The Great Ski-Lift. Anton Soliman
rectangle. The panorama was breath-taking. His friend must have been awestruck heading downhill after leaving the Great Ski Lift.
The cabin reached the last visible pylon, then the curtain of mist drew back, revealing a pristine world made of vivid colours. Oskar had entered a high resolution, incredibly bright universe. Higher the perennial ice formed a white band.
Below, Valle Chiara had condensed into a reddish smudge in a sea of winter. On the other side, as the cablecar continued to rise, the great Sierra massifs rose slowly over the horizon. Underneath the cabin raged an increasingly uniform snowstorm, the conifers gradually grew scarcer until all vegetation disappeared completely, melting into a pitch white canvas.
Oskar finally saw the plateau. High mountain summer pastures that rose gently to the two pointed peaks, between them another mast, perhaps the last, glinted faintly in the distance. He pointed to the spot on the horizon: - Is that the arrival?
- Not yet. We are crossing the first plateau, which ends under those peaks. Behind that pylon, begins the second. At the end of that is our arrival base â answered the guide.
He watched the landscape unfold behind the fast approaching pass. The first plateau rolled beneath them with a jarring shudder. The cabin passed over a snow covered bowl shape. The sky was striking, with a blue so vivid it seemed unreal. He perceived the yawning distance between him and the City, the places and sites of his penance, the malicious faces of his acquaintances. Memories of Clara were decisively blotted out by an immense green splurge, which was being smudged by the rising horizon.
The world belonging to the innkeeper's daughter was only one of imaginary figurines: simple caricatures in a juvenile landscape, with a grazing cow, the pig, chickens and little plumes of smoke rising from chimneys on houses with every balcony proudly displaying flowers... That was all.
The cable car ride ended after what seemed an eternity. The light breeze had turned crisp, biting at him. A man, supposedly the operator, came forward to meet the pair.
- Morning, Engineer Zerbi. They phoned and told me you would be coming with a guide.
- Good morning â said Oskar looking around â It seems you get plenty of peace and quiet up here!
The man shook his head: - Mustn't grumble in terms of peace and quiet. I'd rather be down valley at home with my family. During winter the nights are pretty long here.
Oskar thought that in the end most people tend to say the same things. Regurgitating the same phrases, with words bound by common sense, a kind of self-survival mechanism for the species.
The arrival station was a reinforced concrete block; the backdrop a series of peaks. Towards the West, a few hundred yards from the building, another mountain pass that must presumably lead to the last plateau; the wide valley mentioned by the guide. Tomorrow, they could walk to the outskirts of the Great Ski-Lift.
The operator rang a bell, and the engine noise in the station stopped. The silence was deafening.
- I'll take you to the rooms - said the operator, pointing to a wooden staircase leading to a long corridor.
- This place is not really a chalet, but the manager furnished a couple of rooms for passers-by.
An electric stove heated the room assigned to Oskar. The room was practically an icebox. The low ceiling almost rested on the iron bunk bed in a room held two chairs and a candle-lit table.
A thin sheet of ice that deformed the scenery covered the square window. The transparent glass looked out on a blue ocean in a state of chaos.
- Make yourself comfortable, there's not much to do here. Downstairs is the dining room and a fireplace. We will eat soon, let's say around seven.
Oskar thought the man must have slowly turned bitter over time because of his solitary life. Perhaps the man would have been even unhappier at the village, with his faithful wife. Valle Chiara was not exactly brimming with happy people, most walked silently with a haunted look. He was reminded of Van Gogh's potato eaters.
The room was freezing so he dumped his bags and went straight outside, where the sun was still shining. Towards north, behind the reinforced concrete monstrosity, mountaintops silhouetted the landscape. The Great Ski-lift lands were still hidden from view. To the south, a white semicircle cut in two by the cable car's steel lines that stretched back to the valley he had left behind.
Standing in Valle Chiara you would never imagine there was such an incredible spectacle up above. He had entered another world.
At this point, even if two moons were to emerge at sunset it would leave him nonplussed.
These were the Sierra Mountains, bordering the Grand Circuit. A place still pristine. Oskar was unsure of the geography, having never been here before. He had stayed away from mountains for many years. The toll they exacted required a more determined mind-set. As a boy he went skiing often, but those were other times before any great Attachments, when the roads to follow were clearly mapped. Back then his consciousness seemed sensitive only to infrared. Even as a child, the imposing banks of snow had induced thoughts of loss, and a recurring question tinged in mystery: - What can be beyond those peaks?
Once again, he was awestruck at the grandeur of the immense and borderless plateau. He felt as if mysterious builders could have assembled them merely the previous night.
The sun was low, just above the snow cover; ice sheets glittered with reflected light.
The landscape penetrated deep into Oskar's brain, blasting clean all the melancholy accumulated in Valle Chiara's muddy lanes, where an Archetype had enchanted him.
The operator's canteen held some finely made furniture and looked cosy with a large roaring fireplace in the corner. The table laid, the improvised host announced meat stew was to be served:
- Game â he gloated with satisfaction.
- Many deer around these parts, the forests are full of animals. An upside of no one else living here on the Sierra â said the man.
- You mean there isn't a living soul around? â Oskar sounded sceptical.
- The place is deserted! Farming was abandoned and the mountains turned wild again. Am I right, Mario? â
The driver nodded imperceptibly, a sign for Mario to expand: - Some years ago, tourists came hiking in the summer, but it was a fleeting trend, the mountain asks too much. They would drive jeeps up to where they could, but the government banned them for impacting on the Great Ski-Lift.
- Traffic is non-existent then but building the station will make tourists come! - he stated blandly, already knowing the answer.
The operator replied through a mouthful of chewed cheese:
- As far as I know about this plant, this is a trial period. Up to now, ten people at most. Some to climb, including the Mayor, and the rest heading down. Some from the Great Ski Lift, usually lost off-piste â the man jammed another lump of cheese in his mouth.
â clandestinos started turning up almost immediately though, boarding the cabins cabs as soon as they crossed the pass.
- How do you mean? - Oskar was curious.
- Well, they cling to the cabins, throw themselves from pylons, and before arriving in the valley jump into trees in the spots where the cable almost scrapes the floor.
- What did you do?
-We stopped the plants that were running all day to draw in tourists, at least that's what the manager wanted. But with the Mongol hordes prowling around the Sierra, any communication channel must be watched carefully.
-These poor people are desperate! - Oscar shook his head.
-They're fucking everywhere. I even hear them at night: they run around the station, immune even to blizzards. Sometimes they turn up dead, frozen underneath the pylons.
The man clearly bored turned to the food, which looked sublime, nothing had been spared.