The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

“If it’s a choice between a horse called Reichsherold and a horse called Broiefort, what else could a French lady do?” she laughed.

Frank had never heard Patricia speak anything but German, except when she read Baudelaire to him beside the log fire in their Davos chalet. And to hear the sweet cadence of her French accent now turn to the language of Shakespeare and Noel Coward was strangely arousing, as if she had just put on a new dress that highlighted her figure in a way he had never seen before.

“As a colonel in the British Army, I share your antipathy, madam. But don’t be misled by the label. Broiefort does not have an ounce of French blood in him. He’s English to the core.”

“But of course.” Patricia was in effervescent mood. She sparkled more freely in English than Frank had ever seen her do in his own language. And although he found it bewitching to observe, the power of this fascination tugged at his jealous nature. “The English have a monopoly here, don’t they? You dominate the bobsleigh racing, so it’s only right that your horses should also win. Is that why Mr Churchill comes here?”

“Winston?” The colonel seemed pleasantly surprised, as if she was talking about a member of his family. Patricia looked across at Frank with her pleading expression, and he felt obliged to become involved in the meaningless banter of this absurdly self-satisfied colonel, who looked as though he had long since retired from any kind of service that might warrant leaning on the privilege of rank.

“It is standing in the newspaper that Mr Churchill comes to St Moritz.” Frank was aware of his clumsiness with the English language and added “His wife is already here”, sensing that this allusion to family and the implicit intimacy with the affairs and gossip of his establishment would meet with the colonel’s favour. But he was irritated by his own incomprehensible desire to please a man who plainly had no time for the likes of anyone remotely German.

“I say, do you happen to know where they’re staying?” the colonel asked. But Frank had to disappoint him.

“And where are you two charming people staying?”

The question had to come, but Frank was not prepared for quite such a ready reply from Patricia. The colonel beamed like a little boy when he heard the name of the hotel.

“What a stroke of luck. That’s my hotel,” by which Frank assumed that he was also staying there. Not that he owned it. “We must have dinner together one evening,” he added with an air that suggested it was not so much an invitation as a command. And again Frank was taken aback by Patricia’s readiness to obey the bugle call.

“That would be nice,” she said in all sincerity. Frank could see that the table was already mentally reserved. Her excuses when the colonel had taken his leave and Frank had a chance to express his annoyance – “He seems so lonely. And he’s harmless enough” – failed to impress him. Their time together was too short. He felt the brittle texture of every second perish between their fingers whenever they touched, and he was not prepared to forfeit a fraction of her attention for anyone so pompous. On the other hand, nor did he want to sacrifice a single moment of their rapture to bickering or argument. So he did not pursue the matter and hoped that nothing would come of it.

“You’re right, Patricia. I knew there was something different here. It’s the English.” He was trying to move their thoughts in a new direction, but his irritation was still kicking and bent on him having the last word. “They’re very present, aren’t they? It makes an odd contrast to last week in Davos. I’m not sure which strain of arrogance I dislike the most.”

“Do you always have to be so negative?”

The rebuke in her voice was unmistakable. And became even sharper when she fetched her winnings. “Well, you needn’t worry about having to waste your precious money on the poor old man – or on me either.”

The rapture had been sacrificed long before Frank was even aware of what was happening. But her anger with him did not compromise her beauty one inch. On the contrary, it enhanced it all the more. And made his pain all the greater.

They left the jostle of the racecourse and walked over to the Cresta Run without exchanging another word. She locked her arm in his. But it was more as support to help her keep her balance on the ice than an expression of intimacy. The crowds grew steadily thinner as they approached, and the afternoon sun was warm on their backs. But it was unable to thaw the frost that had settled between them. The toboggan run was already closed when they got there, the ice too soft, so they wandered aimlessly along the snowy paths overlooking St Moritz, their uneasy silence broken only once by Patricia’s words:

“He reminds me of my father in a strange sort of way.”

She was speaking of the colonel and thinking of her father, but at the back of her mind he detected Breitner. And he knew the moment could not be put off much longer – an awareness that gnawed at him for the rest of the day. It was not until sometime later – as the mountain light was beginning to fade and they were walking into the driveway of their hotel – that he responded to her remark.

“All right. I’ll leave a message for him at the desk inviting him to have dinner with us tonight.”

But the gesture proved superfluous. As he approached the desk, he caught sight of the colonel waving a stick in the air that would have brought the chandelier down had the ceiling been much lower. Frank’s heart sank.

“What a stroke of luck,” the colonel shouted, hurrying over to them, excitement