Snow Blind
Page 8
The top station approaches. Johnny pushes the safety bar up early and we travel fifty yards with nothing to hold us in. The tension releases momentarily as the snowy terra firma appears and the three of us slip off the lift inadvertently holding arms.
“Today we make the pizzas yes, you all know this?” We are all nonplussed, but no-one dares asks for explanation. We are standing atop the highest peak I have ever seen, made treacherous by the synthetic planks strapped to our feet. It feels like I would reach Chamonix town centre if I turned my skis downhill.
“We make the skis like the pizza slice to make snowplough downhill. To turn left you weight on right ski. To turn right you weight on left ski. You follow my line one by one. I stop at bottom and wave pole for next one. Okay, Steve Hooligan first, then the stag. Follow one by one.” He skis in six effortless arcs to a slight plateau in the slope, having carved a defined snow snake for us to fail to follow. Steve looks pleased with himself once again and skis off first.
“How are you doing mate? They are all giving you a rough ride.” Johnny moves beside me; sunglasses shade my eyes and his ability to read the real answer.
“Yeah, holding it together. Just wish Max and Robert would ease up.” I wipe my nose in preparation for my run, smelling the distinctive Piz Buin sunscreen on my hand that I inconsistently applied this morning.
I start to let my skis flatten and slide forward. Weight on the right ski I coach myself, sure enough I turn over to the left. I try the same with the left ski but my turn is not so marked. As I coax another turn Robert appears from nowhere, stopping dead in my path.
“What you doing Dan, walking down the hill?” I slide into him completely off balance. He hops away lightly to disentangle us.
“You haven’t even got your boots done up properly!” He helpfully leans down and adjusts the top buckle on each of my boots.
“Thanks, I need to ski to the instructor now.” Aldo is waving both poles impatiently just out of earshot.
“I wouldn’t want to hold you up! See you later lanky.” He takes off straight at Aldo. Somehow he whips behind him when it seemed inevitable they would crash.
Unsettled, I start off again, this time forgetting our instruction. Do I understand the thrill of doing this? I probably won’t really find it until I can stop when I want to. Whoever dreamt this up? Putting slippery planks on your feet to stand on snow and ice? After two turns I come slowly into Aldo’s vocal range.
“No, no, you make more turns where I show you. The weather is nice yes, but you not on the beach, you not on deckchair. Lean forward. Concentrate now. Okay you better next time stag.” And with that he waves to Johnny to follow.
I step towards the beaming Steve.
“He’s a good bloke that Aldo. Did you see Robert go by? He looked sensational!”
“Yes, he stopped to help me at the top.”
“Didn’t do much good then! Anyway we need some time to talk about ByeFly; Max says we are in deep do-do.”
“I know.” I want to give the impression I am fully conversant with whatever situation I haven’t been informed about. As usual Max has seen fit to keep me mushroom-like in the dark.
“You knew about the campaign re-pitch presentation next week and didn’t tell me? We are up against two London agencies we think, so really in the shit. We are getting the brief from Max later.” My rising spirit deflates at the thought I might have to work on my own stag weekend. A re-pitch is loads of work; it’s impossible to do it well in the few days before I am off for the wedding and honeymoon. No, that can wait; I am not letting it invade my thoughts.
“Heep to the hill, shoulder to the valley,” is Aldo’s mantra. Our procession goes through another two instructional ski-offs, each one marginally improving our ability. We group back together where we started.
“You are doing well Dan, making some progress don’t you think?” Juliet tries to inspire me as we wait to be honourably discharged.
“I agree. You are a really good skier though Juliet,” Johnny offers his encouragement and a chocolate bar for general consumption.
“You could do with turning more, don’t drift so much,” Juliet advises. She turns to see where Aldo is. “That Aldo is a lecherous pervert, I caught him looking Mari Elena up and down. She must be twelve!” Juliet raises her voice so that she will be heard.
