There were three people waiting in the lounge, a comfortable room with a stone fireplace, upholstered chairs and free coffee. Richie was playing a game on his phone alongside a sullen-looking teenager with a handsome face that was a younger version of Pablo’s.
‘Hi Greta,’ said Richie, barely looking up before going back to his game.
The teenager looked up longer. He stopped texting and smiled an ironic smile. ‘So you’re the one who saved my lame half-brother.’
This prompted a response from the third person in the lounge, a remarkably beautiful young woman with smooth, tanned skin and shoulder-length black hair. She had been looking out the window at an arriving commercial jet, but upon hearing the boys she leapt up from her chair and ran to me, surprising me by drawing me close in a very personal hug.
‘I’m Maria Alvarez,’ she said, practically in tears. ‘I can’t thank you enough for saving my son’s life.’
I was stunned at first, having assumed all three to be Pablo’s children. When I recovered enough from the fact that she was Pablo’s wife and not his daughter, I awkwardly accepted her thanks. ‘You’re welcome.’ Now how lame did that sound? Like ‘Pass the butter, please. Thank you. You’re welcome.’ ‘I mean, anyone would have done the same.’ Now I sounded even stupider. I wondered if being around such significant wealth was unnerving me. I told myself to chill.
I mean, Aspen has had people of immeasurable wealth practically from its conception as a silver-mining town. When I first moved here, it was hard not to feel out of place with all the fur and the glitz and the expensive restaurants. But once I started working, especially teaching skiing, it all fell into perspective for me. Money can’t buy a better experience out in nature. Hiking. Cross-country skiing in the backcountry. Floating through waist-deep powder. Although financial security is always a consideration, I had little interest in the trappings of wealth. And since I’d already beaten the housing issue when Sam left me the A-frame, and my ski pass was covered by my job, I was wanting for little. Not like the immigrant population who bust their butts and have to drive an hour and a half in to work from Rifle where the rich house their jets.
I have this credo I try to live by. And that is: no one is better than me, and no one is lesser. Our circumstances are just different.
‘God put you there,’ Maria Alvarez was saying. ‘I told Pablo I didn’t want Richie doing that bowl, that he was too young. He said it would build character, that it would be good for him. Anyhow, it’s done and all is good. My boy is safe.’
Her head turned towards the entry as the senior Alvarez stepped into the waiting area, emerging from down the hall, ostensibly from the restroom. The mood in the room changed immediately, his presence like that of a king arriving to greet his subjects. It wasn’t intentional or off-putting; he just had that aura about him. I studied his handsome face, smooth and aristocratic framed in attractively graying hair. It occurred to me that despite being Mexican, there was little Indian blood in him if any, that his heritage was most likely pure Spanish with perhaps a little Anglo thrown in.
‘I see you’ve met Maria,’ he said. ‘And you know Richie.’ He gestured to the teen immersed in some attraction on his phone, oblivious to the rest of the world. ‘And this is my oldest son, Carlos. King Charles.’ The teen looked up and grunted a hello. Getting a better look at his face, I could see he was at the north end of his teen years, his chin and upper lip dusted with dark stubble, his dark eyes even more penetrating than his father’s.
Before we could exchange any more pleasantries, the door leading to the tarmac opened and a tall man wearing a leather flight jacket and a captain’s hat walked inside. My mind registered something peculiar about his appearance, but it wasn’t until I focused on him that it became evident he had been badly burned. The entire right side of his face was mottled, the corner of his lashless eye fused shut, his right ear missing completely with an open orifice where the cartilage would have been. He held a clipboard with paperwork in his right hand, which was missing the ends of several fingers. I worked my face to not register shock.
He addressed Pablo with familiarity and respect. ‘Everything is in order, sir.’ Turning his one-and-a-half-eyed gaze on me, he added, ‘I see you’ve got a stowaway. A good-looking one, I might add.’ Now I had to fight giving him an indignant glare. I hate it when men make stupid comments like that as if my looks said anything about me. Then he further aggravated me when he said, ‘I’ll need to see your passport, young lady.’
