She did not speak for a moment. She stood there, looking at me, her cigarette forgotten and a puzzled frown on her face. She seemed to accept the story, for all she eventually asked was, ‘And the picture—how did you obtain that?’
I said, ‘I have explained my interest. The only thing I haven’t explained is how I came by the picture. Before I tell you that, perhaps you would be willing to satisfy my curiosity and tell me why you were prepared to pay as much as four million lire for Col da Varda? I am sorry,’ I added. ‘I have no right to ask—it is just that I am intrigued. It all seems so extraordinary.’
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘You make a bargain—I tell you why I wanted Col da Varda and you tell me how the picture walked into your pocket. That is not gallant of you, for you are asking me to expose my heart. You have no right to ask me to do that. Whereas, I think I have a right to ask you about the picture—a picture I gave a long time ago to a very dear friend.’ Her voice had dropped almost to a whisper.
I began to feel uncomfortable. After all it was none of my business. She had presumably been Heinrich Stelben’s mistress. And she had a perfect right to go around buying up slittovias at absurd prices as often as she wished. And I intended lying to her anyway about how I had come by the photograph, just as I had lied to her already about my interest in the matter.
I was on the point of apologising and suggesting we continue down to Cortina, when she said, ‘But I do not mind. So long as you tell no one. You promise?’
I nodded.
‘The picture was taken just before the war. I was a dancer in Berlin. Heinrich was of the Gestapo. He was already married. We had to be careful. But we were in love and we were happy. Then the war came and I stayed with him always. We were in many countries—Czechoslovakia, France, Austria, Hungary and then Italy. It was lovely.’ Her voice was soft again now and her big dark eyes were looking past me into the sombre depths of the firs. ‘Then Germany collapsed. Heinrich was arrested in a village on Lake Como. But he escaped and soon we were together again. He bought Col da Varda because—’ Her eyes suddenly switched to my face searchingly. ‘I wonder whether you will understand? You English are so cold. He bought it because that was where we had first met each other. It was January 1939—it was a warm sunny day and we sat out on the belvedere for hours, drinking and talking. For the rest of our holiday we met up there every day. And then, later that year, I followed him to Berlin, where he had arranged for me a contract to dance at one of the best night clubs in the city. For nearly three months we owned Col da Varda. It was heaven. Then those filthy carabinieri arrested him whilst I was in Venice. When he was sent to the Regina Coeli, I went to Rome to arrange his escape. But then he was handed over to the British. That was the end.’ Her voice was no more than a breath, a sigh for something irrevocably lost.
She shrugged her shoulders and when she spoke again it was in her normal deep husky tones. ‘That part of my life is finished. I shall not be faithful to Heinrich. I am not the faithful type. I have had too many men in my life. Even when he was alive, I was not faithful. But I loved him. That will sound strange to you—that I can sleep with several men and yet love only the one. But there it is. And that is why I wanted to buy Col da Varda. We had planned to convert the rifugio into a lovely little villa in the mountains. He had started on the alterations when he was arrested. Now that he is dead, I wanted it for my own. I have plenty of money. Heinrich did well in the Gestapo. He left me money in nearly every capital in Europe—real money—houses and jewellery—not bank accounts and worthless paper currency.’ She looked up at me. ‘There, now I have told you everything.’
I could not meet the reproachful gaze of her eyes. I felt embarrassed. She need not have told me everything in such detail. I sought refuge in a straightforward question: ‘Why did you have Stefan Valdini bid for you at the auction?’
‘Why, why, why!’ She laughed at me. ‘You are so full of questions. Why? Because I wished no publicity.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘But why Valdini? He is—I don’t know—he looks a crook.’
