Pink Snow

by Edna Dawes

  “If you put the man in front of me now, I wouldn’t recognize him. The one thing I do know is that he was alive and well after I crashed.”

  It was not far from the Gendarmerie to Peter’s garage but the flames of her temper were already fanned and she was in the right mood to tackle that young man. If the Inspector had been more receptive she would have told him of the strange events in the garage compound, but fate decided she should face Peter with it herself.

  He had a customer with him when Kathryn turned into the workshop, and he looked set to stay for the entire morning. His business did not seem all that urgent; he just leant back against the wall from his perch on some tires and gave her the continental “once-over” with dark calculating eyes. This situation threw her off her stride at the start, and Peter’s smiling welcome added to her uncertainty. Pulling herself together, she jumped into the conversation with, “I have come to collect my car.”

  The smile stayed on Peter’s mouth but suddenly left his eyes.

  “I have not yet collected the spare part from Innsbruck. I thought I had already mentioned that to you.”

  “You also mentioned that you could not start work on it for three or four days, yet it was repaired and resprayed when the Inspector called soon afterwards.”

  He was a good actor, she had to admit. “My English is not good,” he said, looking crestfallen. “I must have misled you by saying the incorrect words. Of course, I did what I could right away. I meant that I could not finish it for three or four days.” There was no flinching away from her eyes; he faced her quite boldly as he lied his head off.

  The man on the tires watched all this with great absorption while he chewed noisily on a straw. Kathryn felt her temper getting out of hand.

  “Look,” she said sharply, “can we talk privately? I don’t know if your friend speaks English, but what I have to say is rather personal.”

  He did speak English – at least, he understood enough to leer at Peter and pass an undoubtedly suggestive remark to the good-looking young man. Peter rolled his eyes and answered in kind, bringing a guffaw from the other.

  Kathryn’s cheeks flamed. “All right, if you prefer to have it heard by all and sundry, it’s up to you. What were you up to at midnight with Dr. Hallstein? It was a very funny time to be changing the number plates on two Volkswagens – one of which is mine!”

  The color drained from Peter’s ruddy face as though she had dealt him a physical blow and his eyes narrowed with the impact of what she had flung at him. The façade was only lowered for a few seconds, however, and Kathryn had to admire him for his swift recovery from the shock. A forced smile accompanied his comeback.

  “After the Forellenabend we all imagine we see strange things, Miss Davis. You had the same experience at the trout farm, I believe.”

  So he was playing the same game as Dr. Hallstein, was he! It was obvious she would get nowhere with him, but she sent one last shaft at him through gritted teeth.

  “Yes, I keep having these strange illusions, but luckily, I had a witness with me this time.”

  The fit of trembling didn’t leave her until she was almost at the end of the village. In her rage she had walked some distance without being aware of passing anybody or anything. Now the anger was leaving her and she walked slowly, feeling ill at ease. The sun was shining fitfully through fast-moving clouds checkering the green valley with light and shade. Every so often, the summit of Karlstein was visible rising majestically above her before grey nimbus obscured the blinding white of the snowcap once more. Kathryn looked quickly away. On a clear day she could gaze at the entire mountain with respectful awe, but on a cloudy day, Karlstein assumed a sinister air.

  Her dreary thoughts were banished next minute when something in a shop window caught her eye and she found herself walking into the bookstore to buy a copy of Skis and Skills by Anton Reiter. There were copies in English, French and German of both that one and Make Mine a Slalom, his second volume. She chose the first which was for beginners – not that the purchase had been made for instructional purposes! With her book in a beautifully-decorated paper bag, she headed for a little café on the opposite side of the road, ordered coffee and settled down to read.

