For a minute or two he thought little of the interruption – lifts stop for various reasons. A novice skier sometimes falls off or becomes entangled with the chair at the start, or there may be a spill at the top. The attendants are present to deal with such minor accidents. Or there may be a brief mechanical problem. He looked down – he guessed he was about 80 feet above the snow and suspended over a level area. It was far too high to jump. Looking back the empty chairs stretched in a line as far as he could see and the nearest support was several hundred yards away. Heroes of fiction could travel for miles hanging to a cable, but there was no way in which he could swing along for that distance. He checked himself. Lifts do stop – this would start again soon, though there was nobody else he could see except for four late skiers coming down from the tunnel where he and Amanda had stopped. They disappeared down the far side of the wide valley. He shivered – sitting was cold.
From his ski-jacket pocket he brought out his mobile phone and switched it on. In the dusk it glowed brightly. The batteries were strong, but try as he might no numbers would ring. Eventually he pressed the red button but the emergency channel also failed. Thoughtfully he put it in an inside pocket – the phone was cold now – he would try again as soon as it warmed.
The phone failed again and Matthew could feel chill settle into his bones. With stiff fingers he buttoned up his anorak, tightened the hood over his hat, and waited. He noticed he was not shivering – and knew that to be a bad sign. To create a little warmth he tensed and un-tensed his thigh muscles – ten, twenty, fifty times each until they ached. The moon shone impassively on his efforts. Fortunately the air was still – otherwise wind chill would have made his position much worse. He remembered how men had survived a night on Everest’s South Col, but then recollected they had dug a snow hole and despite that suffered from frost-bite. Of course he was not on the South Col – however… Afghan ruins swam back into mind – and memories of the family which had been inside while he had walked a short distance away to get better phone reception.
Half an hour later daylight had vanished but the moonlight was sufficient to light the mountainsides on which nothing moved or showed signs of life. He struggled against a feeling of deep lethargy. How lovely it would be just to relax and sleep for a little.
In the silence he heard a deep growl and roused himself from near-stupor. For a moment white light lit the slope below. He twisted round and saw two big headlights and the flashing red warning of a piste-basher move steadily up the slope to his right. He shouted, and then realised the futility of voice against the roar of the motor. The driver would probably also have on his radio. The lights lit the snow surface but not the lift. As he watched, the vehicle stopped, then turned and began to crawl down the piste. He pulled out his pistol, gripped his right glove in his teeth, hoped there was a stout metal roof to the vehicle that was leaving him, guessed the range and necessary adjustment and fired three shots, paused, and fired another three. The engine note changed, the piste-basher stopped, then started again and continued to crawl down the slope. Matthew pulled his glove on again and watched the flashing light disappear. He felt the cold bite still deeper and once more began to force his reluctant thigh muscles to contract. A small thin cloud drifted over the moon which he noted had changed position to stand above the top of the lift. Had he slept for a few minutes? Surely not – to sleep at all was to sleep for ever.
Suddenly there was a small jerk and his chair swung slightly. Matthew opened one eye and closed it again. There was nothing he could do now except try to preserve as much core heat as possible. The chairs began to reverse, downwards to Plagne Bellecote.
Within ten minutes he was at the bottom station. Motion was halted before he reached the take-off stand. Strong hands hauled him out of the chair, took off his skis, found and confiscated his pistol. The scene was lit by blue and yellow flashing lights. With a huge effort he stood and found he had been handcuffed. Gendarmes spoke to an ambulance crew, and shoved Matthew into the back of a small warm blue Police Citroen. His hands and face felt warmth gradually seep back and he fell asleep as they drove down to Aime in the valley.
