The Great Ski-Lift. Anton Soliman

The two stood up and walked around the ridge. Lower down the conifers started growing again. Even further below, right in the middle of the woods, a white strip of snow flowed like a frozen river. That was the Great Ski-Lift track. Oskar was excited. The guide passed the binoculars: so many coloured dots sliding along the snow tongue swam into view. Their bright garish suits confirmed they were skiers.

      - Well, here I am! - exclaimed Oskar.

      -Mr Zerbi, remember not to stay too long in the same place.... as a general rule.

      Oskar mounted the skis accurately. As far as he was concerned before long he would be just another tourist on the Great Ski-Lift.

      - Always have your pass clearly displayed and follow the track down to the valley. For accommodation, I suggest the ´Piccolo Cervo’; other hunters told me it is a quiet place.

      Oskar removed a glove and shook the guide's hand. In a serious tone he asked, - One last thing, Mario, and then I'll let you get back to work. Did you bring the former Mayor here? The one who designed the station.

      Mario nodded affirmatively.

      - What was he like?

      - Can't say much, the Mayor barely spoke but he seemed to know this part of the Sierra pretty well.

       Oskar descended gracelessly through the woods, falling over several times. So much time has passed that his skiing skills were almost non-existent. He decided to keep going on foot. The skis would go back on once the track was beaten snow. The woods were covered so deep that walking was difficult. He moved slowly but confident the track would eventually come into view. It would get easier, afterwards.

      He'd been walking briskly for an hour when he heard the noise of tourists: the rustling of skis bouncing on the ice, the voice of passing people, some excited shouts. He felt exhausted by the time he reached the track. It was covered with snow. First of all, he needed a rest without drawing attention. There was a risk the overseers could spot him in that marginal zone, right on the cusp of crossing the Great Ski-Lift threshold. He crept towards the edge, so it would seem he was just taking a breather after crashing. He waited for a moment with no-one, and then ran across the last stretch separating him from the ski track's edge. Once he reached the beaten snow, he threw the skis to one side and simulated a fall. Some skiers passed by. Not many, groups of four or five people at most. Less frequently, couples passed by. All were equally indifferent to his supposed plight. No one was skiing alone though.

      He'd arrived on the Grand Ski-lift circuit! A remarkable test of character, perhaps the start of a change that could represent a final true goal.

      He had no precise picture of the situation, much less a strategy on how to act. In the present moment he didn't wonder how long this holiday could last, he only knew many days lay before him. A fuller picture would emerge over time.

      The cold was starting to bite; he got up and put on the skis. On returning to the valley we would look for a hotel. A canal running through the woods guided the track. The mountains towered above both sides over which the sun had just disappeared. The light was uniform, a widespread luminescence that only made the encroaching darkness more apparent. The air palpably stirred up his uncertainty and melancholy. Oskar’s descent was hesitant and relied on thinking that being a skilled skier many years earlier would see him through. For full disclosure, he never gained a high level of proficiency because of various ingrained flaws, along with the lack of a serious training regime that was only eager to reach stylistic perfection. No doubt this mental attitude had penalized him, since his movements had never become harmonious or fluid.

      This last thought was timely, as the skis crossed and he tumbled forward, falling awkwardly into the gleaming white. He got up immediately, cringing at having forgotten the most basic techniques. He focused on starting in the right position and, adjusting his weight began heading diagonally. Executing a swirling turn, and then another without falling, he tried to join the skis again but instead plunged head first in the snow.

      The ski-track was now deserted, it was much later, the hour before sunset.

      His skiing ability had failed to flood back. Angry with himself for being so rusty he questioned what he'd done over all those years – evidently held captive in a world where skiing was not contemplated. The years of self-neglect suddenly became apparent.

      The current problem was going downhill without raising any suspicion. Oskar waited patiently and with a pinch of cunning took advantage of the easiest tracts to ski diagonally and gently take the bends. The many village lights flickered in the distance. There was a chair lift next to the arrival pitch. Workers were controlling the gears, a job only for when the station was not running. The guide had recommended the ‘Piccolo Cervo’, a supposedly inconspicuous place to hole up in. Oskar was at the centre of a large clearing near the forest he emerged from, the village lay out below. Skiers were in the local venues, some people milled around but the place was not crowded.

      - Sorry sir, can you tell me where’s the Piccolo Cervo - he asked a passer-by.

      - Sure, head up that path and turn left next to the clock tower. The sign is easy to spot.

       At least the hotel was nearby. The directions were accurate and he reached the hotel after a few minutes. Leaving the skis on a rack he went inside; the door made a classic bell sound.

      - Good evening, just arrived? You must be tired after the crossing- said a rotund lady with straw yellow hair – which valley did you come from?

      A moment's pause for Oskar to formulate a lie: - From the North slopes. I'm pretty tired, do you have a spare room?

      - Of course, even in the Christmas period, we can always find a room for a card carrying member of the Great Ski-Lift.

      The landlady smiled benevolently on seeing the pass sheathed in a transparent pocket of his padded jacket. Oskar now understood why she asked for his provenance. After all, he might have arrived using more conventional means. The Great Ski-Lift pass and just a backpack as luggage marked him as different. Everything in good-standing for a permanent member.

      The room provided looked comfortable. He locked the door, chomped on a chocolate bar and slipped straight into bed.

      A winter glow entered through the window, a sort of absolute light that always caused great melancholy, as if it were a sign of immobility: a static scenario, events looping for eternity, with the Self is lost forever in parallel worlds.

      The next day he woke early. In the dining room he watched a woman having breakfast with a baby girl. There were no other guests. The woman greeted him after looking around, and after a brief silence ventured: - What lovely weather we're having for Christmas. My kids told me the snow is fabulous. Do you also ski?

      - Sure, but it's been a while since being in the mountains, I think I need some lessons.

      - Good idea. Don't worry, my husband had the same problem. As a kid he was even a champion on grass but afterwards, with work commitments, he stopped visiting the mountain. A few years ago he started up again with an instructor, and is now better than ever before.

      Oskar forced a smile: - Similar story for many of us. When we're little there is so much potential but when full-time work sets in. His words trailed off, the phrase has been spoken automatically, unthinking. The atmosphere had the air it could turn sour in an instant. That woman was serene, with a stable centre in Conventional Life. She had no doubts to confess, an individual selected for life in captivity over millennia. The woman could be no help for people that, like him, needed to vault the Wall.

      - Pleased to meet you but I must dash, need to hit those ski slopes.

      The hollow words lingered in the air as Oskar found the hotel, in a bright sunlight that almost overwhelmed the landscape. Yet Oskar felt he was somewhere unfamiliar. The scenery stretching out before his eyes implied that Others found themselves perfectly comfortable. A multitude of skiers swarming towards the ski-plant moved in coordinated spurts. They looked self-assured, confident in their actions. Everyone seemed to be following a schedule.

      When at the village outskirts,