Page 2 of One Last Step

I took the letter with me.That family didn’t need to know that the father and husband they loved chose to fake his own death rather than stay with them.

And whatever strife Annie and I might have had, I didn’t deserve to believe that Annie had been murdered when she was really sleeping with multiple married men before running away to Geneva with one of them.

It's been nearly thirty years since Annie moved here.I have no idea if she's still here or if she's even still alive.But I'm going to look for her.I'm going to keep looking until I find her.

***

I prefer coffee in the morning and tea in the evening, but I drink two cups of coffee on my flight to avoid sleeping.My nightmares are not always vivid, but when they are, they are often accompanied by fugue states and sleepwalking, neither of which I want to endure, flying forty thousand feet above the Atlantic.Besides, due to the west-to-east travel, I'll be landing in the evening in Geneva, and I'll be able to sleep when I reach my destination.

The weather is cool and crisp in Geneva but not as chilly as in Boston.There is a light snow on the ground, but not the thick carpet I find in my hometown.I can't resist a smile as I see the dusting that coats the buildings.This is my second time to this city, and while I find Boston to be a quite beautiful locale, especially in winter, there is an old-world charm to Geneva that no American city can match.

Near the airport, the architecture is as modern as you will find in any large city, but Geneva can’t entirely escape its medieval roots.The streets are narrow, and even in the more modern quarters, one can still find boutique shops selling traditional goods and crafts.Most of the people wear the latest fashions and styles, but there are a number of people, young and old, who sport stockings, suspenders, bonnets and checkered dresses in the traditional style.

Time moves on, but its remnants remain, and in the Old World, people carry those remnants forward with them.

This is even more pronounced when I reach Old Town, about two miles from the airport.I am more grateful now than ever that I chose to walk rather than take a taxi.Here, multistory brick buildings with sloped, shingled roofs and arched doorways, sometimes with pillared porches, face each other across cobblestone streets even narrower than the ones in the newer areas of Geneva.I sometimes find the combination of tall buildings and narrow streets claustrophobic, but the snow softens the sharp angles and brightens the harsh light from the streetlamps, leaving everything gentle and beautiful.

It's a place I could see myself living for the rest of my life, but it doesn’t seem much like a place Annie would enjoy.She always used to scoff at the older things of the world.One time, she asked me if I thought places got bored of staying the same the way people did.I laughed the comment off at the time, but I now know that Annie’s desperation for adventure was one of the driving forces behind her eventual departure.

That is still no excuse for abandoning me.

I look around at the buildings and decide I prefer things that stay the same.At least there’s no fear that one day I’ll wake up, and things will have changed irrevocably.I could spend a lifetime here, and these buildings will remain as they are now.

If these buildings had a consciousness, would they resent us for abandoning them?We are short-lived creatures, after all.Much like time, we move on, leaving behind only the remnants of who we once were, the evidence of the moment of history we occupied.Do these remnants resent their creators for moving on and leaving behind a world that views them as quaint at best and boring at worst?Or perhaps the march of centuries has left them detached from the world, empty, unfeeling shells that neither know nor care for the generations that grow, live, and die within them.

I sigh and lower my head.I’ve gone and talked myself into a depression again.Lord knows I’ll have enough depression to contend with here without manufacturing even more for myself.

I push thoughts of Annie away and take time to familiarize myself with the neighborhood.I know that the museum is two blocks away, but I turn right down another street.I'm a little early, and I don't mind the cold, so I walk around the quiet streets and make note of landmarks.There are several museums and a number of restaurants and historical sites.The spire of St.Peter's Cathedral pierces the sky, lights from the ground illuminating the cross and reminding all below that there is a sanctuary to be found.I am not religious, but the hope that cross inspires lifts my spirits a little.

Thus encouraged, I complete my journey to the Chronomaster Museum, a horological museum that was originally the home of renowned clockmaker Tristan Rousseau, a Huguenot immigrant to Switzerland who established one of Geneva’s first clockmaking businesses in the sixteenth century.The museum is currently overseen by a descendant of Tristan’s, Dr.Elena Rousseau.I will be caring for her granddaughter, Sophie.

I reach the museum after an hour of exploration.I am right on time.

Perhaps it’s my earlier thoughts of Annie clouding my mind, but I feel a chill as I look at the imposing structure.The building is five stories tall and constructed with a darker stone than its neighbors.The arched windows and intricately carved stone gargoyles on the roof make the museum appear almost gothic, especially compared to the somewhat less archaic design of the rest of Old Town.Nine stone steps lead to the tall double doors at the entrance of the building, and the snow that covers the roof and the staircase only accentuates the darkness of the stone.I feel that I am gazing into the eyes of a creature lurking in shadow.

But I always feel this way when I am approaching a mystery.At least this time, I know exactly what mystery I’m approaching.

I ascend the steps, my feet crunching softly in the snow.Fortunately, the snow hasn't turned to ice, so I don't lose my footing as I approach the door.I reach for the brass knocker but pause.I can almost hear the resonating, mournful sound the knocker will make.I've fed my superstitions quite enough for one evening.

So, I close my fist and knock like an ordinary person instead.The sound echoes slightly, but it’s not so frightening as the noise I’m sure would have come from the brass knocker designed to look like a snarling lion.

I hear footsteps from inside the house, and as though they are the soft footfalls of a predator, I tense and prepare to flee.

Reason, thankfully, reasserts itself when the door opens, and I see the smiling face of a woman whose height of five-foot-four matches my own.She is more slender than me and perhaps five years older, but there is kindness in her ice-blue eyes and warmth in her smile to belie that icy stare.

“You must be Mary Wilcox,” she says with a slight accent that makes her seem very distinguished.“I’m delighted to meet you.”

She extends her hand, and I take it.“Thank you.Dr.Rousseau, I presume?”

“You presume correctly, but please, call me Elena.”

I smile.“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Elena.Thank you for welcoming me into your home.”

“Of course, of course!But come in, it’s freezing outside.Where is your driver?Did you have no one to help you with your suitcase?”

I don’t tell her that I walked here from the airport.It’s difficult to get people to understand that I enjoy walking.I only reply, “It’s no trouble, ma’am.I packed light.”

“Elena,” she corrects, “and come inside, please.”

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