“What a blizzard …” it said in a plaintive and reedy voice.
“Brun,” I said. “Hey, kid, take off those awful glasses for a minute.”
“Why?” the kid asked drearily.
Why indeed, I thought, and said:
“Because I’d like to see your face.”
“That is absolutely unnecessary,” the child said, sighing, and asked: “Please give me a cigarette.”
Well, then, it was obviously a girl. A very sweet girl. And very lonely. How awful: to be by yourself at her age. I took out a pack of cigarettes for her and flicked open my lighter, searching for something to say but not finding anything.
Of course it was a girl. She even smoked like a girl: in short, nervous puffs.
“I’m scared,” she said. “Someone was fiddling with the doorknob to my room.”
“There, there,” I said. “It was probably just your uncle.”
“No,” she said. “My uncle is asleep. He dropped his book on the floor and just lay there with his mouth open. For some reason I suddenly thought he’d died …”
“A glass of brandy, Brun?” the owner said in a muffled voice. “No harm in a little glass of brandy on a night like this.”
“I don’t want any,” Brun said and shrugged her shoulders. “Are you going to be sitting here much longer?”
I lacked the strength to go on listening to her pitiful voice any longer.
“What the hell, Alek,” I said. “Are you the owner of this establishment or not? Couldn’t you order Kaisa to spend the night with this poor girl?”
“That’s a good idea,” the kid said, perking up. “Kaisa—that’s just what I need. Kaisa, or something like that.”
I drained my glass in confusion, as the kid shot a long and precise strand of spit into the fireplace and flicked her stub in after it.
“There’s a car outside,” it said in a husky baritone. “Can’t you hear it?”
The owner stood up, picked up his fur vest and headed for the exit. I ran after him.
A real blizzard was raging outside. A large black car was idling in front of the porch. The beams of its headlights lit up people arguing and waving their arms.
“Twenty crowns!” screeched a falsetto voice. “Twenty crowns and not a penny less! Damn you—didn’t you see the road?”
“For twenty crowns I could buy you and that clunker both!” someone screamed back.
The owner rushed off the porch.
“Gentlemen!” he bellowed loudly. “What is this foolishness?”
“Twenty crowns! I still have to make it back!”
“Fifteen crowns and not a penny more! Extortionist! Give me your license number—I want to write it down!”
“You’re a cheapskate through and through! Ready to kill yourself over a fiver!”
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!”
I was starting to get cold, so I went back to the fireplace. Neither the kid nor the dog were there anymore. This disappointed me. I picked up my glass and made my way to the bar. In the hall, I stopped; the front door burst open, revealing a huge, snow-covered man carrying a suitcase. “Brrr …” he said, shaking himself until a blond, red-cheeked Viking was standing before me. His face was wet, and snow lay on his eyebrows in white tufts. When he saw me, he smiled briefly, displaying his even, clean teeth, and said, in a deep and pleasant voice:
“Olaf Andvarafors. Just Olaf is fine.”
I introduced myself too. The door blew open again, letting in the owner carrying two trunks, and behind him a small man bundled up to his eyeballs, who was also covered with snow, and very upset.
“Damned crooks!” he said, in hysterical anguish. “We’d agreed on fifteen. Seven and a half a head, that’s just obvious—so where’d twenty come from? What the hell is wrong with the people in this town? For Christ’s sake, I’ll drag him to the station!…”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” the host said. “All this over a trifle … I beg you, this way … Gentlemen!…”
The small man continued to shout about bloody mugs and the police, as he allowed himself to be dragged away to the office—at which point Olaf the Viking boomed, “What a scrooge …,” looking around as if he were surprised not to find a crowd here waiting to greet him.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“I don’t know. The taxi picked us both up—there wasn’t another one.”
He stared silently at a point somewhere above my shoulder. I looked around: there didn’t seem to be anything remarkable there. Just a curtain drawn across the entrance to the corridor that led to the study and the Moseses’ room. It was swaying slightly, probably from the draft.
4.
