Читать книгу The Great Ski-Lift - Anton Soliman - Страница 7

Oskar stood facing the cable car's forecourt, a mountain bag and skis in hand. A light cold wind from the north had swept away the clouds overnight.

The manager had happily met his request, after handing over the multi-year pass for the Great Ski Lift. He asked for a few hours to make some final checks on the plant. Oskar would use a guide to reach the plateau bordering the slopes. The guide was a local lad with a stocky build, also shouldering a sleeping bag and doffing a woollen cap.

- Morning, my name is Mario and the manager said I was to climb with you until the plateau.

- Great, when can we leave?

- The operator has phoned the office to confirm everything is ready. We can already get in the cabin.

From the booth's tiny window, a man gestured with his hand. The sound of whirring motors could be heard. The plant looked like a carousel that stretched upwards out of sight. The two climbed into an oval cabin and sat facing each other, on two plastic seats. The driver slammed the door shut and the cabin started to climb.

- If I understood correctly, this plant reaches the plateaus – said Oskar to break the silence.

- Yes sir.

- How far is the Great Ski-lift?

- We need to cross the plateau at the pass and then descend. On the other side runs one of the peripheral lines of the Great Ski Lift. We need to leave at dawn tomorrow to reach the Circuit's border roughly after midday.

Oskar looked up at the last visible pylon, which was glistening with a particular light. As the cabin gradually ascended, the valley's landscape was revealed in its full imposing glory. From above, the village had blurred into a brown smudge of houses with thin tendrils of smoke rising.

At altitude, the smoke seemed to form an evanescent halo hanging over the whole valley. A vast coniferous forest started slowly emerging until it filled the entire field of vision. The village was reduced to a small irregular rectangle. The panorama was breath-taking. His friend must have been awestruck heading downhill after leaving the Great Ski Lift.

The cabin reached the last visible pylon, then the curtain of mist drew back, revealing a pristine world made of vivid colours. Oskar had entered a high resolution, incredibly bright universe. Higher the perennial ice formed a white band.

Below, Valle Chiara had condensed into a reddish smudge in a sea of winter. On the other side, as the cablecar continued to rise, the great Sierra massifs rose slowly over the horizon. Underneath the cabin raged an increasingly uniform snowstorm, the conifers gradually grew scarcer until all vegetation disappeared completely, melting into a pitch white canvas.

Oskar finally saw the plateau. High mountain summer pastures that rose gently to the two pointed peaks, between them another mast, perhaps the last, glinted faintly in the distance. He pointed to the spot on the horizon: - Is that the arrival?

- Not yet. We are crossing the first plateau, which ends under those peaks. Behind that pylon, begins the second. At the end of that is our arrival base – answered the guide.

He watched the landscape unfold behind the fast approaching pass. The first plateau rolled beneath them with a jarring shudder. The cabin passed over a snow covered bowl shape. The sky was striking, with a blue so vivid it seemed unreal. He perceived the yawning distance between him and the City, the places and sites of his penance, the malicious faces of his acquaintances. Memories of Clara were decisively blotted out by an immense green splurge, which was being smudged by the rising horizon.

The world belonging to the innkeeper's daughter was only one of imaginary figurines: simple caricatures in a juvenile landscape, with a grazing cow, the pig, chickens and little plumes of smoke rising from chimneys on houses with every balcony proudly displaying flowers... That was all.

The cable car ride ended after what seemed an eternity. The light breeze had turned crisp, biting at him. A man, supposedly the operator, came forward to meet the pair.

- Morning, Engineer Zerbi. They phoned and told me you would be coming with a guide.

- Good morning – said Oskar looking around – It seems you get plenty of peace and quiet up here!

The man shook his head: - Mustn't grumble in terms of peace and quiet. I'd rather be down valley at home with my family. During winter the nights are pretty long here.

Oskar thought that in the end most people tend to say the same things. Regurgitating the same phrases, with words bound by common sense, a kind of self-survival mechanism for the species.

The arrival station was a reinforced concrete block; the backdrop a series of peaks. Towards the West, a few hundred yards from the building, another mountain pass that must presumably lead to the last plateau; the wide valley mentioned by the guide. Tomorrow, they could walk to the outskirts of the Great Ski-Lift.

The operator rang a bell, and the engine noise in the station stopped. The silence was deafening.

- I'll take you to the rooms - said the operator, pointing to a wooden staircase leading to a long corridor.

- This place is not really a chalet, but the manager furnished a couple of rooms for passers-by.

An electric stove heated the room assigned to Oskar. The room was practically an icebox. The low ceiling almost rested on the iron bunk bed in a room held two chairs and a candle-lit table.

