The Lonely Skier (7 page)

He looked at me hard. He had cold, light-coloured eyes.

‘He does not like being photographed,' Valdini said, and there was malice in his tone.

Mayne's eyes hardened with anger. But he said nothing to Valdini and turned back with a casual air to continue his conversation with Keramikos.

These are small things, but they stood out like wrong notes in a smoothly played piece of music. I had a strange feeling that all these people—Valdini, Keramikos and Mayne—were suppressing violent antipathy beneath a casual exterior.

Shortly after breakfast the next morning I left for Cortina. Mayne came with me. I had mentioned the auction to him the previous night and he had expressed a desire to come. As we were leaving, we passed Joe cursing a pair of skis on to his feet. ‘Feel like a pair of canoes,' he grumbled. ‘Six years since I did this. Doubt if my blood pressure will stand it. If I break my neck, I'll sue Engles for it. But I can't get the pictures I want otherwise.' He had a small movie camera slung round his neck. ‘If I'm not back by tea-time, Neil, you'd better call out the bloodhounds. Where are you off to?'

When I told him, he gave me an old-fashioned look. ‘Far be it from me to come between you and what you apparently regard as amusement, old man,' he said. ‘But Engles is expecting a script out of you. And he detests slow workers.' He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Oh, well, you know the man. But maybe he was less exacting in the Army. With a film unit, he just isn't human. Why do you think I'm putting on these damned things?'

I thanked him, for he meant it kindly. He wasn't to know that Engles had already got a script.

It was a glorious morning. The sky was blue. The sun shone. But the world was deathly still. No birds sang in the dark fir woods. In all that glistening country there was no sign of life. The
slittovia
was even more terrifying going down. We sat facing the
rifugio
—or rather we lay on our backs facing it. And we travelled down through the lane between the firs
backwards
. As though by mutual consent we talked. And the talk developed into a comparison of the merits of various Italian composers. Mayne knew his opera and hummed snatches to illustrate his points. He preferred the gay swiftness of
The Barber
and the subtle comedy of lesser known operas, like
I Quatri Rustici
, to the heavier pieces. In this we differed, for
Traviata
is my favourite. But we were on common ground in our enthusiasm for the spectacle of
Aida
, played beneath a full moon in the open-air theatre in Rome with the colossal, shadowy bulk of the Baths of Caracalla as its setting. I must confess that, at that moment, I liked his company immensely.

As we came into Cortina by car, the streets were full of ski-ers moving out to the various runs. They were a gaily coloured throng, their tanned faces glowing with the cold mountain air. The little town, with its gables and high, pencil-sharp church steeple, looked bright and gay in the sunlight. There were tourists wandering the snow-piled pavements, gazing in the shop windows or sitting in steamy-windowed cafés drinking coffee and cognac. The two overhead cable railways—the
funivias
—stretched out their cables, like antennae, on either side of the town. The one to the left climbed to Mandres in one cable jump and then scaled the heights of Faloria in a single sweep. It was just possible to make out the line of the cable, like a frail thread, and the little red car against the sun-warmed brown of the Faloria cliffs. On the other side of the town, a shorter cable made one bound to the rounded knoll of Pocol, with its hotels and the
slittovias
leading to the more advanced runs—Col Druscie and the Tofana Olympic run.

I left Mayne at the Luna and then went on to the
officio della posta
where I caught the air mail with my second report to Engles and the roll of film. When I arrived at the Splendido, Mancini was drinking in the bar with several fellow hoteliers. He greeted me as though I were the one person he had been waiting for. He had great ability as a host. ‘You must have a drink, Mr Blair,' he said. ‘The Luna is always so cold.' And he grinned like a playful lion at a thin, neat little Italian, whom I guessed to be the owner of the Gran' Albergo Luna. ‘A large Martini—yes? It will prevent
ennui
. Then we will go and buy the
slittovia
. Afterwards we will celebrate. Whenever one of us buys something, we all celebrate. It is the excuse. Always there must be the excuse.'