She laughed. ‘But of course, my dear. How would he look otherwise? He is a crook. Poor Stefan! I am so sorry for him. And he is so faithful to me.’ She was looking at me with a roguish smile now. ‘You do not like Stefan, eh? He dresses too cheap—too loud. Oh, but you should have seen him before the war. He had a wardrobe of sixty suits and he had three hundred ties. Every suit, every tie more brilliant than the next. But now he has not so much. It was the Germans—they took many things from him. You will hear all about it. Now he has only twenty suits and eighty ties. He will tell you. He is not the man he was. He was quite a figure, you know, in the Eastern Mediterranean at one time.’ She put her head quickly on one side and glanced up at me. ‘Would it shock you to know something? Once I was one of his gairls.’ Her imitation of the way Valdini said ‘gairls’ was perfect. ‘There, now I have shocked you,’ she said with a soft gurgle. ‘But I have told you so much about myself, there is no reason why you should not know that. But he fell in love with me. Imagine—he was fool enough to fall in love with one of his own girls. Poor Stefan! He has never got over it. And now he is—how do you say?—on the down-slope. That makes me sorry for him.’ She shrugged her shoulders and laughed quite gaily. ‘There! I have answered all your interminable whys. Now you shall answer mine. How did you get my picture?’
‘You will not believe it,’ I said. ‘It is too improbable. It was given me just before I left London,’ I told her. ‘We were in a bar, drinking. A friend of one of the party joined us. He had drunk a lot. When he heard I was returning to Italy, he gave me the photograph. He said he had got it from a German prisoner. He said it was of no interest to him now he was back. I was welcome to it. And if it intrigued me as much as it had intrigued him, he hoped I’d meet the girl. He never had. And that is all there is to it,’ I finished lamely.
She looked at me searchingly. ‘What was his name?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘He was just a stray that joined our party.’
There was silence between us for a moment. The story seemed very thin. But perhaps its very thinness convinced her. ‘Yes, it is possible. It was the British who questioned him after his arrest on Como. And why did you keep the picture with you? Did you like it so much?’ She was laughing at me.
‘Perhaps I thought I might meet the original,’ I told her.
She smiled. ‘And what do you think, now that you have met the original?’ She laughed. ‘But that is unfair. You have only just left your wife, is that not so? And you have met the Scarlet Woman. You are so English, my dear—so delightfully English. But we are friends—yes?’ She took my arm happily. ‘And you will be kind to my little Stefan, eh? Poor Stefan! He is such a frightful little man. But he cannot help himself. And when he likes people he is kind. I hope you will find him kind, Neil?’ I don’t know whether she was amused at her use of my christian name or at the possibility of my finding poor Stefan unkind. ‘Avante!’ she said. ‘We have talked so long, we must go fast to Cortina. I am having tea with a lovely Hungarian man.’ And her expression as she said this was the equivalent of sticking out her tongue at me and my English ideas.
I had more confidence in my skis now and we made the run to Cortina at a quiet, steady pace. It was a fairly straightforward run. We crossed the road on the Cortina side of the Albergo Tre Croci and dropped down a wooded valley till we joined the Faloria Olympic run. I left Carla at her hotel, the Majestico. ‘We will meet again,’ she said, as she let her hand rest in mine. ‘But please do not tell any one about the things I have told you. I do not know why I told you so much—perhaps it was because you have a kind and understanding nature. And don’t forget to be nice to my Stefan.’ She laughed and withdrew her hand. ‘Arrivederci.’ And she disappeared round the back of the hotel to remove her skis.
I went on to the officio della poste, thinking what a strange and disturbing woman she was. Heinrich must have been a gay devil to have ma
intained his hold on a woman like Carla even after his death.
After dispatching the cable to Engles, I ran into Keramikos. The Greek was just going into a shop to purchase wood carvings. I joined him and bought a pair of goat-herd book ends for Peggy and some little wooden animals for Michael. They were beautifully carved by local craftsmen. ‘I like these shops,’ Keramikos said. ‘It makes me think of the old folk tales. In so many of the stories the little carved figures come to life during the night. I would like to be in the shop when that happens.’
‘Are you going straight back?’ I asked him as we left the shop.
‘I think so,’ he said. ‘But it is not time yet. We have half an hour to wait for the bus. I suggest some tea.’
