The Lonely Skier

CHAPTER FIVE BACK ACROSS THE GLACIER

When I realised that Mayne would not come back, I had a moment of complete panic. Half-a-dozen times I tried to get on to my feet. But arms and legs were simply swallowed by the soft snow. At the last attempt, I suddenly felt utter exhaustion sweep over me. I put my hand out to hold myself in a sitting position so that my head would remain above the edge of the hole in which I lay. I was afraid of that hole. It was like a grave. The fresh snow drifted so persistently over the crisp edges of it. I felt smothered there. But my hand sank into that feather-bed of snow and I toppled slowly over to my side.

I lay still for a moment after that. My muscles relaxed. A great feeling of lethargy stole over me. Why should I care? Why should I struggle? I could just lie there and go to sleep. I wasn't cold any more — not for the moment. The snow had got inside my clothes and melted, but my blood had warmed my wet underclothes. Only my hand was cold where it was buried under me.

I began to move it about in order to extricate it. And then my fingers touched something hard — hard and rounded. With sudden renewed energy I searched about with my frozen fingers. It was the top of one of my sticks. Hope, and that sudden relief that hope brings, flooded through me. I lay with my head buried in the snow-caked sleeve of my left arm and sobbed with relief. One of my sticks! Anything seemed possible if only I could get hold of my sticks again.

And with hope came reason. I lay there for a moment planning my moves carefully. I must husband my strength. To get this one stick out. That was the first thing. Then search for the other with my skis.

I rolled over on to my stomach and began to dig with my hands. I dug all round the stick. And at last I freed it. I pulled it clear and wiped the snow from it. It was like the sight of a ship to a drowning man. I had no feeling in my right hand. I took my wet glove off and breathed on my hand and rubbed it. The circulation began to tingle and burn in the finger-ends.

I pressed the end of the stick into the snow. It was wonderful to feel the webbed circle of it pack the snow down and hold my weight. I thrust myself up into a sitting position and manoeuvred myself down to my skis. They had frozen into the snow. But I got one of them loose and, when I had wiped the snow and ice off it, I began piercing the snow all about where I had been lying with the straight heel of it.

I thought I should never find that other stick. In inn desperation I tried lower down. And at last I located it, quite near the surface and close to the spot where my other ski still stood bedded in the snow. It must have been ripped from my hand as I went into the snow.

I lay down then. I had no more energy. My body felt chilled right through. Yet the blood glowed in my veins with the fever of exhaustion. But I was no longer helpless. I had both my sticks. Soon I should be on my skis again. Soon — when I had enough strength. All the warmth died out of me as I lay there. I began to feel cold and very sleepy. I thought about my skis. I had to get them on. It would be such a struggle. My thoughts were limited now to that one action. The world was condensed into a pair of skis.

I think I should have lain there, relaxed, until the snow drifted right over me, if I hadn't been lying for support across that one ski. I was lying with the full weight of my body on the toe stops and the sharp steel pressed painfully against my ribs.

At last I made a supreme effort of will and lifted myself off the ski. As I sat up, a pile of drift snow sifted off my body. The wind struck fresh on my face as it cleared the edges of the hole. It seemed lighter now. There was less snow falling. I looked at the up-ended haft of my other ski. It stood straight up, like a smooth slat of wood erected to mark the grave of a man who had died there.

Pressing with one hand on the free ski and the other on one of my sticks, I wriggled over to it. It was frozen tight. I had to work hard to loosen it. But at last it / i no came out. Then I sat in the snow and cleared the ice from both skis and waxed them.

I did not stop now. I felt that, if I stopped to rest, I should never have the strength of will to rise again. I swivelled round so that I was lying slightly above my skis. I bedded them firmly into the snow and then cleared the snow from my boots. But it was not easy to fix the skis to the boots. My fingers were stiff and they seemed to have no strength in them. And when at last I had the clips round the heels of my boots, the heavy spring clip in front of the toe seemed as though it had lost its spring. It took every last ounce of energy I possessed to pull those powerful clips over.

