ROAD TO MANDALAY

by Rolf Richardson

  In the early days all skiing started in a valley because that’s where people lived. In the very early days, in order to ski down you first had to walk up, but go-ahead places were soon investing in uphill transport: first primitive rope tows, then the T-bar, still seen occasionally. The age of rail produced the funicular, which was pulled by cable: also the self-propelled cog train. But getting up a mountain most efficiently has proved to be either by cable car or chair lift, Val Fornet’s first ‘gondola’ being opened just before the war in 1938.

  Val Fornet got off to this early start because it lies at an altitude of 1,600 metres; unlike most resorts which were at around 1,000 metres, where snow cover could not be guaranteed. Then, in the 1950s, with France picking up the pieces after the war and needing new industries, a pre-war ski champion called Émile Allais came up with the suggestion which seems obvious now but at the time was revolutionary: why not build resorts where snow could be guaranteed? Either halfway up the mountain or in high valleys. Courchevel, La Plagne, Les Arcs, Three Valleys, Val Thorens and many others are testimony to the success of his idea.

  This policy ensured snow, but came with a price, because the heyday of these purpose-built resorts was the 1960s, an era of brutalist architecture. Perhaps the most ghastly example is Les Menuires, but Val Thorens and La Plagne are not far behind. Val Fornet also flirted with brutalism, but was saved from its worst excesses by having an old village as a nucleus. People began to notice the difference between the familiar old style and the nasty new stuff. So the tide turned and soon they were not only building in an attractive way with local stone, but also pulling down some of the 1960s monstrosities. Val Fornet’s ‘old town’ still looked old, but, apart from the original church, had in fact been almost entirely rebuilt within the last twenty years: cowsheds may appear quaint, but are not readily converted into houses fit for humans.

  Harry’s bar, where I’d arranged to meet Alexei, was situated in an alley of this ‘old’ town. My afternoon had been spent with financial spreadsheets, the early evening checking on chalets. After that I’d microwaved a chicken supper. So when I hit Harry’s a few minutes before nine, I was looking forward to some relaxation and convivial company.

  The interior of the bar was panelled in dark wood, with shaded lights. Round the walls were black and white photos from pre-war Val Fornet, self-conscious skiers in plus-fours posing for the camera. There was a curved bar with stools facing the usual rows of bottles, but most of the seating was at tables for four, which could be moved and combined according to demand. Harry’s did not do food, just basic nibbles and almost any drink you cared to name.

  I knew most of the clientele at least by sight, but there was no sign of Alexei - I was a little early. Then I noticed a hand waving me over. It belonged to Dave, a gangly, bearded American working for ‘Fornet Experience’, an off-piste ski guiding service. He was chatting to his boss, Marcel. I sat down next to Dave so I could watch the door for Alexei.

  “Ça va?” The American liked to show off his French, which was in fact pretty good. Although Val Fornet was in France, its clientele was international, English as commonly heard as French.

  After ordering a half litre of beer from the waiter, I replied, “You ask how things are going. Not too sure, to be honest. Had an unsettling experience this morning. On the La Bisque black run...”

  “Ah! So that was you!” Marcel was all attention. He was a grizzled veteran in his sixties, solid and capable, who had set up ‘Fornet Experience’ back in the eighties.

  “You heard about it?” I asked.

  “Of course. I hear everything. Especially if it happens off-piste.”

  “It was actually on piste.”

  “Maybe. But one that had been closed. And I hear that you...” a finger pointed at my chest, “had certainly been off-piste. With a lady.”

  I could understand Marcel’s displeasure. Mountains may look picture-postcard pretty in good weather, but in reality they are a hostile environment. The Alps can kill.

  Had they killed again this morning?

  “How’s the victim?” I asked.

  The Frenchman shook his head. “They got him to hospital, but it was no good. Died two hours later. Massive internal injuries.”

  As I’d feared, but confirmation didn’t make it any better. I took a large gulp of beer.

  “Who was he?” I asked.

  “Man called Vishnevskaya.”

