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astragal
was she now? Yesterday she
had hurtled into him with
her silver moonboots full
of crystals and her face so
fresh. She’d thrown down her
woollen hat and her fine hair
had been flattened in damp
runnels to her scalp and a
doughy, insoluble smell had
risen to him.
‘I’ve got to go down there,’
said his daughter. ‘Look at
Stefano. I have to at least be
with him.’
They took the elevator and
walked through the lobby
with its deer trophies and
vases of dried wildflowers and
women in scalloped pinafores.
Everything moved past them.
He felt the hardware of his
hip and he noted extravagant
joints of wood supporting the
ceiling that were weighted
and veined. He followed the
two women onto the broad
deck behind the hotel. The
manager’s wife appeared,
offering coffee and Tyrolese
cakes. There were groups
of people at a distance;
clearly they were watched
and felt for. Children played
on the snow in a restricted
area near the steps and the
hotel manager came out in
shirtsleeves, eyes raised to
the dimming sky. The coffee
arrived and the manager’s
wife swept back inside. The
building façade had fallen to
a dense grey and far off, in
spears of light, the opposite
peaks still burned above the
village of Astragal where
Stefano had driven them to an
osteria
last night. But down
here it was the lifeless cold
of the afternoon, a coverlet
before dark.
They watched the playful dog
heading towards the ring of
trees, the men in a solid hike