I readily agreed. It gave me an opportunity to find out what sort of a man he was and whether he had any particular reason for staying at Col da Varda. We went to a little café opposite the bus stop. It was hot in the cafe and very full of people relaxed after a strenuous day. A waitress brought us tea and I began to consider how best to lead the conversation round to himself. But before I had decided on my approach, he said, ‘It is strange, that chalet. Have you considered what brings us there? Your friend, Wesson—he is simple. He is there for his film. But Valdini. Why does Valdini live up there? He is not an enthusiastic ski-er. He likes women and bright lights. He is a bird of the night. And there is Mayne. What is Mayne doing at Col da Varda? He is a sportsman. But he also likes women. You would not expect a man of his type to bury himself in a hut on a mountainside, except for exercise. But he does not go off on his skis at dawn and return at nightfall just to sleep. No, he goes to see an auction, as you did. It interests me so much why people do things.’ He was staring at me unwinkingly from behind his thick-lensed glasses.
I nodded. ‘Yes, it is interesting,’ I agreed. And I added, ‘And then there is yourself.’
‘Ah, yes—then there is myself.’ He nodded his round head and smiled as though amused at the thought of himself living at Col da Varda.
‘Tell me, Mr Keramikos,’ I said, ‘why are you living there? Valdini says he thinks you prefer Cortina.’
He sighed. ‘Perhaps I do. But then I also like solitude. There has been too much excitement in my life. It is quiet at Col da Varda. No, I am not going to talk about myself, Mr Blair. I prefer to gossip with you. Valdini? Valdini stays there for a purpose. He was to have bought the place for his friend, the Contessa. But I hear he was outbid this morning. Now, this is what interests me—will he continue to stay at the rifugio now that the place has been sold?’
‘What’s your guess?’ I asked.
‘My guess? I do not guess. I know. He will stay. Just as I know that you do not write a story for the films.’
His eyes were watching me closely. I felt annoyed. The conversation was being taken out of my hands. ‘I have not written much yet,’ I said, ‘because I am absorbing the background.’
‘Ah, yes—the background. Yes, that is a good explanation, Mr Blair. A writer can always explain anything he does, however strange, by saying that he seeks the background or the plot or the characters. But do you need an auction for your plot? Have you no better characters in your mind than the Contessa Forelli? You see, I observe. And what I am observing is that you are more interested in what happens around you at Col da Varda than in your ski-ing story. Is that not so?’
‘I am certainly interested,’ I said defensively. Then with more attack: ‘For instance, I am interested in you, Mr Keramikos.’ He raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘You knew Mayne,’ I said, ‘before you met him last night.’ It was a random thrust. I was not sure of myself.
He set down his teacup. ‘Ah, you noticed that, eh? You are very observant, Mr Blair.’ He considered for a moment. ‘I wonder why you are so observant?’ he mused. He drank thoughtfully as though considering the matter. ‘Wesson is not observant. He is just a cameraman and he works hard taking pictures. Valdini, I know about. And Mayne, too. But you—I am not sure about you.’ He seemed to hesitate. ‘I will tell you something,’ he said suddenly. ‘And you will do well to think of it. You are quite right. I recognised Mayne. I had known him before. You do not know much about him, eh? How does he strike you?’
‘He seems a pleasant enough fellow,’ I replied. ‘He is well read, friendly—has an attractive personality.’
He smiled. ‘An engaging personality, eh? And he has travelled. He was in the United States during the prohibition days. Later he returned to England and in 1942 he joined the British Army.’ He considered a moment. Then he said, ‘Would it interest you to know, Mr Blair, that he deserted whilst serving in Italy?’
‘How do you know?’ I asked.
‘He was useful to me in Greece,’ Keramikos replied. ‘For a time he operated a deserter gang in Naples, a bad crowd, composed of a variety of nationalities. They were cleaned up by the military police in the end. That was when he came to Athens. He operated on his own there as an UNRRA official. He was a very successful UNRRA official.’ He smiled and took out a heavy silver watch. ‘We must go,’ he said, ‘or you will miss your bus.’ And he rose to his feet and paid the bill. I got up. The hum of voices, the clatter of crockery—all the sounds of the café—thrust themselves into my mind so that I wondered whether I had really understood what the Greek had told me.
