Free The Lonely Skier by Hammond Innes Page B

‘Once—yes. But now—one gets old, you know.’ She shrugged her shoulders and walked across to her skis.
    â€˜I am afraid it will be a question of you escorting me, Contessa,’ I apologised as I fixed my skis. ‘It is two years since I did any ski-ing.’
    â€˜Do not worry,’ she said. ‘It will come back. And Cortina is not a difficult run. You need to do a lot of stemming on the first part. After that it is a straight run. Are you ready?’ She was standing poised on the slope that led into the fir woods.
    My feet felt very clumsy. I remembered what Joe had said that morning about his skis feeling like a couple of canoes. That is just what mine felt like. I wished I had not told her that I was going into Cortina. ‘Yes, I’m ready,’ I said, and slithered across the belvedere to the start of the run.
    She laid a slim, white-gloved hand on my arm. Her mood changed. ‘I think we are going to become good friends,’ she said. ‘I shall call you Neil. It is such a nice name. And you had better call me–Carla.’ She gave me a quick glance to see that the point had registered and then, with a smile and a flash of sticks, she plunged down into the dark firs. Whilst I was still hesitating on the brink of the run, her cry of ‘libera!’ floated back to me from the woods, telling me that already she had reached the point where the ski track from Monte Cristallo joins the Col da Varda–Cortina run.
    I thrust myself forward with my sticks, saw my ski points tilt on to the slope and then I was hurtling through the cold air, my skis biting deeply on the frozen surface of the run. I took it slowly, snow-ploughing on the steeper slopes so that my ankles ached and stemming hard on the bends. The track was not really steep. But to my unaccustomed skis, it seemed precipitous as it wound down through the black straight trunks of the firs. I had no time to think about the Contessa’s reason for that sudden admission of identity. Brain and muscle were alike concentrated on getting down the run.
    Halfway down to the road I found the Contessa waiting for me in a patch of sunlight. She looked a ghostly figure in her white ski suit, which was cream-coloured against the purer white of the snow. I nerved myself for a half-Christi and it came off. I stopped dead beside her in a flurry of ice-crisp snow. A little wobbly it was true, but still I had done it and it takes quite a bit of nerve to try it, if you haven’t been on skis for a long time and aren’t particularly good anyway.
    â€˜Bravo!’ she applauded. She had a cigarette in her mouth and was holding the packet out to me.
    I took one. I was feeling very pleased with myself. I had been trying to show off and her quietly voiced ‘bravo!’ gave me immense satisfaction. My hand was trembling with the nervous excitement of the effort as I lit her cigarette.
    There was a short silence between us. It was not an embarrassed silence. It was more the silence of two people thinking out what line they are going to take. It was very quiet in the woods and the sun was warm. My body glowed and tingled. The cigarette was Turkish and the scent of it was an exotic intrusion in that solitude of snow and fir. My brain was working fast. I knew what she was going to ask. That was why she had stopped for a smoke. And I had to think of some natural explanation of how I had come by that photograph. How had Engles got hold of it? I glanced at her. She was watching me covertly through a veil of smoke. She was expecting me to say something. I nerved myself to break the silence between us. ‘So that
was
your photograph?’ I said, hoping that my voice did not sound nervous.
    She drew deeply at her cigarette. ‘Yes,’ she said and her voice was pitched strangely low. ‘You were quite right. I was once called Carla Rometta.’ She hesitated then. I waited and at length she said, ‘You seem