The Lonely Skier (6 page)

I did not notice her arrive. I don't know how long she had been there. I just glanced up suddenly and saw her. Her head and shoulders stood out against the white back-cloth of a snow-draped fir. For a second I was puzzled. I thought I knew her and yet I could not place her. Then, as I stared, she took off her dark glasses and looked straight at me, dangling them languidly between long slender brown fingers. And then I remembered and dived for my wallet and the photograph Engles had given me.

The likeness was striking. But I wasn't sure. The photograph was old and faded, and the girl who had signed herself ‘Carla' had shorter, sleeked-back hair. But the features looked the same. I glanced up again at the woman seated at the table on the other side of the belvedere. Her raven-black hair swept up in a great wave above her high forehead and tumbled in a mass to her shoulders. The way she sat and her every movement proclaimed an almost animal consciousness of her body. She wasn't particularly young, nor was she particularly beautiful. Her mouth, scarlet to match her ski suit, was too wide and full, and there were deep lines at the corners of her eyes. But she was exciting. She was all of a man's baser thoughts come true. She caught my eye as I compared her with the photograph in my hand. Her glance was an idle caress, speculative and not disinterested, like the gaze of an animal that is bored and is looking for someone to play with.

‘My God, Neil!' Joe tapped me on the arm. ‘Are you trying to bed that woman down?'

‘Don't be revolting,' I said. I felt slightly embarrassed. Joe was so solidly British in that foreign set-up. ‘Why make a vulgar suggestion like that on a lovely morning?'

‘You were looking at her as though you wanted to eat her,' he replied. ‘She's got that little Valdini chap for boy-friend. You want to go steady with these people. Knives, you know. They're not civilised. He struck me as an ugly little fellow to start an argument with over a girl.' He was right. The man sitting oppos-ite her was Valdini. He had his back towards us.

‘Don't be absurd, Joe,' I said. Then I showed him the photograph, keeping my thumb across the writing. ‘Is that the same girl?' I asked him.

He cocked his head on one side and screwed up his little bloodshot eyes. ‘Hmm. Could be. How did you get hold of that?'

‘It's the picture of an Italian actress,' I lied quickly. ‘I knew her in Naples just before Anzio. She gave it to me then. The point is—is the woman sitting over there the girl I knew or not?'

‘I don't know,' he replied. ‘And frankly, old man, I don't give a damn. But it seems to me that the best way to find out is to go and ask her.'

Joe, of course, did not realise the difficulty. Engles had said, do nothing. But I had to be certain. It seemed so fantastic that she should turn up on the very first day I was at Col da Varda. But the likeness was certainly striking. I suddenly made up my mind and got to my feet. ‘You're right,' I said. ‘I'll go and find out.'

‘Well, don't go treading on the corns of that over-dressed little pimp. I'm a good chucker-out in a London bar. But I'm too big a target to play around with people I suspect of being expert knife-throwers.'

She had seen me get up and her eyes watched me intently as I crossed the belvedere. Valdini looked up as I reached the table. ‘Excuse me,' I said to her, ‘but I feel sure I met you when I was in Italy with the British Army.'

There was an awkward pause. She was watching me. So was Valdini. Then she gave me a sudden warm smile. ‘I do not think so,' she said in English. Her voice was deep and liquid. It was like a purr. ‘But you look nice. Come and sit down and tell me about it.'

Valdini, who had been watching me guardedly, now sprang to his feet. Polished and suave, he produced a chair for me from the next table.

‘Well,' she said as I sat down, ‘where was it that we met?'

I hesitated. Her eyes were very dark and they were looking at me with open amusement. ‘I think your name is Carla,' I said.

The eyes suddenly went blank. They were cold and hard—hard like the eyes in the photograph.

‘I think you have made a mistake,' she said coldly.

Valdini came to the rescue. ‘Perhaps I should make an introduction. This is the Contessa Forelli. And this is Mr Blair. He is from an English film company.' I wondered how he had found that out and why he had taken the trouble.

‘I am sorry,' I said. ‘I thought your surname might be—Rometta.'

I was convinced she caught her breath. But her eyes did not change. She had control of herself. ‘Well, now perhaps you know you have made a mistake, Mr Blair,' she said.