At the Police Station he was bundled into a room, searched, and his papers taken. Still in skiing gear he waited. Eventually the door opened and he was taken into a bright office. Behind the desk sat a Chief Inspector who said “I will speak English. Please sit down.” and motioned to the gendarme to remove Matthew’s handcuffs. “Monsieur Harry Jones – explain to me at once how you were in possession of a firearm and why you were shooting at ski-centre employees, both very serious matters.” “Chief Inspector, certainly I will explain, but first I must request that you telephone this number at the Quay D’Orsey. Please ask for Marcel Lebrun.” The policeman’s eyes narrowed and after a moment he dialled and spoke briefly. “Yes, tall, greying, brown eyes and a damaged nose. Tres bien.” He listened, put the phone down, pursed his lips and said. “Paris never tells us anything in advance. Can I get you anything?” “A large cup of tea please, with milk and sugar.” The inspector snapped his fingers at the gendarme who left and returned with a large mug of hot water, one Tetley’s tea bag on a string, plus milk and sugar. On request, he brought another two tea bags. With cold and still unsteady fingers Matthew made an adequate cup of tea and sipped it, watched thoughtfully by the Chief Inspector who had stacked Matthew’s papers on his desk.
“Harry. Please may I call you that? I am instructed to give you all support and help and presumably you are interested in the visit we expect within the next few days. I am very pleased that my men rescued you from hypothermia on the – ah I see – the Arpette lift. Do you wish to tell me how that happened?” “I joined the lift at 16.15. It was about to close. The attendant made a call and then let me on. It stopped 400 metres from the top, my telephone would not work, and I thought I was trapped for the night when the piste-basher came. It was a long distance away going back down the hill and shooting seemed the only way of catching the driver’s attention – the danger of injuring him severely seemed very small and worth taking. I hope he is all right – you would have told me otherwise.” “Perhaps risky, but your aim was good. You hit it twice and one bullet went through the back window. The driver is shaken but uninjured. He looked in his mirror and saw, high on the lift, flashes from your shots. Of course the lift company will seek compensation for their repairs but they will not make a fuss. But your stranding on the lift - a most unusual accident – I apologise on behalf of the valley and the people of La Plagne. I was brought up there myself when it was a hamlet.” “An accident?” asked Matthew. “How often are visitors left to freeze on the chair lifts?” “Never before, mon cher Harry – which is why we shall trace the phone call and find the attendant – there are many new employees now that the resort is opening. And this is, of course, a time when errors are more likely. Yes, we’ll check. You are also, naturally, free to return to the resort – we shall give you a lift but please, please take care.” “Are there areas where mobile phones do not work on the mountain?” “Yes, but there was also a period of malfunction of phones this evening – something to do with satellites I believe. Most unfortunate that it should happen when the lift stopped. I will have a document prepared giving you special permission for the pistol and ammunition which will be delivered to you in the morning.”
Matthew, almost warm again, was driven up to Belle Plagne and dropped outside his apartment. He looked closely at the door, opened it sharply, and went inside. The rooms were empty. After a hot bath he rang Amanda and the phone worked normally. “Supper at Le Balcon?” he enquired. “Yes. 21.00. I expect you’ve had a quiet day. Tell me about it over the meal.” “Fairly quiet so far.” he replied.
LETTER FROM IRAQ - A LONG DAY'S DRIVE.
“Leaving the Green Zone is like falling into icy water. Muscles tighten and confidence sags like the roof of an old barn. Left behind in the Green Zone are powers, confidence, bombast, air-conditioning, order and even luxury, and the occasional mort
ar round landing is an aberration. But immediately beyond the concrete chicane there are threats, squalid streets, dirt, misery and death. Beyond the city limits begin farmland, quickly followed by the wastes of desert. Everywhere men are armed or have hidden weapons.
My driver relaxes eventually and begins to talk. Jake from Idaho counts the weeks until he leaves. I ask about the mission. “Dreadful” he replies. “And the people?” He takes a long pull from his water bottle and checks both wing mirrors “I’m only comfortable with Arabs who are dead or wearing handcuffs. Most of the others want to kill me. I’m determined to get home with all my bits.” We pass Fallujah and continue west.