Now there are three stages to a woman’s life as far as I’m concerned. Young lady, ma’am, and young lady. Knowing I was past the first ‘young lady’ but nowhere near the second, I found the expression demeaning. Being ma’am was bad enough. I was in no hurry to be young lady for a second time.
Pablo introduced him as Captain Chris Calloway. I got my name in as quickly as I could before he deigned to drop any more cutesy remarks.
‘I’m Greta Westerlind,’ I said, offering up the passport I’d pulled out in a panic last night to make sure it was current. He didn’t bother flicking through the stamped pages evidencing my travel of the last years, but rather turned to the first page to check the expiration date and then held it up to compare my passport photo with my face. Instead of handing it back to me, he held on to it.
‘I’ll need this for customs in Switzerland,’ he said, all business now.
Then without further ceremony, he turned back to the Alvarez family. ‘Your carriage awaits.’
Astounded is not a strong enough word for how I felt when I stepped into that plane. I’d been told that a G5 is an amazing aircraft, but I was in no way prepared for what revealed itself upon entry. The first thing I saw was the co-pilot seated in the cockpit. To even begin to describe the dashboard with its numerous instruments and gauges would be a challenge, but suffice to say it was impressive. An attractive brown-haired woman with a frequent smile stood to the side of the cockpit door in front of a large and modern-looking galley with cabinets made of shiny wood. She introduced herself as Kelly and told us she was there to attend to any of our needs as well as our safety.
And as if things could have gotten any more otherworldly, I turned and looked the rest of the way into the plane. Before Judy met Gene, she and I did a trip to Florence once during the off season. Everyone we knew told us we simply had to see Michelangelo’s David. Being on a budget, I remember thinking it was a waste of time and money to stand in line just to see one statue. That changed the moment we entered the museum and turned the corner into the gallery where David was displayed. When I saw the statue I understood. You didn’t need to know squat about art to appreciate the masterpiece. The statue was exquisite, commanding and breathtaking, all in one.
Well, that’s what it felt like looking down the length of the jet’s fuselage. Like the statue of David, it was a masterpiece. The wide seats were upholstered in cream-colored leather with grey leather pinstripes and shiny-hued tables sat between them. Further along was an actual sofa, also leather, with a flat-screen television over a dining table opposite it. Toward the end of the aisle more seats were situated in front of a partition. On the other side was a sleeping area with a half-dozen seats that could be reclined into beds with a privacy wall and reading lamp at each one. A door at the end led to what I assumed was a bathroom.
I was speechless. I turned back to my host to find out what the protocol was. ‘Make yourself at home,’ he said. ‘The flight takes about ten hours, putting us in St Moritz between five and six in the morning. There is plenty of food. Just ask Kelly. And I suggest trying to get as much sleep as you can, if you want to be fresh to ski when we arrive.’ He then took a seat at the front of the plane near the cockpit and pulled out his cellphone. The two boys had taken seats across from each other and were intent on texting or surfing the internet. Maria was talking to Kelly up front, ordering up lunch no doubt. I plopped into a single seat next to the window and my first thought was I never knew such soft leather existed. My second th
ought was the Barcalounger was never going to be the same again.
Captain Calloway announced over an intercom that we should fasten our seat belts. That was it. No safety demonstration, though Kelly did point out where we might find life vests. After a short taxi, we were racing down Sardy Field’s only runway, the whole process from embarking to take-off less than five minutes. Seconds later we were leaving the snow-covered mountains behind as we rose through the gray clouds and emerged above them, looking down at fluffy white mountains of an entirely different kind.
THIRTY-SIX
A dinner-sized lunch was served shortly after take-off, a smorgasbord of shellfish and salmon, slices of tenderloin, roast potatoes, spinach and goat cheese salad, brioche rolls and sourdough bread. The food would have been amazing served in a home, much less an airplane. There was even champagne offered, which I declined. It was enough to be going against my small-to-no-lunch mantra. I didn’t want to be drunk on top of it.