But at last it was done, and, as I lay panting there, I felt the comfort of the heavy skis on my feet. It is strange — when one comes fresh to skis after a long time, they seem so clumsy on one's feet. But, believe me, if you try to stand in soft snow without them, you feel as though you are trying to row without a boat. And it is a wonderful feeling to have your skis solid under your feet again.

After a little while, I took hold of my sticks and forced myself upright until I was crouched on my toes with the skis under me.

Then at last I rose to my feet and stood there in the snow, looking down at the trampled hole that I had torn with my body in the soft whiteness of the valley.

I could hardly stand for weariness and the cramped aching of my cold limbs. But it was a wonderful sensation just to stand upright again, no longer in the clutches of the snow, but treading it firmly beneath my feet, able to move upon it. I felt like a man who has climbed a great peak and feels the whole world and the elements conquered.

Slowly I stamped my feet to restore the circulation. And whilst I was doing this, I began to consider what I should do. Where was Mayne? To go down to Carbonin was easiest. If I kept travelling downhill, I should strike the pass. But should I? All about me was a jumbled heap of snow hills. Mayne's tracks were completely obliterated. The snow drifted like a white sandstorm, a moving surf of powder clinging close to the lying snow. Mayne had probably led me off the beaten track. If I followed the valley down, it might only lead me farther into the mountains. And suppose I made the pass? Mayne had said it was narrow — so narrow that it was impossible to lose one's way. Suppose he was waiting for me in that pass? He would wait a long time. He would want to be sure. I looked quickly about me. At this very moment he might be standing on the edge of visibility, watching and waiting to pounce on me if I looked like getting out of this white jungle alive. I remembered what Keramikos had said of him.

As I looked about me, the wind suddenly changed. It began to blow down from the glacier. The snow and the leaden sky was swept slowly away like a gauze curtain being drawn back. Black peaks began to stand out above me. The snow hills all round me were no longer blurred shapes, but sharp and clearly defined. Ahead of me and about a thousand yards down the valley was a glacier. It was not the Cristallo glacier which we had crossed much higher up, but another and smaller glacier. Its black moraines showed quite clear against the snow. It was circled by ragged crests. There was no sign of a pass. There was also no sign of Mayne.

I was convinced then that he had led me off the proper track. This was borne out later when I had a chance to look at a map. The small glacier that I was looking down on to was the one under Monte Cristallino. After crossing the main Cristallo glacier, Mayne had swung hard to the right, away from the pass to Carbonin.

It was that freak change in the weather that decided my course of action, and incidentally saved my life. If it had remained thick, I should have gone on down the valley to the Cristallino glacier. And there I should have frittered away my energy until nightfall. And that would have been the end.

But that sudden lifting of the snow showed me that there was only one thing to do; retrace my steps to the main Cristallo glacier, cross the top of the pass under Popena and go down to Col da Varda the way we had come up.

It was a big decision to make, for it meant climbing more than a thousand feet. And if the snow came down again and I lost my way, I knew I should not have a hope. But at least I knew there was a way through and, even if it began to snow again, I might remember the contours of the ground sufficiently to find my way back. To go forward meant facing the unknown and possibly Mayne. And though I would have been glad to go down instead of up, I dared not risk meeting Mayne. He was too good a- skier. I should not have a chance.

So I turned and faced the long white slope down which I had come so easily and so fast. It took me two hours by my watch to climb that slope. I had to go slowly, with many halts, zig-zagging up in a series of gentle diagonals. It was past two by the time I reached the top and looked down on to a grey sea of cloud out of which distant peaks rose like islands. The snow had cleared from the mountain tops and lay like a dirty blanket on their slopes, filling the great valley fissures.

I will not record the details of that journey. There were times when I stood, my head bowed on my sticks, certain I could not go another yard. On these occasions, it was only by the greatest exercise of my will that I prevented my knees from folding under the weight of my body. All I desired was to relax and sleep. Once I was careless and fell. The muscles of my arms and legs barely had the strength to thrust me back on to the skis again. And, of course, the higher I climbed, the weaker I became, owing to the altitude.