Like all convoys we lose time, and then we come to a stop. A hamlet with four buildings, a well, and four date palms stands on our right. The radio crackles and we follow the armoured vehicles, parking beside the three small shabby structures and a larger house. Jake reports “Trouble along the road – a response unit needs the road to be clear. We’ll probably wait back until the choppers take out all signs of life. I’m ordered, sir, to make you comfortable in the big house until we can move forward.”
Four Iraqi travellers are already inside and there is no sign of a householder. Warily we greet each other. Two speak good English and the other two settle to sleep. One driver brings tea and goes back to his vehicle. After an uncomfortable silence I begin. “I’m Irish. My paper wants an article about refugees, the roads they travel, and about the camps for those refused entry to Syria.” The Iraqis relax a little “We thought you were some sort of crazy American. I am Hassan travelling for my Ministry to Syria, and my old friend Mohammad is going to Amman on business.”
An hour later after more tea we turn from discussing refugees to carnage in the city. Hassan is Sunni and Mohammad is Shia. I feel that I know them well enough to ask why such ferocious bloodshed takes place between sects, and whether anyone regards tolerance as a virtue.
“Tolerance!” Hassan explodes and waves his arm. “Hundreds of innocents and a few villains killed every day because they are from a different sect. Torture. Suicide bombs. One day Sunni, the next Shia. Of course it is wrong, but who can stop it? Most of us believe in revenge and it is obvious that to be strong is safer than to be weak. Strike back hard, if necessary, before you are hit yourself.”
Mohammad speaks softly “Hassan and I are good friends, so we do tolerate, even love each other’s weaknesses and small faults. Though we have both lost relatives and friends. You must have seen how this part of God’s world is dry and harsh, hard and unforgiving, and poor except for the oil everyone covets. I have studied, and the religions which began in this region were strong, demanded obedience and punished any deviation. They fought, the sects fought, and the tribes always fought. Only when peace and order were imposed by an empire, family or a strong leader has tolerance had a chance. This desert does not nourish tolerance.”
Hassan broke in “The Christians and the Jews are no different. Do you think American tanks and helicopters came to teach us to be tolerant? Tolerance from the barrel of a Christian gun - and if you don’t agree to be as tolerant as Bush wishes, off to Guantanamo!”
“All right, all right, Hassan” soothed Mohammad “Perhaps Patrick can tell about Ireland and how well tolerance grows there?” “Not very well, Mohammad – I confess it is not a very tolerant place.”
A helicopter flies overhead and we stop to listen. Explosions begin a few seconds later and continue for ten minutes which make conversation difficult. Then the driver comes in. “The road is clear. Go back to the vehicles. We move in ten minutes.” And to me “We’ll stop at Ar Rutbar, then you’ll need a vehicle taking you along the northern road. It’s generally safe from Rutbar.”
At the division of roads Hassan and I join a Jeep in a smaller convoy. The driver seems mute and Hassan is quiet and perhaps upset. “Tolerance”, I reflect. “How can people understand that over-certainty in religion or politics leads to violence and killing?”
I look up as we wait to move off from Ar Rutbar. Distant sheets of light fill the night sky, perhaps a storm, perhaps not. After all, this is the Road to Damascus! What flashes, what insights can we expect?”
This dictated letter was found on 10th February in Patrick O’Donovan’s hard disk in his case near to three burnt-out vehicles. Investigations have been inconclusive. An air-strike in the area was reported to have killed a hundred and fifty insurgents. There are still hopes that Patrick may be alive.
HONEYMOON ON THE TURKISH COAST - TRUE LOVE WILL FIND A WAY.
(As long as the lovers talk to each other.)
“Darling, what a wonderful place this is. In the dark last night we couldn't see the bay and the sea.”
“Last night we had other things to occupy us, dear.”
“Indeed. Do you think breakfast is still being served?”
“I'm sure it is, but we could have is brought up to us here. On Daddy's yacht I nearly always had breakfast in bed.”
“But wouldn't that be extra expense?”
“Dearest, please don't worry. Remember, Daddy has given us our honeymoon – I'm sure that includes breakfast here if we want, or in the shower, or whatever we fancy!”