The lounge of the Luna was warm and cosy when we arrived. There were between twenty and thirty people there—all men and mostly Italian. They had the indifference of spectators. They were not there to buy. They were there because it was a social function and there would be drinks afterwards. They crowded round Mancini, laughing and chattering, congratulating him on his latest acquisition. Mayne was sunk in an easy-chair with a tall glass in front of him. I went across and joined him. He pulled up a chair and ordered me a drink. But he did not seem interested in conversation. He was watching the scene closely. His interest switched suddenly to the door. I followed the direction of his gaze and was surprised to see that Valdini had entered. He moved jauntily with an air of colossal self-importance. This morning it was a darker suiting with a sheen of mauve in it. The shirt was cream-coloured and the tie red, shot with blue flashes of forked lightning. ‘What's Valdini doing here?' I asked. ‘Shouldn't have thought he would have been interested in an auction.'

‘I don't know.' Mayne spoke softly, as though to himself, and there was a puzzled frown on his dark handsome face.

Then the auctioneer entered. He moved with the self-conscious air of a man about to conjure something out of a hat. You felt there should have been a fanfare of trumpets to herald that entrance. He moved through the room as though it were an audience, bowing to acquaintances, pausing a moment here and there to shake a hand. You felt it was his moment. He had two waiters hovering behind him. He indicated a table. He had it moved. He chose a chair. It was placed ready for him. He tossed his papers on to the table. The maitre d'hotel brought on his hammer and set it carefully on the polished table top. An imaginary fleck of dust was hastily removed. Then finally, the auctioneer settled himself behind the table. He beat upon the top of it dramatically. The room began to settle itself. Mancini moved to a vacant table just near me. The pack followed at his heels. He pulled his chair next to me. ‘He is amusing—yes?' he said, nodding towards the auctioneer.

‘The entrance was nicely handled,' I said.

He smiled and nodded. ‘We are a theatrical race,' he said. ‘That is why, when an Italian is executed, he dies well. He may not like the result, but he enjoys the moment. Now, you will see. We shall be very quiet and he will talk for a long time. We know this
slittovia
as well as we know our own hotels. But he will describe it to us as though we had never seen it. He will make the lyric of the description. He will become excited. He will make gestures. It will be the grand performance. And then, when he is exhausted, I shall make the bid and it will be sold for what has already been arranged. It is all very un-English,' he added with a sly twinkle. ‘But I am glad you are amused. If you were not amused, you would be bored, and that would make me sad.'

The hammer crashed on to the table top again. The room stopped talking. The curtain had been rung up. The performance had begun. The auctioneer began reading the conditions of sale. He slipped through it rapidly. It gave him no scope. But then came the reasons for the sale. He told of its original purchase by the ‘miserable' Sordini from the collaborator who had once owned the Excelsiore. He told of Sordini's arrest, of the ‘world-shaking' news that he was Heinrich Stelben, a German war criminal wanted for the most ‘terrible, fearful and blood-thirsty crimes against the Italian and British peoples.' He drew a word portrait of this ‘madman.' He touched briefly on the crimes of the ‘terrible
tedesci
,' and barely saved himself from a short history of how the Italian people had been ‘roused by terrible and barbaric acts' and had forced the ‘hated' Germans to surrender. Then suddenly,
pianissimo
, he began to describe the
slittovia
and the hut on Col da Varda. Gradually he whipped himself into a lyrical frenzy—it was a ‘stupendous' opportunity for an astute business man with ‘grand' ideas, an incredibly beautiful property, thoroughly equipped by ‘brilliant German engineers,' a ‘small hotel with finer panoramic views than the Eagle's Nest at Berchtesgaden.'

Then suddenly his voice ceased. The room was silent as though the performance had taken everyone's breath away. At any moment I expected a wild outburst of applause. Surely they must demand an
encore
. But the room remained silent. The auctioneer ran his fingers through his long hair, which had fallen in dank strands across his face. His thin features wore a disappointed look. He pushed his glasses farther back on his long nose and offered the property for sale in a cold matter-of-fact voice.

‘
Due centi cinquanta mille
.' Mancini's voice was quiet and there was a tired air of finality about the offer. A quarter of a million
lire
. The auctioneer pretended to be aggrieved. That was the low reserve placed on the property by the Government. Mancini had doubtless put in some hard social work to get the figure down as low as that. The auctioneer called for further bids. But he knew it was hopeless. He knew it was all arranged. His brief moment was over. He was no longer interested. He gave a shrug and raised his hammer.

