"All right then," said Jimmy. "We'll wait until they've all gone to bed, and then Roger and I will climb up to her balcony and serenade her—"
"Don't be silly, everyone would hear you," objected Caro.
"We'll serenade her very quietly," said Jimmy, a little severely. "Then she can leave a bolster in her bed and creep downstairs..."
Still plotting delightedly, they all adjourned to the bar. "... and if that old bastard comes down and makes a scene,"Jimmy was saying, "I promise you I'll—"
He stopped abruptly. From the bar came the strains of a sentimental Neapolitan love song, recorded by a lush tenor to an accompaniment of dreamy guitars: and through the open door they could see the persecuted damsel waltzing sedately with Fritz Hauser, while her parents sipped coffee and Italian brandy at a table.
Emmy burst out laughing. "So much for your maiden in distress," she said.
Poor Jimmy came in for a lot of good-natured teasing, which he took with his usual equanimity. Soon they were all dancing. The Baroness danced once with Roger and several times with Franco, and then said she was exhausted and wanted to be up early next morning to ski. Soon after she had gone, Henry and Emmy decided that they, too, were ready for bed, and Franco agreed with them. When they left, Roger and Caro were demonstrating the cha-cha-cha to Jimmy, while Colonel Buckfast ordered just one more brandy, positively the last tonight, and Mrs. Buckfast complained that the Italians would never learn to make good English coffee.
Lying in bed, Emmy reached out a hand to put out the light, and said, "Poor Jimmy. His Sir Galahad act fell a little flat."
"Yes." Henry's voice was heavy with sleep. "Still, who knows ... he may need it again one of these days..."
Emmy raised herself on one elbow. "You mean she wasn't enjoying herself with Hauser?"
"Well, would you?"
"I don't know. He seems quite a reasonable little fellow. Henry "
"Mm." Henry was almost asleep.
"Henry, do you think the Baroness came.here for a secret assignation with Franco di Santi? He's terribly good-looking, and I'm certain he's in love with her..."
"Oh, go to sleep,"muttered Henry into his pillow.
In the silence that followed, the sound of the gramophone drifted up faintly to them, rhythmic and cloying. Emmy's last waking thought was of the unknown young man, Giulio, lying frozen and alone at the bottom of the ravine, with one ski still strapped to his foot.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning, Colonel Buckfast made it clear that he intended, to be as good as his word and accompany the beginners to ski school.
"It's in Santa Chiara," he explained, "but once you've enrolled and got the whole thing organised, I'll try to persuade them to send an instructor up here for you each day. For this morning, you'd better go down on the lift, and I'll meet you at the bottom."
Roger announced his intention of trying some of the new ski-hoists which had been installed only that season in the other valley, on the far side of the hotel from the village.
"Ah, yes, the nursery slopes," said Colonel Buckfast. "Sensible chap to change your mind about Run Three."
Roger glared, but said merely that he would see them for lunch. Mrs. Buckfast installed herself in the sunshine on the veranda, her comfortable wicker chair ranged alongside those of the German couple and Fritz Hauser, who appeared in dark glasses the size of saucers and natty leopardskin boots.
The Colonel strapped on his skis, and, calling out that he'd see them at the bottom and what a glorious morning, by Jove, set off down a narrow track which was signposted with an arrow and a bold numeral i. The others trooped off down the path to the chair-lift.
Already skiers were coming up: not every chair was occupied, but there were enough arrivals to keep Mario busy. Henry watched the little man as he bustled good-naturedly about his work, and wondered why he had failed to notice the previous evening that he had a pronounced limp —presumably the result of the "crocking up" to which the Colonel had referred. Mario certainly seemed to be a popular figure. Every skier who came up knew him, and he greeted nearly all of them by name, remarking on the dismal lack of 9now in the merriest possible manner. If he was heart-broken at his recent bereavement, he did not show it: but Henry sensed that as a life-long skier the old man would accept the risks involved with philosophic fatalism —and he knew, too, the code of honour observed in districts which depended on tourism for their prosperity. Never must personal distress be displayed in public: the show must go on.
