Snow Blind (10 page)
Authors: Richard Blanchard
Chris follows, moving inch by inch in contrast. He is stiff, the snow crunching under his weight, moving crab-like down the hill. He is waved to the far left away from Juliet.
Six others follow behind Chris. I try to judge myself against them; surely I am better than that? Ponytail girl comes next, her eagerness to start pressurises me. Surely there should be a kindergarten for her?
“Good luck mate!” Johnny encourages from behind me in the line.
And then there was me. I try to get going without letting any momentum build up. At six foot three I don't know if I was cut out for this. My legs stretch into the widest snowplough possible. My breakfast comes back into my throat but I gulp it back. As I slip around in my first turn I remember loving this when I last did it. I manage another turn before coming in too fast and very close to Aldo. He points at the floor in front of him.
I have made the middle ground and I am proud of it. Without warning the trial has stimulated my weak male competitive edge. Maybe I will teach Bepe how to ski when he has grown up a little. This will be something that the dad and his lad will really enjoy together, a time to get him away from his mum and show him how much I care. I am resolved to learn quickly now. The sun shines again although it had never been away.
Johnny and Steve do better still, but Aldo makes them join me. Johnny and I show we are happy enough. Steve cannot contain his disappointment at not making it into Juliet's top group. He looks disdainfully at the ponytail girl and the big bloke who complete our group.
Juliet is arguing with her instructor. She walks over towards me. He shrugs and makes a sweeping hand gesture behind her back.
“What happened there?” I ask.
“Oh, I just wanted to ski with you but he didn't appreciate the rejection,” Juliet laughs.
“Don't go down the cable car at lunchtime Chris. We will meet by the ski shop after the lesson.” Juliet shouts to my worried-looking brother as his group are asked to climb this hill again. He signals acknowledgement with a raised pole.
“I am Aldo, I from Cannazei in Dolomites in Italia and I instructor here three years. This English middle beginners group. Maybe we parallel ski in few days no? Ok, so we introduce now. Next please you say name, where you live. We speak English.” Aldo commandingly invites our group to expose their identities.
“My friends call me Kronk and I am from Utrecht in the Nederland.”
“I am Juliet from London in England.”
“My name Mari Elena in Napoli,” my ponytailed friend reveals confidently.
“I am Johnny from Sheffield in England.”
“My name is Dan and I am also from England, the Roman city of Chester,” I elaborately introduce myself to try to affiliate myself with the Italians.
“You live Roma?” Aldo enquires, somewhat confused by the mention of two places.
“No Chester in England.” Aldo lets the Roman reference hang in the air without comprehension.
“I am Steve Priestly, I am an art director from Manchester, true capital of England and I am here on his stag weekend.” He fluffs my hair and his pole chafes my ear.
You can just be a wanker sometimes Steve. Who are you trying to impress by saying you are an art director? Why did you tell him I was a stag? I bow my head, hoping that he hasn't just got me into more trouble; this is a man who can inflict pain and embarrassment.
“What is stag?” Aldo asks Steve.
“He gets married next week and we are here to get him laid,” Steve excitedly informs him.
“Ah,
buona fortuno,
good lucks. He is stag, you all English hooligans, yes?” Aldo typecasts us.
“Okay now we go.” My new group waddles behind Aldo over to the nearest ski lift.
Our ski-school status allows us to squeeze past the deep ski-lift queue. Juliet and Johnny are either side of me as we are scooped into the air. The safety bar cracks down into position over my head. As we rise the chair bobs over the first main pylon to create a feeling of travel sickness. This is an unnatural high, being suspended 200 feet off the ground by a series of wires and pulleys is surely for the circus. I get some travelling respite for my legs and heart, so get the iPhone out to continue my quest and reach letter M.
Number 3 “Magnificent Seven” by The Clash.