  “Russian?”

  Marcel nodded. “Russians usually prefer Courchevel, but we get a few here.”

  “And his companion? The lady in red?”

  Before Marcel could reply, I spotted Alexei coming through the door. Waved her over. Made the introductions. Brought her up to date.

  “As I was saying, what about the lady in red?”

  Marcel frowned. “I did not see her myself, but the hospital tell me she was rather strange. No tears. As if she did not care. A different name, so probably not married to him. Said she would take care of everything. Very private. No fuss.”

  “So that’s the end of it?” asked Alexei.

  “Of course.” Marcel looked surprised. “Some idiot kills himself on our slopes. The widow... or whoever... takes him off our hands. What more can I say? Except a good thing she wants everything kept... private. No bad publicity for Val Fornet, I hope.”

  “People like that should sign up with us,” added Dave, the American. “Might cost ‘em a few Euros, but what the hell. The Russkies are usually loaded. In exchange they’d get avalanche bleepers, our expertise, the works. Wouldn’t be going home in a wooden box.”

  Alexei and I sat there listening to Dave and Marcel giving their sales pitch for Fornet Experience. They were absolutely right. If you wanted to go out on a limb in the Alps, you had to be with folk who knew what they were doing. Even they occasionally came unstuck.

  We continued reliving our morning experience and discussing its implications with Dave and Marcel, until Alexei announced it was time for bed. She was here for skiing, not the night life. I offered to walk her back, a sensible precaution as it was freezing hard. Although the streets of Val Fornet were reasonably clear of snow, the daytime thaw would have produced treacherous ice patches. Quite a few winter sports insurance claims are for injuries sustained while returning home after an evening out on the tiles.

  Val Fornet was shaped like a letter ‘T’, our Chalet Escale located off one arm of this ‘T’. Maybe a ten minute walk.

  We were negotiating a dark patch between two street lights when she said, “I took some photos.”

  “Uh-huh?” Everyone took snaps... selfies... all sorts of rubbish.

  “I mean I took pictures of the accident. Not while it was happening, of course. At the bottom.”

  “I never noticed.”

  “You were too busy. But I always carry a smartphone. Never been involved in anything like this before, so I thought it worth recording.”

  “Me bending over a fellow in the snow? Hardly front page stuff.”

  “The whole thing. Red Suit arriving. The blood wagon. The rescue.”

  “Didn’t see you doing anything.”

  “Some of them might not have liked it, so I tried to be... casual. With a phone you can pretend you’re not doing anything. Just point it in the right direction and the wide angle lens should include what you want.”

  “Were you successful?”

  “I’m not sure. Was hoping you might take a look. Tell me what you think.”

  “Now?”

  She smiled. “No time like the present.”

  “Of course.” I never turn down an invitation from an attractive lady, but what was the point in all this? Our eyes had recorded everything. What more could a few snaps tell us?

  “It’s so odd,” she continued, as though realising she owed me more of an explanation. “Vishnevskaya - the Russian - didn’t look to be much of a skier...”

  “How can you tell? You only saw him fall. Not what caused him to fall.”

 
“That’s true. But remember what you told me as we set off? Take it easy. And we were halfway down. Quite near the bottom. Anyone looking down from the top of that run should have been damned careful. If necessary, side-slipped down the awkward bits. Take all day. But don’t fall. Yet he did.”

  “No one falls deliberately.”

  “Then there’s Red Suit,” she persisted. “Obviously a good skier the way she came sailing down, carrying his skis, not a care in the world. According to Marcel she’s not his wife, no one seems to know her name...”

  “We could ask...”

  “Then she started questioning him in Russian. And I don’t think she - Red Suit - is Russian.”

  I looked at her sharply. “How would you know? Do you speak Russian?”

  We had reached the bottom of the slope that led to her chalet, fifty yards up on the left. Alexei gave a little sigh.

  “On second thoughts, there’s too much to explain now. But isn’t tomorrow our night for eating out?”