I helped myself to more food than anyone should ever eat in the middle of the day and sat down at the table with the family. That is everyone except for Pablo, who was intent on work, on his cellphone deep in conversation. Evidently, the ban on using cell phones on aircraft didn’t apply here.
Carlos started teasing Richie for taking too much food. And when I took a look at his plate I could see why. It was heaped high with beef and fish and potatoes, a couple of brioche floating on top like a pair of breasts.
‘Think you have enough bread there, oh fat one?’ Carlos said. His plate probably held about half as much as his younger brother’s, though I did notice he had helped himself to the champagne.
‘Carlos, be nice to your brother,’ Maria reprimanded him. Clearly her words held little sway with Carlos, because he continued to berate his half-brother. I’m sure his next comments were meant for my benefit.
‘How long did it take you to get up the bowl, you pile of mush?’
‘Carlos,’ Maria said, sharper this time.
Pablo’s ear parted from his phone for an instant. ‘Carlos,’ he echoed and then went back to his conversation. This time his older son listened. He went back to eating his lunch in silence. Richie turned back to his plate, looking at his iPad while he ate, which appeared to be his regular escape. I felt sorry for the kid living in Carlos’s shadow.
I decided to test some conversation of my own. ‘Do you boys like St Moritz?’ I asked.
‘They do,’ Carlos responded, indicating his father and stepmother and his half-brother. ‘It’s way too dull for me.’
‘You’re the one who’s dull,’ Richie inserted between bites.
‘Right, champ,’ said Carlos, patting his brother none-too-fondly on the head.
Eager to change the subject, Maria turned the conversation back to me. ‘Now, Greta, how long have you been on the ski patrol?’
‘Long time. Around ten years,’ I replied.
‘Around one week too long,’ I heard Carlos muttering under his breath. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what that was supposed to mean.
In one meal I learned the Alvarez family, like all families, had a rhythm of its own. When I was a ski instructor and had private lessons with rich Latinos from Mexico City, there was often a dynamic where the husband appeared to be the one in charge, but in actuality it was the wife. In this case, from what I could tell it was the opposite. Pablo was at the same time polite and deferential to his wife, but it was clear that he was the one in charge. He was also demanding. When I say demanding, I don’t mean as far as waiting on him or performing tasks was concerned, but it was at another level. An unspoken expectation that lingered in the air of how she was to act and present herself. She had probably ventured outside acceptable behavior when she confided in me that she hadn’t wanted Richie to board in the bowl.
Richie, as I’d perceived before, was a shy kid who needed to be drawn out, perfectly content to watch movies or play video games in his own universe on his iPad. No wonder he was carrying the extra weight. King Charles, or Carlos rather, was an entirely different story. Clearly the son of a previous wife, he was lean and fit with a lot of the privileged persona of his father, talking to people when and where he felt like it. He didn’t care for his younger brother and made no secret of it.
When we’d finished eating, I paid a quick visit to the head, more out of curiosity than need. And my curiosity was rewarded. The room was larger than my bathroom at home with not only a toilet and vanity, but a shower with a window. I tried to imagine what it would be like soaping up among the clouds.
I returned to my seat and went back to Ovid and the story of Io, the unlucky mortal who had taken Jove’s fancy while drawing water from a stream. The supreme god had pulled some of his usual hijinks to have his way with her, casting the world into darkness so his wife wouldn’t catch him in the act. After Jove had his way with her, he turned the unfortunate woman into a white heifer to throw his jealous wife off the trail. Smelling a rat, Juno one-upped Jove by asking for the cow as a gift. Juno then went on to torment the poor cow in myriad ways, to include setting a gadfly upon her, nearly driving her mad.
Unlike the other myths we’d covered, this one had a happy ending. Jove took pity on Io and begged his wife to let up, promising to never wander her lush fields again. Io was returned to human form and gave birth to a son who most likely bore Jove’s DNA.