A thin sheet of ice that deformed the scenery covered the square window. The transparent glass looked out on a blue ocean in a state of chaos.

- Make yourself comfortable, there's not much to do here. Downstairs is the dining room and a fireplace. We will eat soon, let's say around seven.

Oskar thought the man must have slowly turned bitter over time because of his solitary life. Perhaps the man would have been even unhappier at the village, with his faithful wife. Valle Chiara was not exactly brimming with happy people, most walked silently with a haunted look. He was reminded of Van Gogh's potato eaters.

The room was freezing so he dumped his bags and went straight outside, where the sun was still shining. Towards north, behind the reinforced concrete monstrosity, mountaintops silhouetted the landscape. The Great Ski-lift lands were still hidden from view. To the south, a white semicircle cut in two by the cable car's steel lines that stretched back to the valley he had left behind.

Standing in Valle Chiara you would never imagine there was such an incredible spectacle up above. He had entered another world.

At this point, even if two moons were to emerge at sunset it would leave him nonplussed.

These were the Sierra Mountains, bordering the Grand Circuit. A place still pristine. Oskar was unsure of the geography, having never been here before. He had stayed away from mountains for many years. The toll they exacted required a more determined mind-set. As a boy he went skiing often, but those were other times before any great Attachments, when the roads to follow were clearly mapped. Back then his consciousness seemed sensitive only to infrared. Even as a child, the imposing banks of snow had induced thoughts of loss, and a recurring question tinged in mystery: - What can be beyond those peaks?

Once again, he was awestruck at the grandeur of the immense and borderless plateau. He felt as if mysterious builders could have assembled them merely the previous night.

The sun was low, just above the snow cover; ice sheets glittered with reflected light.

The landscape penetrated deep into Oskar's brain, blasting clean all the melancholy accumulated in Valle Chiara's muddy lanes, where an Archetype had enchanted him.

The operator's canteen held some finely made furniture and looked cosy with a large roaring fireplace in the corner. The table laid, the improvised host announced meat stew was to be served:

- Game – he gloated with satisfaction.

- Many deer around these parts, the forests are full of animals. An upside of no one else living here on the Sierra – said the man.

- You mean there isn't a living soul around? – Oskar sounded sceptical.

- The place is deserted! Farming was abandoned and the mountains turned wild again. Am I right, Mario? –

The driver nodded imperceptibly, a sign for Mario to expand: - Some years ago, tourists came hiking in the summer, but it was a fleeting trend, the mountain asks too much. They would drive jeeps up to where they could, but the government banned them for impacting on the Great Ski-Lift.

- Traffic is non-existent then but building the station will make tourists come! - he stated blandly, already knowing the answer.

The operator replied through a mouthful of chewed cheese:

- As far as I know about this plant, this is a trial period. Up to now, ten people at most. Some to climb, including the Mayor, and the rest heading down. Some from the Great Ski Lift, usually lost off-piste – the man jammed another lump of cheese in his mouth.

– clandestinos started turning up almost immediately though, boarding the cabins cabs as soon as they crossed the pass.

- How do you mean? - Oskar was curious.

- Well, they cling to the cabins, throw themselves from pylons, and before arriving in the valley jump into trees in the spots where the cable almost scrapes the floor.

- What did you do?

-We stopped the plants that were running all day to draw in tourists, at least that's what the manager wanted. But with the Mongol hordes prowling around the Sierra, any communication channel must be watched carefully.

-These poor people are desperate! - Oscar shook his head.

-They're fucking everywhere. I even hear them at night: they run around the station, immune even to blizzards. Sometimes they turn up dead, frozen underneath the pylons.

The man clearly bored turned to the food, which looked sublime, nothing had been spared.

- I can't complain about the food or drink. I'm happier back in the village though, with my family.

- I don't understand why you accepted this job? - asked Oskar.

- I needed to work. However, I didn't think life here on the Sierra would be this hard.

The guide remained silent, gazing at the fire smoking a pipe.

- So you don't like being alone?

- No, not at all. When the nights are quiet it's okay, but it's a different story when there's a real storm raging. It seems that all the souls in purgatory have lined up to bang on your door.

The man continued talking about his problems for a good hour; his real torment was the night-time, and dying alone. The best place for him, thought Oskar was in the village bar, playing cards with friends.

The mechanic generated in him an almost physical revulsion. Something about his raging impotence, a very old blind rage. Yet, this negative state of mood had to be overcome with -compassion. - Not possible in that moment because the operator was pulsing with primal emotions: a wall Oskar was trying to break down. He remained silent, listening to the man's complaints, a rhetorical venting that wasn't seeking answers. Meanwhile, the guide had fallen asleep in front of the fire.