“Okay we finish today. We meet ten o’clock at top of lift station tomorrow and we progress well. In two days maybe you start parallel ski, but we must know our limit, yes. You have nice lunch now. Bye bye.” Aldo slips backwards down the short hill in front of the ski shop.
Suddenly Aldo is animated again. “Hey stag hooligan boots not closed! You lean back like the beach because boots not closed. Ciao.”
I look down to see two undone clasps on the top of each boot. I realise Robert’s supposed help is never as straightforward as it appears.
CHAPTER 15
Dan 13.07
“I will wait here for Chris, you go and sort yourselves out with some lunch.” Steve and Johnny didn’t need to be told twice that they should immediately address their ski-induced under-nourishment.
“I will stay with you Dan.” Juliet would need more shaking off.
“Jules, the queues are horrendous, you go and get in line.”
“Are you sure? Can I buy yours as well then? What do you fancy?”
The answers are yes, yes and you. “Spag Bol or something like it.” I need a big dollop of European-style carbohydrate. “Tell Robert it was un-cool undoing my boots if you see him.” I need to get him to back off, but how do I tackle him directly?
I fall back onto the wooden bench outside the ski shop. With just my weight on one end it threatens to tip up. Now that I am through my morning’s ordeal I feel able to face the rest of the weekend. I am at the same spot as this morning without the earlier feelings of dread. I probably wouldn’t tip the Snac Shack bar owner at all now.
The hopeful blue and gold stars of the European flag flutter high above my head. I try to count the stars but I keep losing count, as the flag is moving and the sun blinding. I don’t think any more stars have been added to recognise the outer reaches of Eastern Europe. If I had just joined like Cyprus I would be pissed off if I couldn’t have my own star. Maybe they should redesign it and have an inner ring. At least the Yanks have the right number of stars and states. However, by the time they had re-made the flags another ex-communist country would have joined heralding another paranoid outburst of British immigration hysteria, with dire warnings that the country will topple into the sea with the influx of millions of immigrants. Maybe they could just put some stripes on it and copy the Yanks. My country is the real outlier of Europe, so maybe our star should be printed on the back. As Europe prepares to lunch I think I can distinctly see a line separating the drinkdriven British against the perceived grace and sophistication of all other Europeans.
My focus drops to the crowds milling around the ski shop and restaurant, busying themselves with their joint purpose, to get up and down these slopes in as much of a hurry as their ability will let them. I feel I have found the epicentre of European Union, a place where potentially cross snow boarders can happily cross borders! I inwardly chuckle. The collective memory that Han’s granddad shot Tim’s has been groomed out of people’s prejudice after years of snow-induced integration. They should place the European parliament here; the whole thing would be a lot more productive.
My union is exactly nine days away now. I will be married into the Italian mob. I don’t suspect my father-in-law is connected but they are undoubtedly capable of breaking my legs if their daughter is crossed. I am glad to be out from under the white-hot glare of wedding planning which I only serve to hinder. I am truly guilty that it all falls onto Sophia but I am incapable. She is a great girl, it is right that I am settling down now we have Bepe; he will solidify us. I also know she is angry about what happened yesterday with him, I will have to fix it before we walk up the mock aisle at the Golf Club.
“Bloody rubbish, I could only turn one way. I crashed into this girl in the ski school twice. The rest of them fell like dominoes. I have had enough for today.” Chris huffs and pants his way through this brutalist appraisal of his morning.
“Let’s go for lunch, everyone is in the restaurant, I think.”
“Can’t say I like your mates, they’re a bunch of tossers.” He is glad to get this off his chest, but it just gives me a management problem. We make our way across packed ice, through ski racks, over to the gaily-flagged restaurant entrance. I can see my stags on two separated tables outside.
“Johnny and Juliet are good people.” I strive to differentiate the wheat from the chaff.
“Aye, maybe, but none of them are my kind of folk.”
“Stick with me brother,” I plead.
