Margaret Millar - Fire Will Freeze

“There is a delightful man here, who teaches skiing. He escaped from Austria just after the Anschluss. I wonder if perhaps a little skiing might bring down my weight...”

Mrs. Vista stared thoughtfully out of the window and saw two beginners at the top of a gentle slope. One of them started down and landed almost instantly, skis waving in the air. Mrs. Vista returned hastily to her letter.

“...or perhaps I shall simply go on a diet. This will be difficult, as they have a magnificent cuisine here, and this morning I had real Quebec maple syrup — simply crawling with calories, of course, but perhaps I shouldn’t worry about my weight at all . One is not expected to look like a girl at forty-five!

“The Austrian ski-meister is called Putzi, I don’t know why. But I shall find out...”

Mrs. Vista looked up at the sound of ski boots tramping across the floor. It was Paula Lashley and she looked very pale, Mrs. Vista thought. She laid down her pen.

“Hello, my dear,” she said heartily. “Are you going to write a letter?”

“No.”

Paula went over to the window and glanced out. “I’m waiting for the bus to leave.”

“Leave! Why we only came yesterday.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Paula said curtly. “I haven’t got time for skiing this winter.”

“Is your young man going, too?”

“He’s not my young man. He’s staying here.”

Paula continued to stare out of the window, watching Mr. Hearst tinkering with the engine of the bus. She tapped her foot impatiently and she looked as if she didn’t want to talk. But Mrs. Vista never allowed such considerations to interfere with her own desires.

“Of course he’s your young man,” she stated firmly. “I have observed the nasty way he looks at you. It is a sure sign.”

“Really?”

“Really. Of course I am not an old woman, but I have lived . And one has only to look around one to interpret the signs of love. In just that way, Cecil used to look at me. Among lesser animals, too, my dear. Has one ever seen a gorilla give his mate a really friendly look? One has not!”

“I am not interested in gorillas,” Paula said coldly, “with or without red hair.”

She looked out again and saw that Mr. Hearst was still fooling with the engine of the bus. She began to fidget, pushing her hands in and out of the pockets of her jacket.

“I cannot understand anyone who is not interested in animals,” Mrs. Vista said severely. “It would not surprise me to learn that you are a vivisectionist .”

With this cutting reply, Mrs. Vista gathered up the sheets of her letter and sailed out into the lobby. She caught a glimpse of Chad Ross hurrying towards the writing room and regretted her own departure, for she dearly loved scenes. But still there was nothing to be done about it, it would be far too crass to go back now.

Ah, well — she would find Anthony and he would read one of his poems to her — poor Anthony, what a pity he didn’t look like Putzi...

“So you’re leaving,” Chad said from the doorway.

Paula turned with a start. She pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling.

“Yes,” she said.

Chad crossed the room, impatiently kicking aside a chair that was in his way.

“What,” he said, “if I don’t let you?”

“ Let me!”

“You heard me.” He reached out and grabbed both her wrists and held them. “Now scream, baby.”

“You’re hurting me. Let me go.”

“Hell, that’s not loud enough. Come on, louder.”

He bent down and looked savagely into her face. “ Scream , baby. Go on.”

“I... I... I can’t,” Paula said in a strangled whisper. “My voice...”

“You can’t, eh?” He let go of her wrists and stood back from her. He was smiling grimly. “You can’t, eh? Not a sound?”

Paula opened her mouth, but even the whisper was gone now.

“This,” Chad said, “is my lucky day. Get going.”

She looked at him, her eyes wide, and her mouth moving soundlessly.

“Ladies who can’t scream are my meat.” He took her arm and half-carried her across the room. “Now listen. We’re going through that lobby and you’re going to be a nice quiet girl.”

Paula shook her head violently.

“Yes, you are,” Chad said, leering at her. “Or I’ll tell them you’ve been hitting the bottle or having an epileptic fit. Come on.”

His hand tightened on her arm and they went across the lobby very quickly, Paula stumbling as she moved.

Behind the desk Monsieur Roche raised his beautiful eyebrows and said, “Ah, la jeunesse! Always in the hurry.”

In his room Chad closed the door, locked it and flung the keys on the bed.

“Can’t you scream yet?”

Paula shook her head.

“You’d better try. This is your last chance. Come on, try.”

Paula shook her head again. Chad came over and put his hands on her shoulders.

“Paula,” he said dryly, “you’re not putting up much of a fight. Mamma Lashley wouldn’t like that.”

Paula lowered her eyes and said primly, “I don’t believe in fighting.”

He looked at her much as the gorilla looks at his mate when he has something on his mind.

It would have delighted Mrs. Vista had she been there. But she was not there. Having failed to find Anthony she was in the lobby passing the time with Putzi, whose name turned out to be Herman Grube.

Mr. Grube proved disappointing. He kept looking sternly first at his watch, then at the elevator door. He did not seem interested in Mrs. Vista’s personal reactions to the Anschluss, and he was not, Mrs. Vista found, very amiable.

Far, far too serious, she decided. One could never imagine him swinging gaily to the strains of a Viennese waltz. Ah well, one never could quite trust an Austrian anyway. Look at Hitler.

She was not sorry when Mr. Grube rose, clicked his heels and marched across the lobby. To Isobel, emerging reluctantly from the elevator, he said severely:

“Your lesson. You are late. Permit me to ask you to be on time each morning. My services are valuable.”

Startled by this attack, Isobel found herself explaining weakly, “I’m sorry, I was tired. I was all doped up yesterday, and the night before I shoveled a ton of coal and...” Conscious of the baffled look creeping into Mr. Grube’s eyes, she stopped. “All right. I’m ready now.”

Mr. Grube bowed and led the way across the lobby. These American ladies, he thought gloomily, they do not seem sense-making. Isobel, in her bright orange ski suit with the price tag swinging waggishly just over her rear, followed him outside. She had chosen the color especially, because she wanted all other skiers to see her plainly and be able to fend for themselves.

Mr. Grube, however, intimated in his subtle Central European way that he did not like the ski suit.

“The color,” he said. “It is not correct. For contrast with the snow it requires merely a touch of brilliant color.”

“So,” Isobel said.

“So,” said Mr. Grube sternly. “Here we halt.”

He took her skis, examined them carefully, made a disapproving noise, and then showed her how to carry them.

“Now that we’re alone together,” Isobel said, “you can cut out the act, Mr. Schultz.”

Mr. Grube stared at her.

“I beg your pardon, Madame?”

“Just skip the temperament. I know all about you. A friend of mine told me.”

“Madame?” Mr. Grube said, looking baffled again. “You feel entirely well?”

“She said the nearest you’ve been to Austria is the World’s Fair. You come from Ontario and your name is Schultz. Well, I don’t mind that part, but I’d like to make our relations clear.”