By morning the storm was over. I got up at dawn, while the rest of the inn was still asleep; I rushed out onto the porch wearing only my underwear, and scrubbed myself all over with fresh, fluffy snow, in the hope of getting rid of the hangover I was still feeling from the three glasses of port. The sun had just risen from over the eastern ridge, and the long blue shadow of the inn was stretching into the valley. I noticed that the third window to the right on the second floor was wide open. Apparently someone couldn’t get enough of the healthy mountain air—even at night.
I went back to my room, got dressed, locked the door behind me and ran to the pantry, practically jumping down the stairs. A flushed and sweaty Kaisa was already fussing over the lit stove in the kitchen. She brought me a cup of cocoa and a sandwich, both of which I finished standing right there in the pantry, as I listened with half an ear to the owner humming away in his workshop. Please let me not run into anyone, I thought. This morning is too good to share … Thinking about it—about the clear sky, the golden sun, the empty, powder-filled valley—I felt like a miser, like the little man who’d appeared last night in that fur coat up to his eyebrows, ready to get in a fight over five crowns (Hinkus was his name, a youth counselor: he was on sick leave.) And then wouldn’t you know it, I didn’t run into anyone, except Lel the St. Bernard, who watched with good-natured indifference as I buttoned my bindings and sped off into a morning, a bright sky, a golden sun, a fluffy white valley that were all mine.
After finishing a ten-mile ski to the river and back, I returned to the inn to grab a bite to eat and found that things were already in full swing. The inn’s inhabitants emerged en masse to warm themselves in the sun. The kid and Bucephalus were eviscerating the fresh snow drifts, to the delight of onlookers. Steam rose off both of them. The now coatless youth counselor, who turned out to be a sharp-faced and emaciated type in his mid-thirties, was hooting as he traced figure eights around the inn—though never venturing too far out. Even Mr. Du Barnstoker had perched himself on a pair of skis and was already so coated in snow that he looked like a weary and incredibly tall snowman. As for Olaf the Viking, he was practically dancing on his skis. I felt pang of jealousy when I saw that he was a real master. Mrs. Moses in an elegant fur cape looked down over everything from the inn’s flat roof, as did Mr. Moses with his waistcoat and inevitable mug, and the owner, who was explaining something to them both. I looked around for Mr. Simone. The great physicist had to be around here somewhere—I had heard his barking neigh from three miles away. And there he was: saluting me from the top of a totally smooth telephone pole.
People greeted me very warmly, for the most part. Mr. Du Barnstoker informed me that I appeared to have a worthy new rival, and Mrs. Moses shouted from the roof, in her voice like the tinkling of silver bells, that Mr. Olaf was gorgeous: a virile god of a man. This annoyed me; so I wasted no time making a complete fool of myself. When the kid (who was clearly a boy today: a kind of wild angel, devoid of manners or morals) proposed a race on skis dragged behind his motorcycle, I decided to defy both fate and the Viking, and was the first to pick up the end of the cable.
A dozen years ago races like this had been a piece of cake for me—but that was before the industrialized world had come up with Bucephalus, and anyway, back then I’d been stronger. To make a long story short, three minutes
later I found myself in front of the porch. I must not have looked so hot, because I heard Mrs. Moses ask in a frightened voice if I needed to be rubbed with snow. Mr. Moses wondered grimly if anyone knew of a substance that could rub out the memory of my disastrous skiing; meanwhile the owner quickly appeared, carefully hoisted me under the arms and began trying to convince me to swallow a swig of his personal magical elixir. “It’s fragrant, strong, and will relieve pain and restore peace of mind.” Mr. Simone bellowed and whooped sarcastically from the top of the telephone pole; Mr. Du Barnstoker, apologizing, held a handsworth of splayed fingers against his heart. Hinkus the youth counselor excitedly jostled his way to the front of the crowd and whipped his head around, asking everyone if I’d broken any bones, and “where they’d taken him.”
