After a few moments, he only heard the wind and the swish of the snow, the powder flying up in bright-white sprays. His thighs burned. He turned his skis parallel to the slope and paused. Manfred was far ahead. Catching his breath, Angelo looked around, the bright landscape under the March sun like piles of diamonds. His cheeks ached, and he patted them before acknowledging it was his smile that was hurting them. He laughed, took one more look around at the peaks and the valley below, and shoved off again, extending his legs through the middle of the turns. Soon enough, he felt no tautness as he bounced from one turn to the next, right out of the powder. It didn’t take long to catch up to Manfred. When the Tyrolean noticed him, he hollered again, and Angelo whooped in return.
It was growing dark by the time they swung down the last slope and onto the main road into Graun. A few minutes later and another story from Manfred—this time about a skiing expedition he’d led two years back—and they were in front of the Post Inn. The lights were all on. When Angelo looked up at the window above them, he could see coloured bulbs strung across the ceiling of the dining room. An Easter wreath hung on the door, though Easter was a couple of weeks away. It was cheerful, he had to admit that.
Manfred leaned his skis against the landing.
“There’s another place further up the road,” Angelo said. “I’ll go there.”
His guide smiled under the lamplight and pulled off his cap. “We stop here. I prefer it here.” He took the broom that had been leaning near the stairs and brushed off caked powder and ice from his shoes and trousers. He then handed the broom to Angelo.
“You will too,” he added.
“I’ve been here before.”
Manfred grinned broadly, his goggles resting on top of his head and his scarf undone. He put a hand on Angelo’s shoulder. “Good. Then that’s two of us Jutta knows.”
Angelo groaned but gave in, eager to get inside where it was warm, tired from the exertion but certain he could handle Jutta Hanny. He followed Manfred into the Stube. The dry heat from the tile oven was like walking into a wall compared to the fresh, crisp air outside. He took in the empty Stube. The lights he had seen from outside, the coloured bulbs and Easter ornaments, had been misleading. He had expected the place to be full of locals who’d come in for company and to catch up on the local gossip. People like Manfred, whom Angelo had come to like very much. He now realised how ridiculous he had been. Of course it was empty. Stefano had done his job well. It was a sign of things to come.
***
N ext morning, when the bell from St. Katharina rang half past eight, Angelo escaped the stares of the innkeeper, who’d been tight lipped and unpleasant upon their arrival and again at breakfast. The only one who’d greeted him warmly was Alois, and just as Angelo was about to ask the mongoloid whether he knew anything of Annamarie, that Jutta Hanny had marched into the dining room, flicking a dishrag like a whip against her skirt, her keys rattling on a chain like a jailor’s. She had asked whether Angelo was leaving with Manfred that day and if not, she had no rooms available.
“Completely booked this weekend,” the woman finished.
Manfred had watched the exchange with wide eyes, and when she’d glanced in his direction—one eyebrow raised—he’d stuffed a roll with jam into his mouth and pretended to be busy eating.
Instead of aggravating the situation, Angelo said he would not be staying, and after saying goodbye to Manfred, who was returning back to Mals, Angelo checked himself into the Il Dante. Now, he stood outside and blew into his hands in an effort to warm them. Without strenuous activity like yesterday’s, the temperature was almost unbearable.
At the bottom of the road that led to Arlund, the snow had been piled high. The strain of the climb, like the skiing, was like a balm. He paused and touched the side of his head. The scar from the stab wound had faded to a single bear-claw line. He remembered his blood, the heat and ache of his injuries, the smell of dirt, wood, and iron. He savoured this memory, truly turned it in his head, and tried to recall his first glimpses of Katharina. A crown of blond braids, the kind, curious brown eyes. The courage under the layer of propriety. The rustle of her skirt. His ruined shirt that she had tried to save and which he’d never seen again. He remembered the bedroom, the simple furniture, the dust motes in the corner near the door, the ash-grey wooden floors. Her laughter, clear. Free. He remembered how she had come to him.
He shared a daughter with her.
He trudged on through the snow, reaching over his knees. He took the images he had of Katharina and transposed them onto the girl he had so briefly met. Annamarie, in Marco’s embrace and ready to defend Angelo’s son. Annamarie, in the photo Katharina had sent him, the smile, the spirit. Annamarie in a moment of uncertainty in Chiara’s green gown, so tragically wrong for her. Everything had been wrong for her in
