ROAD TO MANDALAY

by Rolf Richardson

  ROAD TO

  MANDALAY

  By

  Rolf Richardson

  Copyright © Rolf Richardson 2018

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  The moral right of Rolf Richardson has been asserted.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  On the road to Mandalay,

  Where the flying fishes play,

  An’ the dawn comes up like thunder

  Outer China ‘crost the Bay

  - Rudyard Kipling

  1

  FRENCH ALPS. MARCH.

  We should never have been on that slope. It was off-piste and very steep. With the sun only now reaching the valley floor and no sign of a snowflake for ages, conditions were rock hard. I’d spent the last six seasons in the snow, most of the time at Val Fornet, where I reckoned to recognise every dip and mogul: something of a local expert. I knew we should not have been there. But we were.

  Had I been by myself, it might have been forgivable: actually, not even then, because one should never ski off-piste alone. As it was, I had a companion, Alexei, some sort of financial wunderkind, always strapped for time. So I had weakened: agreed to take her for a quick spin round the slopes before the resort woke up and became a white version of rush hour London.

  In my defence it should be said that Alexei was a very competent skier, who devoted the same intensity to sliding down mountains as she reportedly gave to making money. She was an acquaintance rather than a friend, one of the high rollers from the square mile who periodically managed to squeeze in a few days skiing between the serious business of making the next million.

  We had set off early up the La Bisque téléphérique, the mountain where Val Fornet had been born as a ski resort in the 1930s. The original cable car, shown in old photos as a quaint little red job, had long since been replaced by one that whisked us up three times faster and with four times the number of punters.

  La Bisque top station gave access to a magnificent amphitheatre of snow, served by two chair lifts and five drags. Over to the left was the Col de Fornet, where some historians thought Hannibal and his elephants might have crossed the Alps in 218BC on their way to defeating the Romans. Elephants on skis: an enticing image.

  La Bisque was really intermediates’ territory, with ‘motorway’ glacier skiing at the top and never that difficult further down: mostly blue runs, with a few red. In another half hour the École de Ski Française (ESF) would be out in force with their crocodiles of wobbly beginners, but we were ahead of the game. And not heading for any beginners’ slopes.

  Alexei followed me onto the right hand chair lift, which deposited us on the lip of the amphitheatre at an altitude of over 2,800 metres. It was a ‘travel brochure’ morning, cloudless but still cold. Like every other day for the past two weeks. And therein lay the problem. We skiers demand the impossible: sunny weather and ideal skiing conditions. Unless the Good Lord grants us snowfalls only after dark, this can’t happen. Pistes need the odd blizzard to freshen them up.

  With the whole of Val Fornet ‘skied out’, I was trying to sniff out somewhere that might still have some untouched snow. The standard run back to the resort was classified as red, second in difficulty after black, and not much fun at the best of times. The bottom half would now be horrible, a mix of ice and bare rock before lunch, turning to rock and slush as the sun got to work. Many of the ESF classes would be ending their lesson with a ‘run’ back to the valley in the cable car.

  There was also a black run, the most difficult grade, but I’d skied that one yesterday and the moguls were mini mountains. This early in the day they would also be like concrete. Surely I could find something better?

  I glanced across at my companion, togged out in a silver one-piece ski suit and bobble-hat pulled down over her ears. Snub nose and red lips made up about half of what was visible. The other half told its own story: skin that was nearly office-white. Alexei had not managed much alpine relaxation so far this season.

  My job was running a string of chalets for ‘Snow Supreme’, which had started life some twenty years earlier in Val Fornet, before expanding to Les Arcs, La Plagne and The Three Valleys in France. Next had come Verbier in Switzerland. And more recently Zermatt and The Arlberg, although there it was space in hotels.

  Because Val Fornet was where Snow Supreme had been born, that was my base. A crisis might see me whizzing across ice-bound Europe to sort things out, but most days I could manage a couple of hours skiing. The previous evening I’d been checking out a minor problem at our Chalet Escale and got talking to Alexei, who was keen to make the most of her short time here. I’d skied with her occasionally in previous years, when she’d been with a boyfriend, and knew she could cope with just about anything. So here we were.

  “Let’s head away from all this,” I said. La Bisque’s amphitheatre was already starting to get busy. “See what we can find.”

  Did I say that I knew ‘every dip and mogul’ in Val Fornet? I was telling a fib. ‘Espace Savoie’, which linked Val Fornet with a couple of neighbouring resorts, claimed to be the world’s largest ski area. If Three Valleys and others disputed this, it was academic. The amount of snow available without taking off one’s skis was mind-boggling. We were about to explore a part which had so far escaped me.

  “Thinking of the black run?” asked Alexei. She clearly knew the area well.