The glacier seemed interminable. Twice, as I struggled across it, snow came down in a grey curtain from Monte Cristallo. But each time it drifted on, down into the valleys. The incline was gentle enough here. But, though my skis slipped easily through the powdery snow, it was a real effort to drag each ski forward. I used my sticks. But there seemed no strength in the thrust of my arms. The wind cut into my wet clothing and froze it, so that, despite my exertions, it became stiff and unyielding and as cold as the snow itself.

At length I reached the place where the smooth rock outcropped and took my skis off. Across my shoulders they were a dead weight. They cut into my shoulders and weighed me down so that I staggered rather than walked.

But at length I stood at the very top of the pass. The air was white — translucent with light as it had been when we had passed this point nearly five hours ago. The peak of Popena stood up, cold and black, and all around me was that world of angry-looking crests. The wind came up from Col da Varda with a violence that whipped the snow away from under my very feet. Everything was just as it had been before, except that Mayne was no longer with me.

I stumbled on from outcrop to outcrop until I stood on the rim of that white basin out of which we had climbed. I set my skis up-ended in a drift and stared unhappily at that frightening slope. The tracks we had made were still there, a line of hachures that rose to meet me out of the grey murk of snow that filled the lower reaches of the pass. The ski marks were faint and dusted with snow. But they were still visible, like a friendly signpost, marking the way back to warmth and safe sleep.

I put on my skis again and then, very slowly, began the descent, side-stepping down into grey cotton-wool clouds of snow. I kept my eyes on my feet. Once and once only was I fool enough to look down the line of the faint ski marks I was following. They seemed to fall away from under my skis and my knees became weak and trembled, so that I dared not make the next step down for fear the upper ski would slip. It took me ten minutes, or thereabouts, to nerve myself to continue. After that I kept my eyes on my skis. My exhaustion was so great that I found difficulty in placing my skis properly and several times one or other of my skis began to slide from under me.

But I made it in the end. And it was a great relief to see the ski points sizzling through the snow of their own accord like the prows of two ships, thrusting the powdered snow back on either side. I felt safe then, even though the leaden grey cloud mist closed about me and the snow began to blow into my face.

I must have been about half-way down the pass, when figures loomed out of the driving snow. There were several of them. I forget how many. But I saw Joe's heavy bulk among them. I hullooed to them and waved one of my sticks. They stopped. I made straight for them, the snow fairly melting under my skis. They seemed to come towards me very fast out of a blur of snow. I remember seeing Joe crouch down, training his baby camera on me. Then the blur became a blank. Apparently I just fell unconscious in my tracks.

When I came to, rough hands were chafing at my legs and arms. I was lying on the snow and Joe was bending over me. The cold rim of a flask touched my lips and I nearly choked with the fire of brandy in my throat. Somebody had taken off my skis and a blanket had been spread over me.

'What happened?' Joe asked.

'Mayne,' I gasped. 'Tried to — murder me.' I closed my eyes. I felt so tired.

As if from a great distance, I heard Joe's voice say, 'Must be delirious.'

An Italian began talking. I could not hear what he was saying. I was only half-conscious. I wished they would go away and let me sleep. Then I was hoisted on to somebody's back and the wind was cold on my face again. That and the strain on my arms brought me to full consciousness. My cheek touched dark, thick-growing hair under a peaked cap. Out of the corner of my eyes I could see dark tufts growing in a man's ear. My direct line of vision was towards the points of his skis pushing fast through the dry snow. He was skiing without sticks, his arms under my knees and his hands locked in mine. I learned later that he was one of the guides from Tre Croci and had often carried casualties in that manner down the mountains.

'I think I'll be all right now,' I told him in Italian.

'You will faint,' he said. 'You are too weak.'

But I insisted and at length he stopped and set me down. They fixed my skis for me and then, with the guide travelling beside me, I continued under my own steam. He was quite right. I did feel faint and terribly weak. But, having said that I could make it, I was determined to do so.