I was still not sure. I pulled the photograph out of my pocket and showed it to her. ‘Surely this is a photograph of you?' I said. I kept the bottom part covered.

She leaned forward quickly. ‘Where did you get that?' There was nothing purrful about her voice as she shot the question at me. It was hard and angry and brittle. Then, with an abrupt change of tone, she said, ‘No, you can see for yourself that it is not my photograph. But it is strange. It is a great likeness. Let me look at it.' And she extended a strong brown hand imperiously.

I pretended not to hear her request. I put the photograph back in my pocket. ‘Most extraordinary!' I murmured. ‘The likeness is quite remarkable. I felt certain—' I rose to my feet. ‘You must excuse me Contessa,' I said, bowing. ‘The likeness is quite extraordinary.'

‘Don't go, Mr Blair.' She gave me a hard, brilliant smile and the purr was back in her voice. ‘Stay and have a drink—and tell me more about that photograph. It is so nearly myself that I would like to know more about it. I am intrigued. Stefan, order a drink for Mr Blair.'

‘No, please, Contessa,' I said. ‘I have been guilty of sufficient bad manners for one day. Please accept my apologies. It was the likeness—I had to be certain.'

I went back to Joe. ‘Well,' he said, as I resumed my seat, ‘was she the girl or not?'

‘I think so,' I told him.

‘Couldn't you make certain?'

‘She didn't want to be recognised,' I explained.

‘I don't blame her,' he grunted. ‘I wouldn't want to be recognised in the company of that little tyke, especially if I were a woman. Look at him getting up now. He positively bounces with his own self-importance.'

I watched the Contessa rise and put on her skis. She did not once glance in my direction. The incident might never have happened. She took the dapper little Valdini out on to the snow for a moment's conversation. Then, with a flash of her sticks, she swooped out of sight down the slalom run to Tre Croci. As he came back, Valdini darted a quick glance at me.

We had lunch out on the belvedere and, afterwards, Joe went out with his camera and a pair of borrowed snow-shoes and I retired to my room to start work on the script. But I could not settle down. I could not concentrate. My mind kept wandering to the mystery of Engles' interest in Col da Varda. First the story of Heinrich Stelben's arrest. Now the Contessa Forelli, who looked so like Carla. It was stretching coincidence too far to believe that there was no connection. And what was it about the place that drew them here? If only Engles had told me more. But perhaps he hadn't known much more. The
slittovia
was beginning to dominate my thoughts as it dominated the
rifugio
. I could hear it even up in my bedroom, a low, grating drone whenever the sleigh came up or went down. And in the bar, which was right over the concrete machine room, the sound of it was almost deafening.

At length I gave up any attempt to write. I tapped out a report for Engles and went down to the bar in time to see Joe returning with his camera. The snow-shoes were circular contraptions fixed to his boots. He looked like a great clumsy elephant as he floundered up the slope of the Cortina run. The day visit-ors had all left long ago and it was getting dark and very cold outside. The
rifugio
seemed shrinking into itself for the night. Aldo stoked up the great tiled stove and we gravitated naturally to the bar and
anisetto
.

It was whilst we were standing round the bar that an incident occurred that is worth recording. It was a small thing—or appeared so at the time—yet it was very definitely a part of the pattern of events. There were four of us there at the time—Joe Wesson and myself, Valdini and the new arrival, who had introduced himself as Gilbert Mayne. He was Irish, but by his conversation appeared to have seen a good deal of the world, particularly the States.

Valdini had been trying to pump me about that photograph. It was difficult to put him off. He was what schoolboys would call ‘bumptious.' You hit him and he bounced. He had a hide like a brontosaurus. But in the end I managed to convince him that I regarded the matter as being of little importance and that I really felt that I had made a foolish mistake. The talk gradually drifted to strange means of conveyance, such as the
slittovia
. Mayne, I remember, was talking about riding the tubs on overhead haulage gear, when the cable machinery began to drone under our feet. The steady grinding sound of it made conversation almost impossible. The whole room seemed to shake. ‘Who'd be coming up as late as this?' Mayne asked.

