Trafika Europe 6 - Arabesque

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

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