"Don't drink that," she said.
"Darling, please don't drink that.
We have to do everything we can."
"You do it," he said. "I'm tired."
Now in his mind he saw a railway
station at Karagatch and he was
standing with his pack and that was
the headlight of the Simplon-Offent
cutting the dark now and he was
leaving Thrace then after the retreat.
That was one of the things he had
saved to write, with, in the morning at
breakfast, looking out the window and
seeing snow on the mountains in
Bulgaffa and Nansen's Secretary
asking the old man if it were snow
and the old man looking at it and
saying, No, that's not snow. It's too
early for snow. And the Secretary
repeating to the other girls, No, you
see. It's not snow and them all
saying, It's not snow we were
mistaken. But it was the snow all
right and he sent them on into it
when he evolved exchange of
populations. And it was snow they
tramped along in until they died that
winter.
It was snow too that fell all
Christmas week that year up in the
Gauertal, that year they lived in the
woodcutter's house with the big
square porcelain stove that filled half
the room, and they slept on
mattresses filled with beech leaves,
the time the deserter came with his
feet bloody in the snow. He said the
police were right behind him and they
gave him woolen socks and held the
gendarmes talking until the tracks
had drifted over.
In Schrunz, on Christmas day, the
snow was so bright it hurt your eyes
when you looked out from the
Weinstube and saw every one
coming home from church. That was
where they walked up the sleigh-
smoothed urine-yellowed road along
the river with the steep pine hills, skis
heavy on the shoulder, and where
they ran down the glacier above the
Madlenerhaus, the snow as smooth
to see as cake frosting and as light
as powder and he remembered the
noiseless rush the speed made as
you dropped down like a bird.
They were snow-bound a week in the
Madlenerhaus that time in the
blizzard playing cards in the smoke
by the lantern light and the stakes
were higher all the time as Herr Lent
lost more. Finally he lost it all.
Everything, the Skischule money and
all the season's profit and then his
capital. He could see him with his
long nose, picking up the cards and
then opening, "Sans Voir." There was
always gambling then. When there
was no snow you gambled and when
there was too much you gambled. He
thought of all the time in his life he
had spent gambling.
But he had never written a line of
that, nor of that cold, bright
Christmas day with the mountains
showing across the plain that Barker
had flown across the lines to bomb
the Austrian officers' leave train,
machine-gunning them as they
scattered and ran. He remembered
Barker afterwards coming into the
mess and starting to tell about it.
And how quiet it got and then
somebody saying, ''You bloody
murderous bastard.''
Those were the same Austrians they
killed then that he skied with later.
No not the same. Hans, that he skied
with all that year, had been in the
Kaiser Jagers and when they went
hunting hares together up the little
valley above the saw-mill they had
talked of the fighting on Pasubio and
of the attack on Perticara and
Asalone and he had never written a
word of that. Nor of Monte Corona,
nor the Sette Communi, nor of
Arsiero.
How many winters had he lived in the
Vorarlberg and the Arlberg? It was
four and then he remembered the
man who had the fox to sell when
they had walked into Bludenz, that
time to buy presents, and the cherry-
pit taste of good kirsch, the fast-
slipping rush of running powder-
snow on crust, singing ''Hi! Ho! said
Rolly!' ' as you ran down the last
stretch to the steep drop, taking it
straight, then running the orchard in
three turns and out across the ditch
and onto the icy road behind the inn.
Knocking your bindings loose, kicking
the skis free and leaning them up
against the wooden wall of the inn,
the lamplight coming from the
window, where inside, in the smoky,
new-wine smelling warmth, they were
playing the accordion.
"Where did we stay in Paris?" he
asked the woman who was sitting
by him in a canvas chair, now, in
Africa.
"At the Crillon. You know that."
"Why do I know that?"
"That's where we always stayed."
"No. Not always."
"There and at the Pavillion Henri-
Quatre in St. Germain. You said
you loved it there."
"Love is a dunghill," said Harry.
"And I'm the cock that gets on it to
crow."
"If you have to go away," she said,
"is it absolutely necessary to kill off
everything you leave behind? I
mean do you have to take away
everything? Do you have to kill
your horse, and your wife and burn
your saddle and your armour?"
"Yes," he said. "Your damned money
was my armour. My Sword and my
Armour."
"Don't."
"All right. I'll stop that. I don't want
to hurt you.'
"It's a little bit late now."
"All right then. I'll go on hurting
you. It's more amusing. The only
thing I ever really liked to do with
you I can't do now."
"No, that's not true. You liked to do
many things and everything you
wanted to do I did."
"Oh, for Christ sake stop bragging,
will you?"
He looked at her and saw her
crying.
"Listen," he said. "Do you think that
it is fun to do this? I don't know
why I'm doing it. It's trying to kill to
keep yourself alive, I imagine. I was
all right when we started talking. I
didn't mean to start this, and now
I'm crazy as a coot and being as
cruel to you as I can be. Don't pay
any attention, darling, to what I
say. I love you, really. You know I
love you. I've never loved any one
else the way I love you."
He slipped into the familiar lie he
made his bread and butter by.
"You're sweet to me."
"You bitch," he said. "You rich bitch.
That's poetry. I'm full of poetry now.
Rot and poetry. Rotten poetry."
"Stop it. Harry, why do you have to
turn into a devil now?"
"I don't like to leave anything," the
man said. "I don’t like to leave
things behind."
Title : Snows of kilimanjaro (2)
Description : "Don't drink that," she said. "Darling, please don't drink that. We have to do everything we can." "You ...