This set me to wondering if Pablo’s first wife hadn’t wished she could have turned Maria into a cow.
We flew into twilight and the cabin lights were dimmed. I moved to the back of the plane where the seats reclined flat for sleeping and sat alone reading. The boys were still occupied with video games and Maria was watching a movie on one of the monitors, her headphones blocking out all noise. Pablo was still up front, on the phone hovering over papers.
Kelly appeared out of nowhere to ask if I would like my bed made up. While she worked her magic, I paid another visit to the bathroom. When I returned to my seat it was still upright, but a sheet and down comforter had been fit over the smooth leather. I was just getting ready to lower it to sleeping position when the door to the cockpit opened and the captain walked out. His silhouette dominated the aisle as he walked toward the aft of the plane, his broad shoulders hunched so as not to hit his head on the ceiling.
He nodded politely as he passed me and went into the head. On his way back to the cockpit he stopped beside my seat. I swear I was ready to kneecap him if he called me young lady again. He was hatless and the melted side of his head looked like candle wax. He stood in contemplation for a minute, and then took the seat across from me and leaned in to talk.
‘First time in a G-Five?’ he asked.
‘First time in a private jet period. It’ll be hard flying commercial after this. Not to mention sitting on any chair in my house.’
He laughed, stretching taut the smooth burnt flesh on the lipless side of his mouth. He tipped his head to the right and for a moment only the untouched left side of his face was visible. He had obviously been quite a handsome man before being burned.
‘So your last name is Westerlind?’ he queried.
‘That’s what it says on my passport.’
‘There was an Army Ranger named Westerlind in Afghanistan when I was there ten years ago. Hell of a guy. Took risks no sane person would.’
‘Please don’t tell me his name was Tobjorn.’
‘He went by Toby. Any relation?’
‘My brother.’
He was speechless for a minute as if he was musing over whether to share his next words with me or not. ‘Well, your brother saved my life. Dragged me out of an inferno after the CH-Forty-Seven I was flying from Bagrum to Jalalabad was hit by an RPG.’ He read the question mark on my face and clarified: ‘Grenade. Rocket propelled. We were brought down smack in the middle of terrain filled with IEDs.’ He stopped again. ‘Improvised explosive devices. Your brother was driving past in a Humvee when he saw us come down. He turned straight across the minefield to get to us. The h
elicopter was a conflagration, but he climbed in to evac anyone he could. Dragged me out with my skin slipping off in his hand and went back for one more guy from the force. The rest were hopeless. Lost my co-pilot and three other men.’ He was silent with the pause that goes into significant thought. ‘Threw me over his back and got me to his vehicle. Not many men would do that. He’s a true hero in my eyes.’
Ten years ago. I pictured my then twenty-five-year-old brother carrying the enormous man across from me on his back. Though I’d never for an instant doubted my brother’s bravery, it troubled me to know just the kind of risks he took. I couldn’t help but look at the captain’s mottled right arm and imagine Toby’s hand slick with his missing skin. I appealed to the same power that watched over me while I was buried under the snow. Please don’t let any harm come to my brother.
‘What’s he doing now, anyhow? He still in the service?’
‘He’s still in. For all I know he’s married by now. To a woman with one leg.’
The captain didn’t quite know how to respond to that. He stood up and smoothed his slacks with his palms. His right hand with the missing fingers looked incomplete next to the left. ‘Great guy, your brother,’ he said, turning back toward the cockpit. ‘Now you get some sleep.’
I tried to sleep after he’d gone, but the talk of my brother left me troubled; the image of him entering a burning plane refused to leave my brain. What if the plane had exploded? What if he had gotten burned like Chris Calloway, his face destroyed?
I turned back to Ovid for distraction. The next story was that of Phaethon, Apollo’s son, who in the spirit of most teenage boys basically borrowed his dad’s chariot without telling him. Anyhow, he was exceeding the speed limit while driving the sun across the sky and crashed and burned, nearly setting the world on fire. Sound familiar? Teenagers then. Teenagers now. Is there really any difference?
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