Henry had expected the ride down to be, if anything, even dizzier than the ride up—but he was wrong. It was, in fact, a delightful, Olympian sensation to glide silently earthwards between the tree-tops towards the village below —as Apollo or Mercury might descend to intervene in the small affairs of mortal men. It was also much warmer, in the growing heat of the sun. As they went down, chair after chair passed them going up—there were no empty seats now—and Henry noticed that everybody coming up had removed their skis for the ride, and placed them across their laps instead of using the safety-bar.
Carlo helped them off at the bottom, and took their ticket money: and there, by the turnstile, was the Colonel, skis on shoulder, beaming welcome and breathing in great draughts of clear mountain air.
"Come along, then," he boomed, cheerfully. "All present and correct? Right. First stop, the ski shop."
As it turned out, he was extremely efficient and helpful. First he escorted the English party to a small, dark, raftered shop smelling of hot wax and pinewood, where they were fitted up with hired skis and sticks, and—in the case of Henry and Emmy—with boots as well.
Next, they all trooped off to a small, blue-painted building in the village street, where they enrolled for ski school and paid for a week's instruction in advance. Emmy, with her superior experience, was allotted to Class Two (she modestly refused to attempt a higher class until she had had some practice, which earned a nod of approval from the man at the desk). This meant that she would have to ski or take the lift down to the village every morning to join her class, unless they proposed to start their day's runs from the Bella Vista: but since there were four beginners at the Bella Vista (including, they discovered, the German girl, who was referred to by everybody at the ski school as "poor Fraulein Knipfer") and as it was early in the season and therefore quiet, it was agreed that a special beginners' class should be formed there, and that an instructor should come up each morning to them. The Colonel put in a strong plea—in execrable Italian—for Pietro Vespi, old Mario's second son: and since he was apparently one of the few instructors who spoke any English, this too was arranged.
"Pietro will meet you at two-thirty for your first lesson," said the man at the desk, handing them their ski-school cards.
This business satisfactorily concluded, the Colonel went off to the ski-lift again for a few more runs before lunch, and the others decided to explore the village and do some shopping. "You won't get English cigarettes, I warn you,"called the Colonel from the ski-lift queue. "And the only shop that sells American is the generi misti opposite the Hotel Stella. Rosa Vespi rims it... Mario's wife ... nice woman ... tell her I sent you..." He disappeared through the turnstile.
Santa Chiara is much like any other Alpine resort A long, straggling village street runs from the massive white bulk of the Hotel Stella at one end to the architecturally weightless apricot-pink church at the other. The food shops, the wine shops, the hardware shop and the chemist's are small and dark, for they cater for the villagers. In contrast, two gleamingly modern sports shops display tempting windows-full of the beautiful sweaters, silk scarves and anoraks which the Italians design so supremely well, flanking this delectable merchandise with ranks of shiningly colourful skis and sticks. Every shop, no matter what its stock-in-trade, has racks of picture postcards-glossy and sepia-tinted for 20 lire, or in crudely unjust colours for 30 lire.
The English party roved happily, window-shopped, bought postcards. They soon realised that at that hour—it was
half-past eleven—the life of the village was centred in the bars and cafes. These were numerous, and at varying levels. A décor of advanced colours—purple and orange —and modern ebony furniture from Milan characterised the smart Bar Olympia: red plush and candles in birdcages breathed Old Vienna into Alfredo's: chromium and shabby art nouveau set the Cafe Paloma firmly in its lower position in the hierarchy: while not only the scrubbed wooden tables and benches, but also the very name of the Bar Schmidt put it virtually out-of-bounds to visitors. Here it was that the locals drank their beer and vermouth, and said what they thought of the tourists: only when a visiting skier had achieved really good terms with the villagers was he ever invited into this sanctum sanctorum, which was the real heart of Santa Chiara, from which circulated the life-blood of the village—gossip. Finally, the English tourists settled for coffee at the Olympia.
"It's sure to be fiendishly expensive,"Jimmy complained. It was. It was also charming, and the coffee was excellent.