  “We may end up there,” I replied. “But first let’s cast our net a little wider.”

  I led the way, heading south, almost across the mountain face, but with enough down gradient to coast without using sticks. It was the sort of morning you dream of, at this altitude the snow still in good shape; not powder of course, the sun had seen to that, but not crust either. I hated crust. Here even ESF beginners could have enjoyed themselves.

  When I judged we had gone far enough, I stopped. Alexei joined me with a dainty show-off twirl.

  “Doesn’t get much better than this,” she said, her face now glowing, her eyes alive.

  I nodded. The resort lay over to our right, with an offshoot valley below. The massif facing us lay roasting in the morning sun, little ant-humans already busy, twisting and turning down their runs. Seen from afar, I was
always amazed that mankind had found ways to ski such steep slopes with comparative ease.

  “We’re off-piste, so stay behind me,” I said. “Ready to roll?”

  She nodded, excitedly.

  We skied down in big lazy swoops, often stopping to admire the view. We were not in a race. Alexei was right. It didn’t get much better than this.

  We were probably two thirds of the way down when I came to an abrupt halt. Put up a warning hand. Alexei stopped beside me. Followed my gaze down.

  “What to do now?” she asked.

  What indeed! Below us was not quite a precipice, but it was very steep. Much steeper than the slope we were on. Worse still, we were now so low down that the sun had burned the snow off the lip of the escarpment, reducing it to bare rock. Although this strip was quite narrow, I didn’t fancy trying to step over it to reach the almost vertical snow below: one stumble and we would inevitably plunge hundreds of feet down to the valley floor.

  “Val Fornet is over there,” I said, pointing to the right. “So somewhere in that direction must be the black run. Let’s find it.”

  The bare strip ran due north and more or less level, so we were faced with a tedious traverse on the remnants of snow above. I hoped Alexei was not prone to vertigo, because a couple of feet to our left the ground dropped away dramatically. She made no comment, just slotted in behind me.

  Ski-walking on the level is not much fun and we were soon pretty hot. Headgear went into bumbags, ski suits opened up for air conditioning. In the event it only took about fifteen minutes before the escarpment suddenly vanished and ahead of us lay the promised land: the black run back to Val Fornet.

  “Isn’t that a lovely sight.” Alexei stopped beside me, grinning.

  The piste was steep and occupied a wide gulley. Previous traffic had sculptured a series of huge moguls, but we didn’t care. This was ski-able territory.

  We stood there for some moments, enjoying the view. The place to ourselves. Still too early for any competition. Which was strange, because by now it wasn’t that early.

  Our heads must have turned in the same instant. Realised we were not alone. Because way up to our right, on the skyline, there was movement. It took a microsecond to grasp what it was. Then we watched mesmerised, as a figure in blue tumbled down the slope in front of us. A rag doll. With no skis, just arms and legs frantically trying to regain control of a situation long since lost.

  I was reminded of the man who jumped from the top of a skyscraper: didn’t hurt at all until he hit the sidewalk. It was the same here. Had the black run been nice and smooth, with a flattening slope at the bottom, the rag doll might have escaped with little more than a fright. But it wasn’t like that at all. This piste was a series of massive humps that threw the rag doll several feet into the air whenever it hit one. Its trajectory became an aerial journey from one mogul to the next, every landing like hitting the sidewalk. Hard.

  We watched appalled as the rag doll continued its deadly descent, eventually coming to rest near the bottom of the valley.

  2

  I took out my mobile and phoned for a blood wagon. Then inspected the run down. The slope was so steep and slippery that if you fell there was little chance of stopping yourself. Catching an edge would doom you to a repeat performance of the one we had just watched. But it was only necessary to stay upright, which should not be a problem for experienced skiers. Just be careful. Telling Alexei to take it easy, we set off.

  It took probably less than three minutes to reach the victim, who was lying motionless in a foetal position. It was a man, dressed in a blue one-piece suit. If he’d once had a hat it was now gone, so we could see that his mop of dark hair was already starting to show strands of grey. Although it’s not easy to tell a person’s build under a lot of ski wear, I estimated him to be well built. In fact, he seemed rather too well padded to be on a slope like this, which was not one for the average recreational skier.

  Stepping out of my skis, I bent down and looked into his face. Saw that his eyes, which were grey, were open and trying to focus on me. He was also breathing. Still alive.

  “You okay?” It was a ludicrous question, but I couldn’t think what else to say.

  No reply, although those grey eyes were wandering, as if trying to work out what had happened.

  “Maybe you should cover him with your anorak,” said Alexei, who had also removed her skis. “Injured people should be kept warm.”

  I did as she suggested, more to have something to do than anything else. Down here in the valley it was already hot, so more clothing was probably the last thing he needed. But it could do no harm.

