WINTER WONDERLAND

by Belinda Jones

  One big, happy threesome.

  At one point Gilles scoots ahead and then turns back and starts snapping us. He says he’s getting the Parliament building in the background but I suspect he’s supplementing his ‘My Conquests’ album. I certainly won’t be using any of these shots for the website – in my padded romper and pompom ensemble I look like an outsized toddler waddling along next to her model mummy.

  I expel a white-vapoured sigh.

  I still can’t wrap my head around this. What was he thinking? Did he forget about Annique and only remember partway through the kiss? It’s just so ridiculous. I mean, he knows he has to spend the week with the pair of us. Am I being an enabler saying nothing? Not that I care about making him squirm, but Annique does seem remarkably sweet for someone so pretty and I wouldn’t want to upset her. Then again, isn’t that all the more reason to warn her before her besottedness deepens?

  ‘We arrive!’ she cheers as we pass under a fluttery rainbow arch and enter the Carnival proper, set upon 250 acres of historic parkland known as the Plains of Abraham.

  It has the feel of a fairground, complete with big wheel, and so many attractions that my attention is ricocheting every which way. There are all the traditional winter ways to go way too fast (cue much squealing from those hurtling down the 400ft ice slide) as well as more genteel approaches like the jingle bell sleigh rides. And then I spy the can’t-quite-believe-your-eyes art...

  ‘You want to begin with the snow sculptures?’ Annique notes my interest.

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  Gilles remains infuriatingly passive. He’s barely said a word this whole time and as soon as we reach the sculptures he drops out of our eye-line, kneeling in the snow supposedly trying to get the right angle of sun filtering through one of the gravity-defying loops.

  I have to say these meltable artworks are incredible – everything from chess-piece horses to ball-balancing seals to a set of dentures biting into an apple core, each having begun life as a seven-foot cube of snow.

  Annique tells me that the winner a few years back was a pair of hands twiddling a Rubik’s Cube but her favourite was Moby Dick – an open book with a harpoonist rising from the left side and a whale disappearing into the right, pages flaring like waves. Mind-boggling.

  I see some artists are using fluorescent spray paint to mark their design prior to the first incision, using implements ranging from a two-person saw, metal teeth chomping through the snow, to wooden blocks bound in chicken wire to exfoliate and smooth the rough edges. Then there’s the more traditional chisels for the detail work. I could watch them all day.

  ‘Krista?’

  ‘Yes?’ I turn to face her.

  ‘How about we have you pretending to work on one of these creations?’ Annique suggests. ‘Which do you prefer?’

  I do a quick survey. ‘That’s easy – the polar bear.’

  ‘I prefer the more abstract designs,’ Gilles points to a geometric structure akin to an early learning toy.

  ‘The polar bear has a more poignant message – global warming threatening his habitat and his future.’

  ‘I just think visually—’

  ‘Polar bear,’ I override him. I indulged his ‘vision’ last night and look where that got me. From now on I’m thinking only of what is best for the website.

  To that end Annique is quite the asset. The artist – Brandon from Toronto – happily hands over his tools to me. As I try to position myself, I can see why so many of them have shed a top layer of clothing: it’s not easy to angle your arms with so much padding.

  ‘To me!’ Gilles wants me to make eye contact, with his lens at least.

  ‘I like the icy stare,’ Annique coos. ‘Matches the snow sculptures, no?’

  I didn’t even realise my eyes were narrowing. Perhaps I’ll try something more cheerful …

  ‘Oh no!’ Annique recoils.

  ‘No?’

  ‘That big smile with a dagger in your hand … ’

  ‘Psycho-killer?’

  She nods.

  ‘Perhaps it’s best if I just pretend to be chipping away and you capture me “reportage” style,’ I tell Gilles.

  Frankly I don’t even want to look in his direction. I can’t believe he’s still not saying anything about last night, especially now that we have a moment while Annique is engaged with the sculptor.

  ‘Try and look like you’re really sculpting.’

  ‘My acting isn’t convincing enough for you?’

  The dig goes over his head.

  ‘You need to lean closer. Make stronger motions.’