As they had all realised in their loneliness on Innsbruck station, the English and Americans have not yet discovered Italy as a winter sports' country. No other English voices greeted them. The Olympia was full of beautifully-dressed Italian and French women, who had elected to spend the morning in leisured chatter while their husbands skied: there was a sprinkling, too, of more homely Germans and Austrians. Many heads turned in interest at the sound of English voices: here was fresh grist for the mill of conversation.
At the next table sat two Italian girls, darkly lovely and expensively pampered. As she drank her coffee, Emmy caught the words "Maria-Pia von Wurtburg" from the spate of Italian behind her. Her foot touched Henry's under the table, and he nodded almost imperceptibly. When the two girls had gone, Emmy said she really must get some cigarettes, and Henry agreed to walk with her to Rosa Vespi's shop, while the others had a second cup of coffee.
Outside, she grabbed his arm. "Come on, spill the dirt. What were they spying? I'm dying to know."
"I always thought you didn't listen to gossip," said Henry, reprovingly.
"Oh, don't be beastly. Do tell me."
He grinned. "Very well then. You aren't the only one who thinks Maria-Pia is up to no good," he said. "They talked as if they used to know her pretty well in Rome before she married. They also know Franco di Santi. Apparently he hasn't a penny to his name, and they seem to think the Baroness is sailing pretty close to the wind, I gather her husband is in no mood to be trifled with."
"I could have told you that. You only had to look at him..." Emmy shuddered slightly. "Poor Maria-Pia."
"I wonder why she married him when she hates him so much," said Henry.
"She may not actually hate him "
"Oh, yes, she does. Did you watch her face at Innsbruck?"
"Yes, but—"
"Here we are," said Henry. They had stopped outside a small, crowded shop which displayed a sign reading Generi Misti. The stock was certainly both general and mixed. Great barrels of spaghetti and macaroni of every shape and colour jostled festoons of children's shoes strung up like Breton onions; picture postcards (of course) shared a counter with sugared almonds and cheese; Parma ham glowed pinkly delicious beside disorganised heaps of sunglasses ; graceful flasks of Chianti dangled from hooks alternately with salami and mortadella and snow-boots. The shop had a mingled smell of garlic, dust, cheese and liquorice which was quite irresistible. There was no sign of any cigarettes whatsoever.
Behind the counter, a stout woman in black, wearing a spotless white apron, was engaged in weighing out juicy black olives on a pair of bright brass scales. Her strong brown face was creased with lines of laughter, and she chattered incessantly to her customer—a tiny boy in a ragged cloth cap.
"Eccoli!" Rosa Vespi threw another couple of olives on to the already tipping scales, and deftly made up a paper cone, through which the black juice oozed as the boy clutched the package in his small fingers.
"Signora Vespi?" Henry asked.
"Si, Signore."
"Non parlamo Italiano," said Emmy firmly,
"Ah, Inglese?" Signora Vespi beamed. "Sigarette Americano, no?"
"Yes, please," said Henry.
There was a flurry of black petticoats as Rosa Vespi lowered her considerable bulk to rummage in the dark depths under the counter. Flushed and triumphant, she rose again like Aphrodite from the waves, with four packages of Camels.
Henry proffered a 5,000-lire note, newly-cashed at the hotel. Rosa clucked over it, scraping for change in the battered drawer which served as a till, like a hen scraping for worms in the dust. Eventually, not being able to raise enough grubby notes or bright tin coins, she beamed at them reassuringly, said, "Momento, signore" several times, and disappeared through a door behind the counter which led to the family's living quarters.
Through this open door, Henry had a good view of the parlour—a small room ponderously furnished with large, shabby pieces of mahogany and horsehair, and liberally decorated with plaster statuettes of some six or seven assorted saints. Two items in particular, however, caught the eye. The first was a very new and obviously expensive radiogram, which stood incongruously under the drably-curtained window. The second was an elaborate sort of shrine made out of black crepe and black paper laurel leaves, which occupied the centre of the mantelpiece: a small candle flickered at either side of it, and in the centre a sepia-tinted photograph of an excessively handsome young man with jet-black hair stared arrogantly from behind looped rosaries. This could be none other than Giulio, the young ski instructor who had died so tragically—Rosas' son. Henry could not help wondering whether this ostentation of mourning—so at odds with Signora Vespi's apparently cheerful mood—was no more than pious window-dressing, a mere gesture towards parental grief, or whether it represented the true, deeply-hidden sorrow of a family which could not afford any public appearance of heart-break.
