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Catherine McNamara
himself onto the deck and
walked over to his daughter
who was speaking with the
two uniformed men. The
group moved inside to the
restaurant and he could see
them arrange themselves at
one of the windows. Frieda
looked pale and dumbstruck.
A waitress brought him
out a glass of grappa on a
wooden tray painted with
alpine flowers. He threw its
caustic tang into his body.
Suspended above the ski run
the chairlift lay idle for the
night. Its cable drew upward
with each double seat deathly
still, pressed against the dirty
white, pylons riveted to the
bedrock in steep ascension.
Each one was open-armed,
imploring.
Now his eyes dragged over
the immense compartments
of the mountain’s structure
and the shadow deepening
between these in plunging
cracks. The mass reared into
the sky’s blue palette, its
tip an incandescent flare as
the sun sank downward and
the planet revolved. It was
a terrible cycle, he thought,
each day symphonic and
turbulent, yet the hours so
meagre and convulsed. He
had thought that there might
be a oneness up here, far from
the city, a few words of grace
written at every man’s core.
But he stared over the callous
physics of the mountain and
its spiritless geology. His eyes
followed the ravine knifed
through the trees.
Magda came outside in her
heavy coat.
‘You’re not going to make
yourself ill standing out here?’
She had brought him his big
jacket. ‘The child wouldn’t
want that either.’