  “Wednesday...? You’re right. At Escale that’s the girl’s night off.”

  Our holidays included all food and wine except for one night a week, when those running the chalet had a break and guests ate out. At Alexei’s chalet that was tomorrow.

  Shyly, she asked, “Do you happen to be free tomorrow night?”

  I nodded solemnly. “Indeed I am.”

  “May I then invite you out to dinner? My shout, but you know this place better than me, so choose where we go. And don’t worry about the expense. I can afford it.”

  I thought for a moment. “Monsieur Hulot’s, just round the corner from here, is one of my favourites.”

  “That’s settled, then. Shall we say seven-thirty?”

  “Fine. And bring those pictures you were talking about.”

  She gave me a tentative peck on the cheek. “Until tomorrow.”

  4

  The theme of Monsieur Hulot’s restaurant was the classic 1950s film by Jacques Tati. Round the walls were black and white stills from the movie, the hapless pipe-smoking Hulot on holiday in an art-deco French seaside resort. I had suggested the place because its chef and owner, another Jacques, was strong on seafood, which is also my strong point. Although it was not cheap - ski resorts never are - Alexei had insisted not only on paying but added it would not break the bank. So I had accepted gracefully.

  Yesterday she had been dressed either for skiing or in evening casual. Val Fornet was full of good looking wenches and I’d had other things on my mind, so hadn’t taken much notice. The lady I now collected from Escale was a new Alexei: pleated red skirt, figure-hugging grey woollen top, tiny sparkly earrings and a newly scrubbed face that was starting to show some Alpine tan. At around five foot two and late twenties, this was a package worth a second look, even by Val Fornet’s high standards.

  “Very nice,” I said.

  “What is?”

  “You are.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.” She gave a little curtsey.

  “Who looks to be in urgent need of a watering hole.”

  We reached said watering hole in about two minutes, hardly worth muffling up for, the mercury a mere minus two, almost tropical for Val Fornet. This was because there was a storm on the way, a big dump according to the Met men. And not before time. The wind was already practicing for the event with baby puffs.

  I’d told Alexei to mention my name when booking, as I put a fair amount of business Jacque’s way, so we were shown to a cosy table for two well away from the kitchen. As we sat down, as if by magic, an ice-bucket with a bottle of champagne appeared.

  I raised a querying eyebrow.

  “Pre-ordered,” she replied.

  Madame was pushing the boat out.

  The cork popped, the bubbly fizzed and we raised our glasses.

  “To... what?” I asked.

  “Solving the mystery.”

  We clinked glasses, took the first sip, then I said, “I enjoy mysteries as much as the next man, but in this case I don’t see one. A skier strays onto a slope that’s too much for him, falls and kills himself. End of story. But I’m ready to hear the case for the prosecution.”

  “All in good time,” she replied. “First I need to know what I’m up against. A good lawyer always likes to know what the judge is like. So tell me a bit about yourself, Your Honour.”

  “Pretty boring, really. As you know, my name is Max Bowen and I’m responsible for Snow Supreme’s twenty-two chalets in France and Switzerland. We also have options on hotel and apartment space in Austria and Italy. So from late November to end of April it’s one mad rush. Then in May I collapse. Go home to my flat in Richmond, make sure everything is okay. Catch up with friends and local gossip.”

  “In early June it’s a change of hats and back on the road. I’m now Sea Supreme, running a summer programme in Greece. That goes on until the end of September, when again I collapse. This time I get about six weeks in Richmond before the cycle starts all over again.”

  “You seem to enjoy it.”

  I nodded. “It’s fun. Stimulating. Can be challenging when things go wrong. As they do. I wouldn’t want to keep up this pace forever.”

  “I hear no mention of girlfriends.”

  “They happen from time to time. Come and go. Mostly go. My lifestyle is... I believe the word’s peripatetic.”

  She grinned. “Sounds obscene.”

  “Wish it was. I move around so much that ladies have a problem sticking to me.”

