The Ice Soldier

by Paul Watkins

  Dr. Webb gave a short, flustered laugh. “I’m here because I’ve got some news that I think you should hear. I didn’t want to say it over the phone. I felt I ought to tell you personally.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” muttered Stanley.

  “Do you want me to leave the room?” I asked.

  “No,” said Dr. Webb. “That won’t be necessary. What I have to tell you is that Henry Carton committed suicide.”

  Stanley blinked at him, too shocked to speak.

  “That can’t be right,” I said. “His lungs were giving out. He was dying anyway. You must be mistaken.”

  “It’s true, I’m afraid,” said Webb.

  “But what happened?” asked Stanley. “I mean exactly.”

  Dr. Webb winced. “Surely there’s no need to go into the details …”

  “I want to know what happened,” demanded Stanley. “I want to know exactly and I want to know now.”

  Dr. Webb sighed and then nodded. “Carton had called in to say he was having more trouble than usual with his breathing. I went straight over, but by the time I arrived, it was too late. He’d hung himself. One end of the rope was tied around the horns of that wildebeest on the stairs. His neck was not broken, but his windpipe was crushed. As I told you on the phone, I found him myself, so there can be no doubt about it being suicide.”

  Now I was the one who felt like a murderer. Or at least someone who had not prevented one. I had seen he was about to break. That thing I’d called fragility. It had not been my imagination after all.

  Webb glanced down at his shoes and up again. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news.”

  We stood there in silence. I heard the clock ticking in my bedroom.

  Webb looked at his watch. “Stanley, you had best come with me now. There are many things that need to be arranged.”

  Obediently, Stanley went to fetch his coat.

  I saw them to the door and then went back upstairs.

  That night, as I was lying in bed and trying to fall asleep, an image appeared to me of Carton. It was as if I were looking down at him through the dark glass eyes of the animal. I saw him alone in his club, sitting on a chair he had fetched from the dining room and neatly fashioning the noose. He tied the thirteen-banded knot, swung it over the horns, and pulled it tight. I saw the expression of calm determination on his face, the way his mustache twitched. With a grunt, he climbed up onto the chair and fitted the noose around his neck. He stood there for a while, looking out over the shadows of his club. Then, with a savage jerk, he kicked the chair out from under himself. His back thumped against the wall. The horns creaked as they took the weight. The blood vessels burst in the old man’s face. His eyes rolled round to white and his lips turned blue. The last of his cigar-smoky breath trailed out into the dust-speck constellations drifting through the room.

  THE END OF THE TERM was only one week off. The seniors had already begun their mental graduation from the school, which took place long before their bodies were permitted to depart. Although I couldn’t blame them, I sometimes felt as if I ought to be conducting séances, in which I’d have a better chance of making contact with them than in the teaching of my class.

  I finished my last lesson for the afternoon and shuffled over to the department room for a “brew-up” with Higgins and Houseman before the weekly faculty meeting.

  I arrived to find them in their usual positions—Higgins sprawled on the couch reading the sporting news, and Houseman lying on his bench, De Bello Gallico shielding his eyes.

  But I saw, beneath the visor of that tattered book, that his eyes were open, his head leaned slightly to one side. Following his gaze, I turned to see Darcey Kidder standing at the pigeonholes, delivering the weekly paychecks.

  A second glance at Higgins revealed that he was only pretending to read the paper. In reality, his eyes were fixed on Darcey Kidder.

  “Oh hello!” I said cheerfully.

  This earned me one annoyed grunt each from Higgins and Houseman.

  Darcey Kidder glanced at me. “Hello, Mr. Bromley,” she said, and immediately turned back to her task.

  For a while, the only sound was of the paycheck envelopes sliding into the wooden slots and clicking against the back wall.

  “Would you like some tea?” I asked Miss Kidder, as I poured myself a cup.

  Higgins glared at me. Offering Miss Kidder tea, and being refused, was his department.

  Houseman’s eyes glinted from under his book.

