Snow Blind (16 page)
Authors: Richard Blanchard
She buries her face in the front of my ski jacket; she convulses with laughter, but hides it away so I cannot luxuriate in it. Why is she so scared of being different in front of me? A deep intake of air accompanies her head rising. Her elbows prise open the space between my third and fourth ribs; I dare not complain in fear of losing the moment.
“See, it's all about control.” She attempts to resume her teaching role but realises she had been complicit in our harmless accident; her face is buried again until her laughter can be tamed.
“Do you remember ice skating in Streatham?” She rediscovers her poise. Our closeness brings her back to mothballed memories that I no longer let out for fear of their pain. Of course I remember. I remember it all.
“I don't know which one of us was worse at it. You fell over and couldn't get up because you were afraid of getting your hands cut off.” I remind her of her stupidity and her face is back in my ski jacket. We went home on the bus eating a mountain of popcorn, spilling it into the wooden floor slats. I feel the release from our frantic girl-on-top sex on the sofa afterwards. My stomach always turned at seeing the murky brown foam peering through the threadbare cushions. Spiky spilt popcorn kernels pressed into my face. I have framed the look of imploring ecstasy that carried her to orgasm. Does she feel these things now?
“You know there is trouble ahead?” A sharp intake of thin mountain air allows her to recover composure. She is happy to stay perched on me, but my ribs are going numb.
“Am I going to get my head dunked in the toilets?”
“I mean it Dan. Robert is a nasty sod. You will need a clear head tomorrow.”
“A clear head? I am going to be force-fed beer on my stag night but still need a clear head in the morning? What are we doing?”
“Just prepare for intense skiing.” I was invincible with her at my side; maybe she can be there again.
“Do you think Sophia would like to ski?” She incisively drops us back into our reality. I can't answer for her anymore so don't.
“Are you missing Bepe?” Her eyes are puffed from laughter, but because she uses so little make-up her face is still in place.
“I miss him so.” Bepe has never possessed me like he does now. He is becoming present in each action and reaction. Is she testing my commitment? He was snatched from me when I had never been so close. At least my stag trials are distracting me from this heartache.
“Can we go down to shop in Chamonix? We can have a coffee and catch up.” Juliet has a plan.
“That's possible babe.” Of course it is, I would like nothing more.
“Listen, I just wanted to say that⦔ She looks at me solemnly and tenderly. Oh my lord.
“Let's go then babe.” I don't think I am ready for what she has to say. My head is spinning and I need to think about Sophia and Bepe. If I don't go through with the wedding what would happen?
The snow that I have displaced is dying in the afternoon sun, but anything I fell onto is thriving with a confident shimmer. I have suffered her digging elbows long enough. I push upwards for both of us, breaking the spell of our closeness. We reassemble our equipment and ourselves.
“Where to now babe?” I ask.
“Let's finish this run. We will stay on-piste now, but keep going straighter down the hill,” she says insistently.
And so I ski on in a heady state with Juliet in my sight. I try to displace the tonne of lead I feel in my heart at the fleeting thought of losing Bepe. Maybe this will be a new best memory in my life. My mental journey is now accompanied by the sweeping orchestral themes of John Barry. Skiing broadens the scale of our little lives; the grand mountains bring hopeful immensity.
“Last one to the bottom gets the coffee!” I scream straight down the hill past the unsuspecting Juliet. I don't know how to stop at such speed but it isn't an issue now.
“W
HY DON'T MEN SEE THE SIGNS?”
“Attention Messieurs, attention!”
the French van driver knows Dan is in danger
Dan is unwittingly window shopping and in danger of being carried through it. The high-sided metal-framed trolley overloaded with clothes is heading straight at him. The driver lost control as he closed the van door and it rolls speedily down the steep top of the avenue.
His hopes rely on either the driver catching it or in him waking up to the danger in the next twenty seconds. I am standing twenty yards away perusing the postcards on display outside a tobacconist. He had seemed so relaxed this afternoon, so happy with his lot. He crouches slightly under the awning of the record shop, which is also probably shielding the noise.
