It was dark and the snow was falling when we arrived at Cortina. Once out of the lights of the station our sense of pleasure at having finished the journey was damped by the blanket of steadily falling snow. The soft sound of it was audible in the still night. It hid the lights of the little town and muffled the chained wheels of the hotel bus.
Cortina is like all winter sports’ resorts. It is a veneer of civilisation’s luxuries planted by hotel-keepers in the heart of a wild country of forests, snow and jagged peaks. Because of the lateness of our arrival, we had arranged to stay the first night at the Splendido and go on up to Col da Varda the next day.
As soon as we passed through the Splendido’s swing doors, the glittering palace lapped its luxury round us like a hot bath. In every room central heating thrust back the cold of the outside world. There were soft lights, dance bands, and the gleam of silver. Italian waiters, with a hundred different drinks, threaded their way through a colourful mob of men and women from a dozen different countries. Everything was laid on — ski instructors, skating instructors, transport to the main runs, ice hockey matches, ski jumping. It was like a department store in which the thrills of the snow country can be bought at so much a yard. And outside the snow fell heavily.
I picked up a pile of brochures on Cortina whilst waiting for dinner. One announced it as ‘the sunny snow paradise in the Dolomites’. Another became lyrical over the rocky peaks, describing them as ‘pinnacles rising out of the snow and looking like flames mounting into the Blue Sky’. They spoke with awe of fifty-eight different ski runs and, referring to summer sport at Cortina, stated, ‘it is almost impossible to be tired at Cortina: Ride before breakfast, golf before lunch, tennis in the afternoon and a quick bath before dressing for dinner — still one is ready to dance until the early hours.’ Nothing out of the ordinary could happen here, I felt. They had made a playground of the cold snow, and the grim Dolomite bastions were pretty peaks to be admired at sunset with a dry Martini.
Joe Wesson had something of the same reaction. He suddenly materialised at my elbow. He wore rubber-soled shoes and moved quietly for such a large man. ‘Not a hair out of place, eh?’ he said, looking at the brochure over my shoulder. ‘It’s like the Italians to try to tame Nature with a pot of brilliantine. But it can’t be far from here that twenty thousand men died trying to get Hannibal’s elephants through the passes. And only a year or two back, I suppose, a lot of our blokes were frozen to death attempting to get through from Germany.’
I tossed the brochures back on to the pile. ‘It might be Palm Beach, or the Lido, Venice, or Mayfair,’ I agreed. ‘Same people — same atmosphere. Only I suppose it’s all white outside.’
IB He gave a snort of disgust and led the way in to dinner.
‘You’ll be glad enough to return to it,’ he muttered, ‘after you’ve had a day or two up in that damned hut.’
As I sat down, I glanced round the room at the other diners, wondering whether the girl who had signed herself ‘Carla’ in that photograph would Be there. She wasn’t, of course, though the majority of the women in the room were Italian. I wondered why Engles should expect her to be at Cortina.
‘No need to try and catch their eyes,’ Joe Wesson said through a mouthful of ravioli. ‘Judging by the looks of most of ‘em, you’ve only got to leave your bedroom door open.’
‘You’re being unnecessarily coarse,’ I said.
His little bloodshot eyes twinkled at me. ‘Sorry, old man. Forgot you’d been in Italy long enough to know your way around. Is it a contessa or a marchesa you’re expecting?’
‘I don’t quite know,’ I replied. ‘It could just as well be a signora, or even a signorina, or just a common or garden little tart.’
‘Well, if it’s the last you’re wanting,’ he said, ‘you shouldn’t have much difficulty in this assembly.’
After dinner I went in search of the owner of the hotel. I wanted to find out what local information I could about Col da Varda and its slittovia. Our accommodation at the chalet had been booked through him and I thought, therefore, that he should be able to tell me what there was to know.
Edoardo Mancini was a short stocky man of very light colouring for an Italian. He was part Venetian and part Florentine and he had lived a long time in England. In fact, he had once been in the English bobsleigh team. He had been among the great of the bobsleigh world. But he had had to pack it up ten years ago after a really bad smash. His right arm had been broken in so many places that it was virtually useless.
