The Lonely Skier (3 page)

‘Come on to the pavement,' he said. ‘It's a lot safer. So you think I'm not serious?'

‘I think you're behaving stupidly,' I snapped back at him. I was goaded by the thought that I had worked with this man on terms of equality and now he was in a position to cast me crumbs for the amusement of watching my reactions.

He took my arm in a firm grip and steered me through the glass door of a long gin palace of a saloon bar. He ordered whiskies. ‘Here's fun!' he said, and raised his glass mockingly at me. He was laughing. It showed in his eyes. ‘You think I'm not serious, eh?' he said. ‘I am, you know—quite serious. Do you want a job or not?'

I downed my whisky at a gulp and ordered another round. ‘I don't want your charity or your sneers,' I said. I was feeling very bitter.

‘My God! You're prickly,' he said. ‘But then you always were. Did you ever know me charitable? I seem to remember you telling me—more than once—that I was the most ruthless person you had ever met. Just because I wouldn't stand incompetence. It's a strange thing, but just at the moment I can't think of any one I would rather have run into. But life's like that. If you want a job done, the right man always turns up at the last minute. There are only about a half-dozen men I met in the Army who would be right for a job I have in mind. And if they'd all applied for it in a bunch, I'd have picked on you without a moment's hesitation.' The build-up was obvious. But I began to be interested. Engles never bothered to build any one up unless he really wanted to make use of them. He gave me a sudden warm smile. ‘You know—I'm quite serious, Neil. If you want a job, I'd be glad to have you work with me again.'

‘What sort of a job is it?' I asked.

‘Three months at Cortina in the Dolomites as a script writer for K. M. Studios,' he replied quickly. ‘A hundred pounds a month and all expenses.'

I gasped. It was the chance of a lifetime and I had walked bang into it in a chemist's shop. But why me? ‘What makes you think I can produce the sort of script you want?' I asked him.

‘I don't want you to produce a script. I've got one already.'

‘Then what in the world do you want me to do?'

He reacted immediately to my disappointment. He patted my shoulder. ‘Three months in the finest ski-ing country in Europe isn't a bad offer,' he said.

‘I know,' I said hastily. ‘But I couldn't help being disappointed. You offer me a job as a script writer, and then you say you don't want a script. You know I always wanted to be a writer.'

‘I didn't mean to disappoint you,' he said. ‘Look, Neil. It's best to be frank with you. I don't think you could write the sort of film script I want. But if you do write one, I'll promise you this—I'll read it and if I can use it in preference to the one I've got, I will. That's fair, eh?'

‘Very fair,' I agreed. ‘Now, what do you really want me to do?'

‘You speak Italian, don't you?' he asked.

‘Enough to get around,' I replied.

‘Good!' He smiled. ‘Since you class yourself among the adventurers, you might find this quite amusing. On the other hand, it may be a complete wash-out. In which case you will have to be content with three months' holiday in the Dolomites. It's just a hunch I have about something. I can't follow it up myself. I'm finishing off my next film. What I need is somebody I can trust to hold a watching brief for me and keep me informed—somebody with a sense of responsibility and plenty of initiative. You're just the man.'

‘Thanks for the build-up,' I said. I was becoming excited despite my previous disappointment. Engles' excitement was always infectious.

He laughed. ‘That's not a build-up. You just happen to possess those qualities. You can also write, and that gives me a pretext for sending you out. Now—do you want the job?'

‘Well, what is the job?' I asked him.

‘For God's sake, Neil!' he cried. ‘Do you want it or don't you?'

‘Of course I do,' I replied. ‘I need a job badly. But naturally I want to know what the job is. How else can I tell whether I can do it?'

‘You should know me better,' he said in a quieter tone. ‘I wouldn't be offering you the job if I didn't think you could do it. Now, are you going to take it or not?'

‘I'd like to,' I said.

‘Fine!' And he ordered another round before I was halfway through my own drink. ‘Just a final,' he said, ‘whilst I tell you what I want you to do. Then I must dash or I'll miss my train. Do you know Cortina?'

I shook my head. I knew of it, of course. We had taken it over as a leave centre for our troops at the end of the war.