But I was very glad to see the snow-covered gables of Col da Varda. It seemed like coming home after a long journey. The guide and Joe helped me up to my room. Between them they got my clothes off and then started to massage my body to bring back the circulation. The pain in my hands and feet was indescribable as the blood returned to half-frozen veins. Then I was put to bed with hot-water bottles that Anna brought up, and I fell immediately into a deep sleep.

I woke to find Joe standing beside me with a tray of food. 'It's past ten,' he said. 'You've slept for nearly four hours. Better have some food now.' I sat up then. I felt much better; very stiff, but quite fit.

Joe went to the door. 'Come in,' he said. 'He's awake.'

It was Mayne who entered. 'My God, Blair!' be said. 'I'm glad to see you.' He sat down uninvited at the foot of the bed. 'I've only just got back from Carbonin. I was in despair when we were searching up through the pass. We couldn't find a trace of you. Then, when we got back at nightfall, there was Wesson's message saying they'd picked you up on this side. I've never been so glad to get a telephone message. I'd almost given up hope. How do you feel? What happened?'

It was incredible. That charming, boyish smile. It was so natural. But it did not extend to the eyes. Those grey eyes of his were expressionless. They told me nothing. Or was that my imagination? He seemed so delighted to see me. He made it sound important to him that I was alive. But all I could think of was that wall of snow rushing up to meet me and the great swirl of snow where he'd Christied into the floor of the valley. 'You should know what happened,' I said coldly. 'You meant it to happen.'

He went on as though he had not understood my remark. 'When I got to the end of that valley, I found I was on the edge of a glacier. It was the Cristallino Glacier. I knew then, of course, that we had struck much too far to the right. I waited there for a few minutes. When you didn't show up, I began to get worried. I started back up my ski tracks. But I hadn't realised how quickly the snow was covering up my tracks. By the time I'd gone back five hundred yards, there was no trace of them left. The valley wasn't clearly defined. Without any tracks to guide me, there were innumerable ways I might have come down. The snow had been so thick in my face that I could not remember the features of the ground. It was a maze of little valleys. I tramped up every one I could find. I climbed from one to the other, calling to you. And in the end I thought you must have had a spill, found my tracks covered and made your own way. I went on down to Carbonin then, and when I found you hadn't arrived I telephoned here for them to send out a search-party from this end, and then started back up the pass with all the decent skiers I could muster at the Carbonin Hotel. My God!' he said with an apologetic smile, 'I don't think I've ever been so scared. You see, I felt it was my fault. I should have realised that my tracks were being covered up like that and kept closer touch with you. What did happen?' he asked.

I was staggered at his nerve. 'You mean to say you've really no idea what happened?' I demanded angrily. 'Christ! You've got a nerve, Mayne.' I was trembling. 'Why did you take that steep slope as a direct run? You had to Christi at the bottom to avoid the soft snow on the other side of the valley. And you knew I couldn't Christi.'

'But I didn't Christi,' he said, and looked me straight in the eyes, perfectly cool. 'There was quite a nice banking turn at the bottom. I took it as a straight turn. I know it was a bit fast, but there was nothing difficult about it. I certainly didn't have to Christi.'

That's a lie,' I said.

He gazed at me in astonishment. 'I repeat: I did not have to Christi. You'd made out so well, I thought you'd take that bit in your stride.'

'You knew very well I couldn't take it in my stride.' I felt calmer now. 'You had to Christi and you knew I was bound to crash into that soft snow.'

'Oh, for God's sake!' he said. 'What are you trying to prove?'

I looked at him for a moment. Could I have been mistaken? But that swirl of torn-up snow in the bottom of that valley — the picture of it was so clear in my mind. I said, 'Mind if I ask you a question?'

'Of course not.'

'You joined the Army in 1942. What happened to you after you landed in Italy?'

