Joe Wesson had something of the same reaction. He suddenly materialised at my elbow. He wore rubber-soled shoes and moved quietly for such a large man. 'Not a hair out of place, eh?' he said, looking at the brochure over my shoulder. 'It's like the Italians to try to tame Nature with a pot of brilliantine. But it can't be far from here that twenty thousand men died trying to get Hannibal's elephants through the passes. And only a year or two back, I suppose, a lot of our blokes were frozen to death attempting to get through from Germany.'
I tossed the brochures back on to the pile. 'It might be Palm Beach, or the Lido, Venice, or Mayfair,' I agreed. 'Same people — same atmosphere. Only I suppose it's all white outside.'
IB He gave a snort of disgust and led the way in to dinner.
'You'll be glad enough to return to it,' he muttered, 'after you've had a day or two up in that damned hut.'
As I sat down, I glanced round the room at the other diners, wondering whether the girl who had signed herself 'Carla' in that photograph would Be there. She wasn't, of course, though the majority of the women in the room were Italian. I wondered why Engles should expect her to be at Cortina.
'No need to try and catch their eyes,' Joe Wesson said through a mouthful of ravioli. 'Judging by the looks of most of 'em, you've only got to leave your bedroom door open.'
'You're being unnecessarily coarse,' I said.
His little bloodshot eyes twinkled at me. 'Sorry, old man. Forgot you'd been in Italy long enough to know your way around. Is it a contessa or a marchesa you're expecting?'
'I don't quite know,' I replied. 'It could just as well be a signora, or even a signorina, or just a common or garden little tart.'
'Well, if it's the last you're wanting,' he said, 'you shouldn't have much difficulty in this assembly.'