‘
Tre centi mille
.' The voice was quiet and smooth. A sudden flood of surprised volubility swept the room. Heads were turned, necks craned. I knew the voice before I picked out his neat little figure strategically placed where the sunlight fell on him in a shaft from one of the tall windows. It was Valdini. His chest, gaily coloured like the plumage of some elaborate tropical fowl, was puffed out importantly. His dark rubbery face beamed as he held the limelight.

Mancini was talking rapidly to the men around him. He was literally quivering with anger. I turned to Mayne to make some comment. But he did not appear to hear me. He was leaning forward, gazing at Valdini with intense interest. He was smiling slightly and there was a glint in his eyes—of amusement or excitement, I could not tell which.

The auctioneer was clearly astonished. He asked Valdini if he had heard correctly. Valdini repeated his bid—three hundred thousand
lire
. All eyes were turned to Mancini, to see what the great man would do. He had recovered himself. One of his friends slipped quietly out of the room. Mancini lit a cigarette, settled himself more comfortably in his chair and raised the bidding ten thousand.

Valdini did not hesitate. He went straight up to four hundred thousand. ‘And ten,' said Mancini. ‘Fifty,' came from the window. Mancini raised to sixty. Valdini jumped to five hundred thousand. So it went on, Mancini going up in tens and Valdini in fifties till they hit the million. Word of the duel had spread quickly through the hotel. People were standing thick about the door.

At a million
lire
there was a pause in the bidding. Mancini had been getting slower and slower in his bids as the figures rose. He sat hunched in his seat, his jaw set and his eyes sullen. It was not the money he cared about so much as this deliberate flouting of his position in Cortina. It hurt his pride to have to haggle in public for something that everyone knew he had arranged in private. I leaned across to him and ventured to ask him what the property was worth. ‘To me, perhaps a million,' he replied. ‘To an outsider, nothing.'

‘You mean you will boycott the place and Valdini will lose his money?' I asked.

‘Valdini?' He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Valdini is a dirty little Sicilian gangster. He loses nothing. It is not his money.'

‘He is acting for someone then?' I asked.

He nodded. ‘The Contessa Forelli, I think. I have sent someone to try and find out.'

The auctioneer had grown tired of waiting. He poised his hammer. Mancini raised the bidding ten again.

‘
Cinquanta
' came the monotonous voice of Valdini.

‘Sessanta.'

‘Cento.'

‘I do not understand it,' Mancini muttered angrily to me. ‘They will pay through the nose and make a bad business of it. There are hidden reasons. That Forelli woman is up to something. She is too clever with men.'

The man who had slipped out for Mancini returned and whispered in his ear. ‘
Ma, perche?
' I heard him ask. The man shrugged his shoulders. Mancini turned and raised the bidding again. ‘It is Forelli,' he said to me. ‘But why I do not know. She must have a reason. If I knew it and it was worth the money, I would give her a defeat. But I do not throw money in the drain, you understand.' He was near the limit he would go. I felt sorry for him. He did not want me to think him unsporting or lacking in courage. He did not like an Englishman to see him defeated.

The bidding crawled slowly up to the one and a half million mark. Then Valdini astonished the whole room by changing his tactics. He jumped from one and a half to two millions. There was a note of triumph in his voice. He guessed the hotelier would not follow him to that figure.

His psychology was right. Mancini shrugged his shoulders as the auctioneer glanced at him enquiringly. Then he rose to his feet. The bidding was over. Mancini was making a grand exit as though washing his hands of a preposterous business. The auctioneer raised his hammer. This time his movement was quicker.

But as the hammer rose, a sharp firm voice said, ‘
Due e mezzo
.'

The room gasped. Two and a half million
lire
!

Mancini sat down again, searching the room. For a moment there was not a sound. I looked across at Valdini. The beaming importance had been wiped from his face by this fresh bid. His features had a mean look. The auctioneer searched out and found the new bidder. He was a small, pallid man in a dark grey suit seated uncomfortably on an upright chair. He looked like an undertaker. His clothes did not suggest that he was worth a lot of money. Asked to repeat his bid, he did so in the same firm voice.