As so many other stories do, this one started with a scene. I'm not going to mention which one. I'll leave that to you. This is not the story I set out to write, but it is the story that it became. Maybe it's not as polished as it could be, and maybe it's more purple than it could be, but I needed it out of my head so that I could continue with other things.
Selva is where I learned to ski, so it and the Dolomites have always held a special place in my heart.
If you speak the languages of Tirol, then I apologise. I do not, bar the simplest of phrases. The internet can give you the words, but it can never give you the idioms or the natural flow of a native. I have done my best, where possible.
- W
--
I stepped down off the bus, and waited patiently until it was my turn to pull my backpack out from the cramped and grimy luggage hold.
The crisp, cold air, the accents, and the smell of diesel brought back many memories of my childhood.
I checked the details of my booking on my phone, and found the map to my apartment. It would be a bit of a walk from the bus station, but it would get the stiffness from the long journey out of my legs, and give me time to catch my bearings. Time to adjust.
Above the town, the mountains loomed golden in the January sunlight. It looked like the snowfall had been heavy over the last few days; the stone had been softened by drifts of white, like icing sugar drizzled over gingerbread.
I lifted my pack onto my shoulders, wincing as the frame dug into my back. I slung my small faded day-bag awkwardly over my shoulder.
Around me milled a small sea of other tourists. Some were still hunting their belongings, others embarking on the same trek to their lodgings as I was. Bright colours surrounded me; Brand-new jackets in this year's style were everywhere, coupled with the incongruous woollen hats which seemed to be the season's touch of panache. Skiers and snowboarders stalked carefully between us with their equipment. Patrons at a cafe watched us new arrivals, their breath steaming in the scarcely-above-zero air.
The sun was bright on the snow; icicles glittered on eaves. I took a breath and squared my shoulders, adjusted my sunglasses on my nose and started walking.
It had been seven years since I was last here. But little seemed to have changed. I couldn't decide if that helped or not.
I worked my way up the hill, carefully negotiated several icy switchbacks in the path, found my way to the apartments and rang the doorbell. A matronly old lady appeared, and welcomed me in from the cold with a smile.
"Lucy?" she asked. "You are Lucy?"
"Si," I answered her.
"Where is... the partner?"
"He could not come. It's just me."
She heard the tone of my voice and dropped that line of questioning; I appreciated the sympathetic tutting and shaking of the head, and the brief mothering she gave me as she herded me up the stairs salved some of the sting.
She opened the apartment door and ushered me into the warm, wood-panelled interior. "Kitchen and table here. Il frigorifero. Through there - la doccia e il wc. Through there is bedroom. Please, a moment, I just take..."
I saw her reaching for the second set of pillows. "No, it's ok - please leave them," I said. "It's fine. I'll use them. Grazie."
"Ok, I leave for you. Do you have map? Of Selva?"
"Yes," I answered with a tired smile. "I've been here often before. I don't think it will have changed much from last time."
"Allora. The shop on the corner you walk past is good for food and drink. Tell Signore Alonso that you are staying with Maria and he look after you. Here is la chiave," she added, handing me a small set of keys. "I lock outside door at dieci... scusi... ten of the evening, yes? This one is key for that door. The light it stay on in hallway, please be quiet if you come in after."
"I will. Thank you."
"Di niente! Enjoy your stay."
She ambled off down the stairs. The doorbell rang. "Un momento!" I heard her call before I shut the door on the world.
I put my backpack down on the bed and took a moment to look around me at my lodgings. They would be just fine for the week that I would need them for. I walked to the window, and perched myself in the sun bay for a while to stare out at the view of the valley and of the Sella-Massif beyond.
I felt a momentary stab of acid bitterness; John should have been here, he was the one who'd badgered and nagged me into coming back here to Selva, to try to put my past to rest.
Then he'd found himself an intern to knock up and shack up with.
Cunt.
I sighed.
"Let it go," I whispered to myself.
I was back in the mountains. I'd come here despite everything. Back to this scene of so much history from my childhood.
And back to her.
Fuck him, I wouldn't let him take this moment from us. I banished him from my mind, casting him aside like a lizard sloughing off old skin.
I had more important things to deal with than the wanderings of my erstwhile partner's cock.
I made myself a black instant coffee, made a mental note to buy some beans for the grinder from Signore Alonso's corner store, dug out my walking gloves and a fleece scarf, and set off down into town to rent my skis and buy a lift pass for the week.
.:.
I leaned my skis into their rack, and placed my boots on the shelf below them. An older English couple stumbled in from outside and mistook me for a local; they tried to engage me in halting Italian. I smiled, somewhat flattered, introduced myself in English (to their visible relief), and made idle small-talk for as long as my stamina held. Then I excused myself and carried my groceries upstairs to my apartment.
I made myself some proper coffee and phoned my parents to check in and let them know I was safe. I deflected Mamma's probing questions with canned platitudes and long-honed guile.
Outside, the sun had set and the lights were coming on. Fairy lights flickered in some of the snow-covered trees and bushes, and I watched them, thinking about how much my sister would have loved this fairytale view.
I cooked myself a simple supper and poured a glass of wine for myself and one for her. I ate, and as I ate I watched the mountains fade to from pink to umber to sienna to black.
I cleaned up, put my plates and the small pots back in their places, and retrieved my old, stained map of the valley.
I would need to be early if I wanted to avoid the rush.
.:.
I caught the first cable car up to the top of the slope, and took my time getting the feel for skis again. It had been years, but the sensations and reflexes were merely dormant rather than wholly lost as I'd been so scared they might be.
A long gentle piste led down to the next chair lift, first of the chain of several that I needed to catch.
It was a beautiful morning. High white clouds against cobalt sky, bright white snow painted onto the dark almost-black of the pines. I felt an almost unreal sense of calm, my only real concern being getting there before too many others did. I did not want an audience.
A sense of detachment had taken me. I felt dispassionate, disconnected, separate from the world but for the bit of me that responded to the slope, and the other bit of me that quietly repeated the mantra "It's ok. It's ok Lucy. You can do this."
My therapist would be screaming right about now. The thought almost amused me.
A lift. A piste. Another lift. Another piste. A pause for a rest, to drink a sip of water, to try to catch the breath that just didn't seem to want to come.
My stomach felt hollow. I gritted my teeth for the final part of this act of pilgrimage.
