La Belle Suisse Read online

  Only when a sudden loss of altitude left her stomach in her mouth and then the engines reduced power significantly did Angelina break her gaze from the window and worriedly search around the jet's interior, wondering what new catastrophe was about to attack her sanity. From the rear, a popping noise suddenly announced the aircraft’s decision to misbehave once again and challenge the pilot to a duel for control. The popping descended into a nerve jangling backfire until the fat captain manipulated the throttle levers again, forcing the jet to gain speed rapidly.

  As if the war of wills was to take on an even more surreal approach, the nose once again pitched nearly vertical and the jet climbed for the stars, leaving the passengers' bodies deformed and struggling with the g-forces. Angelina sat paralysed in her seat, her body forced back into the fabric with the weight of gravity encapsulating her like a giant hand and attempting to squash her against the seat back. This time, Niccolo and the band found their scream in the performance of their lives and if they had fans around them to listen, it would be a new hit record.

  Suddenly, the engines quit and the jet plummeted like a rock from nose up to nose down, reversing the situation in a violent flip over. The sound of speeding air passing the plane’s fuselage seemed to last forever while the passengers struggled desperately against the lap belts trying to sever their bodies in two. Panic erupted in a noiseless scream, with those trapped in their seats all too aware the nose-down situation wouldn’t last very long if the fat captain couldn’t rectify the power outage... and quickly.

  A familiar rumble echoed through the passenger cabin as the jet’s engines finally fired again accompanied by squeaks and bangs while the ancient aircraft decisively levelled out and settled into a subdued drone, as if nothing of consequence had just taken place. Relieved, Angelina’s terrified glance wandered into the cockpit just in time to observe the fat captain swipe at his brow and then casually, his voice entered the cabin airwaves via the intercom.

  “Approaching-a Genève airport-a; please-a buckle up you seat-a-belt for the landing. I hope-a you enjoyed your-a flight-a, Pinocchio!”

  By the time the captain had finished the announcement, every one of the band members, including Angelina, was sure they were going to die. Sitting rigid in her seat with fear, yet managing to stiffly glance through her cabin window using her periphery vision, the crescent-moon-shaped Lake Geneva flashed into Angelina’s view. Daring to swivel her head slightly, she tentatively glanced at Geneva’s beautiful bustling city located on the southwestern shore, assured this would be last time she would ever see any city at all. The little jet abruptly lost altitude and bounced and bumped on the air currents, causing the passengers to grit their teeth and hang on desperately, ready to assist in the right places with an appropriate scream response. To add to their panic, the engine noise suddenly cut right back into an eerie quiet, while the air on the fuselage hissed like an elevator on rocket fuel and the ground came up threateningly at the descending plane.

  Unexpectedly, the jet lost altitude even quicker and then a heavy bang ground through the air frame as one wheel collided with the runway and bounced up into the air again. A further two heavy bangs, followed by another skip and then the brakes were applied so heavily the passengers had to push against the seat in front, preventing their seatbelts from becoming a permanent part of their bodies. A sudden spinning motion topped off the terror as the little jet spun off the runway and came to an abrupt and exhausted halt. Complete shocked silence drifted through the passenger cabin and cockpit as if eerie, ghoul-like smoke had encapsulated every breathing human being into a hazy, motionless and staring mania.

  Resembling a sleepy town awakening on a Sunday morning, the captain and passengers took stock of their experience, not sure whether they were still alive. Angelina eventually plucked up the courage to unbuckle her lap belt and decided to check on the rest of the band members by struggling around the seat in front of her. One band member was seen making the sign of the cross over his chest and silently praying, when the elated captain's voice abruptly interrupted the delirium with a message seemingly too surreal to be true.

  “E...! We-a make it! Next-a time I don’t-a push the brake pedal-a too hard, Pinocchio!”

  *~*~*~*

  Chapter 4

  A circus of emergency services surrounded the ancient aircraft stranded on the grassed outfield of runway number five. Angelina and the band, trembling from their ordeal, were whisked away from the crippled jet via an airport bus and deposited into the security area of Geneva terminal. By the time Angelina had nervously satisfied the airport police that she and the band had a legitimate reason to be in Switzerland, and acknowledging their means of transport was... unfortunate and not a terrorist plot, the authorities released them into the mainstream of the airport terminal to go about their business.

