By chance I found a copy of the Daily Telegraph in the London Underground. In the sports section there was an article about little-known Swiss ski resorts that the journalist considered to be real jewels. From one of them you could even see the Matterhorn. This was Zinal. There had been several people killed in a serious avalanche there last year so perhaps, I thought, there would be fewer tourists than usual this year.
Swiss Air took only minutes to book me an air ticket to Geneva, a train ticket to Sierra and a hotel in the centre of the village. Taking a sketchbook for entertainment I left London at 8.00 next morning and I was skiing after lunch.
Zinal is dominated by the mighty Weisshorn, the third highest mountain in the Alps. The Matterhorn can be seen from the slopes and the cablecar. Being on my own, I decided to join a ski class each morning. I met our moniteur, Raymond, at the cablecar and was introduced to the others in the class: a Belgian, a Swiss, two German couples. I was old enough to be their father, but Raymond soon made me feel welcome. He was the best sort of instructor, patient, encouraging, and by the end of the week had even taught an old dog some new tricks. The skiing was brilliant.
It was on the last day that someone caught my attention in the cable car: a young man dressed in baggy corduroys and an old jumper, holding a pair of skis that could have been the ones I started on fifty years ago. He didn’t seem to have a companion and stood by a window, gazing out at the distant Matterhorn.
The cablecar had reached the station and there was Raymond to greet us as usual. “Aujourd’hui,” he said. “Un jeune homme va nous accompagner. Il s’appelle Gaspard. Heute kommt ein junger Man mit uns. Er heisst Gaspard.” Raymond always spoke to us in French and German. I had to make do as well as I could.
Somehow I knew it would be the young man in the cablecar, and sure enough a few moments later there he was. I could see the others looking at him with a mixture of surprise, amusement and perhaps a little antagonism at someone breaking into our well established group on the last day.
During the course of the morning Raymond kept himself to himself and did not invite any contact with the rest of the group. On one occasion he dropped a stick and I was able to return it to him, not before noticing that it also was hopelessly out of date. He thanked me politely enough but did not stop for a reply. Towards the end of the morning, we were queueing at a button lift – not many of those left in Switzerland, I was thinking. I was next in the queue after Gaspard and when his turn came he stepped forward into the tracks, waiting for his button to arrive. It came swinging round the revolving wheel and I saw that it was broken, as happens now and then. In fact, the button was missing altogether and only a piece of frayed cord hung from the housing. He would have to wait for the next one. To my amusement, he put his hand up, appeared to grab an invisible button and placed it between his legs. I smiled at the clever mimicry.
Then my breath stopped. He began to move. His body gave the familiar jerk as if the rope were taking up the strain and off her went at exactly the same speed as the woman in front of him. I gazed open mouthed at the lift attendant, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and pointed urgently to my button, which had already rounded the wheel. I struggled into position just in time to grab is and thrust it between my legs. There was Gaspard in front of me, gazing to the left in the direction of the Matterhorn. I must have been mistaken. Surely I would now see the rope and his button. But no, I would have been able to see the rope against the back of the woman in front of him, and the round disc under his seat. There was neither.
As happens on these old fashioned lifts, it stopped abruptly before we had reached the top. On a steep slope, it takes a second or two to adjust one’s balance and when I had done so, I looked up towards Gaspard. He was still looking to the left and he was still moving, about to collide with the woman in front of him. I shouted in French, “Gaspard, attention!” He turned towards me for a fraction of a second, then looked forward, appeared to take in what was happening, stopped, turned his skis across the slope, and poled off. In seconds he had disappeared and the lift started again.
At the top I stuttered to Raymond, “Le jeune Gaspard, il est parti et en plus, il…” but my French was not up to explaining what I had seen.
“Ne vous inquietez pas, David,” said Raymond. “Il est comme ca, il va et il vient.” He turned away to the rest of the class who had clearly seen nothing. “Et maintenant, mes amis, les courtes virages, die kleine Schwuenge. Le seul mouvement energique.”
I was too agitated to ski any more, so I made my excuses and went back to the hotel. On my bed table there were leaflets about things to do in Zinal. “The Zinal Glacier – a very special experience…” but the daily tour had already left. “A perfectly preserved 300 year old house.” Yes, I would go and see that. Half an hour later, I had made my way along the old high street and found this charming ancient house.
The caretaker let me in, and after saying, “Je vous laisse explorer, monsieur,” shut the door. I found myself in a small living room with a large fireplace and stacks on logs; in the middle of the room, a plain pine table with benches either side. I sat down and started to sketch the fireplace.
“Vous etes artiste?” Without looking up I knew it was Gaspard. He was sitting across the table from me, where no one had been a moment ago.
“Oui!” I said, almost in a whisper. “Mais, qui es tu?” As I now looked at his pale young face, he answered with another question.
“Vous skiez depuis combien d’annees?”
“Alors,” I replied, “c’est bien plus d’un demi-siecle.”
“Mais moi ausi!” he said.
“Gaspard, il n’est pas possible. Tu es encore si jeune.”
The front door opened. The caretaker, no doubt. I turned towards him, annoyed by the interruption, and knew from his face that Gaspard was no longer there. “Ah, je m’excuse, vous dessinez, monsieur.” I couldn’t turn around. I just got up and left. “Oui. J’ai fait un dessin,” I said as I passed him.
My taxi was calling for me the next morning to take me to the railway station at Sierre. I was outside the hotel in good time with my luggage and skis, when I saw Raymond on his way to the ski school.
“Raymond!” I shouted. He turned towards me. “J’ai eu une experience tellement etrange. J’ai rencontre Gaspard encore dans Le Vieille Maison. Expliquez moi, je vous en prie.”
“C’est difficile, David,” he said, with a confused look. “Vous savez, il y a des avalanches de temps en temps dans notre vallee. Le jeune Gaspard etait le meilleur ami de mon pere a l’ecole…”
“Monsieur, monsieur, votre taxi!” I looked around. “Oui, oui, j’arrive.” But when I turned back, Raymond was already several yards away.
Au revoir, Zinal… et Gaspard.
c David Walser 2001 [fix25/11/08]