Chapter 8 #2
As other people followed his lead and started getting up and leaving the table, I checked my watch and saw that it was half-past ten.
I suppressed a yawn, definitely feeling like heading off to bed myself, but not before I had taken Oscar for a final walk.
He and I went out to the hall and, to my surprise, I found that I was going to have company.
This was none other than Bartolomeo and Winston, the monster hound.
Although I was glowing from all the food and drink, I pulled on my cosy new jacket along with the new hat and gloves that Anna had bought for me.
When I stepped out of the door, I realised that, even with all these precautions, I was by no means overdressed.
It was absolutely freezing out there, and I pulled the hat down over my ears.
Oscar and Winston appeared impervious to the cold, but I noticed that Bartolomeo was as well wrapped up as I was in a bright-red down-filled anorak – naturally bearing the Aquila logo.
He led me back down the main access track for several hundred yards before taking a narrower path that forked off to the left.
I walked alongside him in silence while our eyes got used to the dark – and it really was dark out there, as Valentina had said.
Apart from the villa itself, there was not one single light to be seen anywhere, and the new moon provided little in the way of illumination.
It was fortunate that the sky was cloudless, and I soon found that the twinkling light from the myriad stars above us was sufficient for me to find my way along the track without stumbling.
After a while, we came to a huge boulder, the size of a two- or even three-storey house, presumably dragged down here millions of years ago by a glacier.
From here, we turned left again and started to curl around back in the direction of the villa.
With my newfound night vision, I was now able to make out the mountains around and above us, the snow-covered peaks reflecting the starlight.
It was a stunning display and I felt privileged to have been given this experience.
At my side, Bartolomeo must have been feeling the same, as he slowed to a halt and started to speak softly, without any of the rage from before.
‘Isn’t this place magnificent? I come here as often as I can get away – sometimes for just a day, sometimes longer – to recharge my batteries.’
I was quick to agree. ‘I’ve been thinking how wonderful it is as well. Thank you for offering me this experience. Looking up at the stars makes us realise how small and insignificant we are, doesn’t it?’
‘It certainly does.’ He pulled out a little hip flask and took a long swig of it, before holding it out towards me. ‘A drop of grappa?’
I thanked him and refused but saw him take another mouthful before continuing, sparking serious concern for his liver. This sort of drinking was self-destructive.
He swallowed hard and continued. ‘I was just thinking about that idiot, Gallo. Given his way, he would be prepared to spoil everything here.’
‘Forgive me for asking, but what exactly does he want to do that could spoil this wonderful place?’
‘He wants to develop it into a brand-new ski resort.’ He stopped and corrected himself, slightly slurring his words.
It looked as though in his case, alcohol and loquaciousness didn’t mix.
‘No, not a ski resort, what he calls an Alpine resort. You may have heard that ski resorts are going through a tough time at the moment. Climate change, or whatever it is, has meant there’s less and less snow – or at least less reliable snow.
Once upon a time, you could count on good, usable snow in a place like this – we’re just over two thousand metres up here – from the end of November until the end of March.
Look at it now. It’s almost the end of December and there’s no snow below three thousand metres.
So what Gallo wants to do is what many of the resorts around here are already doing, and that’s diversifying into holiday destinations, not only for skiing in winter, but for walking, cycling and other pastimes in the spring, summer and autumn as well.
It’s outstandingly beautiful here, and he’s probably right when he says that a development like that could attract tens of thousands of people. ’
It all became clear to me now. ‘And you’re afraid that it would ruin the peace and quiet of your refuge?’
‘What do you think? You maybe heard him mention the plans he sent me. Of course I looked at them. Apart from a new access road, a series of chairlifts up here and an ambitious cable car to connect with the glacier, he’s also in effect proposing to create a brand-new Alpine village here with hotels, restaurants, bars and nightclubs.
The whole area would be changed beyond all recognition, wouldn’t it? ’
I had to agree with him. ‘And your villa would be overwhelmed by it all.’
‘Yes, but it’s not just me and my home. Think about the animals.
It’s still quite common for us to see chamois or ibex, as well as marmots and Alpine foxes.
There’s no hunting allowed anywhere in this valley.
I’ve made sure of that, and it would break my heart to see the wildlife threatened by development.
Even without hunting, can you imagine the impact a new village and thousands of visitors would have on the wildlife around here?
It would be catastrophic. Vincenzo felt the exact same way as I do.
’ His tone became more sombre. ‘He was a good man.’
As he spoke, I was trying to remember what an ibex looked like, and it came to me after a few moments.
As I recalled, they were powerful mountain goats with terrific, curved horns often well over a foot long, while chamois were more like a cross between a deer and a goat with smaller, goat-like horns.
As I know only too well, living where I do in the Tuscan countryside, to many Italian men, shooting anything from sparrows on purpose to each other by mistake is right up there alongside other popular male pastimes such as complaining about the government, talking about football and chasing after women.
This development, if it went ahead, would certainly change this whole area forever.
I had to admit that I admired the moral stance Bartolomeo was taking on this, even though by so doing, he was probably turning his back on a small fortune.
I tried another, slightly more delicate question. ‘But Orlando doesn’t feel the same way as you do?’
‘Orlando!’ The annoyance – or more – was back in his voice again. ‘The boy doesn’t have a clue. All he’s ever been interested in is snowboarding. He has no head for business and not nearly enough respect for the environment. I despair of him at times. Do you have children, Dan?’
‘A daughter, round about Orlando’s age. I’m pleased to say she’s pretty sensible and she works as a lawyer back in the UK. But didn’t Fiona tell me that Orlando did an MBA at Harvard? Surely he should have a lot to offer the company.’
‘That’s what I thought, too, but not when his mind’s on other things – like Gallo’s ridiculous Alpine resort project.’
The annoyance was back in his voice, so I hastily changed the subject.
‘What’s the plan for tomorrow? I’d like to have a good talk to Orlando and Ingrid.’ Before he had to say it, I continued. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to accuse them of murder. I just need to get a feel for them, what makes them tick.’
When he replied, there was a sneer in his voice.
‘That’s easy: snowboarding for him and a life of luxury for her – that’s what makes them tick.
’ After a brief pause, he answered my original question.
‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to speak to either of them in the morning.
Selena and I have a Zoom meeting at ten with her agent over in Hollywood and Orlando and maybe Ingrid will be with me, after which we’ll be tied up with another meeting with some of the senior staff here.
I imagine that’ll go on until lunchtime or maybe later, so you’d better schedule your interviews for the afternoon.
Why don’t you and your wife explore the area?
You can either wander around here or drive back down into the main valley and go up to Pian dei Granati at the far end for lunch.
There’s a mountain refuge up there that does real genuine local food.
Why not see if Valentina or Fiona feel like coming with you and showing you the way?
They can tell you all about the area. You need to try the polenta concia with chamois stew – not that it’s real chamois.
It’s probably goat, but it tastes great all the same. ’
I had had polenta concia – known in the Alpine dialect as polenta counsa – before, when I had been in the nearby Valle d’Aosta, and I remembered it well.
It was definitely a winter warmer, made with maize flour and liberally laced with melted cheese.
This sounded like an excellent way of spending the following day and, in spite of all the food I had just consumed, I found myself looking forward to tomorrow’s lunch.
An uncomfortable thought suddenly occurred to me – had my close association with Oscar and his voracious appetite spilled over onto me as well?
He would no doubt be proud of me.