  The tentacles of fatigue locked Angelina’s mind into a vicelike squeeze while her body desperately craved sleep, forcing her thinking into a haggard metronomic swing and finding it increasingly difficult to function. However, the action wasn’t over yet. Angelina’s next dilemma was to get the band’s equipment off the crippled jet and on to Montreux before their evening's performance. Just as she stepped away from the group and was about to engage with another airport official, a crowd of media encircled the band and excitedly fired questions at its members concerning their in-flight ordeal. With the cameras rolling and before she could gain control of the situation, Niccolo’s squeaky voice took centre stage.

  “It was quite simple really. The pilot panicked and I struggled up out of my seat and coolly talked him through his attack and calmed him enough for him to land the plane. If I hadn’t, we probably wouldn’t be talking to you now.”

  A stunned murmur rattled through the jabbering paparazzi while Niccolo glanced around at the dumfounded band members, threatening them with his eyes to collude with his ridiculous story. Angelina pushed her way through the adoring crowd swallowing Niccolo’s nonsense in spoonfuls. She had only an instant to turn the fiasco into a plausible and believable scenario prior to the press shooting a hole in the Sticky Lizards' bucket and turning their career to mud before it ever started. Angelina searched the smitten faces and in a split-second decision, she decided to play along with Niccolo’s preposterous fantasy.

  “That’s right, people. If it wasn’t for our lead singer, Niccolo, we probably wouldn’t have a band to play at the Montreux Jazz festival tonight at 7 pm... I have free tickets for all members of the press,” she smiled a warm, innocent and inviting smile that proclaimed you can trust me.

  As the tickets vanished from Angelina’s hand and a suitably impressed paparazzi disappeared back to their studios to prepare the heroic story, she glanced sideways at Niccolo. “You calmed the pilot?! As I remember, you were screaming alongside the rest of us, terrified and buckled firmly into your seat!”

  Niccolo’s complexion flashed red with embarrassment. “No harm done, signora. It was just a little white lie to make me look good. When I look good, everyone looks good. Yes?!”

  “Just you do the singing, Niccolo, and leave the looking good to me.”

  Angelina’s attention suddenly turned to the glass windows overlooking runway five. In the distance, she could see the flashing amber lights of a large crane drawing alongside the ancient Learjet and wondered where the authorities were taking the injured aircraft and her music equipment. A quick glance up at a wall clock told her it was fast approaching midday and they still had a one-hour limousine ride to Montreux from Geneva if the traffic was unkind. Anxious for the band to be insulated from any further stress, Angelina needed to do some fast organising before the whole gig derailed and with a few quick phone calls, a limousine would soon be waiting outside to take the band to Montreux while she dealt with the band's missing equipment. Searching an airport app, Angelina connected with a suitable contender and instructed the limousine company to take the entertainers to the Hôtel Fairmont Le Montreux Palace near the jazz festival to rec
over. She hoped Niccolo hadn’t used up all his shriek and energy on the petrifying plane journey and still had some scream left to entertain his new fans.

  Observing a Mercedes stretch limousine arrive outside the terminal window, she turned to Niccolo and pointed to the door. “Niccolo, there is a limousine waiting to take you and the band to Montreux. When you get there, register with the hotel then go to your rooms and rest. I will follow with the equipment as soon as I can,” Angelina inculcated.

  “Are you not coming with us, signora?”

  “I’m sure you can handle registering into a hotel on your own, Niccolo; they are expecting you.”

  A vulnerable grimace crossed Niccolo’s lips, abruptly affirming how much the band were relying on her guidance, but she was in no mood to play mummy to five immature young men. Angelina had a lot of work to accomplish before the evening performance and her mind wasn’t functioning well. Niccolo was about to attack from another angle when Angelina’s hand went onto the hip and her head tilted slightly.

  “Okay! We’re going, signora; but you will be there tonight?!”