  Everything Gilles says is annoying me now.

  ‘You are looking more like a dentist than an artist.’

  That’s it! I reach back and thwack the chisel. Too hard. It spears into the thick neck section and, with a devastating creak followed by a powdery thud, the head falls into the snow.

  Oh my god, I just decapitated a polar bear!

  Gilles is equally frozen in horror.

  ‘What do we do, what do we do?’ I hiss-panic.

  Gilles steps in to obscure the sculptor’s view. ‘Can we stick it back on?’

  ‘With what?’ I despair. ‘You can’t glue frozen water.’

  And that’s when we hear Brandon from Toronto emit a gurgle of anguish.

  ‘What did you do?’

  My blood runs cold. I can hardly bring myself to turn and face him.

  ‘We’re so sorry,’ Gilles and I begin, overlapping apologies. ‘It was a terrible accident. We didn’t mean to even touch it. It was so perfect. This is awful. Perhaps we could show the judges the photos of before—’

  ‘Before you cut him up?’

  Oh god.

  ‘We’ll do anything to make it up to you, anything … ’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Anything.’ We solemnly swear.

  His gaze flicks to the side. ‘I would like a dinner date.’

  ‘That’s very flattering,’ Annique demurs.

  ‘Not with you. With him.’ He motions to Gilles.

  ‘Oh.’ I bite back a smile. ‘Wow, you’re really on a roll.’

  ‘Well?’ Brandon’s eyes are bright with expectation.

  ‘That seems reasonable,’ I speak for Gilles.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He squirms.

  ‘It’s the least we can do, Gilles. And who better to understand a fellow artist’s pain?’ I take a step closer. ‘Besides, it’s not like you have to kiss him.’

  ‘Though that would be nice,’ the sculptor adds.

  ‘Shall we say eight p.m. at Auberge Saint-Antoine?’ Annique is already adjusting the schedule. ‘And why don’t we make it a party – would you like to bring a few friends, Brandon?’

  ‘Wonderful!’ he confirms, already relishing their prospective envy.

  Neatly done Annique – sparing us from litigation and protecting Gilles in one slick move.

  As my colleagues head onwards, merging into the crowds, I feel compelled to backtrack to Brandon. ‘I just wanted to say sorry one more time.’

  ‘Actually,’ he confides. ‘It is better this way. More dramatic.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Listen – already people are stopping and saying, “Oh no, look what happened to the poor polar bear!” which is exactly the reaction I was going for. Before they just thought he looked cute.’

  Suddenly I am viewing my situation with Gilles in a whole new light. Perhaps the awful realisation he has something going with Annique is actually a blessing in disguise – the Universe is choosing to let me know nice and early on that he’s not The One. As opposed to letting me waste eight years of my life. Besides, I never did get the chance to retaliate against Andrew’s pitiless behaviour, so perhaps Gilles is a surrogate male for me to torment? I know I should be more evolved than this, but that actually sounds like a lot of fun.

  Now I can’t wait to catch them up.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘What next?’ Gilles asks when I r
ejoin them.

  ‘Something as far from the snow sculptures as possible,’ I suggest. I can tell we’re making the other artists nervous.

  ‘I have just the thing,’ Annique looks minxish. ‘The Tornado.’

  ‘Sounds relaxing,’ I mumble as we follow her bite-size bottom up and up a steep slope.

  ‘That is the raft.’ She points to a robust yellow inflatable last seen on the Colorado rapids. ‘The circular one is the Tornado, because it rotates as it descends.’

  And what a descent.

  ‘They really pick up speed on the way down the hill, don’t they?’ I croak.

  ‘Oh yes. Great fun!’

  I hesitate. ‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure about this.’

  ‘Nothing bad will happen, we can all go together – it takes eight people.’

  ‘Well then I’d like the other five to include a priest and a paramedic.’

  ‘Oh Krista!’ Annique tuts. ‘You will love it!’

  I decide to give it a shot. Now if I could just get in.

  With all my swaddlings I can barely lift my leg high enough to get up and over; I have to be assisted and thus enter the group with an unladylike squeak of rubber.

