I hastened to explain. Aldo ducked beneath Joe's arm and became voluble. It was a duet in English and Italian. The occupant of the room cut Aldo short with a gesture of annoyance. 'My name is Stefan Valdini,' he said. 'This man is a fool,' he added, pointing to Aldo. 'He tries to save himself work by discouraging people from staying here. He is a lazy dog.' He had a soft purring voice that was a shade better than suave. 'Cretino!' He flung the offensive term mildly at Aldo as though it were common usage. 'There are four rooms vacant. Give the English the two end ones.'
I had expected Aldo to become angry — you can call an Italian a bastard and give the crudest and most colourful description of his entire family and he will do no more than grin, but call him 'cretino' and he usually becomes speechless with rage. But Aldo only grinned slavishly and said, 'Si, si, Signer Valdini — pronto.'
So we found ourselves ushered into the two end cubicles. The window of Joe's room looked straight down the trackway of the slittovia. Mine, however, faced south across the belvedere. I could only see the slittovia by leaning out and getting the drips from the over-hanging snow down my neck. It was a grand view. The whole hillside of pines fell away, rank on rank of pointed treetops, to the valley. And to the right, above me, the great bastions of Monte Cristallo towered cold and forbidding even in the sunlight. 'Rum place, Neil.' Joe Wesson's bulk filled the narrow doorway. 'Who was the little man who looked like a pimp for a high-class bordello') Behaved as though he owned the place.'
'Don't know,' I said. I was busy unpacking my things and my mind was thinking what a place it was for the setting of a skiing film. 'Oldest inhabitant, perhaps — though he certainly looked as though he'd be more at home in a night club.'
'Well, now we're in we may as well have a drink to celebrate,' Joe muttered. 'I'll be at the bar. I'm going to try some of that red biddy they call grappa.'
The first sleigh-load of skiers arrived whilst I was still unpacking. They were a colourful crowd, sunburned and brightly clad. They thronged the belvedere, lounging in the warm sun, drinking out of tall glasses. They were talking happily in several languages. I watched them, fascinated, as in groups of two or three, or alone, they put on their skis and swooped out of sight down the slalom run to Tre Croci or disappeared into the dark firs, whooping 'Liberal' as they took the gentler track back to Cortina. Anna, a half-Italian, half-Austrian waitress, flirted in and out among the tables with trays laden with salami and eggs and ravioli. She had big laughing eyes and there was a quick smile and better service for the men who had no women with them. What a scene for Technicolor! The colours stood out so startlingly against the black and white background.
The novelty of the setting was a spur to my determination to write something that Engles would accept. If I couldn't write a script here, I knew I should never be able to write one. I was still planning the script in my mind as I went down to join Joe at the bar.
At the bottom of the stairs, I came upon a tall, rather distinguished-looking man who was having a heated argument with Aldo. He had long, very thick-growing hair, strangely shot with.grey. His face was deeply tanned, except where the white of a scar showed against the bulge of his jaw muscles. He was wearing an all-white ski suit with a yellow scarf round his neck. I realised what the trouble was immediately. 'Have you booked a room here?' I asked.
'Yes,' he said. 'This man is either a fool or he has given the room to somebody else and doesn't want to admit it.'
'I've just had the same trouble,' I said. 'I don't know why he doesn't want visitors. He just doesn't. But there are two rooms vacant at the moment. There's nobody in the one at the top of the stairs, so I should go up and stake your claim.'
'I will. Many thanks.' He gave me a lazy smile and took his things up the stairs. Aldo gave a shrug and dropped the corners of his mouth. Then he followed on.
Joe and I spent the remainder of the morning sitting out in the sunshine drinking cognac and discussing the shots Engles would expect. The multi-coloured plumage of the skiers and the babel of tongues that ranged from the tinselled guttural of Austrian to the liquid flood of Italian was a background to our conversation; absorbed, but not remarked in detail. Joe was no longer disgruntled at being perched up here on the cold shoulder of an Alp. He was a cameraman now, interested only in angles and lights and setting. He was an artist who has been given a good subject. And I was doubly preoccupied — I was listening to Joe and at the same time rolling an idea for a script round my mind.
I did not notice her arrive. I don't know how long she had been there. I just glanced up suddenly and saw her. Her head and shoulders stood out against the white backcloth of a snow-draped fir. For a second I was puzzled. I thought I knew her and yet I could not place her. Then, as I stared, she took off her dark glasses and looked straight at me, dangling them languidly between long slender brown fingers. And then I remembered and dived for my wallet and the photograph Engles had given me.
The likeness was striking. But I wasn't sure. The photograph was old and faded, and the girl who had signed herself 'Carla' had shorter, sleeked-back hair. But the features looked the same. I glanced up again at the woman seated at the table on the other side of the belvedere. Her raven black hair swept up in a great wave above her high forehead and tumbled in a mass to her shoulders. The way she sat and her every movement proclaimed an almost animal consciousness of her body. She wasn't particularly young, nor was she particularly beautiful. Her mouth, scarlet to match her ski suit, was too wide and full, and there were deep lines at the corners of her eyes. But she was exciting. She was all of a man's baser thoughts come true. She caught my eye as I compared her with the photograph in my hand. Her glance was an idle caress, speculative and not disinterested, like the gaze of an animal that is bored and is looking for someone to play with.
'My God, Neil!' Joe tapped me on the arm. 'Are you trying to bed that woman down?'
'Don't be revolting,' I said. I "felt slightly embarrassed. Joe was so solidly British in that foreign set-up. 'Why make a vulgar suggestion like that on a lovely morning?'
'You were looking at her as though you wanted to eat her,' he replied. 'She's got that little Valdini chap for boyfriend. You want to go steady with these people. Knives, you know. They're not civilised. He struck me as an ugly little fellow to start an argument with over a girl.' He was right. The man sitting opposite her was Valdini. He had his back towards us.
'Don't be absurd, Joe,' I said. Then I showed him the photograph, keeping my thumb across the writing. 'Is that the same girl?' I asked him.
He cocked his head on one side and screwed up his little bloodshot eyes. 'Hmm. Could be. How did you get hold of that?'
'It's the picture of an Italian actress,' I lied quickly. 'I knew her in Naples just before Anzio. She gave it to me then. The point is — is the woman sitting over there the girl I knew or not?'
'I don't know,' he replied. 'And frankly, old man, I don't give a damn. But it seems to me that the best way to find out is to go and ask her.'
Joe, of course, did not realise the difficulty. Engles had said, do nothing. But I had to be certain. It seemed so fantastic that she should turn up on the very first day I was at Col da Varda. But the likeness was certainly striking. I suddenly made up my mind and got to my feet. 'You're right,' I said. 'I'll go and find out.'