‘Doesn't matter,' he went on. ‘I plan to do a film there. There's not enough movement in modern films. Too much of the play about them. That's why Westerns are so popular. The studios seem to think people go to the cinema to listen. They don't. They go to watch. There's a colossal market waiting for a fast-moving ski picture. Plenty of spills and thrills. The world has gone crazy about sport—artificial excitement to replace the excitement of war. But I've got to convince my Studios first. I'm sending a fat, sluggish ape called Joe Wesson, who happens to be a first-class cameraman, over to take some pictures that will convince K. M. Studios that I'm right. You'll go with him to do the script. That's just an excuse to get you the permit. I don't give a damn whether you write a script or not, but you'd better try. Joe Wesson will expect it. To everyone else but me you're there to write a script. You'll be on the Studios' pay-roll as a script writer. I'll fix that.'

He lit a cigarette. ‘You'll stay at a place called Col da Varda,' he went on. ‘It's about five miles north of Cortina. It's little more than a
rifugio
, but it's got bedrooms. I've booked accommodation for two already. You go up to the Passo Tre Croci and take a cable sleigh—
slittovia
, the Ityes call them—up to the hut. Make a pretence of writing and watch everyone who comes up there. Particularly, watch for this girl.' He produced a photograph from his wallet and handed it to me.

It was a very faded and much-worn photograph of the head and undraped shoulders of a girl. It had been taken in Berlin and scrawled across the bottom was—‘
Für Heinrich, mein liebling —Carla
.' ‘She's Italian,' he said. I could see that. She had dark hair and eyes and a wide full mouth. There was something very animal about that face and the eyes had a glittering hardness. It reminded me of some of the pictures of girls I had seen in the Vice Squad's index of prostitutes shortly after the fall of Rome.

‘Understand, I don't want you to do anything,' Engles continued. ‘I just want you to keep your eyes open. I'm interested in the
slittovia
and the hut, the people who are staying there, regular visitors, anything unusual that happens. I'm not going to tell you anything about it. If you keep your eyes and ears open, you'll probably come to know as much about the business as I do. But,
I don't want you to do anything
. Send me a daily report. If there's anything startling, cable me at the Studios. Send your reports Air Mail. Is all that clear?'

‘As mud,' I said.

He grinned. ‘That's about as clear as I wanted it to be. See my secretary tomorrow. She'll fix everything for you.' He glanced at his watch and drained his drink. ‘I'll just make it,' he said. ‘It'll be a three months' engagement and, if my hunch turns out right, you might find yourself nicely set up. At worst you might produce a script I could use. You leave for Cortina the day after tomorrow.'

With that he clapped me on the back and hurried out, leaving me slightly bewildered, but feeling suddenly that the world was an exciting place and life worth living again. Here was a chance to write a film script handed me on a platter. I had several more drinks at that bar, savouring the excitement of the moment with the warmth of the whisky. If I wrote a script—and it were good enough—Engles, I knew, would keep his word. I did not spare much thought for the private assignment he had given me. I did not know then that it was to oust from my mind any thought of writing a script until I wrote of the actual events that occurred at Col da Varda.

When I got back to the cottage that night Peggy met me at the door and she saw at once that our luck had turned. Her face lit up. We laughed together over the strangeness of it all and went out to celebrate, spending money without thought for the first time in months, planning the script I should write. The fact that we were to be separated again didn't seem to matter. It was for a short time and we were people with a future if we could grasp hold of it.

So it was that, two days later, I found myself sharing a carriage with Joe Wesson. Engles' description of him as ‘a fat, sluggish ape' was cruel, but not inappropriate. He had heavy features. The skin below the sockets of his eyes was dragged down by great pouches. His cheeks swept in ample folds to his splendid chins and flapped like dewlaps as he talked. He weighed, I should guess, over fifteen stone. He was, in fact, one of the most impressive figures I have ever seen and to watch him fitting himself into his sleeping berth was as good as a visit to the panda's cage at the London Zoo.

