Authors: Richard Blanchard
Snow Blind (12 page)
“I feel fine, I was lucky I think.” I am strangely buoyant to have survived the spill.
“Not lucky enough to have friends who look after you,” Juliet shoots a stare at Max and Robert.
“Hey, this run is easy enough.” Max defends his choice.
“Yeah, where is the buzz in this slope?” Robert decries the challenge I have just faced.
From the gloom above us a piste patroller arrives.
“Bonjour. Ca va?”
“Oui.
Thanks.
Très bien
. Okay.” I give him a gloved thumbs up.
“I am coming down and see fall.” He has detected my Englishness and takes off my beanie hat to search for signs of a wound or blow.
“What kind of skier are you?” Good question I suppose. “What is your ski class?”
“Oh, I am a middle beginner I think.”
“You should not be here. This is ice no? This red is skiing black I think. Do not do this for safety no? Who is your leader?” Like the stranded alien in every Star Trek movie he insists on finding out where our point of authority is.
Eyes dance over eyes, we exchange rueful glances, but nobody is going to give up Max for a French roasting.
“Go now. Weather very bad is coming.” He leaves us now that we are safely in view of the chair lift. I wish he could stay with us for the weekend; his authority would be welcome.
The tree is refracted through the bottom of my dimpled glass tankard. Wheat beer and gas surge down my throat, its distinctive aroma stinging my nostrils; I can't take any more. Above my glass Chamonix station accepts the steady flow of après-ski travellers that I had anticipated sat here last night. Above the station the circling mountains sit with brooding aspect, holding back the weather we have just escaped allowing us to ripen in a soon to disappear sun. Most of my stags stand with me in the courtyard, our tired limbs reverberating with the smooth swing of Erykah Badduh boomed at us from speakers hidden in the tree. Juliet and Chris wobble on high chairs at the outdoor bar besides us; the mental age of some of my stag-mates suggests they would be more comfortable in romper suits strapped obediently into plastic ones. The lowering of my glass prompts a collective moan, another stag challenge I have failed to meet. Yet again I sense my inability to rise to the occasion is wearing them down, maybe they will give up trying soon?
“Surely you can neck one pint Dan! It's your stag do, put some effort in.” Chris chides me having seen off his pint in three gulps.
“Your brother has never been able to drink. You used to make an arse of me when we were at college. He was an embarrassment as a man then and remains one.” Robert makes his nasty judgement known. I choose not to respond but feel aggrieved. He is always crossing the line between ribbing and outright insult, he reminds me why he makes my blood boil. I don't respond, as it will only give him further cause to insult me.
“And here you are letting me down again. It's called skiing you know Dan, not sliding.”
“Hey it was icy, anyone could have fallen,” I defend myself.
“But only you did,” Max interjects.
“That piste patroller said it was like a black.”
“He's just trying to scare you. There is no way it was black. You just have to learn how to ski. It was funny seeing the panic on your face though, you were bricking it.” Robert is looking at Max all the while as their collusion deepens. They accept that it is my first war story, but they conceal the fact that their irresponsibility conceived it.
“Maybe he should just take lessons from you. He wouldn't have been so exposed then would he?” Juliet surprisingly intervenes from her bar stool.
“If he jacks in ski school I will show him how it is done in an hour. You just commit to the hill, lean forward and angle those legs. It's like life, the straighter you go the easier it is.” Robert picks up her sarcastic challenge, deluding himself that I might actually do it. This latter observation is deep for Robert; who needs Nietzsche?
“I am surprised it would take that long with you teaching him?” Juliet fooled me, her constrained laughter forces a dimple to appear above her brow; revealing her game of ego inflation.
“Let's do it Dan. I won't give up more than an hour though, women to ogle, places to ski!” He genuinely believes I would do it.
“Maybe if I can get my money back mate.” I am safe in the knowledge that the ski school is expressly non refundable.
My brain is flooded with light as the sun stands on the horizon. I try to keep looking at its fall, but my shades cannot keep out the piercing rays. They seem compressed into one final burst for the day and then they are gone. A chill falls upon us.