Oskar spent a restless night, fitfully trying to sleep on the cold military camping bed. At the first light of dawn, there was knocking at the door.

- Mr Zerbi, rise and shine, time to get dressed and start walking – urged the man with a gentle but authoritative tone.

He got up with some difficulty and quickly dressed, excited in the realization that this was no mere camping trip. Something more essential was afoot but this was still to be gleaned from the plant's creator conception. The two drank black coffee while the sunrise danced in from the window. The operator remarked the temperature had fallen several degrees below zero during the night. He led them to the heavy front door, which he had to shoulder barge open due to frost.

Mario had donned a fur hat and Oskar noticed for the first time that his hair was in a ponytail. He looked different from the earlier handyman sent by the manager on the previous morning. His body had unfurled, a wild animal finally free and back in the wild.

The guide set a brisk place: - Engineer, am I going too fast?

Seeing as the conversation had been initiated, Oskar asked: - What do you reckon about him?

- Who? Franz, the guy in charge? He moans a lot, like so many in town. The man is always complaining. I was there when he practically grovelled in front of the Mayor for this job. Even saying the further they sent him the better as his wife stank and nagged him too much.

- Could have guessed – quipped Oskar. Yet he still felt that being compassionate was his best chance for spiritual equilibrium. A subtle form of selfishness? More than likely. The protective patina commonly used as sunscreen by saints and professional do-gooders.

When the pass was under them wind grew violent. They passed over a ridge of ice wedged between massive boulders of whitish rock. Once over the pass, they dropped in altitude and the wind returned to a gentle breeze. The last plateau was before them, the Great Ski Lift slopes should soon be in view.

- Put on your sunglasses, the sun is really bright up here. We follow the trail up to that dark rock, then ski across the plateau.

The rock casually pointed out loomed menacingly distant, but they were both walking fast. Oskar felt tired at first but over time he fell into a steady rhythm, the body entering a state of deep wellbeing that could lead him anywhere. The vacation was maybe starting to improve.

The world could now seem strange, finally unmoored from the archetypal tarot deck that held him spellbound. A very different sensation from the one experienced in the past years of City life, routine neatly bound by circumstances.

All those restrictions slipped away at high altitude. The only company a mountain guide, somewhere in the indefinite Sierra borders, no reference points or even a return planned....

When the massif was upon them, Mario suddenly stopped and indicated for Oskar to squat down. Binoculars emerged from the guide's sack and were swiftly pointed towards a movement in the snow.

- We need to be patient. The man’s words a low murmur, as a precision rifle was drawn from a canvas case. A large green cartridge entered the barrel and arming the rifle, Mario said: - For every clandestino I catch, the federals give me a reward.

He aimed using the sight and fired a shot near a soft white mound, about two hundred yards away. The snow turned fluorescent green and three figures stood up with hands in the air. Suddenly one of them started running, and Mario calmly lined up another shot. The man staggered forward with slow lumbering strides before collapsing into the snow.

- Is he dead? - asked Oskar.

- Forget about it, just sleeping.

They moved towards the remaining two sitting on the snow with hands still outstretched. The pair seemed totally at ease, their expression placid; in fact, they were smiling. Mario handcuffed them to each other and moved the group near the unconscious man. Their faces were round, almost oval with dancing eyes that peered at them, seemingly amused.

Mario pulled a chocolate bar out of the rucksack and presented it to the two still awake, who half bowed in thanks. Then, guessing what the guide would do, they pulled up the sleeve on one arm.

Mario nodded, extracted an automatic syringe and injected both men.

- A tranquillizer to stop them running away – he explained.

He inflated a red balloon attached to a slim wire and let it slowly rise into the air.

Let's go! The satellite can now locate their signal and a helicopter will come to pick them up before long.

- It has to arrive before night otherwise those poor sods will freeze overnight!

- Takes a couple of hours, it's usually pretty quick. Even if it doesn't arrive, they should be fine with their rucksacks. What do you think happens here in the mountains? When night falls, people check-in to a hotel? – a sarcastic sneer twisted the man’s face.

The pair strapped skis to their feet and continued crossing the last plateau.

- They must have a constitution like an ox, coupled with a nervous system made of steel – remarked Oskar, his conscience in turmoil.

- I think they eat just once a day, like dogs...

The man was resilient like the clandestinos or illegales, since childhood probably.

They reached the plateau at noon, Mario's estimate had been exact. Throughout the entire journey an enthusiastic Oskar never asked for rest but tiredness was now creeping up on him.