Outside it was cold and the setting sun lit up the Dolomite peaks above the little town so that they flamed against the delicate blue of the sky. ‘What was he doing for you in Greece?’ I asked as we walked over to the bus stop.
But he held up his hand. ‘I have said enough,’ he answered. ‘You are observant, Mr Blair. But do not be too observant. This is not England. The Austrian frontier is only a few miles away. Beyond lies Germany. Behind us is France. You were here in Italy before—but with your Army. You were part of a great organisation. But you are a civilian now and this is a strange, sick Europe. Things happen. Authority is a poor, bewildered official when things are out of control. Beyond all this luxury and all these men and women here who have grown fat on war, there is a vast human jungle. In that jungle, there is fear and starvation. It is the survival of the fittest. I tell you about Mayne because I would not like you to step outside this nice civilised Cortina and find yourself in that jungle.’ He smiled at me as though he had passed some quite innocent remark. ‘Tell Aldo for me, please, that I shall not be in to dinner.’
‘But I thought you were coming back with me on the bus?’ I said.
‘No. I said that because I wished to talk to you alone. Remember your English saying—it takes all men to make a world. Remember also, please, that the world is not a good world just now. Good-night, Mr Blair.’
I watched his thick-set, powerful figure thrust its way through the crowded pavement till it was lost to view. Then I got on to the waiting bus with only my somewhat startled thoughts for company.
Joe Wesson was the only person in the rifugio when I returned. He looked at me sourly. ‘I’d like to know what the hell you’re playing at, Neil!’ he grunted as he handed me a drink.
‘Because I went to an auction this morning instead of getting on with the script?’ I asked.
‘Because, as far as I can see,’ he replied, ‘you haven’t done a damn stroke of work since you arrived here. What’s the matter? Won’t your mind settle down to it?’
‘I’ll catch up after dinner,’ I said. ‘I’ve got the first part all worked out.’
‘Good!’ he said. ‘I was beginning to get worried. Know what it’s like. Seen other fellows in the same fix. It’s not like camera work. It’s got to be in your mind first.’ For a man in such a hard business as films, he had an extraordinarily kind nature. ‘How did the auction go?’
I told him.
‘So that’s why Valdini was so blasted miserable when I came in,’ he said as I finished. ‘Sicilian gangster, hm? Just what he looks like. You’d better keep clear of that damned Contessa of his, Neil. I went to Sicily once. All dust and flies—it was summer. Got involved with a
little girl at the pensione. Her boy-friend came at me with a knife. But I was quicker then than I am now.’
We were the only two in to dinner. The big bar room seemed large and quiet—almost watchful. Our voices were never raised. We did not talk much during the meal. I was conscious of a nervous strain. I found myself wondering what the other three were doing—wondering what was happening in the world outside, wondering what was going to happen here. It was as though the hut, perched on the vast white shoulder of Monte Cristallo, was waiting for something.
I took myself off to my room immediately after dinner. I had to give Joe the impression I was doing some work. I wanted to work. I sat there at my typewriter, thinking how desperate Peggy and I had been before I had run into Engles in London that morning. I did not want that to happen again. This was my chance. All I had to do was produce a script that Engles would like.
But it just would not come. Every idea that came into my mind was over-shadowed and crowded out by the thought of what was happening here in this hut. It was impossible to concentrate on fiction when the facts right under my nose were so absorbing. For the hundredth time I tried to figure out why Engles was interested in the place. Valdini and the Contessa were now clear in my mind. But Mayne and Keramikos? Was it true what Keramikos had told me about Mayne? And why had he told me? Why had he warned me? And who had bought Col da Varda, and why?
I stared blankly at the keys of my typewriter, smoking cigarette after cigarette in a frenzy of frustration. Why didn’t I ignore the whole thing and get on with the script? I cursed my honesty and damned Engles for employing me as watch-dog to a group of highly questionable characters and not as a straightforward script writer.
The Lonely Skier Page 7