Black Run. Antonio Manzini

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СКАЧАТЬ he didn’t much like working alone like that. Folks seem to think that mountain ­people prefer the solitary life of a hermit. Nothing could be further from the truth. Or nothing could be further from the truth as Amedeo conceived it. He liked bright lights, loud noises, and lots of ­people talking all night long.

      “Una vita da medianoooo,” he sang at the top of his lungs, to keep himself company. His voice reverberated off the Plexiglas windows as he focused on the snow, which was turning a pale blue in the moonlight. If he’d stopped to look up, he’d have glimpsed a breathtaking spectacle. High above, the sky was dark blue, like the ocean depths. By contrast, all along the mountain ridges it was orange. The last slanting rays of sunlight tinged the perennial glaciers purple and the underbellies of the clouds a metallic gray. Towering over everything were the dark flanks of the Alps. Amedeo took a slurp of grappa and glanced downhill. A nativity scene made up of roads, houses, and twinkling lights. A dreamlike vision for those who hadn’t been born and raised in those valleys. For him, a squalid and heartbreaking diorama.

      “Certe notti la radio che passa Nil Jàng sembra avere capito chi seiiiii …” He sang along to the words of the song by Ligabue: “Certain nights when the radio plays Neil Young as if it knew who you really we-­e-­ere …”

      He’d finished the first run, a wall. He turned the cat to head downhill toward the second section and found himself facing a stretch of black piste—­a black-­diamond run. Like in karate, the black classification meant the most challenging kind of run. It was frightening. An expanse of ice and snow with no end in sight.

      Only guys who’d been doing this work for years and who could spin the snowcat around like a tricycle would even dare to venture down that steep, twisting track, full of switchback curves and sheer drops, that led down to the main run. Anyway, that was a stretch that didn’t require grooming. It was supposed to be left the way it was. It was too tight, for starters. If you took it wrong, the treads would lose their grip, and before you knew it the snowcat would flip over, pinning you under tons of metal and hot grease. The skiers could groom it themselves, gradually smoothing the track as they descended. Someone had to go up just once a month, with a plow blade, and that was only when things had been pushed as far as they could go and the icy mounds that had built up absolutely had to be flattened out. Otherwise, on those blocks and slabs of ice, cartilage and ligaments, ankles and knees snapped and sprained regularly and unpredictably.

      The light on the walkie-­talkie on the seat next to him blinked. Someone was calling him. Amedeo yanked out his earbuds and grabbed the device. “Amedeo here.”

      The radio crackled, then the voice of his boss, Luigi, emerged through the static: “Amedeo, where are you?”

      “I’m right in front of the wall at the top run.”

      “That’s enough. Head downhill and do the section below, near town. I’ll take care of the top section.”

      “Thanks, Luigi.”

      “Listen,” Luigi added, “remember to take the shortcut down to town.”

      “You mean the lane?”

      “That’s right, the one that runs from Crest—­that way you don’t have to cross the piste that Berardo’s cleaning. So take the shortcut, you got that?”

      “Got it. Thanks!”

      “Forget about ‘Thanks.’ Make sure you buy me a glass of white before dinner!”

      Amedeo smiled. “That’s a promise!”

      He stuck the earbuds back in, shifted into the lowest gear, and rumbled off the slope.

      “Balliamo un fandango … ohhhh,” he went on singing. “We dance a fandango.” Again, Ligabue.

      Overhead, heavy cloud cover suddenly filled the sky, blocking out the moon. That’s how it always works in the mountains: before you know it, the weather veers around as fast as the winds at high altitude. Amedeo knew that. The weather forecast for the weekend was ugly.

      The snowcat’s powerful headlights lit up the slope and the dark mass of fir and larch trunks lining it. Through the black branches he could still see the lights of Champoluc below.

      “Balliamo sul mondoooo ohh,” he sang. “We dance on the world.”

      He’d have to drive past the ski school and the snowcat garage, then head downhill toward town, and from there work the slope uphill.

      He flicked the scorched filter of the joint out the window. Just then, the headlights of another snowcat blinded him. He lifted one hand to shield his eyes. The cat climbing the hill pulled up level with him. It was Berardo, another driver.

      “Hey, are you high? You blinded me!”

      “Heh-­heh …” Berardo snickered idiotically.

      “Listen, Luigi’s taking care of the top. I’m heading down to do the bottom of the piste, near town.”

      “Got it,” replied Berardo, whose nose was already bright red. “You want to get a glass of white at Mario and Michael’s tonight?”

      “I’m supposed to treat Luigi, so I’ll be there anyway. I’m heading down to the end of the slope!” Amedeo shouted.

      “Take the Crest lane—­I’ve already finished the run up above!”

      “Don’t worry, I’ll take the shortcut! Later!”

      Berardo went on his way. Amedeo, on the other hand, turned toward Crest, as ordered. Crest was a small cluster of mountain houses above the slopes. Nearly all the houses were uninhabited except for a hut and a ­couple of villas owned by ­people from Genoa who loved skiing more than they did their own city. From there, he’d go through the woods to the shortcut, which would take him eight hundred yards downhill. He’d give the end of the run a quick groom and then finally came the glass of white wine and cheerful conversation and laughter with the Englishmen who no doubt were already drunk. He went past the few lights on in the village, then left it behind him. The lane that the snowcats used was clear and distinct.

      “Ti brucerai, piccola stella senza cielo …” Hitting the high notes. “You’ll burn up, little star without a sky.”

      He headed downhill, proceeding cautiously down the track, which was used only in the summer by off-­road vehicles heading for the village of Crest. The headlights mounted on the snowcat’s roof lit the shortcut brightly. There was roughly zero likelihood of driving over the edge.

       “Ti brucerai …”

      No problem. The treads were gripping perfectly. The cabin was tilted to one side like a thrill ride, was the only thing. But even that was fun.

       “Ti bruceraiiii.”

      Then the tiller hit something hard and the snowcat bounced on its treads. Amedeo turned to see what the vehicle had hit. Must have been a rock or a patch of dirt. Out the rear windshield, the lights illuminated the churned-­up snow on the lane.

      But there was something wrong. He could see it immediately, right in the middle of the lane.

      A dark stain stretching at least a ­couple of yards.

      He СКАЧАТЬ