Robert and Juliet are sat alone and stop dead in their conversational tracks. Their mouths drape open as their brains revisit the contents of the last minute’s conversation. Both look uneasy, their previous discussion obviously isn’t something they wanted me to hear. What were they saying? It could have been an incident from years ago or yesterday. They have both stopped for too long; I know it was about me.
“Thanks for undoing my boots mate!” Robert just grins at me, happy with his latest subterfuge.
“You are a twat Robert. I am off to get food.” Chris has patently had enough of his quiet man status.
I take one of the two remaining seats on their bench next to Robert. The frenetic multi-lingual ski hubbub increases as we move into the afternoon. Robert and Juliet are suddenly united in their determination to finish their meals and go.
“It’s good to see my two old college mates together again,” I try to bring them union but both pairs of eyes avert to their left.
“What did you think of Aldo’s class?” Juliet breaks her silence.
“He picked on me a bit, but it’s cool. I have had a good morning anyway, felt as if it was coming back to me after such a long time.” The air I now inhabit is thick with disdain. I start to eat my overloaded plate of ten-euro Spaghetti Bolognese. The top strands of spaghetti and sauce have been insulating the inner. A pool of olive oil separates from the congealed sauce at the bottom of the plate.
“Can you believe the three of us lived together in that tenement in the Isle of Dogs for a year?” I unwisely prod these unusually dumbstruck lions from their cages.
“Do you remember us swimming in that wartime bomb-crater below your window Robert?” No reply except increasingly frequent bites of a baguette.
“Your room looked like a bomb-site as well,” I aim to keep the conversation light.
“My room looked like that for good reason, I was having the time of my life, unlike you two mice playing happy families. Middle-class and middle-aged all before you turned twenty-five!” Robert unconsciously exposes the contents of his mouth as he talks.
“Class is something you never showed you prig,” Juliet smiles serenely while she delivers her invective.
“Oh I’m a prick am I? Have you ever managed to get one to fuck you that isn’t a lap-dog like him or someone who works for you?” Robert mishears the insult and goes on the attack.
“Grow up you pathetic boy. I have met enough of your sad types in boardrooms, incompetently hanging on to positions given by their ex-public-school mates. From what I have seen already BA should sack you for sexual harassment of your own staff,” Juliet spits back at him.
Robert rises slowly from his bench, belying his intent. He winds his right arm backward to deliver a punch or a slap to Juliet, but as he pulls back he unintentionally cuffs me on the ear.
“Whoa guys. Stop it now. For me, stop it now.” Robert only sinks slowly back onto the bench when I sit down and tug his arm.
Chris returns unwittingly to the fold with a tray creaking under the weight of a dinner, a sandwich and a dessert. His physical presence is another antidote to Robert’s ire.
Max, Steve and Johnny walk over from their table and hover over us all. They don’t seem to have picked up on the dispute. “So where are we all going now that you babes are out of nursery for the day?” Max questions the group.
“I don’t think we can ski together, we are all different levels?” I point out in the hope that I can separate the feud.
“There is an easy red off to the left of the Ceil Express four-man lift. We should all go there.” Max suggests to everyone. Eyes dance over eyes again testing our collective strength.
“I’m going to my bed!” Chris says with no prospect of re-negotiation, chomping heartily on his ham roll.
“I will walk back with you Chris. I’ve done enough for my first day. Is that okay with you Dan?” Johnny opts out apologetically
“Okay then everyone else, let’s show the stag some real skiing.” Max decides for everyone. “That includes you too my precious,” he sneers at Juliet
“Thanks lover.” Juliet inappropriately feigns familiarity with him.
“That’s great chaps.” What am I saying? They are reluctantly staying together for me and I hate it. The animosity between Robert and Juliet overloads my woes. So much for my European union, not even the Brits can get on. I am artificially welding them together but the whole thing stinks.
CHAPTER 16
Dan 14.05
The taut steel cord reaches skyward. The padded metal chairs dangle in fixed fashion, and are eaten by the deep grey clouds that are fluffing up ready for snowfall.