  ‘Excusez-moi,’ I blush.

  Wanting to feel secure, I reach out to grab the outer straps, only to have my hands smacked away.

  ‘Those are what the guys use to spin us.’

  ‘Well, what do I hold onto?’

  Annique takes one hand and urges Gilles to take charge of the other.

  ‘I need both hands for the camera,’ he excuses himself.

  ‘Grab his knee!’ Annique hoots.

  ‘Oh no, I’ll be fine!’ I say, but then the second we are in motion I find myself grabbing him way too high on the thigh and nothing can persuade me to loosen my grip. ‘Oh my god, oh my god!’

  I can’t believe how fast we are spinning; it’s just as dizzying as a fairground Wurlitzer, only with the added sensation of plummeting to your death.

  While the others whoop with childish glee, my scream is pure high-pitched terror; but then a funny thing happens – as I clamber out I find myself saying, ‘I actually quite enjoyed that.’

  ‘Want to go again?’ Annique pips.

  ‘You may have to.’ Gilles looks less than enthralled as he reviews the pictures on his camera. ‘These are very close.’

  He shows me a particularly graphic shot of my fillings.

  ‘Should’ve gone for porcelain,’ I tut myself.

  ‘I think it is best I shoot you from here with the long lens.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say as I contemplate the trek back to the top – my own personal Everest.

  ‘Wait,’ Annique places her suede-gloved hand on my arm. ‘Let me ask if one of these guys can take you up.’

  She approaches a pair of snowmobilers, assigned the task of vrooming the inflatables back up for the next trip. Now that looks like a fun way to travel.

  ‘So, they can’t take you on the snowmobile without a helmet, but you could sit in the raft and they will pull you up.’

  Of course. Anything that makes me look mildly foolish – the only person getting dragged up a hill as everyone else whooshes down.

  As I get into position and we begin to move, I feel like one of the kiddiwinks being pulled along by their parents, only on a grander scale – these machines are pretty fierce. I hadn’t fully registered just how close to a motorcycle they are; they had always seemed more like plastic playthings to me, but they’re chunky and mean and noisy.

  ‘Turn to face me,’ Gilles calls after me. ‘Arms up!’

  Yeah right! I think to myself. I’m holding on for dear life. Up and up we go at an ever-more unnatural angle. To my left, groups are swirling by, squealing and waving their hands in the air. Perhaps I could do one quick, ‘Woo-hoo!’ at the camera? He’d better get this, I think as I twist around and attempt a wave back at Annique. Of course I choose the precise moment that we hit a bump and out I come, performing an inelegant backward roll and then tumbling messily through the snow, wondering if I will become a human snowball by the time I reach the bottom.

  Only I don’t keep rolling, I snag on something – a branch perhaps? Wow. I catch my breath. That was pretty hairy. Best try to get to my feet – I don’t want to get run over by the next snowmobile shuttle or some off-track tobogganer. But it’s not quite as simple as that – the snow here is too deep. I lose my footing, unbalance, and fall back with a hefty Doomf!

  For a moment there is peace. I am in a white cocoon, a snowy grave pit. All I can see is the pale silken blue of the sky above me. I wonder if I’ve broken anything, but as I test for movement in my limbs I inadvertently invite a tumble of snow upon myself. Oh no. What now? Stay still and freeze, or attempt to get upright and risk causing my own personal avalanche? The snow is easily above head height, so even if I could get to my feet, how exactly would I claw my way out?

  ‘Help!’ I cry, and then realise I should probably call out in French, though ‘Aidez-moi!’ sounds so weak. Surely Gilles and Annique saw what happened and are on their way? I hope there’s not too much of a fuss. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble for trying to spare me the hike up the hill.

  It’s then I see the face of an angel – a white fluffy angel with black eyes and a black nose. He peers down on me with a look of bemusement as much as anything.

  How exactly do I convey to him that I need rescuing? The only word I can think of is ‘chien’ and, of course, Lassie. I do hope he has something in common with his collie counterpart because he’s taken a good look at me and then turned and left.

