David Szalay - All That Man Is

‘Very. Has Monsieur Noyer got other plans?’ he asks, trying not to sound too interested. ‘After this.’

‘I think so. You can ask him, on Friday.’

‘I will.’ He wonders what Noyer is like, whether they’ll get on. What Noyer will make of his proposal. He isn’t even sure what his proposal will be yet. He needs to think about that.

‘It’s more and more popular, this area,’ she says.

‘I bet.’

‘It’s more typical,’ she says, ‘than the more established areas.’

‘Seems like it.’

A village. They slow markedly — severe speed humps. Trees heavy with moss. Ski-hire shops — Location du ski — shuttered out of season. Signs advertising honey for sale.

‘We’re nearly there,’ she says, accelerating as they leave the village. ‘It’s the next one.’

It is evening now, unambiguously. She has turned on the headlights.

There is a long straight stretch with solemn tall pines. Then the road swings left, passes over the noise of hurrying water — he sees it fraying white over stones — and they are there. ‘Here we are,’ she says.

A mass of signage meets them — signs for hotels, pizzerias, walking trails, ski lifts. Everyone trying to make some sort of living.

And then the deeper gloom of a modest avenue of trees.

On either side of the road, among the apartment buildings, a few old blackened barns still stand in unsold fields.

Quickly, imprecisely, seeing them through the trees, he tries to work out what they might be worth, those fields.

—

He walks for a while, in the last light. It is still there, pink, on the peaks that hang over the village. One in particular hangs there, implacable. Fading pink. A fountain warbles somewhere. Ice-cold water. In the old village, past the petrol station, there are handsome stone houses. He feels sad.

These trips to the Alps, alone. The empty evening hours.

Now a strange blue light stretches itself over the rocky tops of the peaks. It is dark in the street.

There is a decent amount going on after the lifts close in Samoëns with a good number of bars to keep you entertained and restaurants that offer a wide range of local specialties…

No sign of that tonight.

Instead, a solitary meal in the hotel dining room, peach-pink tablecloths and an inhibiting quiet. Table for one. While he waits for his food, he looks over the shiny brochures, his own prose — he can hear his voice in that stuff, his own voice saying it.

There is a decent amount going on after the lifts close in Samoëns…

A decent amount…

Ugh.

Not that he would know what goes on here. This is the first time he’s seen the place. Giles was out in the spring, and made the deal with Noyer — exclusive marketing deal. Since then, James, speaking to him on the phone in slick French, has had the sense that Noyer feels neglected. He feels unloved. It is a situation that struck James, not so long ago, waiting on the wet platform of Earlsfield station one morning, as an opportunity, perhaps.

The fact is, for Giles this isn’t much. He himself hasn’t spoken to Noyer since that visit in the spring. Giles is now in Hong Kong — or Singapore, maybe, today — selling Alpine property to the Chinese. Selling whole developments. (What’s five per cent of twelve million euros? A nice day’s work.) Giles, Air Miles. ‘Air Miles in today?’ they say, James and the others, arriving at the office in Esher for another day of phoning and emailing.

How much does Giles make? They talk about that over their Pret sandwiches at lunchtime.

And how much is he worth?

He started the firm in the late eighties. He was in on some of the early deals himself, had a stake in them, is what John says — John who’s been there since the start, and somehow doesn’t have much to show for it. He wasn’t in on some of the early deals himself.

You don’t want to end up like John.

Alone at a table in the hotel dining room he turns over the shiny brochures. Faint smell of fresh ink. Les Chalets du Midi Apartments . Nearly finished now, apparently. Will be done in time for the skiing season. Furnished, everything. Ten to sell in the next few months. Should be okay. Will be out here a few times. Will know this place, the Hôtel Savoie. He looks up, looks at the starched, peach-pink space. He already does know it. Yeah, he knows it. He has stayed in how many hotels like this? Half-empty on an early September evening. First week of September — summer season over, more or less.

He wonders, finishing his flute of Alpine lager, what Noyer is like, whether they’ll get on.

—

After eating, he walks over to the apartments. It is a five-minute walk from the hotel, out of the stone centre of the village, into a silent area where there are still some open fields in the moonlight.

As well as mountain biking there are also a number of hiking trails with beautiful scenery. You can visit the vast natural parks in the region and see the extensive natural beauty the Alps have to offer. If you are feeling more adventurous you can go paragliding off the mountainside, rock climbing, or 4x4 driving off-road. Equally if you are feeling less adventurous there are much less strenuous activities to undertake…

The new apartments stand in a lumpy wasteland. He stops on the moon-shiny tarmac in front, putting his hands in his pockets. There is a pleasant smell of young timber lingering in the dark air. Pretty low-end stuff, he sees immediately. A standard design with some superficial ‘chalet’ trim, thrown up in a hurry in one short summer.

—

‘Miri?’

He is lying on the hotel bed, in his underwear. Neon light floods out of the open bathroom door.

‘It’s me.’

His voice sounds noisy in the staid hush of the hotel room.

‘Everything was fine,’ he says. ‘No, that was fine.’

Pine walls, waxed pine.

‘It’s, you know — Alpine. No, nice. Perfectly nice.’

‘Tomorrow I’ve got to spend the day with the punters,’ he says. ‘Do my thing . Wine them. Dine them. Show them a shop that sells nice cheese. You need a shop that sells nice cheese.’

He laughs at something.

‘I’m told there is one, yeah.’

‘No,’ he says, ‘on Friday it’s the developer.’

‘How are you?’ he asks. ‘How are things there?’

He says, ‘Yeah? Well, we expected that, didn’t we?’

‘I s’ppose,’ he says. ‘I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?’

‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ he says.

He yawns and says, ‘Well, I wouldn’t worry about it.’

‘Do I?’ he asks.

‘I am, I s’ppose.’

‘Yeah,’ he says.

There is a pause, and then he says, ‘Same here.’

‘Night,’ he says.

‘Okay. Night.’

She is waiting for him, unexpectedly, at the hotel in the morning. She is there in the large pine lobby, talking to the manager as if she knows him well.

‘Hello,’ James says, sailing up to them in a well-pressed open-necked shirt. She turns to him and he sees, as if for the first time, the scar on her lower lip. It is texturally distinct from the flesh of her lip — like a small drip of wax, almost. He tries not to look at it. ‘Are you here for me?’ he asks.

‘Of course.’

‘That’s nice of you.’

She introduces him to the manager, and they talk for a few minutes in French, and with a sort of exaggerated politeness, about the village, how it’s developing.

Outside, among the postcards and mountain knick-knacks, she puts on Ray-Ban Wayfarers.

Her little Peugeot is parked in front of a shop selling artisanal eaux-de-vie .

They stroll towards it.