“Let's go down and as soon as we have eaten, walk onto the beach.”
“All right. It won't take me more than ten minutes to dress and look respectable.”
“You certainly tucked away a lot of breakfast.”
“It seemed a pity to waste any when the waiters were encouraging me to have more. Anyway I used up a lot of energy in the last twelve hours.”
“You poor thing. What about me? I worked off a lot but I haven't eaten a five-course breakfast.”
“You have that beautiful figure to take care of.”
“Fiddlesticks, I think you're just greedy.”
“What about that walk now, darling?”
“Just let me look in the hotel shop, dear. I glanced at it coming down to breakfast. There is some lovely jewellery in the window.”
“Whatever you like, dear.”
“Oh, look at that beautiful pendant. I really must have that. It would go so well with my towel. Please get it for me.”
“Of course, dear. You do realise it is $2000? I can't put this on your father's bill.”
“It is really beautiful.”
“Then of course you shall have it. Let’s go in, darling.”
“That was a wonderful shop. And the man says they change their stock every day. I must go round each morning. Now they have your card details, I can buy things with the pin and I don't need to bother you. I sense you are not a great fan of shopping.”
“Well, you are correct there.”
“But I'm sure you'll enjoy a visit to Marmaris. Let's go tomorrow. As well as Turkish carpets and local jewellery, the very big London and Paris shops have branches in the centre.”
“I'd like to visit some of the antiquities and the museum.”
“Well that would be splendid – you could have a couple of hours visiting dusty dull old relics, and I'll enjoy the time shopping. We could do with several good Turkish carpets.”
“But wouldn't you be uneasy shopping on your own in a strange town? I think I had better come with you. They might think they could take advantage of a lady on her own.”
“Oh, they'll want me to come back again for more purchases. I'm sure I will be all right while you run along to your museum. We'll arrange a rendez-vous.”
Marmaris
“Hello, dear. How was the museum?”
“Excellent. And how were the shops?”
“Fabulous! I had a wonderful morning. One of my best ever! They send items overseas, so we don’t have to worry about baggage on the plane.”
“When we've had our coffee, let's go back to the hotel and take out one of their free dinghies. The hotel transport does not go for an hour or two, but there is a bus soon from the bus station.”
“A local bus! Darling, what an adventure that would be. I'm a taxi girl through and thr
ough and through, as I thought you understood.”
“Yes, of course, dear. Taxi it is!”
London, three weeks later.
“Darling! The carpets have arrived. They are lovely. And a letter from the Customs and Excise. I just glanced at it. Something to do with a hundred and sixty dollars. Here it is.”
“Dearest, you seem to have lost a nought or two. This hundred and sixty is really sixteen thousand pounds.”
“I have never really worried about decimal points and the like. The carpets are beautiful.”
“So they should be! And I don't see how you can mistake hundreds for thousands. It's just a good job it wasn't three or even four noughts you overlooked.”
“Darling, don't sound grumpy. These will be the best most luxurious carpets in Knightsbridge.”
“That's all very well. I had my card bill in today. I'm not sure last year's bonus will cover it.”
“Darling, money is always so dreary. Don't think of it!”
“My dearest, how can I not let it worry me? My profession depends upon precision, knowing the difference between hundreds and millions, and even more importantly between a positive and a negative balance.”
“Let me give you a kiss and smooth away those frowns. I have a bottle of the very best champagne in the fridge and I've booked a table at Maxim's for eight. We can take my card if you are worried.”
London, three months later.
“My dearest! Pour yourself and me a stiff drink. There are important things to discuss. You know my office is part of a big American financial firm. The parent company went bust today - it will be on the news tonight. Employees including me will not get any salaries beyond end of this week. And now that your father is facing ruin and prosecution, we can't expect help from him. The outlook is grim. Most of the city firms are cutting back, so getting another job will be difficult.”
“What about this flat? It must be worth a lot.”
“It belongs to the firm, and they will sell it. Here, have a handkerchief. Don't cry!”
Barnabas Tales Page 12