closer to the truth. She is assigned to our block and spends most of her duty time on our floor.
Fatima’s tone reduces to a series of self-pitying sobs. I barely tolerate her ranting. But when I hear Adnan crying I go to pieces. By some administrative quirk, I ended up next to Fatima when I came in. She was already pregnant, and gave birth not long afterwards. She won’t be on our floor for long though. There are only six units on the mother–child level, and one of them will become free in a couple of days when another inmate’s toddler goes to a foster home. However sad it is for the mother, at least she had some time with her baby. Fatima might face the same fate if she is still here in three years’ time. I’ve never asked how long she’s in for.
It’s a cruel coincidence that they are next to me, given that I would love to have my son at my side. There is already some confusion as to why I am here and not at La Tuilière prison in Vaud, the canton where the crime took place and where I was sentenced. My incarceration here is unprecedented in a country where the legal process is decentralised. It must be the ambiguity of my origin. Although I have lived in Vaud for several years, in the French-speaking part of the country, I never went through the procedures to become a naturalised Swiss citizen. But I have begun to suspect that’s not the only reason I am so far away from JP.
My sketchpad is open on the desk. I pick up a pencil and try to draw, but can’t concentrate with Fatima going on, so I take two paces to my window. I have to lean past the narrow shelf of the desk bolted to the wall to peer outside through drops of water on the glass. Blue curtains frame the window, a lame attempt at helping us to forget where we are, absurdly contrasting the lattice of the bars.
The sky lies like a wet blanket over the flat landscape. The prison sits on a slight mound above the village of Hindelbank. A forested ridge blocks our view of the sunrise, which isn’t visible anyway behind today’s miserable weather. Beyond the community to the north stretches the vast unexciting plateau where the River Emme meanders out of a broad valley. We are a long way from the romantic alpine meadows at the source of its waters in the Bernese Oberland, home to the cows producing the milk synonymous with the famous Emmental cheese. In the distance to the west lie the ancient mountains of the Jura, marching their sheer cliffs along the boundary of France. An almost static curtain of cloud spills slowly like Niagara down their gullies.
If only I could see the mountains on the other side, to the east. If only I could touch in my mind the familiarity of altitude, forever inciting a melancholic longing for home.
Or a place I used to call home.
Yasmine is sitting on my bed. Today is Sunday, our day off. I was enjoying my solitude until she walked in. I’m a little irked by her attitude, thinking she can barge into my cell whenever she wants. I don’t say anything, as it’s better to avoid provocation in this place. Everyone is unpredictable, and I just want to get by without attracting attention. I’m not completely comfortable in her company. I busy myself watering my plants – a dragon palm, a small ficus and a fern. They will soon suffer from the brittleness of the dry winter air. I can pick and choose my houseplants. That privilege comes from having access to the greenhouse.
Yasmine sifts through a few photos of JP lying on my pillow, and stares at one of him as a baby. I want to tell her to take her hands off my child.
‘You know they used to lock up young girls in this place who became enceinte when they were not being married. And they hadn’t done anything wrong. No stealing. No kill—’
‘It was called the “re-education” of unmarried mothers then,’ I interrupt. ‘The system was tailored for the likes of Fatima. Usually put here by their own parents who didn’t know how to deal with their daughter’s pregnancies.’
‘The worst is they were still doing this thing until the 1980s,’ she says. ‘Imagine, in our lifetime! They will not take Adnan away from Fatima permanently. They cannot do this. To provoke such publicity again would be, how do you say, une atrocité.’
‘Fatima must have the ghost of one of those girls in her room,’ I say. ‘She often screams as though she might never see Adnan again. Maybe tomorrow she won’t. It’s hard to imagine the destinies of the babies. Who knows where Adnan will end up if he is farmed out to a foster family? I don’t know if it’s any less barbaric than back then.’
Yasmine looks at me and raises one eyebrow. I’m not sure she understands everything I say, but she doesn’t ask for clarification.
She has shuffled the photos out of order and my breath quickens to see the images carelessly handled. They are so valuable to me, and I’m worried she’s smearing them with hand cream or grease from the kitchens. I doubt I’ll be able to get fresh copies. The family didn’t give these to me. That would never happen. These are photos Anne has sent me, copies from her collection. Her son Valentin is JP’s best friend. I wonder what JP will look like the next time I see him. Kids change quickly in six months. I’m surprised every time.
‘Don’t …’ I start to say, and am silenced by a look that either tells me I’m being too precious, or that I shouldn’t mess with her.
Yasmine often talks about Hindelbank’s history, repeating its horrors as if trying to make the events of the recent past more believable. To make her own imprisonment more of a fantasy. Or perhaps to kid herself that she is here even though she has done nothing wrong. She came to Hindelbank after me in May, from Basel. She was part of a gang crossing the French border in a transit van, periodically relieving pre-alpine villages of their bicycles. They indiscriminately loaded up bikes, using bolt cutters on even the strongest of locks. It was on their fourth or fifth foray into the country that they were finally caught.
Yasmine is Algerian, but chooses to converse with me in English, despite knowing I can speak French fairly fluently. She pronounces all her th’s as a soft zz.
I am quite the novelty. There was another English woman here until just before I arrived. She was rumoured to have murdered a man who had been stalking her family. But she was released before I arrived, and no one wants to talk about those who get out. So I am the only one here right now. Everyone wants to practise my mother tongue, except the guards who bark their orders in Swiss German. They are aware that most of the Swiss citizens, who don’t even constitute half of the inmates here, can barely understand their guttural Bern dialect. Most of the guards speak only