  “No thank you,” replied Miss Kidder. “I’ve just had a cup. Besides, I don’t think they give you the same stuff as they give us in the headmaster’s office.” She wrinkled her nose, to show that our tea was decidedly inferior.

  Higgins laughed uproariously, as if this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

  Houseman pretended to remain asleep.

  Miss Kidder stood back from the pigeonholes, having delivered the last of the paychecks. “Enjoy your weekend, gentlemen,” she said. Then she strode out of the room, but as she did so, something slipped from her pocket. It was a small blue fountain pen with a golden arrow for a clip.

  It hadn’t even hit the floor before Higgins was lunging to catch it. Houseman also sprang into action. His book spiraled into the air.

  The two men, both of them with arms extended, collided head to head, with a sound like two coconuts knocking together. They fell back, groaning, but Houseman struggled to regain his balance. By now, the pen had landed on the tattered carpet. Houseman’s fingers were just about to close around it when the book, which had been silently pirouetting up in the rafters of the room, fell and smacked him on the head. With a sigh, Houseman subsided onto his back. The two men lay there, stunned and blinking at the ceiling.

  This allowed me to step forward, pick up the pen, and stride out into the hall on the trail of Miss Kidder.

  She was heading down the center of the corridor, the heels of her shoes clicking against the polished wooden floor. Her dress swished in rhythm with her stride. The notices pinned to corkboards on the walls fluttered slightly as she passed.

  “Miss Kidder,” I said. Then I changed my mind and shouted, “Darcey!”

  She stopped. She turned. Her face was nearly hidden in the gloomy shadows of the hallway. “Yes?”

  “You dropped your pen.” I held it up so she could see.

  “Oh!” She checked her pocket. “So I have.” She retraced her steps to me and held out her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Bromley,” she said.

  “You’re welcome, Miss Kidder.” I set the pen in her hand and watched her fingers close around it.

  She stood there, not moving, looking me right in the eye.

  I opened my mouth to ask her out for a drink, for tea, for any excuse to spend some time with her.

  But before I could get the words out of my mouth, she thanked me again and turned away.

  “You’re welcome,” I replied, and watched her go.

  I wanted to call out to her, but something seemed to paralyze me and I only stood there in silence. It’s just nerves, I told myself. Nothing to worry about. Next time will be different.

  Back in the common room, Higgins and Houseman were still on the floor, rubbing their heads.

  “You gave it back to her!” blurted Higgins. “Bloody oozlebart!”

  “Whatever that means,” I said. “Of course I gave the pen back to her.”

  “What did you go and do that for?” mumbled Houseman.

  “What else was I supposed to do with it?” I asked.

  “Keep it!” they chorused.

  “And take it home,” continued Higgins, “and guard it with your life.”

  Houseman rose shakily to his feet. “You just don’t get it,” he told me.

  “But I got the pen, didn’t I?” I replied.

  They scowled at me, but then their anger faded into curiosity.

  “Did you ask her out?” inquired Higgins.

  “Timing wasn’t right,” I said dismissively.<
br />
  This answer seemed to satisfy them.

  “She’s a lovely bint,” said Higgins dreamily.

  “Smells nice,” added Houseman.

  “Sarkam?” asked Higgins, which was his way of asking the time in God knows what borrowed language.

  I looked at my watch. “Damn,” I said. “We’ve only got ten minutes until the faculty meeting.”

  One thing the headmaster would not tolerate was lateness to faculty meetings. It was one of his favorite pastimes to point out to anyone shambling into his chambers after the four o’clock bell had rung that we had no right to expect punctuality from our students if we could not be punctual ourselves. The year before, he had even fired a faculty member for consistently showing up late to these meetings. What was more, he insisted that we show up in what was called “standard change.” This meant smart jacket and tie, not the tired old stuff in which we taught our classes.

  I kept a set of standard change clothing in the storage closet in my classroom, in order that I wouldn’t have to go home to dress again and then come all the way back to school.

  I raced across the courtyard, threadbare tie flapping around my neck.