- Mr Zerbi, I suggest we eat something. After that I'll show you the Circuit's ski run.

- Where is it?

The guide pointed out the slope at the basin’s edge: the ground rose like the lip on a bowl. The two took shelter in a cranny and Mario prepared hot coffee using an alcohol stove. The heat was blistering, and despite the dark lenses Oskar's eyes were raw red. They munched on the supplies Mario had brought. Two strips of fur also emerged from the rucksack, which Mario tied around his pants using leather laces.

- Heading back into town?

The man shook his head energetically – Nothing to do in the village now! I'll head to the north and go hunting, skirting round the Great Ski-Lift's borders.

- Are you going to intercept illegals?

- That too.

- Animals too for fur? Must have multiplied beyond measure across the Sierra.

- For sure! I set traps throughout the winter, but to little effect.

- Have you tried working in town?

- I don't like cities.

The two stood up and walked around the ridge. Lower down the conifers started growing again. Even further below, right in the middle of the woods, a white strip of snow flowed like a frozen river. That was the Great Ski-Lift track. Oskar was excited. The guide passed the binoculars: so many coloured dots sliding along the snow tongue swam into view. Their bright garish suits confirmed they were skiers.

- Well, here I am! - exclaimed Oskar.

-Mr Zerbi, remember not to stay too long in the same place.... as a general rule.

Oskar mounted the skis accurately. As far as he was concerned before long he would be just another tourist on the Great Ski-Lift.

- Always have your pass clearly displayed and follow the track down to the valley. For accommodation, I suggest the ´Piccolo Cervo’; other hunters told me it is a quiet place.

Oskar removed a glove and shook the guide's hand. In a serious tone he asked, - One last thing, Mario, and then I'll let you get back to work. Did you bring the former Mayor here? The one who designed the station.

Mario nodded affirmatively.

- What was he like?

- Can't say much, the Mayor barely spoke but he seemed to know this part of the Sierra pretty well.

Oskar descended gracelessly through the woods, falling over several times. So much time has passed that his skiing skills were almost non-existent. He decided to keep going on foot. The skis would go back on once the track was beaten snow. The woods were covered so deep that walking was difficult. He moved slowly but confident the track would eventually come into view. It would get easier, afterwards.

He'd been walking briskly for an hour when he heard the noise of tourists: the rustling of skis bouncing on the ice, the voice of passing people, some excited shouts. He felt exhausted by the time he reached the track. It was covered with snow. First of all, he needed a rest without drawing attention. There was a risk the overseers could spot him in that marginal zone, right on the cusp of crossing the Great Ski-Lift threshold. He crept towards the edge, so it would seem he was just taking a breather after crashing. He waited for a moment with no-one, and then ran across the last stretch separating him from the ski track's edge. Once he reached the beaten snow, he threw the skis to one side and simulated a fall. Some skiers passed by. Not many, groups of four or five people at most. Less frequently, couples passed by. All were equally indifferent to his supposed plight. No one was skiing alone though.

He'd arrived on the Grand Ski-lift circuit! A remarkable test of character, perhaps the start of a change that could represent a final true goal.

He had no precise picture of the situation, much less a strategy on how to act. In the present moment he didn't wonder how long this holiday could last, he only knew many days lay before him. A fuller picture would emerge over time.

The cold was starting to bite; he got up and put on the skis. On returning to the valley we would look for a hotel. A canal running through the woods guided the track. The mountains towered above both sides over which the sun had just disappeared. The light was uniform, a widespread luminescence that only made the encroaching darkness more apparent. The air palpably stirred up his uncertainty and melancholy. Oskar’s descent was hesitant and relied on thinking that being a skilled skier many years earlier would see him through. For full disclosure, he never gained a high level of proficiency because of various ingrained flaws, along with the lack of a serious training regime that was only eager to reach stylistic perfection. No doubt this mental attitude had penalized him, since his movements had never become harmonious or fluid.

This last thought was timely, as the skis crossed and he tumbled forward, falling awkwardly into the gleaming white. He got up immediately, cringing at having forgotten the most basic techniques. He focused on starting in the right position and, adjusting his weight began heading diagonally. Executing a swirling turn, and then another without falling, he tried to join the skis again but instead plunged head first in the snow.

The ski-track was now deserted, it was much later, the hour before sunset.

His skiing ability had failed to flood back. Angry with himself for being so rusty he questioned what he'd done over all those years – evidently held captive in a world where skiing was not contemplated. The years of self-neglect suddenly became apparent.

