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

parliament as a member of another party under a different name. But it’s basically no better than the old fascist party.

“Last year he made a name for himself with a referendum to kick out immigrants. Especially the Tschingge, as he calls Italian guest workers. No one thought he had a chance of winning. And fortunately he didn’t. But it was very close. Much closer than anyone thought was possible. About 51 to 49, I think. Some of the German-speaking cantons even voted yes. Of course, only the men were allowed to vote then. If we had the referendum today, maybe we women would have made a difference. But now everyone is talking about foreigners. He’s made the divide in the country wider than ever.”

“We have something similar in England. A politician who talks about rivers of blood if the tide of immigration isn’t stopped,” said Ellen. “But no one really takes him seriously.”

“They should,” Marthe replied. “The last time anyone in this part of the world talked about a river of blood was in the 1930s. And we all know what happened then. Countries thrive on migration. Switzerland has. Almost twenty percent of the population are immigrants. In fact, many of our big companies were founded by immigrants. Most were started by Huguenots from France. Just like Frank’s Triumph motorcycles you talked about recently, built by German engineers.”

By now, Marthe’s eyes were alight with the irrepressible fire that Professor Abegg had spoken of.

“People like him see immigrants as a threat to their precious identity,” she continued, and nodded in the direction of the man behind Ellen. “Which is nonsense of course. Identity is not static. It evolves. Countries, like people, also evolve the more they’re exposed to what lurks beyond the boundaries that hold their identity back. And that’s what makes them prosper. I just thank God women have a vote now. Maybe we can help to change the way men think.”

“So, is Urs anti-immigrant?” Ellen asked.

“Good heavens no! That’s not what I wanted to say. Urs is a very decent man. I was trying to explain the difference between the language regions here. Then I got carried away when that awful man came to sit on the table behind you. I forgot that St Moritz is his favourite haunt. You know, only a couple of years ago an Italian guest worker was beaten to death in this town just after he started his campaign. He’s a disgusting man.

“Perhaps it’s time to order coffee and then settle up,” Marthe added with an abruptness that was completely at odds with the cosy prospect of roasted coffee beans.

“No coffee for me thanks,” Ellen said, feeling moved to decline the offer by the sight of a Marthe who was visibly seething and could plainly not to wait to get out of the restaurant. This was another side of her that Ellen had not seen before. It surprised her almost as much as the more appealing, intimate side.

Once they were out of the hotel and strolling in the crisp mountain air again, Marthe had calmed down. She linked arms with Ellen.

“Come on. Let’s go shopping.”

They strolled down into St Moritz and spent the rest of the afternoon browsing the upmarket shops. Ellen had already eaten into much of her savings in the last few weeks, and there was no way she could consider splashing out on any of the luxury clothes or accessories on the shelves. But Marthe was intent on spending her way out of the anger she had allowed to upset her mood and also, to put Ellen’s mind at rest, on buying her a silk scarf from Chanel.

“Please, I insist,” Marthe said, when Ellen attempted to turn down her offer. “I’d really like you to have it. As a souvenir. Something to remember me by when you get back home.”

Framed in this way, it was impossible for Ellen to refuse. So she politely tucked it away in her handbag and allowed Marthe to spoil her for the rest of their stay in St Moritz.

They spent the next few days shopping, walking in the snow and strolling over the frozen lake. Although there were plenty of other people wandering there, Ellen sensed a flutter of nerves the first time she stepped out onto the expanse of ice.

“You really don’t need to worry, Ellen,” Marthe reassured her with a smile. “They hold horseraces on the lake. So I’m sure it will take your weight.”

The thought of thoroughbreds pounding their way over the snow and ice seemed improbably bizarre to Ellen. But she glanced around at the other people promenading on the ice, and she had to admit they all looked perfectly at ease.

“Sadly, we missed the racing by a week or two,” Marthe added. “You would have enjoyed it. When you stand on the corner and watch the horses come round the bend, it’s so exciting. The drumming of their hoofbeats on the ice and the tourbillon of snow behind them. There’s nothing quite like it.”

The passion in Marthe’s words as they stood there on the lake brought the scene so vividly to life that Ellen could just imagine the excitement all around her. Could almost hear their hoofbeats on the ice, almost see the horses bunching up and jockeying for position before they raced away down the straight, kicking up the snow behind them.

She looked about at the women in their expensive furs and the men keeping themselves warm with their fat, pungent cigars as they strolled over the lake. She could just imagine them cheering on their favourites. And for just the fraction of a second, she caught a familiar movement among them. A mop of thick brown hair bobbed into view. Then vanished again. For the briefest of moments, Ellen’s heart appeared to stop. She clutched Marthe by the arm.

“Are you all right?” Marthe asked.

“Yes, of course. I’m fine,” Ellen lied.

At that moment, specks of snow landed on her face as if from nowhere and bathed her in a singular