  “I will be there, Niccolo, trust me; and stay away from any nosey paparazzi!” Angelina waved the band off as they exited the terminal and watched the five males climb into the limousine and then slowly drive away.

  Now she could clear her mind and concentrate on finding the missing equipment.

  *~*~*~*

  The pain behind Angelina’s tired eyes had increased and pressure waves rippling across her brain were building to a crescendo of hammerblows, threatening to turn her aching sleep debt into the desperate poverty of a severe migraine. It was now close to 1 pm and there were still no signs of the band's equipment and no one in the airport seemed to know what the immediate future held for the crippled jet or her coveted equipment. Angelina’s request for an audience with the airport manager was met with incredulous jest from an airport official until Angelina exploded into a tirade of angry Italian interspersed with a few French subtleties and rounded out with a good measure of bold English to get her point across.

  The airport official melted under her tirade, but before Angelina knew what was happening, two large men in suits took her by her arms and began to lead her toward the terminal exit.

  “Hey...! What are you doing?!” Angelina protested. “Let go of me!” her exasperated words echoed around the terminal and caught the attention of gawking airport patrons passing by without concern, yet the men kept forcing her towards the exit.

  As soon as the struggling trio breeched the terminal’s automatic perimeter doors, Angelina stared at a dark blue coloured Mercedes taxi standing alone with its back door open to the kerb. Realising this wasn’t an authorised eviction and wherever they were taking her she probably didn’t want to go, Angelina began to fight and struggle against her captors, firing a well aimed stiletto at her attackers' shins and screaming for help. But before she knew what had happened, the lights went out on her world and she slumped into unguarded oblivion.

  When Angelina’s eyes finally flickered open, her head was supported by two luxuriously soft and elegant pillows while a comfortable double bed supported the full length of her aching body. She glanced around, confused at her surrounds, and noticed the drapes and wallpaper of the lavish room matched the bedspread. An opulent chandelier above her head and two identical bedside lamps added to the well appointed ambience, with bright daylight streaming into her lavish prison cell through a large window overlooking Lake Geneva and the Jet d’Eau. The comfort and elegance of the room drew her tired mind like water to a thirsty sponge, yet she had to fight the sleep her body desperately needed and find a way out of her captivity.

  Just as she was pushing herself into a sitting position, a loud knock at the door startled her and a maid entered, carrying a pitcher of cold water and some migraine tablets. “Good afternoon, Madame. Your husband left instructions to wake you and give you some migraine tablets. I’m so sorry your first visit to Geneva has been fraught with such a debilitating headache,” the French maid offered in well rehearsed and compassionate English.

  “My husband?” Angelina mumbled and stared blankly back at the maid.

  “Yes, Madame. He said you often woke up confused in your dreadful condition and left this recording for you to listen to. He said not to worry, the band's equipment has already arrived in Montreux and Niccolo’s education was well under control,” the maid appeared unsure of the cryptic message but figured the woman would understand its full meaning. She placed the water and tablets on the bedside table and then handed Angelina the iPod.

  “Where am I, Mademoiselle, and what time is it?” Angelina asked with a raspy voice as she took the iPod from the maid’s hand and tried to make sense of the new information.

  The maid paused at the door and turned to face Angelina with her head tilted in confusion, but then remembered the husband's speech. “Why of course, Madame, you are in Genève’s Hôtel d’Angleterre on the banks of Lake Geneva and it is a little after 4 pm.”

  As the room door closed with a gentle thunk, Angelina stared confused down at the iPod and tried to come to terms with the maid’s strange message. She threw her legs over the edge of the bed and struggled to think. Her first priority had to be Montreux and find out what was happening with Niccolo. But the curious device she held in her hand demanded her attention and before she went any further, she swiped at the iPod start icon with a inquisitive tremble and wondered what strange new game she was about to be thrust into.