The current problem was going downhill without raising any suspicion. Oskar waited patiently and with a pinch of cunning took advantage of the easiest tracts to ski diagonally and gently take the bends. The many village lights flickered in the distance. There was a chair lift next to the arrival pitch. Workers were controlling the gears, a job only for when the station was not running. The guide had recommended the ‘Piccolo Cervo’, a supposedly inconspicuous place to hole up in. Oskar was at the centre of a large clearing near the forest he emerged from, the village lay out below. Skiers were in the local venues, some people milled around but the place was not crowded.

- Sorry sir, can you tell me where’s the Piccolo Cervo - he asked a passer-by.

- Sure, head up that path and turn left next to the clock tower. The sign is easy to spot.

At least the hotel was nearby. The directions were accurate and he reached the hotel after a few minutes. Leaving the skis on a rack he went inside; the door made a classic bell sound.

- Good evening, just arrived? You must be tired after the crossing- said a rotund lady with straw yellow hair – which valley did you come from?

A moment's pause for Oskar to formulate a lie: - From the North slopes. I'm pretty tired, do you have a spare room?

- Of course, even in the Christmas period, we can always find a room for a card carrying member of the Great Ski-Lift.

The landlady smiled benevolently on seeing the pass sheathed in a transparent pocket of his padded jacket. Oskar now understood why she asked for his provenance. After all, he might have arrived using more conventional means. The Great Ski-Lift pass and just a backpack as luggage marked him as different. Everything in good-standing for a permanent member.

The room provided looked comfortable. He locked the door, chomped on a chocolate bar and slipped straight into bed.

A winter glow entered through the window, a sort of absolute light that always caused great melancholy, as if it were a sign of immobility: a static scenario, events looping for eternity, with the Self is lost forever in parallel worlds.

The next day he woke early. In the dining room he watched a woman having breakfast with a baby girl. There were no other guests. The woman greeted him after looking around, and after a brief silence ventured: - What lovely weather we're having for Christmas. My kids told me the snow is fabulous. Do you also ski?

- Sure, but it's been a while since being in the mountains, I think I need some lessons.

- Good idea. Don't worry, my husband had the same problem. As a kid he was even a champion on grass but afterwards, with work commitments, he stopped visiting the mountain. A few years ago he started up again with an instructor, and is now better than ever before.

Oskar forced a smile: - Similar story for many of us. When we're little there is so much potential but when full-time work sets in. His words trailed off, the phrase has been spoken automatically, unthinking. The atmosphere had the air it could turn sour in an instant. That woman was serene, with a stable centre in Conventional Life. She had no doubts to confess, an individual selected for life in captivity over millennia. The woman could be no help for people that, like him, needed to vault the Wall.

- Pleased to meet you but I must dash, need to hit those ski slopes.

The hollow words lingered in the air as Oskar found the hotel, in a bright sunlight that almost overwhelmed the landscape. Yet Oskar felt he was somewhere unfamiliar. The scenery stretching out before his eyes implied that Others found themselves perfectly comfortable. A multitude of skiers swarming towards the ski-plant moved in coordinated spurts. They looked self-assured, confident in their actions. Everyone seemed to be following a schedule.

When at the village outskirts, he spotted isolated groups of skiers moving down to a smaller valley. Maybe slopes holding other less crowded tracks. He couldn't forget that entering the Great Ski-Lift illegally would require blending in with the surrounding environment. With the skis on his shoulders, he reached the valley's bottom where an unattended ski-lift was running. A flash of the pass should be enough to start practicing on the beginner's tracks, without fear of being discovered.

He spent the whole day going up and down the same track. No one paid the slightest attention to him, the security was far from professional and the staff stood around chatting with each other. It had been a very long day of skiing. He had tried to remember the key moves but remembering little or nothing made it difficult. Anyone who saw him, panting and snow-covered pants, would surely assume Oskar Zerbi was a beginner. During that first day he thought it pointless to stay in the Great Ski-Lift several times. It did not make any sense. He wondered the real reason behind his adventurous foray in this strange vacation. Maybe he wanted to find himself by skiing? An apparently incomprehensible thought.

Oskar watched the other skiers carefully, hoping to copy their style and perhaps glean something essential unknown to him. During the last descent he watched an expert skier moving with flawless style, and tried to imitate him. However, he failed to even emulate one slalom in the skier's style. A small hope had formed though, by remaining for a few days he could make significant progress.

Back at the hotel, he dined in his room merely to avoid having to keep the lady-who-wanted-to talk company. Before falling asleep he mulled over his efforts still falling below -standard- and what chance they would generate change. Nevertheless, once he learnt to ski again, the fun would properly start.

He was no longer thinking about the City. There was nothing for him back there.