I shuffle my skis forward two more inches, my right ski-tip locks under a snowboard; both metal edges momentarily nip each other. Anxiety to re-climb the mountain is etched on most faces. A plastic mock-clock indicates that the last lift is four thirty, over two hours away. I was once told by a Frenchman never to be polite in a European ski-lift queue, but find it hard not to use British queue codes. Two snowboarders push across my line to the gate, stopping my progression onto the next lift with Juliet. Robert is on the same chair but the boarders keep the antagonists apart. I twist backwards and see Max and Steve close behind. The frozen lift attendant scrapes ice from the footboard with an inverted shovel, producing a metallic scream. His collapsed demeanour shows the weight on his mind; he is in the playground but not allowed on the swings. He must fight not to just get on every chair that passes him and escape his drudgery. My thighs push against the wooden gate that eventually gives way to let me through. No one is that desperate to get up the hill that they want to join the three of us, so the next chair slowly scoops three workmates into the air.
Snow pit-pats on the polyester shell of my coat. Some flakes roll off; some dissolve by touching the imperceptibly higher temperature of the jacket; some stick resolutely looking for others to join them. I zip up to the fullest, to defend my chin against the harshening conditions. As we clank over a pylon, a manufacturer’s sign for Wankel Lifts comes into view, which must bring a childish grin to English-speaking passengers. I just perceive it to be poor global branding for a manufacturer who wants to convey absolute trust and security.
“Listen guys, we need to focus.” Max interrupts my drifting. “ByeFly are thinking of ditching us. They have set up a three-way pitch for next Wednesday. Essentially they want a fresh above-the-line campaign to run through summer peak. It should ideally have been ready to air this month so we are behind on production already.”
“Did they say why they are re-pitching? What do they dislike about what we are doing?” Steve enquires.
“Nothing much, apart from they think our ideas are stale. They can’t stand our fucking obsession with waving goodbye in the current campaign. It’s trite and it doesn’t say anything about their brand. They want to push cheaper prices as well. Oh and they definitely w
ant to reduce the retainer payment.”
“Our obsession? We only worked it in because of them. It ruined that campaign we had designed for them.” I make a true but futile protest.
“Well the blame is laid at our door now and so are a pack of wolves if we are not careful, so let’s fucking drop it. Ideally we would go home tomorrow and work on it this weekend.”
“It’s going to be awkward to leave my own stag-do guys.” No way José am I leaving for this ungrateful git.
“I can look at flights on Saturday I suppose.” I weakly hope that logistics will bail me out.
“You don’t seem to realise how crucial this is.” Max keeps shifting the responsibility back over my head.
“Well, we will have to start work right away no matter where we are.” Max raises the bar on both the chair lift and on my stag weekend. As it hits the stanchion the chair swings back a little, momentarily presenting a threat to unload us twenty feet short of any solid ground.
“It will be tight but we are just going to have to.” Steve handles his response well, positioning me as the shirker.
“If we don’t then the whole agency is fucked. The consequences of not getting the re-pitch are dire. Three months without a retainer fee of their size would close us down. You two got us into this, get me out of it with some magic words and pictures.” Like a Catholic about to exit the confessional, Max absolves his guilt simply by uttering the words; he doesn’t even have to recite three Hail Marys as penance.
As we level out at the top station, the snow swirls under our feet. The glum male station attendant pretends to be cool from his windowed box, unable to hide the mind-numbing anguish of his job. I feel a sharp jab in my right eye from a hail-like piece of snow. I struggle to pull up my hood with ski gloves on. The weather has taken a nasty turn.
My skis are silenced by the wind as I slide over the few yards towards Juliet and Robert who are at least conversing again. Dead ahead is a massive metallic panelled ski map, its face covered by a frosting of hard blown snow. People are starting to choose their descent carefully now, feeling hesitant at re-taking previous ski route challenges.