The Lonely Skier

by Innes Hammond

I thanked him, for he meant it kindly. He wasn't to know that Engles had already got a script.

It was a glorious morning. The sky was blue. The sun shone. But the world was deathly still. No birds sang in the dark fir woods. In all that glistening country there was no sign of life. The slittovia was even more terrifying going down. We sat facing the rifugio — or rather we lay on our backs facing it. And we travelled down through the lane between the firs backwards. As though by mutual consent we talked. And the talk developed into a comparison of the merits of various Italian composers. Mayne knew his opera and hummed snatches to illustrate his points. He preferred the gay swiftness of The Barber and the subtle comedy of lesser known operas, like I quattro rusteghi, to the heavier pieces. In this we differed, for Traviata is my favourite. But we were on common ground in our enthusiasm for the spectacle of Aida, played beneath a full moon in the open-air theatre in Rome with the colossal, shadowy bulk of the Baths of Caracalla as its setting. I must confess that, at that moment, I liked his company immensely.

As we came into Cortina by car, the streets were full of skiers moving out to the Various runs. They were a gaily coloured throng, their tanned faces glowing with the cold mountain air. The little town, with its gables and high, pencil-sharp church steeple, looked bright and gay in the sunlight. There were tourists wandering the snow-piled pavements, gazing in the shop windows or sitting in steamy-windowed cafes drinking coffee and cognac. The two overhead cable railways — the funivias — stretched out their cables, like antennae, on either side of the town. The one to the left climbed to Mandres in one cable jump and then scaled the heights of Faloria in a single sweep. It was just possible to make out the line of the cable, like a frail thread, and the little red car against the sun-warmed brown of the Faloria cliffs. On the other side of the town, a shorter cable made one bound to the rounded knoll of Pocol, with its hotels and the slittovias leading to the more advanced runs — Col Druscie and the Tofana Olympic run.

I left Mayne at the Luna and then went on to the ufficio della posta where I caught the air mail with my second report to Engles and the roll of film. When I arrived at the Splendido, Mancini was drinking in the bar with several fellow hoteliers. He greeted me as though I were the one person he had been waiting for. He had great ability as a host. 'You must have a drink, Mr Blair,' he said. 'The Luna is always so cold.' And he grinned like a playful lion at a thin, neat little Italian, whom I guessed to be the owner of the Gran' Albergo Luna. 'A large Martini — yes? It will prevent ennui. Then we will go and buy the slittovia. Afterwards we will celebrate. Whenever one of us buys something, we all celebrate. It is the excuse. Always there must be the excuse.'

The lounge of the Luna was warm and cosy when we arrived. There were between twenty and thirty people there — all men and mostly Italian. They had the indifference of spectators. They were not there to buy. They were there because it was a social function and there would be drinks afterwards. They crowded round Mancini, laughing and chattering, congratulating him on his latest acquisition. Mayne was sunk in an easy-chair with a tall glass in front of him. I went across and joined him. He pulled up a chair and ordered me a drink. But he did not seem interested in conversation. He was watching the scene closely. His interest switched suddenly to the door. I followed the direction of his gaze and was surprised to see that Valdini had entered. He moved jauntily with an air of colossal self-importance. This morning it was a darker suiting with a sheen of mauve in it. The shirt was cream-coloured and the tie red, shot with blue flashes of forked lightning. 'What's Valdini doing here?' I asked. 'Shouldn't have thought he would have been interested in an auction.'

'I don't know.' Mayne spoke softly, as though to himself, and there was a puzzled frown on his dark handsome face.

Then the auctioneer entered. He moved with the self-conscious air of a man about to conjure something out of a hat. You felt there should have been a fanfare of trumpets to herald that entrance. He moved through the room as though it were an Audience, bowing to acquaintances, pausing a moment here and there to shake a hand. You felt it was his moment. He had two waiters hovering behind him. He indicated a table. He had it moved. He chose a chair. It was placed ready for him. He tossed his papers on to the table. The maitre d'hotel brought on his hammer and set it carefully on the polished table top. An imaginary fleck of dust was hastily removed. Then finally, the auctioneer settled himself behind the table. He beat upon the top of it dramatically. The room began to settle itself. Mancini moved to a vacant table just near me. The pack followed at his heels. He pulled his chair next to me. 'He is amusing — yes?' he said, nodding towards the auctioneer.

'The entrance was nicely handled,' I said.

He smiled and nodded. 'We are a theatrical race,' he said. 'That is why, when an Italian is executed, he dies well. He may not like the result, but he enjoys the moment. Now, you will see. We shall be very quiet and he will talk for a long time. We know this slittovia as well as we know our own hotels. But he will describe it to us as though we had never seen it. He will make the lyric of the description. He will become excited. He will make gestures. It will be the grand performance. And then, when he is exhausted, I shall make the bid and it will be sold for what has already been arranged. It is all very un-English,' he added with a sly twinkle. 'But I am glad you are amused. If you were not amused, you would be bored, and that would make me sad.'

The hammer crashed on to the table top again. The room stopped talking. The curtain had been rung up. The performance had begun. The auctioneer began reading the conditions of sale. He slipped through it rapidly. It gave him no scope. But then came the reasons for the sale. He told of its original purchase by the 'miserable' Sordini from the collaborator who had once owned the Excelsior. He told of Sordini's arrest, of the 'world-shaking' news that he was Heinrich Stelben, a German war criminal wanted for the most 'terrible, fearful and blood-thirsty crimes against the Italian and British peoples'. He drew a word portrait of this 'madman'. He touched briefly on the crimes of the 'terrible tedesci', and barely saved himself from a short history of how the Italian people had been 'roused by terrible and barbaric acts' and had forced the 'hated' Germans to surrender. Then suddenly, pianissimo, he began to describe the slittovia and the hut on Col da Varda. Gradually he whipped himself into a lyrical frenzy — it was a 'stupendous' opportunity for an astute business man with 'grand' ideas, an incredibly beautiful property, thoroughly equipped by 'brilliant German engineers', a 'small hotel with a finer panoramic view than the Eagle's Nest at Berchtesgaden'.