  I wait for a clue as to what to do next but I can’t hear anything – the upper world, the one I used to be a part of, is now muffled by snow. But it’s okay. I’m not going to panic. The snowmobiler would have realised his cargo is missing by now. Any minute—

  ‘Ça va?’

  A new face appears on the brim of my pit. His hair is a wind-ruffled chestnut, his skin tone a natural outdoorsy tan, and I’m not sure if he has a goatee so much as those soft whiskers that casually frame the mouth and line the jawline. He’s the kind of guy I picture sitting beside a campfire in a well-worn check shirt, beer in one hand and a tattered novel in the other.

  But for now he’s in a padded parka looking down at me.

  ‘I fell in the snow and now I can’t get out.’ I state the obvious.

  He takes a step closer and a clomp of snow drops and bursts upon my chest. He raises his hands – ‘Pardon!’ And then studies me for a moment before disappearing.

  Am I to become the town spectacle? Seconds from now will the opening of my pit be trimmed with curious faces mistaking me for another piece of Carnival art.

  But instead he returns with a rope.

  ‘Take this and hold on tight.’

  I wrap it around my hand but don’t fancy his chances of being able to haul me out.

  ‘You should probably cover your face.’

  ‘Sorry?

  ‘Use your scarf to wrap your face, in case there is anything sharp in the snow. And keep your eyes closed.’

  This is sounding more hazardous by the minute.

  ‘Ready?’ he says.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ I ask, wondering if I should be trying to scrabble up the bank of snow with my feet, attempting to gain traction where there most likely is none.

  ‘Don’t resist, just let the rope do the work.’

  I wonder if I should tell him my weight, let him know what he’s up against, but before I can speak I hear him cry, ‘Allez, allez!’ and suddenly I am in motion, yanked upwards, arms wrenching at their sockets, roughly ploughing face-first through the snow.

  And then everything stops.

  I feel him turn me onto my back and gently lower the scarf so my mouth is free.

  ‘Can I open my eyes?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’

  As I do so, he slides his sunglasses back onto his head and I see he has two different coloured eyes – one warm
hazel, the other milky blue.

  Perhaps I’m a little concussed because I hear myself asking, ‘Are you part-husky?’

  He smiles a little and then nods beyond my head. ‘Well, I do consider these my family.’

  There, staring back at me with lolling pink tongues and similarly random eye colours are six puffing husky dogs.

  ‘My sled team.’

  ‘My heroes!’ I breathe. ‘And what about the Samoyed?’

  ‘You know Samoyeds?’ He looks surprised.

  ‘It’s my dream dog – all that heavenly white fluff … ’

  He whistles and the dog angel appears. ‘This is Sibérie.’

  ‘As in Siberia?’

  He nods. ‘He’s a little old so he can’t pull any more.’

  I sit up to greet him, amazed at how deeply my hand disappears into his luxurious fur.

  ‘He’s just beautiful! They all are!’

  And then my gaze returns to his face. Now that I am adjusting to his bewitching eyes, I see something in them beyond the colour – something I can’t quite place but something that triggers a yearning in me …

  I have a million questions but we’re being closed in on by Gilles and Annique on one side and the snowmobilers on the other. Before I can even properly thank him for saving me, he has me back onto my feet and is asking my name.

  ‘Krista,’ I tell him.

  He steps closer. ‘Krista, please stay away from the snowmobiles. They are too dangerous.’

  His words have such an intensity, I find myself promising I will never go near one again. (And if he asked me to give up chocolate right now I’d probably do that too.)

  ‘Mon dieu!’ Annique exclaims, rushing to my side. ‘I was so afraid! I saw you fall and then disappear!’

  ‘I’m fine, really, just a little disorientated.’

  ‘Madame! Are you well?’

  ‘Oui!’ I assure the snowmobiler. ‘It was my fault – I should never have let go.’ And with that I turn to Gilles. ‘So, did you at least get a good picture of me falling?’

  ‘I-I … ’ he falters.

  I take that as a no.

  ‘Never mind. Could you get a picture of the team that saved me?’ I turn back but they are gone. All of them – six huskies, one elderly Samoyed and my rugged rescuer – totally and utterly disparu!