  *~*~*~*

  Chapter 5

  Lac Léman Foreshore, Montreux, 3 July 2014

  The summer heat spawned by another perfect Montreux day seeped through the high ceilings of the chalet-like Covered Markets. Built in 1892 and tailored on the same grand concept as the Victor Baltard Halles in Paris, the unassembled Covered Markets arrived from France across the mountains and was given birth on the picturesque shores of Montreux’s Lac Léman. There were no walls to the impressive Covered Markets, instead stone pillars and steel arches supported the massive crown. The interior of the roof was raked with ornate metal trusses and covered with fine timber, while large cathedral-like windows applied sunlight to every square millimetre of the expansive floor space, easily accommodating several thousand people.

  The ostentatious structure-–bordered by the Place du Marché, the Quai de la Rouvenaz and the Grand’ Rue—shared the same prestigious address and view as the animated time-frozen pose of the Freddy Mercury monument. Together, they kept watch over the enduring changing moods of the stately lake and the distant shores of Switzerland’s nearby neighbour, France. The calm, emerald green waters of Lac Léman lapped lazily against the jagged stone barriers separating land from water, keeping the petrified image of Freddie Mercury from getting his polished bronze shoes wet. With the backdrop of the majestic Alps in the distance, the mirror-like Lac Léman idled in the rising morning heat and reflected the sun’s rays in an eye dazzling glittering shimmer.

  Compagnie Générale de Navigation’s impressive old lady, La Suisse, a magnificent century-old paddle steamer, serenaded a multitude of visitors ambling along the Quai de la Rouvenaz with the steamy, lonesome drawl of the paddler’s whistle reverberating off Montreux’s ancient belle époque architecture. The swish of the vessel's tireless steam-driven paddle wheels dipping into the ancient lake water added another sleepy melodic note to the warming day. In a postcard image, the antique vessel cut an effortless wake through the glassy lake surface and mesmerised the ambling throng loitering among the festival preparations while they impatiently passed time until the celebrated Montreux Jazz Festival began.

  Although the jazz festival in the summer heat of July attracts a partying crowd, Christmas time in Montreux would not be the same without snow hanging lazily over the massive Covered Markets' structure. Stretching endlessly, glistening fairytale lights and decorations set the night alight in a frigid romantic hue, creating the colourful and flamboyant atmosphere of a snowy Christmas carniva
l. With children and adults alike dressed in warm fur hoods and fuzzy muffs, the happy throng meander among the glitzy canvas stalls stretching along the Quai de la Rouvenaz and huddling together in the frozen Christmas atmosphere. Tucked away and in the Christmas Markets' shadow, the Place du Marché vibrates with the noise and intensity of a sideshow, where a Ferris wheel spins in a fruitless never-ending circle and excited children’s voices drift cheerily over the dark, frostbitten waters of Lac Léman. The festive ambience glows like the log fires burning furiously in and around the stalls, chasing away the chill but warming the hearts of the patrons lost in a wonderland of snow and cold while offering every good gift for sale that a Christmas shopper could possibly hope to find.

  Yet far from Christmas and the freezing chill, the July jazz festival venue attracted popular music stars and the Covered Markets were usually employed to host a series of concerts and accommodate a rhythmic, bumping crowd. Today, however, it would take a break from musical intrigue and play host instead to a prestigious high school graduation ceremony, one that has been in the making for nearly a decade and a half.

  *~*~*~*

  Eighteen year old Ryan Tauxe stood gazing over the hazy morning scene. It was as if Lac Léman had read the confusion in his heart and reflected his mood perfectly in its dour disposition. Mindlessly searching across the water from the Quai de la Rouvenaz and the bridge over the Baye de Montreux, he raised his shiny black shoe to rest his foot on the intricate ironwork fence. Then leaning his elbows on the top rail, he rested his full body weight on the other leg and tried to figure out the strong emotions plaguing his thoughts.

  What was his meaning and purpose in life? Get an education, find a job, marry and raise a family and then die, worn out from overwork and worry?

  Ryan sighed in deep frustration, knowing he would be expected to follow the age old traditions and a tedious, monotonous life already mapped out for him in a never-ending blur. Water rushing down the Baye de Montreux, eager to end its journey from the mountains behind Montreux and empty into the sprawling Lac Léman, bubbled and gurgled enthusiastically, washing away a small part of Ryan’s tension and bringing a sense of peace to his disturbed musings with its watery language.