  “I seem to have the opposite problem,” she said. “Not enough peri... what was that word again? I work damned hard in a small pond inhabited by too few interesting male fish.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Making money. Lots of it. For which London is the world centre. Unfortunately, the money men are either married, or geeks, or nerds, or... I don’t know.”

  “How did you land in that line of business?”

  You’re either born a numbers person or you’re not. I just happen to be good with figures. Which is lucky because the city of London is what keeps Britain from being a banana monarchy. Okay I’m biased, but we’re the ones who pay the wages of teachers, doctors, administrators, all those worthy and necessary people who don’t actually create wealth.”

  “And you’re modest with it.”

  She grinned. “So modest they pay me a silly salary. Usually topped up by a silly bonus.”

  “Silly big or silly little?”

  “Silly big.”

  “For a paleface who spends her days in a dungeon fiddling with an abacus you’re a very good skier.”

  “That’s because my parents put me and my sister on skis almost before we could walk. Mum tells the story of how she would leave us howling in some nursery school so she and dad could swan off and enjoy themselves on the slopes. I don’t remember crying, only that we seemed to spend every winter frolicking in the white stuff. Having a ball. With that sort of upbringing I could hardly fail to be... well, at least a capable skier. Unfortunately, I no longer get enough of it.”

  “Which brings us to the skiing of yesterday morning,” I said. “And the question of why we seem to have seen two different versions of the event.”

  “It’s because you were focussed on the victim and later the rescuers, while my attention was on Red Suit, who from the moment she arrived behaved strangely. She had just seen her husband... boyfriend... crash hundreds of feet down a mountain, the best prognosis being a serious injury, yet she showed no signs of distress. No hand-wringing. No tears. Instead, she was cool, almost calculating. So when she started talking to Vishnevskaya I edged closer. Tried to hear what she was saying. Couldn’t catch it because she was speaking Russian. At that stage he was still alive. But I’m pretty sure Russian was not her native language. She spoke as if hunting for words: she didn’t sound right.”

  “This was where we left off last night,” I said. “I asked if you spoke Russian. You replied something like ‘I’ll explain later.’ Now is ‘later’.”


  “It started with Granddad. Mum’s father...”

  “He was Russian?”

  “Nothing so romantic. I’d have loved to have been able to boast of some bewhiskered Tsarist ancestor, who beat his serfs, only to have had to flee from Lenin and settle in Lewisham. The truth is more mundane. Granddad was as British as they come, but grew up at a time when every lad had to do two years military service. Rather than being trained to bayonet an enemy, he went for the less bloodthirsty option of learning Russian. This was at the height of the cold war, so they needed people to monitor all the radio chat coming from behind the Iron Curtain.”

  “Your grandad taught you Russian?”

  “No, I just listened to his ramblings. In his young days there were two entirely separate worlds: east and west. Communist and Capitalist. Kept apart by the Iron Curtain, a death zone of barbed wire and mines. Which made the ‘other side’ mysterious and strangely attractive. When he then learned the ‘other side’s’ language, he fell in love with it. Said it sounded like a forest of bees, lots of buzzing ‘zhzh’ and ‘shsh’ sounds. We had a black Labrador called Tootsie, which Granddad and I used to take for walks. As we tramped across the fields he would illustrate the beauty of Russian with great flowering phrases like: ‘Sixth corps of army group seven will deploy to Irkutsk’. Or ‘Submarine Red October has just left Murmansk for the Barents Sea’. Granddad had spent two years listening to military stuff like that and some of it rubbed off on me.”

  “Not much good for ordering a meal in Moscow.”

  “No. That’s why I started going to night school. To crack the Russian language. But... well... much of what you start when you’re young falls by the wayside. Boys... having to earn a living... all get in the way.”

  “But you understand a bit?”

  “Not really. Can’t hold a conversation. Catch a whiff of comprehension now and then, especially if it includes imported words like theatre or restaurant. Or technical words from English.”

  “Okay, so you reckon they were speaking Russian,” I said. “You also mentioned taking photos. What do they prove?”