“Hey, hi,” she said.
“Hi,” I said.
She lifted the goggles off her face. Her eyes were the color of her parka, a lime green. “I hate to be corny,” she said, “but haven’t we met before?”
“No,” I said, “I don’t think so.”
“Sure,” she said. “You were shopping,” she said, and winked.
“I think you’re mistaking me for someone else,” I said. “How’s the snow?”
“Gorgeous,” she said.
“Well, have a good day,” I said.
“Sure,” she said. “You, too.”
Getting Schwartz off to the airport was a monumental operation. We had got a later start than intended, waiting forty-five minutes for breakfast because something was wrong with one of the kitchen stoves, and the chef was working at half his normal speed. By the time Sandy’s flapjacks and sausages came, it was almost ten minutes to eight, and she was ready to kill. I knew exactly how she felt; breakfast is the one meal I want when I want it. The three of us ate ravenously, and then went outside to join Foderman and Schwartz, who were waiting for the airport car and fussing over Schwartz’s luggage and skis. Schwartz was traveling with six (count ’em) six matched suitcases; someone had apparently told him he was spending four months in Europe. The luggage was piled against the side of the building, his boots in a black carrying case, his skis bagged and leaning against the wall. Foderman counted the luggage, and then counted it again, and said, “Six pieces, am I right, Manny?”
“Six pieces, right.”
“And the skis make seven.”
“Seven, right.”
“And the boots. That’s eight.”
“Eight, yes.”
“Make sure they give you eight baggage checks.”
“Would you like to pin a little note to my coat?” Schwartz asked. “With my name and address on it? And who to call in an emergency?”
“I’m only worried because of your leg,” Foderman said. “Whose luggage is this?”
“The other people who are going in the car.”
“Where are they?”
“Paying their bill.”
“Did you pay your bill?”
“I paid it.”
“Where’s the car?”
“It’ll be here.”
“I don’t want you to miss the plane.”
“I won’t miss the plane.”
“It wouldn’t be fun sitting around an airport with a broken leg.”
“The car’ll be here, I won’t miss the plane.”
“Did you pack everything?”
“Everything.”
“I’ll check the room later, just to make sure. Anything you missed, I can take home for you.”
“I didn’t miss anything, you don’t have to check the room.”
“Just in case. Have you got your ticket?”
“In my pocket.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Let me see it.”
“For Christ’s sake, Seymour, it’s right here in my pocket!”
“Just in case.”
Schwartz reached under his overcoat and into his jacket pocket and pulled out his airline ticket. “All right?” he asked.
“Put it away now,” Foderman said. “Before you lose it.”
The car arrived at a quarter past eight. Foderman counted the luggage again, and then supervised the loading of it. Sandy was beginning to get a bit impatient by then, anxious to ski over the north face before the lift lines grew impossibly long. But Foderman checked the skis on the roof rack, making sure they were strapped on solidly, and then counted the luggage in the trunk again, and then said, “Your boots! Where are his boots, driver?”
“They’re in the back there,” the driver said. “Alongside the spare.”
“I don’t see them,” Foderman said.
“I put them in myself,” the driver said.
“Then, were are they?”
“Right there. The black bag.”
“Okay,” Foderman said, and nodded curtly and went around to the side of the car to help Schwartz in. Schwartz handed me one of his crutches and then leaned on Foderman’s shoulder for support, and eased himself onto the seat. Foderman held the broken leg as Schwartz swung it into the automobile, and then asked, “Have you got enough room, Manny?”
“Plenty of room. There’s only the three of us going.”
“Where are they, anyway?” Foderman asked nervously. “They should be out here by now.”
“They’ll be here, don’t worry.”
“Listen, ah, Seymour,” Sandy said, and looked at her watch.
“In a minute,” Foderman said. “I want to get him settled.”
“I’m settled already,” Schwartz said. “My bags and boots are in the trunk, my skis are on the rack, my ticket’s in my pocket, and I had a very nice bowel movement this morning. Go enjoy yourself, will you please?”
“I wanted to wait till you left,” Foderman said.
“There’s no need,” Schwartz said. “Get him out of here, will you?”
“Come on, Seymour,” Sandy said.
“Have a good flight,” I said.
“Thank you.”
“Take care of yourself,” David said.
“Thank you, thank you. Maybe I’ll see you in the city.”
“Call me when you get home,” Foderman said. “Call me tonight.”
“Okay.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
As we walked away from the car, Foderman shook his head and said, “I wanted to wait till he left.”
As it turned out, our haste to get to the other side of the mountain was entirely unnecessary. We battled the lift line to the midway station on the southern side, and then transferred to the double chair that took us to the summit. Foderman kept looking over his shoulder toward the base, as though hoping to catch a glimpse of Schwartz departing. (Foderman was beginning to get on my nerves.) From the summit, we skied over two links and four downhill trails to the base on the northern side, complicated are the ways of mountains. It was ten-thirty by the time we got there. The chair lift to the summit of the north face was not operating. There were strong winds on this side of the mountain, and the empty chairs were bouncing and bobbing with each fresh gust.
Sandy stopped a Ski Patrolman and raised hell with him, demanding to know why someone on the other side of the mountain hadn’t informed anyone that the goddamn chair on this side of the mountain wasn’t working. The Ski Patrolman snippily informed her that he was merely a Ski Patrolman and not responsible for the operation of lifts or announcements concerning the operation of lifts. Sandy told him to drop dead. The problem now was how to get back to the other side. We held a brief consultation with a group of other disgruntled skiers, and learned that there was a milk run around the base of the mountain (mostly walking) which would eventually lead us back.
It was one-thirty before we got around to any serious skiing. The lift lines were incredible. Because the north face was closed, all of the skiers were on the southern half of the mountain. I clocked a half-hour wait for the lower chair, and a forty-minute wait for the one to the summit. We caught a quick hamburger in the restaurant up there (imaginatively called Skytop) and then started down a narrow chute far over on the right, heading for the Poma that serviced a remote area dotted with bowls and laced with interlocking trails and a network of T-bars. It would be possible, we thought, to ski there all afternoon, from T-bar to T-bar, down a different trail each time, over difficult but uncrowded terrain.
Foderman began having trouble almost at once.
The chute would have seemed his meat and potatoes, a long straight drop angled at about forty-five degrees and opening into a wide run-out. But traffic had made the chute a bit icy, and whereas Foderman’s mechanized cavalry charge might have chewed it up under normal conditions, he lost his balance shortly after he began his descent, and his right ski slipped out from under him when he tried to straighten up. He went into one of those crazy windmilling falls that are as terrifying as they look, skis, arms, legs, poles cartwheeling down the mountain in a cloud of snow, the skier helpless in the grip of gravity, his only hope being that one or both skis will release before he breaks his legs. Foderman’s right ski was the first one to pop. His left boot snapped out an instant later, with such force that it tore the safety strap. The runaway ski went hurtling down the chute, hit a mogul halfway down, and took off into the air like a flung javelin. Foderman continued his rolling, bone-jarring descent, right ski falling on its short restraining strap, banging him across the shins and arms. The other ski, the free one, the one without a rider, went sailing past Sandy, missing her by three inches and almost tearing off her head. It landed in the woods with branch-rattling force, embedding itself deep in a snowbank, quivering as if in terror itself. Foderman finally came to a stop when he hit soft snow at the bottom. Lying flat on his back spread-eagled, poles still on his wrists, the right ski loose under him, the left boot buried, his face white with fear and crusted snow, he sucked in air and waited for us to ski over to him.