Ten seconds maybe; the van driver is over fifty but he is making good progress hampered by tight fitting jeans. All is lost then. The rest of the break will be visiting Dan in a hospital bed. He will be slashed from head to toe with window glass and maybe suffer a broken right arm from the impact. It will certainly ruin my shopping expedition and my chance to set our record straight. My eyes narrow to shield my view of the accident.
Two seconds left. I only realised that the trolley had missed Dan when it started to head towards me. The van driver hurled himself at the cage to deflect it away from Dan, only for its new trajectory to be this bookshop. I take the necessary two steps backwards into the road, and stand between two parked cars. The cage is eventually halted by the display of postcards I had been viewing. Then the second-hand books on a low wooden shelf take a beating. Display on display topples over, but no glass is shattered and no human hit.
“Juliet babe, are you okay?” Dan had run behind the cars and put his arm on my shoulder. “You were in real danger there babe.” He has no hint of what was to befall him. I am speechless at the change of fortune.
The dumpy bald bookshop owner has clambered over his scattered displays and knocked the van driver on the ground. He instantly regrets it as the driver rises to show his physical presence. They push each other and seethe in French.
“Typical French, losing it over some clothes and books.” Dan still doesn't register his potential part in the piece.
“Let's go in that sports shop,” I suggest as we cross the street.
“I can deal with that. Let's get a baseball bat in case things turn really nasty.” He is so empty of his own agenda and open to mine.
The carved wood and glass door shuts with a swish enclosing the smell of new cotton. The staff seems to avoid us as I scour the printed T-shirts for a present for Ethan. I feel closer to him again. I picture hastily unpacking the top of my suitcase on Sunday night, giving him a present as a token for my time away.
“Ouch.” I look up to see that Dan has walked into a wooden snowboarding sign hanging from the ceiling at a height that threatens none but the very tall.
“Are you shopping for Ethan?” Still rubbing his head; it's the first time he has mentioned my boy.
“Yes. He is a medium, so if you see anything⦔
“What about this, this looks cool.” Dan holds up an orange 1960s' retro-style ski jacket, with Chamonix lettering sewn into the front.
“Would you have worn that in your teens?” Dan seems delighted that I remember his taste. He was so light-hearted, child-like in everything except his height. I know he loved me but it was surely the love of an over-eager puppy dog. I don't know maybe the jacket might work. I pay sixty crisp Euros to the snooty owner. One present down, one more to go.
Walking out of the shop, the scene from which we escaped has been fast forwarded. The clothes, van and its driver are nowhere to be seen. The bookshop owner cradles his forehead, sitting on one of his upended displays, as his assistant picks up books.
“There is a really good book store at the bottom of the street, can we go there?” Dan's acquiescence is both charming and unsettling. The whitewashed buildings of Chamonix are covered in low sun. Dan walks behind me. I turn around to see him superimposed on the backdrop of the mountains.
We take a step into the bookshop but Dan sees his brother Chris at the window of McDonalds. He walks towards the window but retreats. Maybe Chris wouldn't want him to witness him eating himself silly. My next intended gift is to get Scott a book about the mountains.
“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle. Ca va?”
Do bookshop owners work harder than sports shop owners?
“Oui. Avez vous la grande photographique livre cette Montagne?”
I give him enough to provoke a reaction. He guides me to a huge table covered in just what I am looking for.
“Chamonix, Mont Blanc, Vallée Blanche?” he asks. My head jumps at the mention of the destination of tomorrow's expedition. I glance at Dan to see if I have unwittingly revealed anything, but he is naturally oblivious. All of the books are breathtaking. I study the Vallée Blanche book but it is in French. I find a photo of a door marked with the word “Attention” in many languages. The word “guide” is mentioned numerous times. It gives a chilling perspective on where we are aiming to ski tomorrow. The inside back page seems to be a dedication to those who have lost their lives on the mountain. I must get Robert to cancel this foolhardy trip. I pay for a book on Mont Blanc without opening a page.
