Hammond Innes - The Lonely Skier

‘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. ‘Avanti!’ 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 Majestic. ‘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 Stefan.’ She laughed and withdrew her hand. ‘Arrivederci.’ And she disappeared round the back of the hotel to remove her skis.

I went to the ufficio delta posta, thinking what a strange and disturbing woman she was. Heinrich must have been a gay devil to have maintained 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 cafe 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 skier. 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 skiing 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 cafe — thrust themselves into my mind so that I wondered whether I had really understood what the Greek had told me.