“More drinks guys?” Johnny offers and takes the simple order for beers all round.
“I will give you a hand.” I go inside the bar with him, but it is much diminished in daylight. Burgundy walls ooze with the addition of nicotine stains; its rustic wooden floor is pitted beyond repair. It is transformed into a tatty Wild West saloon, the shimmering clink of ski buckles replacing the metallic ring of spurs.
“Are you feeling sore at all?” Johnny asks as we stand at the bar. A swarthy Scandinavian type, hair tousled to the point of distraction, serves the swooning English girls next to us. We smile weakly at them and they ignore us.
“I'm good my man.” I lie to him about the frost burn on the back of my neck and the developing warmth in my right knee that talks of a sprain. I know that I have to be careful but am generally energised by my performance. My accident is woven into the developing tapestry of this weekend, something that they can pinpoint as embarrassment, which may quench their thirst for more. I have fallen big time but nothing bad happened, maybe I can let go more now.
“How are your tracks of the years coming along? I know I couldn't do it.”
“Coming along, coming along⦔
“I'll bet that Prince has made the cut.” That gives me an idea.
“Not yet but he will. Which track would you nominate though?”
““Girls and Boys” of course,” he states emphatically. “Are you okay mate, you seem distracted.”
“Oh nothing that a good night's sleep wouldn't put right.” My natural course is to lie about what I feel. I do it so cheerily and well.
“Actually I am feeling a bit raw at the moment, but I just can't let these guys down can I?
“Max and Robert don't give a toss mate, just try and stay clear of them. Juliet hates Robert; I don't know what he has done.”
“If I am honest mate I feel a little unsure about the whole wedding thing, I am⦔ I tail off as the barman approaches. He is less happy to be serving us than his previous customers.
“What do you mean mate?” Johnny knows something is up.
“Oh nothing. You know how it is, just pre gig nerves. Let's get these drinks back to them.” Lies, all lies, why is it so important to me to keep the peace? We take our short and overpriced tankards of wheat beer outdoor.
“We can chat another time⦔
“Okay, any time. I can't wait to hear the seven tracks mate. Maybe we can play them at the wedding disco.” Johnny knows the commitment necessary for me to complete this task and is enthused by my dedication.
Seven pints clunk onto the wooden bar-shelf, glass edges grind as they are squeezed together. These beers bind us for at least another half hour. Tree bark blows into my froth flaked off by a chill wind.
“And anyway it's just another American fear-based scam. There is more chance of a meteorite blowing us away than all the ice melting in Antarctica.” Robert is holding court on environmental change on our return.
“What? The Americans are the ones in denial over global warming!” Every sinew in Juliet's face stretches for emphasis as she nervously bunches and re-bunches her hair into a sprouting pineapple sculpture at the back of her head. “I can't believe you. We are heading for a disaster in my boy's lifetime.” Juliet is standing now. She has the cuffs of her fleece pulled out from under her jacket, clenching them over her wrists, which reveals her mental turmoil to me. I know this position; she is on measured attack, holding on to feelings to keep logic flowing. God forbid these boys ever see her real depths. In this male company it would be a fatal sign of feminine weakness and she would never recover her credibility.
“The yanks are hyping it up now so that they can get us all to replace the wealth from their declining industrial military complex with some half-baked umbrella to stop the sun.” Max chips in with another great American conspiracy theory.
“The planet is warming, people are dying and you guys are looking to the Americans for leadership? Maybe I am just a little girl who doesn't understand these big boy things.” She is riled but laughing, hoping to give the conversation a dead end by putting her own views to the sword. All of them mistakenly take her comments at face value.
“Hopefully it's all not as bad as they make it out guys.” No one responds to my take on the issue. I feel self-conscious talking about these issues below the mountains. They seem to cross their arms Buddha like, withholding their judgement. I feel we should speak in hushed tones so they don't exact their revenge.