“Hi Chris. See you back at the hotel.” Dan exaggerates his speech so that Chris can lip-read from inside McDonalds. Chris gives a thumbs up while pushing his plastic tray with empty burger wrappers away with his elbow.
“It's been really nice spending time together today. Should we get a coffee before we head back?” I make a final request.
“Great babe let's do that. It's been great for me too! Can I get a postcard to send home?” Why is he asking my permission? He worries me with his knowing looks.
We select a postcard each from the next shop we see; I choose Chamonix town against Mont Blanc, he chooses Mickey Mouse on skis.
“Keep a look out for runaway trolleys,” he shouts as he goes inside to pay.
We cross the paved river bridge to find an outdoor café in the buzzing square. The café is nearly full with relaxing après-skiers and wellheeled Europeans.
“You get the table. I will get the drinks, what do you want?” I instantly regret my offer as I see a queue at least fifteen long. It's time now; we have re-established a faded friendship but he must know why I left him. I apply lip salve; I don't want to dry up. The queue goes slowly.
“Deux cappuccino, aussi une l'eau naturelle, s'il vous plait.”
Dan is finishing his postcard with a flourish as I return. He grabs the coffees before I have chance to drop the water bottle under my arm. I regret the choice of location as it lacks much-needed privacy should he be distressed.
“It's ten past four, what time are we going out?” Dan enquires, being the stag in the dark. I have less than ten minutes to talk.
“We are meeting at about six in the lobby, but I have to get back to meet the others in a bit.” Robert insisted we all meet at four thirty in the hotel lobby to, as he put it, discuss “Stag tactics”.
“I am desperate for the loo babe, I will drink up quick when I get back.” He goes inside and I think the opportunity is lost. It needs to be right.
Dan knocks the table as he leaves; my water splashes his newly written postcard. The gel pen ink has smudged in three places. I retrieve a tissue from my pocket to damp the wet patches. I find myself obtrusively reading it.
Hi Sophia and Bepe.
Daddy misses you so much Bepe. Mickey Mouse will cheer you up till I come home. I will take you and Mickey skiing one day. Sophia, sorry about Wednesday, it hit me hard. We need to talk as I struggle sometimes. Skiing brilliantly now thanks to Juliet.
Dan.
He cannot send that to a woman eight days away from her marriage, he sounds like he isn't going through with it. Why has he got cold feet? He doesn't think anything is happening with us does he? Heaven forbid. Does he think I came on this trip to stop him getting married? How much is he going to hate me when he knows the truth? What does he think I have been doing all these years?
“Hi babe, are we ready to rock and roll?” He remains standing to gulp his coffee. The last draught takes an age as he waits for the froth to descend from the bottom of the cup. I slip the postcard back on the table, as he looks skyward.
I gather my things.
“Sorry, we have to go but I am really worried about these bastards Dan.” I never swear.
“Let them play their games, I can handle it.” Dan says as we cross the square again. “Don't get me wrong; I hate all the macho bullshit, but they are harmless. They have come away just for me haven't they, so they deserve some fun. They don't worry me anymore.” So what does worry you now Dan?
“I think I know a shortcut to the back of the hotel from here.” I propose a new route.
“Okay babe I will always follow you.” He smirks at me as if we are on the same page. I think the man still loves me. We are in deep trouble.
“W
HY CAN'T MEN DEAL WITH AN EMOTIONAL TRUTH?'
I walk at city pace, too fast for conversation. I stride beyond my natural gait expertly weaving around human obstacles. This is a pace used after a pressured lunch break or en-route to my next mode of transport. My walking boots provide necessary grip, but my right heel rubs and threatens to blister.
Dan lopes alongside, beside or behind me, grinning, as the pace does not exert him. Our innocent shopping amble through Chamonix feels long gone. I am going to be late anyway, but have to get to the stag meeting before it is too late.
We re-cross the pathway over the river, it gushes with grey swirling mountain water.
“We can cut through behind the Alpine Museum.” Dan shrugs and smiles at my directions. He doesn't realise why I am in such a hurry to meet his stags. I am also propelled by the growing confusion between us.