An eye for an eye

Gstaad

It was a balmy June day, Pentecost Sunday, a major holiday in France. The Casino de la Corniche was a chic and popular establishment on a rocky spur between Saint-Eugène and Pointe-Pescade. The beach was the finest in the area, and the young French lieutenant, scion of a ducal family, went for a swim with a friend. After he walked up the hill, with its plush gardens surrounding the casino, where from 4 p.m. to 8 p.m. there was a matinée dansante with couples dancing the foxtrot and the tango. By all accounts it was an idyllic scene. ‘The deep blue of the Mediterranean, the cloudless sky, the honey-coloured sand, the intense light, the gulls circling, the young men preening, and the girls pretending not to notice — it was all there for the rich, and even the poor.’ I’ve lived such a scene many times, with girls walking by giggling and whispering, and casting side glances to see if they were being noticed. But not on this occasion.

In the late afternoon the lieutenant ambled up to the casino garden and sat under an acacia tree eating spicy sausages. He could hear the strains of the nostalgic tango from the dance floor. His friend wondered why everyone loved this land so much. Because of its beauty, came the answer. As they were speaking, an explosion inside the casino ripped away the walls and windows. The two ran inside down a long hall with a red carpet. The bomb had gone off under the bandstand, which had been torn to pieces. The dance floor was littered with body parts, piano keys and mangled saxophones. The roulette tables were shredded, the croupiers, those who were still moving, writhing on the green-felt tables.