  Five minutes later, I emerged from the storage closet, spiffed out in my standard change, to find Dr. Webb standing in the classroom.

  He was so out of place that for a moment I couldn’t recall who he was. “Hello again,” I said, once I had remembered.

  “Sorry to keep dropping in on you like this.” Webb peered around the classroom, taking in the various maps on the walls and names scrawled on the blackboard.

  “Peloponnesian War, is it?” he asked.

  “That’s right,” I said hurriedly. “Athens, Sparta. Lots of blood and treachery. The students seem to like it.” I glanced not very subtly at my watch. “You’ve caught me at a bit of a bad time. I’ve actually got to go, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah, of course. Then I suppose I should get right to it.” He reached into the chest pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “I have a message for you,” he said.

  “From whom?” I started walking for the door.

  “From Henry Carton.” He held out the letter. “The late Henry Carton, I should say. Perhaps you would like to read it.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “Is this some sort of joke?”

  “I assure you it is not.” By now the letter was quivering slightly in his grasp. “I found this letter on his body. It contains a request. Several requests, actually, one of which concerns you.”

  I heard the sound of running in the courtyard and saw a couple of junior teachers dashing past, doing up their ties as they went. I turned back to Webb. “Why didn’t you tell me when you came by yesterday?”

  “Because I needed to speak to you in private.”

  “Look, Dr. Webb, can this wait a bit? I’ve got to be at a meeting in about three minutes.”

  “No,” he said. “It really can’t wait.”

  I sighed. “All right,” I said. “What are these requests?”

  “Carton asked that his body be embalmed.”

  “Embalmed? What? Like an Egyptian mummy?” I laughed. “Well, I can’t help you with that! My knowledge of history doesn’t go back further than the Greeks.”

  “No.” Webb smiled faintly. “That is what he asked of me. It’s what he asked of you that I am here about.”

  By now I should have been arriving at the headmaster’s chambers, leaving me just enough time to take my seat between Higgins and Houseman before the headmaster breezed in and shut the door behind him. “Look, I’ve got to go. Otherwise …”

  “Otherwise what?”

  “Otherwise I’m done for! The headmaster—”

  Webb cut me off. “What I have to explain to you is that Henry Carton wants his body to be placed in a sealed metal coffin and transported to the Alps”—and here he paused—“by you.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “But there must be funeral directors who can transport bodies overseas. I’m sure it happens all the time.”

  “It’s a little more complicated than just transporting him, Mr. Bromley. He would like his body taken to the top of Carton’s Rock.”

  Just then, I heard the school bell ring. Now the headmaster would leave his study, walk down the green-carpeted corridor to the side door of his chambers, which was his own private entrance. He would complete this little journey by the time the clock struck four. Then the main doors would be closed. Attendance would be taken. The meeting would begin.

  As the last bell died away, I felt my heart sink. “Oh, God,” I muttered. “The headmaster is going to ring my neck.”

  “I’m sure that your headmaster, like Carton himself, has complete confidence in your abilities. The only sticking point for Carton was whether Stanley would be up to the task.”

  I stared at Webb. “You mean he wants Stanley to do this as well?”

  Webb nodded.

  “Well, you can stop right there!” I shouted and did not care that I was shouting. “Stanley wouldn’t sign up for a job like this. Not in a million years.”

  Webb looked confused. “Actually, he’s already agreed to do it.”

  I felt the breath catch in my throat. At first I couldn’t believe it. But then I understood. “He’s trying to impress that woman is all! He won’t do it! He’ll find some excuse. He’s good at that.”

  “In the event that this falls through,” continued Webb, “Henry Carton will be cremated and his ashes scattered in the Thames off Waterloo Bridge.”

  I thought about the ashes, the million flecks of gray sinking into that greasy brown tide, joining with all the nameless Celts and Romans and Vikings and Normans whose bones lay crumbling in its mud, and the now-tarnished brass of Stanley’s ON WAR SERVICE badge, which he had thrown from that same bridge into the water years ago. To insist upon such an anonymous and undignified finale was, for Carton, as much of a statement as being dragged to the top of a mountain. He had made this an all-or-nothing proposition.