This was released on CBS. When The Clash rocked into view in 1976, I was scared stiff of them at first. They had real edge, spitting at the world from their high moral ground. I remember the local media had us believing punks were going to riot through every town. Within a few years the riots were real and The Clash and others poured multicultural fuel on the flames of Brixton and Toxteth. I used to use this track in my late teens to develop some attitude before going out into Sheffield city centre with Johnny. Joe Strummer hisses disdain at anyone working the corporate nine to five. If only my working days were that short. He is basically saying no one is remembered for doing the corporate gig, so asks what do you want to be remembered for? It's all right for you Joe; you found your magnificence in song. I had the same calling, but no breaks; what is the second act if you can't live by performing? I had to earn some dough Joe.
The top station approaches. Johnny pushes the safety bar up early and we travel fifty yards with nothing to hold us in. The tension releases momentarily as the snowy terra firma appears and the three of us slip off the lift inadvertently holding arms.
“Today we make the pizzas yes, you all know this?” We are all nonplussed, but no-one dares asks for explanation. We are standing atop the highest peak I have ever seen, made treacherous by the synthetic planks strapped to our feet. It feels like I would reach Chamonix town centre if I turned my skis downhill.
“We make the skis like the pizza slice to make snowplough downhill. To turn left you weight on right ski. To turn right you weight on left ski. You follow my line one by one. I stop at bottom and wave pole for next one. Okay, Steve Hooligan first, then the stag. Follow one by one.” He skis in six effortless arcs to a slight plateau in the slope, having carved a defined snow snake for us to fail to follow. Steve looks pleased with himself once again and skis off first.
“How are you doing mate? They are all giving you a rough ride.” Johnny moves beside me; sunglasses shade my eyes and his ability to read the real answer.
“Yeah, holding it together. Just wish Max and Robert would ease up.” I wipe my nose in preparation for my run, smelling the distinctive Piz Buin sunscreen on my hand that I inconsistently applied this morning.
I start to let my skis flatten and slide forward. Weight on the right ski I coach myself, sure enough I turn over to the left. I try the same with the left ski but my turn is not so marked. As I coax another turn Robert appears from nowhere, stopping dead in my path.
“What you doing Dan, walking down the hill?” I slide into him completely off balance. He hops away lightly to disentangle us.
“You haven't even got your boots done up properly!” He helpfully leans down and adjusts the top buckle on each of my boots.
“Thanks, I need to ski to the instructor now.” Aldo is waving both poles impatiently just out of earshot.
“I wouldn't want to hold you up! See you later lanky.” He takes off straight at Aldo. Somehow he whips behind him when it seemed inevitable they would crash.
Unsettled, I start off again, this time forgetting our instruction. Do I understand the thrill of doing this? I probably won't really find it until I can stop when I want to. Whoever dreamt this up? Putting slippery planks on your feet to stand on snow and ice? After two turns I come slowly into Aldo's vocal range.
“No, no, you make more turns where I show you. The weather is nice yes, but you not on the beach, you not on deckchair. Lean forward. Concentrate now. Okay you better next time stag.” And with that he waves to Johnny to follow.
I step towards the beaming Steve.
“He's a good bloke that Aldo. Did you see Robert go by? He looked sensational!”
“Yes, he stopped to help me at the top.”
“Didn't do much good then! Anyway we need some time to talk about ByeFly; Max says we are in deep do-do.”
“I know.” I want to give the impression I am fully conversant with whatever situation I haven't been informed about. As usual Max has seen fit to keep me mushroom-like in the dark.
“You knew about the campaign re-pitch presentation next week and didn't tell me? We are up against two London agencies we think, so really in the shit. We are getting the brief from Max later.” My rising spirit deflates at the thought I might have to work on my own stag weekend. A re-pitch is loads of work; it's impossible to do it well in the few days before I am off for the wedding and honeymoon. No, that can wait; I am not letting it invade my thoughts.
“Heep to the hill, shoulder to the valley,” is Aldo's mantra. Our procession goes through another two instructional ski-offs, each one marginally improving our ability. We group back together where we started.
“You are doing well Dan, making some progress don't you think?” Juliet tries to inspire me as we wait to be honourably discharged.