  “Just have to wait,” I said, helplessly. “Worst thing we can do is try to move him.”

  Alexei nodded. “Do you think they’ll be long? The rescue people?”

  “They keep a blood wagon at the La Bisque top station, so should be with us in a jiffy.”

  In the event the first person to arrive was a lady in a red all-in-one suit, who came skiing down the black run carrying a pair of skis and sticks over her shoulder. Not easy in these conditions.

  When the drama started I remembered seeing two figures on the skyline, so this must be the victim’s partner. Rather than leave his equipment littering the mountain, she had stopped to pick it up.

  “How is he?” The question came in English with a barely perceptible accent.

  I shrugged, spread my hands. “I’ve called the rescue services.”

  Red Suit discarded both sets of skis and bent down over her companion. Made some gentle exploratory touches. Started asking questions in a voice so soft that I couldn’t tell what language. But it was not English.

  Then the first paramedic arrived, twisting down the black run as though in a race. The Val Fornet rescue services had seen it all, done it all when it came to injuries on their slopes. The system was to get someone on site as fast as possible to assess the situation, then phone back to colleagues with a plan of action.

  The paramedic, a lean, thirty-ish man with a face the colour of mahogany, bent over the victim, made a rapid diagnosis, then asked Red Suit some questions. I didn’t catch the exchange, but there must have been some language problem because they turned to English, which he spoke adequately rather than well.

  The paramedic made a rapid phone call, then turned to Alexei and me. “You saw it?”

  I nodded. “We were standing about halfway down. Resting and enjoying the sun. He fell from top to bottom. Right in front of us.”

  “Can you wait and help? My team arrive in five minutes.” He held up five fingers.

  “Of course.”

  With nothing more we could usefully do until they arrived, I asked Red Suit, “What happened?”

  “It was... horrible. He just... I don’t know... fell.”

  “You should not have been here,” said the paramedic, with deliberation. “Did you not see the sign? ‘Piste Fermé’. Means the run was closed.”

  I’d been puzzled by the lack of people. That explained it.

  “It was open yesterday,” I said.

  “And closed this morning. Too dangereux. As we can see.”

  Serious injuries and deaths give a resort a bad name, so if someone ignores a ‘closed’ sign the authorities are not pleased. Apart from collisions due to reckless skiing, which unfortunately is on the increase, an open piste effectively guarantees the worst that can befall you is a broken leg. If conditions deteriorate to the extent they can no longer keep this promise, they close the run with a sign and coloured tape at the start. In Austria I once saw it advertised in the cable car station with a flashing neon ‘Lebensgefährlich!’. If you wanted to survive there, you had to understand German.

  In an unworthy attempt to wriggle out of any criticism, I said, “We only joined the run halfway down, so didn’t see any closed sign.”

  The paramedic smiled. “People like you, Monsieur Bowen, should know what you are doing. Good skiers. Unlike this gentleman.”

  My name is
Max Bowen and, as Manager of Snow Supreme for the last six years, was a familiar face to most of Val Fornet’s permanent residents. I was grateful to the paramedic for not giving me a ticking off. As we spoke, a large sledge, with a skier front and back, appeared at the top of the slope, was expertly guided through the mogul field, and came to a halt in front of us.

  After a brief consultation with his colleagues, the first paramedic said, “We must get this man onto the sled without changing his attitude. Very careful, please. Everyone take a little weight.”

  It proved to be more difficult than I’d have thought, but we managed. With the victim safely on the blood wagon, they then inflated a surrounding cocoon, ensuring that he was locked into position for the journey down. In fact, this journey was so short it hardly seemed worth making, because he had fallen almost to the valley floor. Two hundred metres away an ambulance was already waiting. We watched as they loaded the victim and his red-suited partner, then drove off.

  Alexei and I skied the short way back to the resort in subdued mood. During many years on the slopes I’d never witnessed an accident this bad.

  “Awful end to a lovely morning,” I said.

  She nodded. “But interesting.”

  “In what way ‘interesting’?”

  She did not reply, just skied on, deep in thought. We reached ‘downtown’ Val Fornet, where I apologised for having to leave her. The office beckoned. Work to do.

  “Can we meet this evening to talk about it?” she asked.

  “Sure. I’ll pop round to the chalet...”

  “No, not the chalet. Away from the gang. Somewhere more... private. A bar.”

  “Harry’s bar then. One of the few places in Fornet where you’ll find more ski instructors than visitors. Know where it is?”

  Alexei nodded. “After dinner, then. About nine?”

  “Nine’s fine. See you there.”

  3

  Val Fornet, as its name suggests, lies in a valley. Which in France is not that common for a ski resort.