He looked puzzled. 'I don't get what you're driving at, Blair,' he said. 'I joined the Army in 1940, not 1942. Went overseas in '43 — North Africa. I was a troop commander in an Ack-Ack Regiment. We landed at Salerno. I was taken prisoner, escaped and then joined UNRRA and went to Greece. But what's that got to do with—?'

'Forget it,' I said. 'I'm a bit strung-up, that's all.' And I lay back against the pillow.

'Well, anyway,' he said, 'I'm glad you're all right. I did everything I could. I'm terribly sorry about it. It was my fault. I realise that. But I honestly thought you'd have no difficulty at the bottom of that run. I blame myself for not realising that the tracks were being covered up so quickly.' He got up then.

I said, 'Don't worry about it.'

When he had gone out of the room, Joe uncovered a plate of scrambled eggs and placed it beside me. 'What the devil were you driving at, Neil?' he asked as I began to eat. 'Why question him about his Army career?'

'Because somebody told me he was a deserter,' I said, with my mouth full. It was good to taste food again. 'One of them is a liar. I'll find out which before I'm through.'

'Don't understand your attitude,' he grunted. 'Mayne's a decent enough fellow. He couldn't have done more. Rang us up as soon as he got into Carbonin. I answered the phone. He was terribly worried. He must have been dog-tired after a bad run like that. But he went straight out again with a search-party he got together at Carbonin. Didn't get in till dark. It wasn't his fault he couldn't locate you.'

I shrugged my shoulders and went on eating. He seemed to be annoyed by my silence. 'I think you're being damned uncharitable in the matter,' he went on. 'Know what you said when you came to and I was giving you brandy? I asked what had happened. And you told me that Mayne had tried to murder you.'

I looked up at his heavy, friendly features. He was so sure of the world about him. It was just something to take pictures of. 'You thought I was just unstrung by what had happened?'

'Of course you were,' he said soothingly. 'Believe me, that boy did all he could. It wasn't his fault that you went into some soft snow and that his ski tracks got covered up. Anything can happen up in the mountains when it comes on thick like that. The guide who carried you part of the way down, he told me several stories of people caught that way. Trouble was you tried to do too much when you were out of practice.'

I said nothing about that. What was the good? But Mayne had lied when he said he'd done a straight turn at the bottom of that run.

Joe left me then and I lay in bed, comfortably relaxed. I tried to read. But I could not concentrate. In the end, I put the book down and just lay there, trying to get things clear in my mind.

It must have been about an hour later that Joe came in. 'Engles wants you on the phone,' he said. 'He's down at the Splendido. Says he tried to contact you earlier, but couldn't get any sense out of Aldo. I told him you oughtn't to be disturbed, but he was insistent. You know what he's like,' he added apologetically. 'If you were dying, he'd still want me to rout you out. I tried to tell him what had happened. But he wouldn't listen. Never will listen to anything in which he doesn't figure. Do you feel like coming down, or shall I tell him to go to hell?'

'No, I'll come,' I said. I got out of bed and slipped a blanket round my shoulders over my dressing-gown.

'Wonder what he's come over for,' Joe said as he followed me out of the door. My knees felt a bit weak and stiff. Otherwise I seemed all right. 'Why the devil doesn't he leave us to get on with it on our own?' he grumbled behind me. 'It's always the same. Feels he isn't doing his job unless he's goading everybody on. Have you got a synopsis for him?'

'I haven't done too badly,' I said. But I was thinking of Engles' private mission, not of the script.

The telephone was on the bar, by the coffee geyser. Mayne and Valdini looked up as I came in. They were seated by the stove. Valdini said, 'You feel better, Mr Blair? I am glad. I was afraid for you when I heard you had mislaid your way.'

'I feel fine now, thanks,' I replied.

I picked up the receiver. 'That you, Neil?' Engles' voice sounded thin over the wire. 'What's all this Wesson was saying about an accident?'

I was conscious that both Mayne and Valdini were watching me and listening to the conversation. 'I don't think it was quite that,' I replied. 'Tell you about it tomorrow. Are you coming up?'

