“Is that what the Colonel is here about? MFE—”
“It’s over,” Angelo punctuated. “Pack your things and leave.”
Stefano’s mouth dropped for a moment, but just for a moment. He pushed up his spectacles, lips pursed. “They got to me the same way they got to you.”
Angelo glared at him.
“It’s been torturing me.”
“I bet.”
Stefano cleared his throat. “Do you want to know why?”
“I’m not interested. There’s nothing tremendously deep about any traitor’s motivations. Be it power. Money. Greed. Revenge, maybe. Maybe you never did forgive me. Ah. I see. That’s it.” He gestured impatiently for Stefano to leave. “Just stay out of my way.”
Stefano opened his mouth as if to say something, but Angelo shook his head in warning. He watched the man go.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Angelo took three steps to his desk and swept his arm over the entire surface. Papers and files crashed to the floor. He screamed with all he had. Sucked in breath and roared again. Panting, he stalked to the bookshelf, grabbed the photograph Stefano had taken of the black river. He smashed it over one knee. Shards of glass left a tear in his trousers. He hardly felt the burning of what must have been cuts. The Reschen Valley model was next. Hoisting the edge of the table with all his fury, he sent the delicate model flying. It shattered into hundreds of pieces against the wall. He kicked at the pieces that had scattered before him. Only then did he hear Miss Medici’s shrill and panicked voice.
“Minister!”
Angelo stared at her, trying to calm his breathing. “Cancel all my appointments.” He walked past her and into the antechamber.
“But for how long?”
“Indefinitely.” He grabbed his coat and sprinted down the hall, down the stairs, and out onto the street. The Laurin was just ahead. He would give himself fifteen minutes to pack.
***
T he northern villages were still metres deep beneath winter snow. Angelo was grateful he’d at least packed warm clothes. At the train station in Bolzano, he’d been propelled by his grief, then his anger, and now he felt tense and sore.
The train halted before Meran, and the conductors came through, announcing that all the passengers had to leave the train and board the busses outside the station. An avalanche had hit the track ahead. By the time he took his seat on the freezing bus, Angelo knew he would not make it up to the Reschen Valley by vehicle. He managed to get as far as Mals only to discover that his guess was right. Heavy snowfalls had forced the roads closed.
A few locals listened in as Angelo discussed his predicament with the bus driver, the latter’s uncreative solution being to bunker down in Mals or go home.
“What about skis?” Angelo asked. “Surely someone here is a trekker.”
A young man stepped up to the curb, rosy cheeked, his moustache not quite full. He looked Angelo up and down, scratched his woollen cap, and squinted at the slopes rising up from the town.
“I could get you there,” the man said in a thick German accent. “If you think you can do it.”
“I can do it,” Angelo said.
“It’s over twenty kilometres.”
“I can do it.” He did not say he fought on the Marmolada, that he’d been a champion skier. Not in this crowd.
“Your money, your way. Tomorrow,” the young man said. He pointed Angelo to the inn and told him he’d pick him up after breakfast. “Eat well,” he said before leaving. “It will take us all day, but I’ll get you in by supper.”
The next morning was overcast, and snow-heavy clouds draped heavily around the mountain slopes. The guide introduced himself as Manfred, a farmer’s son engaged to a Sabine. They would marry in the spring, and Manfred’s mother couldn’t be more proud. Manfred told Angelo about the valleys and the troubles, about the lack of tourists and the dairy cows. How many children he wanted. He was one of the most gregarious and talkative Tyroleans Angelo had ever met, though he never asked Angelo any questions. It was a pleasant hike on the felt-covered skis, and when the abbey of Wattles came into view on the other side of the valley, even Manfred was rendered speechless for a moment. It looked like something out of a fairy tale. The dark-grey sky accentuated the white stones of the church and compound. Powdery flakes began to fall, the snow lending an additional magical feel.
Manfred grinned at Angelo. “It’s clear up there,” he said, pointing with his ski pole.
Up ahead was the pass, and behind the snow clouds was a crisp blue sky.
“We’d better move on,” his guide said and lifted his left ski. “We’re perspiring and we’ll catch a chill.”
Angelo slipped his goggles back onto his face and looked at the abbey once more, now tinged yellow by the protective lenses. A deep, clean breath made him feel invigorated. He might be soaked in sweat, but he felt as fresh as the fallen snow.
When they were above St. Valentino, Angelo could see the square bell tower of St. Katharina on the horizon. They stopped on the crest of a hill, just above Haider Lake. The valley floor was buried under a white blanket, the houses in the distances barely recognisable under the snow-laden roofs.
“About five kilometres,” Manfred said.
They went on, and for a while, Angelo just heard the swish and squeak beneath the skis and their breathing as they climbed the last ridges. At the top, they removed the felt from the skis. They had a pristine slope ahead with fresh powder.
Manfred grinned from ear to ear. “This is where the talking stops and the skiing starts,” he said. “See you at the bottom.”
He pushed off, immediately slaloming through the thick layer of powder. Manfred yodelled,