They brushed me off, patted me down, massaged me, wiped my face, dug the snow out from underneath my collar and looked around for my helmet, as Olaf Andvarafors grabbed the end of the cable … at which point they threw me aside and turned their attention to this new wonder, which truly was quite spectacular. I was surprised how quick the turnaround was: I hadn’t even finished picking myself up before the crowd began hoisting their new hero. But fortune doesn’t care whether you’re a blond snow-god or an aging police officer. At the height of his triumph, when the Viking was already towering over the porch, leaning picturesquely on one ski pole as he smiled dazzlingly at Mrs. Moses, fortune gave her wheel a little tap. Lel the St. Bernard made his way to the winner, gave him an intent sniff and then suddenly, with a quick, precise gesture extended his right paw out directly over his ski boots. I couldn’t have scripted it better myself. Mrs. Moses screamed, the crowd burst into a series of hearty curses, and I went back inside. I am not a gloating man by nature, but I love justice. In everything.
Back in the pantry I discovered from Kaisa (with no small difficulty) that the inn’s showers, as it turned out, were working only on the first floor: I ran for fresh towels and underwear, but despite my haste I was too late. The shower had already been taken; the sound of rippling water and garbled singing emerged from behind the door, in front of which Simone stood, with his own towel draped over his shoulder. I took my place beside him; Du Barnstoker soon appeared beside me. We started smoking. Simone, choking with laughter as he looked around, started to tell a joke about a bachelor who moved in with a widow and her three daughters. Fortunately, however, Mrs. Moses appeared at exactly that moment and asked us whether we’d seen her lord and master Mr. Moses walking by. Mr. Du Barnstoker replied gallantly, and at length: no, alas. After licking his lips, Simone stared at Mrs. Moses with languid eyes, as I listened to the voice coming from the shower—suggesting finally that Mr. Moses might be found inside. Mrs. Moses received this suggestion with obvious skepticism. She smiled, shook her head and explained to us that in their house on the Rue de Chanelle, they had two bathrooms—one made of gold, and the other, I believe, made of platinum; having struck us dumb with this information, she told us that she would go look for Mr. Moses elsewhere. Simone immediately offered to go with her, leaving Du Barnstoker and myself behind. Lowering his voice, Du Barnstoker asked if I had witnessed the unfortunate scene that had taken place between Lel the St. Bernard and Mr. Andvarafors. I allowed myself the small pleasure of telling him that I hadn’t. At which point Du Barnstoker related the scene to me in full detail and, when I had finished throwing my hands up and clicking my tongue sadly, added mournfully that our good host had completely lost control over his dog, for only a day earlier the St. Bernard had relieved himself in the exact same way on Mrs. Moses herself in the garage. Once more, I threw my hands in the air and clucked my tongue (sincerely this time) but just then we were joined by Hinkus, who immediately started complaining about the fact that he was paying double the normal amount for a room in an inn with only one working shower. Mr. Du Barnstoker calmed him down by removing from within the folds of his towel a pair of lollipops shaped like roosters. Hinkus grew immediately quiet; his face changed completely, the poor man. He took the roosters, stuffed them into his mouth and stared at the great prestidigitator in horror and disbelief. Then Mr. Du Barnstoker, looking extremely pleased at the effect he’d produced, proceeded to entertain us with the multiplication and division of multidigit numbers.
Meanwhile the shower water continued to beat down, though the singing had been replaced now by unintelligible muttering. From the top of the stairs, Mr. Moses descended with heavy steps, hand in hand with the day’s hero and victim of canine disgrace, Olaf. When they got to the bottom, they parted ways. Mr. Moses took his mug behind the door-curtains, sipping as he went, while the Viking took his place next to us in line without uttering a single unnecessary word. I looked at the clock. We’d been waiting for over ten minutes.
The front door slammed. The kid ran past us without stopping, leaping quietly up the stairs and leaving behind a smell of gasoline, sweat and perfume. I realized immediately that I could hear the voices of the owner and Kaisa in the kitchen, and a sort of strange suspicion dawned on me for the first time. I stared indecisively at the shower door.
“Have you been standing here a long time?” Olaf asked.
“Yes, quite a long time,” Du Barnstoker said.
Suddenly, Hinkus muttered something unintelligible and, shoving Olaf’s shoulder, rushed into the hall.