'Snow's pretty thick down here,' came the reply. 'But I'll be up if I have to come through on skis. I've booked a room. You might see that it's laid on. What have you discovered about Mayne — anything?'

'Look,' I said. 'I can't tell you the plot now. This telephone is in the bar. Give you a full synopsis when I see you.'

'I get you. But I think I've recognised him from those pictures you sent. Had the roll developed the instant it arrived. It was that scar that gave me the clue. That's why I flew over. Watch him, Neil. If he's the bloke I think he is, he's a dangerous customer. By the way, I've got that little bitch, Carla, with me. She's had ten Martinis and is now telling me I'm nice and not a bit English. We'll see if our impressions of her so beautiful nature tally — yes?' He gave a quick laugh. 'See you tomorrow, then.' And he rang off.

Joe thrust a drink across to me as I put down the phone. 'Everything all right?' he asked.

'Seems to be,' I said.

'What's he come over for? Did he tell you?'

'Oh, I think he just wants to look over the ground for himself,' I replied.

'He would. Still, he's a bloody good director. Queer fellow. Mother was Welsh, you know. That's where he gets that love of music and that flashy brilliance of speech and intellect. They're all the same, the Welsh — flashy, superficial, no depth to them.'

'There's a bit more to him than that,' I said.

'Well, he's not all Welsh, that's why. Don't know what his father was — something dour, probably a Scot. That's what makes him so moody and gives him that dogged seeking after perfection. Two sides of his nature always at war with each other. Makes him difficult to work with. Still, it's his strength as a director.'

I finished my drink and went back to bed. Joe fussed after me like a mother %- had my hot-water bottles refilled, put a bottle of cognac beside my bed and saw to it that I had some cigarettes. 'Want me to kiss you good-night?' he asked with a grin.

'I think I can get along without that,' I laughed.

'Okay,' he said and switched off the light. 'You'll feel fine tomorrow.'

As soon as his footsteps had died away, I got up and locked the door. I was taking no chances.

I had not been in the warmth of my bed more than a few minutes before ski boots clattered along the bare boards of the corridor and there was a knock at the door. 'Who's there?' I asked.

'Keramikos,' was the reply.

'Just a minute,' I said. I slipped out of bed and unlocked the door. Then I put the light on and hopped back into bed. 'Come in,' I called.

He entered and shut the door. He stood for a moment at the foot of my bed, looking at me. It was difficult to see the expression of his eyes behind those thick lenses. They reflected the light and looked like two round white discs. 'So,' he said, 'it was not the slittovia, eh?'

'How do you mean?' I asked. But I understood.

He ignored my question. 'You lock your door now, hm? You are learning.'

'You're not surprised that I had an accident whilst out with Mayne, are you?' I said.

'I am never surprised at anything, my friend,' he replied evasively.

I tried another line. 'You told me Mayne was a deserter and that he joined the Army in 1942. He says he joined in 1940.'

'He's probably right, then. I don't know Gilbert Mayne's history. I only know this man's history.'

'Are you suggesting that this is not the real Gilbert Mayne?' I asked, for I did not know what other interpretation to put on his words.

He shrugged his shoulders. 'Perhaps,' he said. 'But I did not come to discuss Mayne with you. I felt it would be courteous, as a fellow-guest, Mr Blair, to come and offer you my felicitations on your narrow escape. Wesson tells me the director of your film company has arrived. Will he be staying here?'

'For a few days,' I told him. 'He should interest you. He was in Greece for a time.'

'Greece?' He seemed interested. 'In the Army?'

'Yes,' I said. 'Intelligence.'

He gave me a quick look. 'Then perhaps he and I will have much to talk about?'

He bade me good-night then. But as he reached the door I said, 'By the way, when you examine what is written on a sheet of typing paper in the machine, you should always see that it is rolled back to the original position.'

'I do not follow,' he said.

'You searched my room last night,' I reminded him.

He looked at me hard. Then he said, 'Whoever searched your room, Mr Blair, it was not me — that I assure you.' And he closed the door. I at once got up and locked it.