In the sun's absence, ice crystals grow on every stone on the gravel pavement; my hard plastic ski boots skid over each one. The weight of the boots makes me imagine I am moon walking. Our hotel is maybe 300 steps from the bar, but each one is filled with this icy treachery. My shins have been released from their clips for two hours but still throb from earlier compression. Juliet and I hold hands when a step becomes a slide. My balance has been further upset by four beers.
“Come on Dan, stand on your own two feet will you,” she reprimands me as I hastily grab the sleeve of her jacket. We pass a photography shop, promoting itself with the usual staged beaming of un-photogenic families.
Juliet yelps as one foot slides off the pavement. She grabs me around the waist and laughs, wishing she could retract her previous plea. I get a flashback to previous summer sun; the two of us rollerskating in Battersea Park, her holding my waist for stability and propulsion.
“What's that Max said about meeting at half six?”
“Just some agency stuff we have to do.” Bloody writing a new campaign is all.
“You are not working on your stag do are you? That's not on. Does Sophia know? They are pushing you too hard Dan.”
“It's all okay babe. I need to ring Sophia actually.” Those bastards are going to make my life hell until this pitch next week. Max never accepts any of my ideas are good until after a pitch; faint praise is only given after it has been sold.
“I could stop them. I could ask for a meeting with the stags at half six to discuss your big night out tomorrow.”
“I have to do it before next Wednesday babe. Thanks anyway.”
The pavement turns into more forgiving tarmac, but even that glints with shards of ice. Our hotel is around one final bend in the road opposite a footbridge over the railway track.
“Listen babe, I am going stay out and make that call cause Chris will be in the room.” He had left a pint ago, sick of the posturing in the bar. I need some privacy for my brief call home.
“You are a bit fuzzy Dan, couldn't you do it later?” Damned if I do, damned if I don't.
If I go onto the footbridge I will be out of view of any stags walking home. I clank relatively easily up the ten footbridge steps, although I hadn't really thought what it would be like going down. I pace slowly towards the middle, standing above the dark scars that are the railway tracks. At the end of the bridge, framed by a metal arch I am surprised to see what looks like another train station labelled C
HEMIN DE
F
ER DU
M
ONTENVERS
. What do they need two stations at the same place for? The grey slate roof and white façade pick the building out from the developing mist.
“Sophia, hi babe it's me.” My mobile connects at last.
“Are you drunk?” She smells the alcohol from hundreds of miles away.
“No way babe, just had a couple after skiing.”
“It's bath time here. I will call back.” The phone clicks off to give me the chance to find another track. R, S, yes there it is, it was Johnny who made me think of it.
Number 4. “Sign O' Times” by Prince
Definitely released in 1987 on Paisley Park records. It seems eons ago that I was listening to this yesterday in Sophia's dad's car on the way to the airport. Prince was the top man, the coolest dude. This track captured the paranoia of the mid-1980s. Everyone scared of an AIDS epidemic; so unsure of what it was, we thought we could catch it like a cold. Natural tragedies seemed to be on the rise as well, hence the reference to Hurricane Annie. There was a feeling that this was all heralding some apocalyptic revenge for the savagery of mankind. But the real tragedy of the times affecting me was man â or should I say woman â made; the savagery of Margaret Thatcher's Britain. She may have been an economic moderniser but she was a cultural and moral wrecking ball. I suppose being in the advertising trade makes me an expert at signs.
My phone eventually rings.
“Hi Sophia, just a quick call to check in. Are you both okay?”
“Yes, we are good.” The “we” seems to be verbally underlined.
“It's been great so far. Steve, Juliet, Johnny and I are in the same beginners' class. Our instructor is Italian, he's called Aldo and he thinks I'm too laid back though.” Facts are reeled off as I skirt around this afternoon's fall. Better left unsaid, its danger was obvious and now past, but her worry would grow from a distance.
“He is right isn't he? Can you ski now?”
“Sure, I am making progress.” Tomorrow I will do a lesson with closed boots. “It's a real thrill,” I add unconvincingly but am allowed to move on.