The sun warmed my shoulders as I ran out from the shade of the forest. I focused on a small pine tree growing comically out of the mossy roof shingles of the old Tobel Bridge. Above me, two more bridges connected the widening funnel of the Lorze Gorge at increasingly higher levels, resembling an Escher painting.
Before I entered the dim tunnel of the wooden bridge, I glanced upwards. A flash of movement caught my eye. My glance slid away, and darted back.
A figure stood on the edge of the upper bridge.
In a split second my brain registered the person’s stance. I sucked in my breath, squinting to be sure I had seen correctly at such a distance.
Oh, no. Don’t. Please, don’t.
The figure stood midway between two of the immense concrete pillars rising out of the chasm, his fists clutching the handrail. His body swayed slightly as he looked out across the expanse to the other side of the gorge, the river roaring its white noise hundreds of feet below him. Birdsong trilled near me on the trail, strangely out of place in this alarming situation.
At first I was incredulous. How ridiculous to think this person was going to jump. But that body language, a certain hollowed stiffness to his shoulders and chest, even from a distance, radiated doom. Unsure how to react, but sure I didn’t want to observe the worst, I slowed my pace to a walk, and finally stopped.
‘Haallo!’ I yelled over the noise of the river.
My voice took some time to reach him, the echo bouncing back and forth between the canyon walls. Seconds later his head jolted, awoken from his reverie.
‘Hey! Hallo!’ I called again, holding my arm out straight, palm raised like a marshal ordering traffic to halt at an intersection.
I backtracked a few metres on the trail, away from the shadow of the covered bridge, so he could see me more clearly. A path wove up through the woods on the right, connecting the valley to the route higher up. I abandoned my initial course and ran up the steep slope, having lost sight of the man somewhere above me. At the top I turned onto the pavement and hurried towards the main road onto the bridge, gulping painful breaths of chilly air. My heart pounded with panic and the effort of running up the hill.
The man had been out of my sight for more than a few minutes. I dreaded what I might find on my arrival, scenarios crowding in my mind, along with thoughts of how I might help this person. As I strode onto the bridge, I saw with relief he was still there on the pavement. I was now level with him, and no longer had to strain my neck looking upwards. Fear kept my eyes connected to the lone figure as I approached. If I looked away for even a second, he might leap stealthily over the edge. Holding my gaze on him would hopefully secure him to the bridge.
‘Hallo…’ I called more softly, my voice drowned by the sound of the rushing water in the Lorze below. I walked steadily along the pavement towards him. Despite my proximity, this time he didn’t seem to have heard me.
‘Grüezi, hallo,’ I said again.
With a flick of his head, he leaned back again, bent his knees, and looked ahead.
‘No!’ The gunshot abruptness of my shout broke his concentration. My voice ricocheted off the concrete wall of the bridge. He stopped mid-sway, eyes wide.
My stomach clenched involuntarily as I glanced down into the gorge, when moments before I had been staring up out of it. I felt foolish, not knowing what to say. It seemed like a different world up here. As I approached within talking distance, I greeted him in my broken German, still breathing heavily.
‘Um, good morning… Beautiful, hey?’ I swept my arm about me.
What a stupid thing to say. My voice sounded different without the echo of space between us. The words sounded so absurd, and a nervous laugh escaped before I could stop it.
He looked at me angrily, but remained silent, perhaps vaguely surprised that someone had addressed him in a foreign language. Or surprised anyone had talked to him at all in this country where complete strangers rarely struck up a conversation beyond a cursory passing greeting. His cheeks flushed with indignation. I reeled at the wave of visual resentment. Then his eyes settled on my face, and his features softened.
‘Do you speak English?’ I asked. The man nodded; no smile, no greeting. He still leaned backwards, hands gripping the railing. Please. Don’t. Jump.
He was a little taller than me, and a few years my senior. Sweat glistened on his brow. His steel-grey hair was raked back on his head as though he had been running his fingers through it repeatedly. His coat flapped open to reveal a smart navy suit, Hugo Boss maybe, and I looked down to the pavement expecting to see a briefcase at his feet. He looked away. I desperately needed him to turn back, keep eye contact. My hand hovered in front of me, wanting to pull the invisible rope joining us.
‘I… I’m sorry, but I had this strange feeling you were considering jumping off the bridge.’ A nervous laugh bubbled again in my throat, and I hoped my assessment had been false.
‘I am,’ he said.
Immeasurable seconds of silence followed the man’s admission. My brain shut out external influences. A blink broke the rift in time. Sounds rushed back in – the swishing of an occasional passing vehicle, gushing water in the river below, the persistent tweeting of a bird, like the squeaky wheel of an old shopping trolley.
‘Now you’ve stopped me,’ he said. ‘This is not good. You should go away. Go away.’
But the daggers in his eyes had retracted. I held his gaze, trying not to blink for fear of losing the connection. Many clichés entered my head. In desperation I chose one to release the tension.
‘Can we talk? I know things must be bad. But maybe if you talk it through with someone…’
I shrugged, unsure how to continue. Perspiration cooled my body, and I shivered. Pulling the sleeves of my running shirt down to my wrists, I rubbed my upper arms. Wary of the abyss at my side, I took a step closer to the man. He didn’t speak, but stood upright, and raised his hand as though to push me away. He turned briefly to look into the depths of the gorge, and I grabbed his arm firmly below the elbow, gently applying pressure. His gaze at first fixed on the hand on his arm, then rose again to my face. He studied my furrowed brow, and the forced curve of my smile.
‘Please. Let’s talk,’ I said.
I had no magical formula for this, but I sensed my touch eased the tension in his body. My nails scraped the material of his coat as my grip on his arm tightened. He slumped down to sit on the pavement with his back to the bridge wall. I closed my eyes briefly and puffed air through my lips.
Step one achieved. No jump.
Traffic was sparse on a Sunday. One car slowed a little, but kept going. No one else was curious enough to stop. The regular swish and thump each time a vehicle drove over the concrete slabs echoed between the walls of the bridge. We must have looked like an odd pair. Me dressed in Lycra running pants and a bright-yellow running top, the man in his business attire, now looking a little dishevelled. The laces on his black brogues were undone. I stared at his feet, and wondered if he had intended to remove his shoes before he jumped.
‘Can I help?’ I asked, crouching down. The man looked at me imploringly, hands flopped over his knees. The strain of anguish had reddened the whites of his eyes, making his irises shine a striking green.
‘I don’t know,’ he said uncertainly.
‘Well, let’s start with your name,’ I said, as though addressing a small child.
‘Manfred,’ he said.
There was no movement towards the traditional Swiss handshake. Still squatting, pins and needles fizzed