  On the back flap was a photograph of the author in ski-gear, with snow goggles pushed up into tousled fair hair, and a dazzling smile on his much younger face. Kathryn felt a needle of joy pierce her again at the remembrance of his kisses last night. Beneath the photograph was a brief history of the former championship skier. By now, he would be thirty, she reckoned, and had retired from competitive skiing five years ago when the “tragic accident” they fleetingly referred to resulted in his suffering serious injuries. Six months in hospital had mended both his broken legs, and an operation had saved the sight of his right eye, but high-powered skiing was out of the question after that. There followed a list of his achievements which were not as many as she had imagined, but from the several quotes from fellow sportsmen, he was beloved for his personality and great competitiveness rather than the cups he had won. They had not been in evidence in that long room at the back of his house!

  Feeling somewhat like a Peeping Tom, she flicked through the plates, many of which were of Anton in action, and lapped up the information beneath each one. The picture which brought a painful beat to her heart was a close-up in color of the successful slalom team which broke a world record in the European Grand Prix. Anton smiled at her from the page, younger, but with the same look in his eyes as he had had last night. The waitress brought her another pot of coffee while she pored over Anton’s words, not understanding the technicalities, but imagining she could hear him saying them in his clipped accent.

  It was nearly midday when she realized the early lunch she had arranged would shortly be ready and unless she hurried, would spoil before she arrived. The minute she sat at the table, Robert bombarded her with questions about her interview with the police and reiterated that she should have let him accompany her. With her mind full of skiing heroes, she found him unusually aggressive.

  “A girl on her own can’t cope with officials,” he maintained, sounding so like an echo of Mrs. Davis she replied sharply, “When it’s a case of simply telling the truth, anyone can cope.”

  He ignored that. “What did he have to say about the little game we saw last night?”

  “I didn’t . . . I don’t think he took it very seriously,” she was prompted to invent, feeling certain he would condemn her decision to confront Peter herself. “I suppose they are more, interested in the murder.”

  “Murder?” he looked up. “What murder?”

  “I told you last night that Anton and I had decided the man on Kapellerpass must have been murdered. There is no other explanation.”

  His eyes darkened. “I gave you my opinion of Reiter before we went to the dance. After his behavior there, I wouldn’t set much store by the things he says.” He reached across the table to take her hand. “Please let me arrange with the British Consul to have you flown to England. You can’t possibly continue with this situation.”

  “No, Robert.” To put an end to the conversation, she lied to him. “Inspector Schultz has asked me to remain until he has cleared it up, and I have agreed. I have no intention of running away from the first hint of trouble. I am quite capable of running my own life.”

  The rest of lunch was eaten in near silence but clearing skies and a truly beautiful route through alpine meadows that afternoon restored their sweet mood enough for each to enjoy the other’s company. Robert had his camera with him and explained some of the techniques for long-distance photography, but his words fell on deaf ears. While she dutifully looked in the direction he pointed, Kathryn was busily imagining the slopes coated with snow and a blond figure zig-zagging down.

  The late afternoon was a dying glory! The now-clear, vivid blue sky made the surrounding peaks stand out sharply in contrast so that Kathryn felt she could see every irregularity in the snow-covered rock against that luminous bac
kdrop. The air was clear and chill in a way it never was in England, making her draw in lungfuls of it with sensuous pleasure. Karlstein was fully revealed in all its majesty although the sun was blocked from it by the mighty Glasspitze which dwarfed the other by several thousand feet.

  They parted at the bottom of the village. Robert wanted to take his film into the photography shop and Kathryn intended asking Frau Petz if she could have a bath before dinner. The arrangements had to be made in advance, so Robert told her to go on without him. Frau Petz wasn’t in the Stube, so Kathryn wandered through the back regions on to the balcony from where she spied the Austrian woman collecting firewood from beneath the raised back area of the house.

  “Hello, Miss Davis.” She waved. “You have enjoyed your walk?”

  “It was marvellous! What a beautiful country you have, Frau Petz,” she said as the older woman climbed the steps to where she stood. “The mountains are superb this afternoon.”

  “Yes. See Karlstein today.” She pointed and Kathryn tilted her head round and back.

