out, pleased that he hadnât felt even a hint of vertigo.
Outside the cableway station, the snow was deep, and the sun had melted it a little. Skiers dressed in a dizzying array of colors, so that they resembled a cluster of carnival masks, were sprawled out at the tables of a chalet bar, drinking in the dayâs last rays of light, sipping foamy goblets of beer. Others headed down to the slopes with skis, snowshoes, and helmets thrown over their shoulders, walking like so many golems in large, noisy snowboots. Rocco was reminded of the damned souls in some Dantean circle of hell.
âAre you saying they pay for all this?â he asked Italo.
âDeputy Police Chief Schiavone,â said Pierron, unbelievably nailing Roccoâs correct rank, âhave you ever tried skiing?â
âNever.â
âThen take it from me that if you tried even once, youâd understand. Just like a little while ago on the cableway. Did you see? Suddenly sun and sky and snow. The same thing on skis. The same sensation.â
But Rocco wasnât listening anymore. He was comparing the snow on the ground with his shoes, so ill suited to the situation.
âDonât worry, Dottore, we only have to walk about a hundred yards. Luigi is waiting for us.â
âWhoâs Luigi?â
âThe head snowcat operator. The one who took us up last night. Luigi Bionaz. Heâs going to take us to Cuneaz. You see that valley down there?â
Rocco looked. Four hundred yards ahead, in the midst of runs busy with overjoyed skiers, there was a collection of snow-covered humps. âYes, I see. What of it?â
âCuneaz is down there, behind those rises in the slope. In the summer, you can walk it. But in the winter youâd need snowshoes.â
âYouâd need what?â
âSnowshoes . . . those rackets on your feet. You know what I mean?â
âAh. Like Umberto Nobile?â
âWho?â
âForget about it, Italo. Letâs go see Luigi.â
Barely fifty feet outside the cableway station, there was an enormous rock-and-timber structure off to one side. This was the snowcat garage. In the distance, outside a glass door with the ski school logo, the instructors were loitering on wooden benches in the sun, all of them wearing red jackets and black pants. Italo raised one hand to catch someoneâs attention. Rocco, on the other hand, looked down at his Clarks desert boots, which resembled two waterlogged sewer rats.
âHey there!â shouted someone Rocco couldnât really see because of the glare.
âLook, thereâs Luigi. Letâs go,â said Italo, âheâs waiting for us.â
Walking laboriously through the deep snow, dressed in his loden green overcoat and gray corduroy trousers, under the inquisitive gazes of the skiers, Rocco finally made it to the door of the garage. Luigi Bionaz was there, waiting for them.
âBuon giorno , Commissario, donât you remember me?â
The night before, Luigiâs face had been nothing but an indistinct mass beneath a heavy cap with earflaps. Now, in the light of day, Rocco was finally able to make out his features. The first thing Rocco noticed was his eyes, such a pale blue that they looked like those of a sled dog, a husky. High cheekbones, a strong jaw, and clean white teeth that seemed to be reflecting the surrounding snow. If Luigi Bionaz had been born in America, he could have become an action movie star. He had the face and he had the bodyâeverything necessary to drive the women of half a hemisphere mad with desire.
âI heard. Leone. Iâm so sorry. Was it an accident?â he asked as he rolled himself a cigarette.
Rocco didnât say a word, and Luigi understood that this was not the time to ask any other questions. So he smiled and slapped his hand down twice on the seat of a 4x4 all-terrain vehicle. âNo snowcat today. Weâre going on this.â
It was a
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