He was in a furious temper when he joined me on the platform at Victoria. He had a hangover and obviously hated travel. ‘You're Neil Blair, are you?' he said. He was panting, but for all that he was quick enough on his feet. ‘I'm Joe Wesson. We've been had for a couple of mugs, blast Engles' God-damned soul! Why couldn't he convince the Studios himself without sending us to shiver on a Dolomite, taking pictures and writing scripts?' He heaved his gear on to the rack. ‘The Studios will do what he says anyway. He could just as well talk them into it. He's got a tongue, and 'tisn't as though it's rusty. But he must have the whole circus running around full of the same idea.' He fitted himself into a corner seat facing the engine and, as though to bear out Engles' theories, brought out a stack of Westerns, picked up the top one and settled himself to read.

He worked his way steadily down through that pile of Westerns as we crossed the Channel and the train rattled across France and through Switzerland—that is, when he wasn't taking on food or drink, both of which he did noisily and in large quan-tities, or when he wasn't sleeping, which he did even more noisily, snoring with a strange series of grunts that ended in a slight long-drawn-out whistle.

He didn't talk much. But once he leaned across in a friendly way and said, ‘New to the K.M. set-up, aren't you, old man?' He had a queer way of jerking his sentences out as though he were always short of breath. When I told him I was, he shook his head so that his cheeks quivered. ‘Good firm when you're on top, but God help you when you're not. They're a hard lot. Can't afford to make a mistake with them. If you do—' he snapped his fingers expressively—‘you're finished. Engles is their big man at the moment. He may last one year. He may last five. Worked with him before?'

I told him what my previous association with Engles was. ‘Ah!' he said. ‘Then you probably know him better than I do. Get to know men when you live with them like that. He can be charming. And then again he can be a devil. Most ruthless director I ever worked with. If a star doesn't toe the line, they're out—he'll get a new star or make one. That's how Lyn Barin jumped to fame in
The Three Tombstones
. The original star was Betty Carew. She threw a fit of temperament—wanted scenes played her own way. Engles chucked her off the set. His language was a poem in technicolour. Next day he had the Barin girl there. No one had ever heard of her. And he made her a star right there on the set. He got the acting he wanted and the film was the better for it. Betty Carew had done good work for K.M. But she's washed up now.' He heaved a sigh. ‘Why you blokes ever come out of the Army, God knows! You're safe there. Nobody can throw you out unless you do something stupid.' Then he suddenly smiled. His smile was quite delightful. His face, for all its loose flesh, was strangely expressive. ‘Still, I admit I wouldn't change places with 'em. Life's a fight anyway. There's no fun in knowing you're safe whether your work is good or bad.' And he returned with a deep sigh of contentment to his Westerns.

It was dark and the snow was falling when we arrived at Cortina. Once out of the lights of the station our sense of pleasure at having finished the journey was damped by the blanket of steadily falling snow. The soft sound of it was audible in the still night. It hid the lights of the little town and muffled the chained wheels of the hotel bus.

Cortina is like all winter sports' resorts. It is a veneer of civil-isation's luxuries planted by hotel-keepers in the heart of a wild country of forests, snow and jagged peaks. Because of the lateness of our arrival, we had arranged to stay the first night at the Splendido and go on up to Col da Varda the next day.

As soon as we passed through the Splendido's swing doors, the glittering palace lapped its luxury round us like a hot bath. In every room central heating thrust back the cold of the outside world. There were soft lights, dance bands, and the gleam of silver. Italian waiters, with a hundred different drinks, threaded their way through a colourful mob of men and women from a dozen different countries. Everything was laid on—ski instruct-ors, skating instructors, transport to the main runs, ice hockey matches, ski jumping. It was like a department store in which the thrills of the snow country can be bought at so much a yard. And outside the snow fell heavily.

I picked up a pile of brochures on Cortina whilst waiting for dinner. One announced it as ‘the sunny snow paradise in the Dolomites.' Another became lyrical over the rocky peaks, describing them as ‘pinnacles rising out of the snow and looking like flames mounting into the Blue Sky.' They spoke with awe of fifty-eight different ski runs and, referring to summer sport at Cortina, stated, ‘it is almost impossible to be tired at Cortina: Ride before breakfast, golf before lunch, tennis in the afternoon and a quick bath before dressing for dinner—still one is ready to dance until the early hours.' Nothing out of the ordinary could happen here, I felt. They had made a playground of the cold snow, and the grim Dolomite bastions were pretty peaks to be admired at sunset with a dry Martini.