  “Oh!” The exclamation was forced from her by the beauty of what she saw. The deep cap of snow topped by the cross was stained pink with the color of the sunset, and the rosy glow gave the whole summit the appearance of being illuminated by stage effects. It was fantastic! Only twenty minutes ago she had seen it, unadorned, in the shadow of Glasspitze, but now it put everything around it in the shade.

  “Often, at this time of year do we have pink snow on Karlstein,” said Frau Petz gazing at the mountain too. “Tonight, if you go up there, maybe you will see Karl and Christel.” She laughed. “They were lovers . . . oh, many years ago . . . and it is said they return whenever the snow is pink. It is a story passed from mothers to their daughters, you understand.”

  At these words, excitement started to gather in Kathryn and she hardly dared ask the vital question.

  “Do you know the full story, Frau Petz?”

  The plump face creased into a smile. “Of course. When I was a young girl I dreamed of the so-brave Karl, like all village girls do, and said one day I would marry such a one.” Her shoulders shook with laughter. “And Herr Petz is not so like the brave Captain in the story, but he is a good man I have to say.”

  Hardly able to believe that Frau Petz may have in her head the very folk tale she was looking for, Kathryn took the woman’s hands impulsively and begged to be told about the mountain. Frau Petz looked uncertain, so Kathryn explained why she wanted to hear it.

  “Ah, so it is to be part of your book?” She nodded. “If you will not mind that I cook the dinner, come into my Küche and I will tell it.”

  So Kathryn settled herself in a cosy wooden armchair in the kitchen, prepared to listen to what she was sure would prove to be the perfect story for her book.

  “You must understand that the snow is only pink because late in the year the sun sets so low that the . . .” she struggled for the word she wanted.

  “Rays?” suggested Kathryn.

  “That is it . . . the rays come through a gap between two high mountains in the Kapeller range and strike the top of Karlstein to make it that color, but there is a tale of long ago which gives a more romantic reason. My Grossmutter tells me of this and it is nice to believe that it is true. So, many, many years ago there is a very powerful and rich Graf with the name Ottokar. His wife, Christel, is a very beautiful young girl who is the daughter of another Graf that Ottokar has beaten in a long war. The marriage is not favorable to Christel, but she has to endure this because of her father.

  “Graf Ottokar is wicked and cruel so that Christel is many times crying and this can be seen by Kaptain Karl who is the leader of the Grafs army. Karl is young and handsome with hair which shines like gold, and Christel loves him. Soon, the lovers have a place on the mountain where they meet so that they are not seen. Although each one is afraid for the Graf to discover their love, they cannot pass a day without that they see each other, and as the time passes they grow deeper in love.” Frau Petz paused to wipe her hands on her apron.

  “How sad to be in love in vain,” sighed Kathryn, already caught up in the lives of the legendary lovers.

  “There was also in the Graf’s army a Leutnant who has much envy of Karl, and one days he sees his leader going to the meeting-place and follows. There, he finds the beautiful Christel in white furs waiting for her lover. He sees them kiss, and runs straight to Graf Ottokar to tell of how his Captain betrays him. Ottokar is strong with anger at this and has much thought for many days about how he shall punish the lovers. At last, he tells his people that he is to give a grand ball at his castle and every man and woman is to come. The food and wine is to be of the best, the musicians of the finest, and all the treasures which the Graf has taken from his defeated enemies are to make the castle look splendid.

  “Christel is told by her husband to wear a most lovely new dress, and when the evening comes, everyone sighs to see how her beauty glows in the hundreds of candles lighting the castle. Captain Karl is ordered by the Graf to dance with her and his heart is so full of love, everyone in the castle can see it when he looks at her. The Graf rages inside at the truth he sees, and later in the evening, sends a message to Karl which pretends to be from Christel. It asks the young man to go to their meeting-place in one hour.”

  There was another pause while the story-teller fetched plates from the cupboard, and Kathryn waited in a dream.