  “You would be setting off as soon as your teaching duties are completed for the term,” continued Webb. “That’s in about two weeks, isn’t it?”

  “One week actually. Exams begin tomorrow.”

  “According to the letter,” Webb continued, “you would need to get up the mountain before the first snow falls, which I’m told might happen as early as September. Carton has provided a small budget, as much as he could afford, so you will be able to hire a few guides. If all goes well, you could be back by the end of the summer.” Now he paced across the classroom and came to a stop in front of the window which looked out onto the courtyard. “In the event that you are successful, Stanley is to be placed in charge of his own inheritance. Otherwise, the bank is to dispense it in the same amounts as he is currently receiving, which I gather Stanley does not consider adequate.”

  “And me?” I asked.

  He glanced back. “Nothing,” he said. “Not a penny.”

  “Why should I do this?” I demanded. “Give me one good reason.”

  “I can’t,” he replied. “I am only delivering the message. Perhaps Mr. Carton thought you knew the answer for yourself.”

  We stepped outside the classroom and I walked Dr. Webb to the school gates, where a car was waiting for him.

  Webb got into the car, then rolled down the window and handed me his card. “I need to have your answer by the end of tomorrow. I can’t hold things off any longer than that. You can telephone me at my office.” Then his car sped off, joining the streams of traffic heading in and out of the city.

  When he was out of sight, I took the old tin from my pocket, ready to roll myself a smoke. But a sudden gust of wind tipped it out of my grasp. The tin landed with a clatter on the road. Crumbs of tobacco and the rolling papers spilled out. Quickly, I bent down to pick them up, but the breeze got to them first and swept them away.

  Without thinking, I ran out into the road, chasing the little bits of paper. It was only when a car narrowly missed me that I stumbled
over to the narrow concrete verge which separated the lanes of cars. A second later, a car ran over the tin and flattened it.

  The fragile cigarette papers flitted about in the air.

  Oblivious to the oncoming traffic, I stared at the drifting white shapes.

  I was remembering something, but at first I could not tell what it was. This was no nightmare, as the sound of the apple had been. The emotions of this other memory had begun to reach me before the memory itself. They were strong but muddled, a kind of exhilaration bordering on fear, but not fear itself. There was hope. There was determination.

  And then at last I began to see. Those cigarette papers were transforming into the substance of the memory. As the picture came slowly into focus, everything around me started to disappear. It was as if the place in which I stood had begun to dissolve. The particles that held the solid world together were flying apart and behind where they had been this memory was still alive, still happening, as if it were not in fact a memory at all. Rather, it seemed as if everything that had happened to me since then held no more substance than a dream.

  I felt myself drawn forward through the tattered veil of this peaceful London evening.

  Then all about me was the rush of air. The canopy of a parachute mushroomed above my head. I drifted downward through the night sky, the sound of the plane already fading. In its place I felt more than heard the great familiar stillness of the mountains.

  SIX

  IT WAS STILL DARK when we leaped from the Dakota. I heard the rustle and thump of our parachutes deploying, then looked down to see our cloudlike shadows drifting over the Palladino Valley. A few seconds later, we landed in the dew-soaked grass of a meadow beside the San Michele woods.

  By the time we had stashed the chutes, unloaded the drop canisters, strapped on our gear, and found the road, the sun was rising on a clear, cold day.

  Now that we had begun our climb we were in full view of anyone who looked up to the hills. Despite this, there was no sense of danger. Palladino looked so peaceful down below, wisps of smoke rising from its crooked chimney pots.

  For the first quarter of a mile, as the road climbed steeply, the path was more or less intact. Beyond that, just after the first bend, the going became much harder. Portions of the road had collapsed, leaving gaps in the path over which we had to jump or else move with the slow precision of tortoises, to avoid setting loose any more of the earth. In other places, the ground from above had slumped down, so instead of jumping over gaps, we now had to climb across the loose earth and stones of these small avalanches.