Valdini looked up from cleaning his nails with a match-stick. ‘That will be the other visitor here. He is a Greek. His name is Keramikos. Why he stays here I do not know. I think he likes Cortina better.' He grinned and, transferring the match-stick to his mouth, began to pick his teeth. ‘He is of the Left. He knows all that transpires politically in Greece. And he likes the women. The Contessa, for instance—he cannot take his eyes off her. He gloats, as you would say.' And he sucked his teeth obscenely.

The sound of the
slittovia
slowed and ceased. Valdini kept on talking. ‘He reminds me of a Greek business man I once knew,' he continued. ‘I was running a boat on the Nile. It was beautiful and very profitable. For tired business men, you know. The gairls were all hand-picked.' The way he said ‘gairls' made it sound like a breed of animals. ‘It was a sort of show boat.'

‘You mean a floating brothel,' Joe grunted. ‘Why the hell don't you call things by their proper names? Anyway, I don't find the subject a particularly pleasing one. I'm not interested in your brothels.'

‘But, Mistair Wesson, it is so sordid the way you talk about it. It was beautiful, you understand. There was the moonlight. The moon is lovely on the Nile. And there was the music. It was a very good business. And this Greek—I forget his name—he was a wealthy business man from Alexandria—always he wanted a different gairl. He was a gold mine. I made a great deal—' He stopped then because he realised that we were not listening.

Whilst he had been talking brisk steps had sounded on the boarding of the belvedere. Then the door had opened and the cold dark of the outside world had invaded the warm room. I suppose we had all been watching the door with some interest. One is always interested in getting the first glimpse of a person one is expected to live with in an isolated place. It was mere idle curiosity.

But the man who entered stopped in the doorway at the sight of the four of us grouped about the bar. He seemed rooted to the spot, his thick-set body framed in the dark gap like a statue in its niche. He was looking at Mayne. And Mayne had stiffened. His tall figure was tensed. It was only for a second. And during that second the atmosphere was electric. Then Mayne turned to the bar and ordered another round of drinks. The Greek closed the door and came over to the bar. Everything was suddenly normal again.

I was convinced Mayne and the Greek had recognised each other. But there was no indication of this as the Greek came over to us and introduced himself. He was stockily built with a round face and blue eyes that peered short-sightedly through thick-lensed, rimless glasses. His light brown hair was very thin on top and his neck was short, so that his head seemed to be set straight into the wide powerful shoulders.

He spoke good English in a low, rather thick voice. He had a way of thrusting his head forward when making a point, a mannerism which gave him a somewhat belligerent air.

Only once throughout the evening did anything occur to support my theory that he and Mayne had met before. We were discussing the revolt of the Greek Brigade in Egypt during the war. Keramikos was extremely well informed on the details of it. So well informed, in fact, that Joe suddenly emerged from a prolonged silence and said quietly, ‘You talk as though you organised the whole damned thing.' I could have sworn the Greek exchanged a quick glance with Mayne. It was not a friendly glance. It was as though on that point they were on common ground.

One other thing occurred that night that seemed strange to me. Engles had wanted full information on the people staying at Col da Varda, so I decided to send him a photograph of them. After dinner, I persuaded Joe to get his Leica and take a few shots of the group at the bar. I told him I wanted the shots to prove to Engles that the hut would have more atmosphere than a hotel for the indoor scenes. Little Valdini was delighted when Joe came in with his camera and began posing immediately. But when Mayne and Keramikos saw it, they turned their backs and began talking earnestly. Joe asked them to face the camera and Mayne said over his shoulder, ‘We're not part of your film company, you know.'

Joe grunted and took a few pictures. But only Valdini and Aldo were facing the camera. I began to ask him questions about the camera. I knew perfectly well how it worked, but I was determined to get a picture of those two. He let me handle it and I took it over to the bar under the light. The cuckoo suddenly sprang out of the clock. ‘Cuckoo! Cuckoo!' Mayne and Keramikos looked up, startled, and I snapped them.

At the click of the camera, Mayne turned to me. ‘Did you take a photograph?' he asked, and there was a note of anger in his voice.

‘I'm not sure,' I said. ‘Why?'