  “So in one hour, Ottokar calls to his guests that he has arranged for them to hunt chamois by the light of the moon, and all collect their cloaks for it is cold in the snow. Christel is even more lovely by the light of the torch flames, and the Graf has announced to his people that he will shoot the first chamois to lay at the feet of his so-lovely wife. He leads the party to a small hill which overlooks the lover’s meeting-place, and they wait for the chamois. At a sign from the Graf, the jealous Leutnant blows the horn which summons the army together, and Karl moves out from the trees.

  “The Graf fires his arrow and it strikes the young man’s heart. When Christel hears his cry of pain, she knows what her husband has done. She runs across to him, and the young Captain dies in her arms. From that moment Christel cannot speak, and all the time she wanders on the mountainside all alone until, one evening, a chamois appears at the meeting-place. In her madness she runs to the animal and embraces it. Straight away, there is Karl before her. He takes her hand and leads her away amongst the ice and snow so that she is never seen again.”

  The Austrian woman smiled at Kathryn. “That is not yet the end. Not many days afterwards, two chamois are seen walking together in the place where the lovers used to meet, and that same night a great fire starts in the Graf’s castle. It burns and burns until there is no longer any castle, or Graf, or army, and the flames from the fire color the snow pink. Now, it is said whenever there is pink snow on Karlstein, it is possible to see two chamois walking together, who are Karl and Christel.”

  Kathryn’s eyes were shining with emotion. The poignant legend had caught her imagination and touched her already-aware heart.

  “Have you ever seen the chamois?” she asked softly.

  Frau Petz laughed. “I look so often when I am young, hoping to see, but no. Every young girl wishes to see them. She believes a sight of these animals will bring a handsome young lover to her. There are chamois on Karlstein, but I think they are only chamois – not Karl and Christel.”

  Kathryn shut her ears to the last part of that sentence. She was unwilling to have the legend destroyed by reality.

  “Thank you so much, Frau Petz. The story is beautiful. I should love to use it in my book.”

  It had grown dark while they had been talking and Kathryn had to hurry her bath so that she could jot down the essence of the story in shorthand before dinner — not that she would forget such a haunting tale so quickly. As was usual with her, once she was on to something which appealed strongly to her imagination she wanted to start writing, and would have skipped dinner if she thought Rob
ert would not come knocking on her door to insist that she eat.

  Over the meal she listened abstractedly to his talk of photography until she was jolted to full receptiveness by his saying, “I daresay you’d listen if it were that fellow Reiter talking. He made quite an impression on you, didn’t he.”

  The blush betrayed her, but she simply, said, “I’m sorry, Robert but you are now experiencing a writer’s temperament. I have been dying to tell you that I have found my folk tale. It has been under my nose all the time, and now I can think of nothing else. I want to start the first draft in the morning, so will you be a dear and understand that I can’t come out with you?” Her winsome look was enough to bring a slight shake of his head.

  “I said all along I couldn’t equate you with my idea of a woman writer. You make it awfully easy for a man to think you are just a very lovely feminine armful. Are you going to tell me this gem?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” she teased.

  Somehow, the poignancy of the story was lost when told to a person who was eating a hearty meal with relish, and against a background of bellows of laughter from the Brauns. Kathryn found herself abbreviating the legend in order to get it over.

  “Umm!” commented Robert, “I suppose you know your own business well enough to see some merit in the tale. I’m glad you’re pleased.”

  That was all he said, and she felt let down – flat. He would never understand how she thought and felt about her quaint tales, in the way she would never appreciate the hours he could spend taking photographs of places which were only beautiful when one could feel and smell them too. Partly because of this slight feeling of disharmony with him and partly because of a headache which developed through dinner, she turned down his offer of a drink round the warm stove and decided to go to her room early.

  He went up with her, ostensibly to fetch a book but more, she suspected, so that he could kiss her in the darkness of the landing.