Within a minute or two, Rosa re-appeared with the change, and shut the door carefully behind her. Henry and Emmy thanked her, promised to call again soon, and stepped out of the darkness of the shop into the blinding sunshine of the village street.
They found Jimmy waiting for them outside the Olympia. Caro, he told them, had finally been unable to resist the lure of Italian sweaters, and had disappeared with her Travellers' Cheques into the glossier of the two sports shops. "Which means, old man," said Jimmy, with gloomy earnestness, "that the blasted girl won't have a bean from now on, and guess who'll have to pay for every ruddy thing."
With that, he stalked off to retrieve the errant Caro, his blue knitted cap bobbing ludicrously above his gaunt, lanky figure.
As they walked up the hill towards the chair-lift, Emmy said, "I'm somehow surprised at Jimmy being worried about money—he must be terribly rich."
"He only has the same currency allowance as the rest of us," Henry reminded her.
"I know, but—"
"Hey, there!" yelled a voice from above them. They looked up the mountain, where the ski-run emerged from the trees to cross the last field to the foot of the chair-lift. A ski-stick waved energetically, and they recognised the Colonel—recognised him, that is to say, by his clothes, for otherwise there seemed nothing whatsoever in common between the weighty, cumbersome Colonel as they knew him, and this avian figure speeding downwards towards them with all the grace of a swift in flight. This was a totally unsuspected Colonel Buckfast—a Colonel who had, as it were, not only found but actually become the blue-bird. As they watched him, fanaticism became reasonable. For a few brief weeks each year, they realised, the Colonel entered his own element: became a man liberated from his life, his wife, his environment, his own limitations...
The graceful figure swung in a snow-scattering arc to stop beside them, and instantly became familiar—an over-hearty, portly, cliché-ridden, middle-aged man, making maddeningly predictable little jokes as he stamped the snow off his skis.
They all went up on the chair-lift to lunch.
Roger had evidently returned early from his mornin
g's skiing, for when the others came into the hall they saw him in the bar, chatting with Fritz Hauser, the only other occupant. While everybody else headed for their rooms, Henry saw that Caro had walked over to the open door of the bar, and was standing there, as if hesitating whether or not to go in.
When the others came down again, Hauser had disappeared. Caro and Roger sat at the bar drinking Cinzano, and the Knipfers had established themselves at a corner table with steins of beer. There was no sign of Maria-Pia or Franco, who had left early in the morning with packed lunches; but the children were playing a noisy and complicated game in the lounge-hall, where Fraulein Gerda sat quietly reading—only looking up at intervals to say "Hansi ... Lotte..." with such unemphatic authority that there would be silence for at least half a minute afterwards.
At lunch, the Colonel suggested to Roger that they might try a few runs in company: he seemed anxious, in his present mood of exuberant bonhomie, to make amends for his unkind remarks about Run Three. Roger agreed, and the two of them went off together to the ski store, discussing the merits of various grades of ski-wax for the prevailing conditions. Henry noticed that they both carried little boxes of different-coloured waxes in their pockets, and they spent much time and care anointing the backs of their skis before they finally set out.
Mrs. Buckfast announced that she positively could not spend another three hours in the Knipfers' company.
"They did nothing," she confided to Henry, in a stage whisper, "but eat. Disgusting. Mr. Hauser is quite pleasant but he's had to go to Chiusa on business. So I shall just lie down for a little while, and then take the lift down to the village for tea."
Emmy went down on the chair-lift to join her class, and Henry, Jimmy, Caro, and Fraulein Knipfer were left on the terrace, their skis lined up neatly against the wall, waiting for Pietro and their first lesson. At precisely half-past two, they saw the brilliant red of an instructor's anorak coming round the bend of the path that led to the lift.
Dead Men Don't Ski Page 4