“I agree. You are a really good skier though Juliet,” Johnny offers his encouragement and a chocolate bar for general consumption.
“You could do with turning more, don't drift so much,” Juliet advises. She turns to see where Aldo is. “That Aldo is a lecherous pervert, I caught him looking Mari Elena up and down. She must be twelve!” Juliet raises her voice so that she will be heard.
“Okay we finish today. We meet ten o'clock at top of lift station tomorrow and we progress well. In two days maybe you start parallel ski, but we must know our limit, yes. You have nice lunch now. Bye bye.” Aldo slips backwards down the short hill in front of the ski shop.
Suddenly Aldo is animated again. “Hey stag hooligan boots not closed! You lean back like the beach because boots not closed. Ciao.”
I look down to see two undone clasps on the top of each boot. I realise Robert's supposed help is never as straightforward as it appears.
“I will wait here for Chris, you go and sort yourselves out with some lunch.” Steve and Johnny didn't need to be told twice that they should immediately address their ski-induced under-nourishment.
“I will stay with you Dan.” Juliet would need more shaking off.
“Jules, the queues are horrendous, you go and get in line.”
“Are you sure? Can I buy yours as well then? What do you fancy?”
The answers are yes, yes and you. “Spag Bol or something like it.” I need a big dollop of European-style carbohydrate. “Tell Robert it was un-cool undoing my boots if you see him.” I need to get him to back off, but how do I tackle him directly?
I fall back onto the wooden bench outside the ski shop. With just my weight on one end it threatens to tip up. Now that I am through my morning's ordeal I feel able to face the rest of the weekend. I am at the same spot as this morning without the earlier feelings of dread. I probably wouldn't tip the Snac Shack bar owner at all now.
The hopeful blue and gold stars of the European flag flutter high above my head. I try to count the stars but I keep losing count, as the flag is moving and the sun blinding. I don't think any more stars have been added to recognise the outer reaches of Eastern Europe. If I had just joined like Cyprus I would be pissed off if I couldn't have my own star. Maybe they should redesign it and have an inner ring. At least the Yanks have the right number of stars and states. However, by the time they had re-made the flags another ex-communist country would have joined heralding another paranoid outburst of British immigration hysteria, with dire warnings that the country will topple into the sea with the influx of millions of immigrants. Maybe they could just put some stripes on it and copy the Yanks. My country is the real outlier of Europe, so maybe our star should be printed on the back. As Europe prepares to lunch I think I can distinctly see a line separating the drinkdriven British against the perceived grace and sophistication of all other Europeans.
My focus drops to the crowds milling around the ski shop and restaurant, busying themselves with their joint purpose, to get up and down these slopes in as much of a hurry as their ability will let them. I feel I have found the epicentre of European Union, a place where potentially cross snow boarders can happily cross borders! I inwardly chuckle. The collective memory that Han's granddad shot Tim's has been groomed out of people's prejudice after years of snow-induced integration. They should place the European parliament here; the whole thing would be a lot more productive.
My union is exactly nine days away now. I will be married into the Italian mob. I don't suspect my father-in-law is connected but they are undoubtedly capable of breaking my legs if their daughter is crossed. I am glad to be out from under the white-hot glare of wedding planning which I only serve to hinder. I am truly guilty that it all falls onto Sophia but I am incapable. She is a great girl, it is right that I am settling down now we have Bepe; he will solidify us. I also know she is angry about what happened yesterday with him, I will have to fix it before we walk up the mock aisle at the Golf Club.
For a moment I regret taking my right glove off, the cold immediately attacks the warmth my hand emanates. I see another navy blue jacket in the distance but it is too slim to contain Chris's bulk. He is twenty minutes late now, where can he be? I fish for my iPhone but am interrupted by Chris's cursing.
“Bloody rubbish, I could only turn one way. I crashed into this girl in the ski school twice. The rest of them fell like dominoes. I have had enough for today.” Chris huffs and pants his way through this brutalist appraisal of his morning.
“Let's go for lunch, everyone is in the restaurant, I think.”