“Listen,” I said. “Did anyone else arrive this morning?”
“Only these gentlemen,” Du Barnstoker said. “Mr. Andvarafors and Mr.… um … the little fellow, who just left …”
Olaf objected. “We arrived last night,” he said.
I already knew when they had arrived. For a second, the image of a skeleton purring out songs beneath the stream of hot water as it washed its armpits flashed across my mind. I lost my temper and shoved the door. It opened, of course. And of course, no one was in the shower. The stream of hot water (which had been left at full blast) was making a lot of noise, there was steam everywhere, the Dead Mountaineer’s infamous tarpaulin jacket was hanging from the hook, and beneath this, on the oak bench, an old transistor radio was whispering and muttering.
“Que Diablo!” Du Barnstoker cried. “Where’s the owner? Come here at once!”
A ruckus erupted. Heavy boots thumped as the owner ran to us. Simone emerged as if sprung from the ground. The kid leaned over the railing with a cigarette dangling from its lower lip. Hinkus watched cautiously from the hall.
“Unbelievable!” Du Barnstoker exclaimed heatedly. “We’ve been waiting and waiting, for no less than a quarter of an hour—isn’t that right, Inspector?”
“And someone’s been lying in my bed again,” the child reported from above us. “And the towel’s completely wet.”
Simone’s eyes flashed with impish glee.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen …” the owner said, offering a series of appeasing gestures. Before doing anything else he ducked into the shower and turned off the water. Then he took the jacket off the hook, picked up the radio and turned to us. His face was solemn. “Gentlemen!” he said in a low voice. “I can only speak to the facts. This is HIS radio, gentlemen. And HIS jacket.”
“Exactly whose …?” Olaf asked calmly.
“HIS. The dead mountaineer.”
“What I meant was, whose turn is it exactly?” Olaf asked, as calmly as before.
I silently maneuvered the owner out of the way, went into the shower and locked the door behind me. After I’d already taken my clothes off I realized that it wasn’t my turn, but Simone’s—but I didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty. That was probably one of his, I thought furiously. Well, let him wait. The hero of national science. What a waste of water … No, jokers like him should be stopped. And punished. I’ll teach you not to play tricks on me …
When I left the shower, the people gathered in the hall were still discussing what had happened. No new theories had been offered, so I didn’t stick around. On the stairs I ran into the kid, who was still hanging over the railing.
“Madhouse!” it sa
id to me defiantly. I passed without a word and went straight to my room.
The shower and a pleasant exhausted feeling soon caused my temper to disappear completely. I pulled the armchair up to the window, picked up my fattest and most serious book and sat down with my feet propped on the edge of the table. Before I’d finished the first page, I was asleep; by the time I woke up, maybe an hour and a half later, the sun had shifted considerably, and the shadow of the inn was lying beneath my window. I could tell from its silhouette that someone was sitting on the roof, and I decided sleepily that this must be Simone, the great physicist, hopping from chimney to chimney and chortling over the entire valley. I fell asleep again, waking finally with a start when my book slipped off onto the floor. Now I could distinctly see the shadows of two people on the roof: one appeared to be sitting, while the other was standing in front of him. Tanning, I thought, and went to wash up. While I was washing, it occurred to me that a cup of coffee might be nice, a good pick-me-up, and that a snack wouldn’t be a bad thing either. I lit a cigarette and stepped into the hallway. It was already almost three.
I met Hinkus on the landing. He had just come down the attic stairs, and looked strange for some reason. He was naked to the waist and shiny with sweat; his face was so white it was practically green; his eyes weren’t blinking; he was clutching a ball of crumpled clothes to his chest with both hands.
Catching sight of me, he shuddered visibly and stopped.
“Tanning?” I asked, out of politeness. “Don’t get burned. You look ill.”
Having expressed in this way concern for my fellow man’s well-being, I walked past him downstairs without waiting for a response. Hinkus clonked his way down the stairs behind me.
“I need a drink,” he said hoarsely.
“Hot up there?” I asked, without turning around.
“Y-yes … Very hot.”