One by One(20)

I sigh, turn off the app, and begin washing up again, this time in silence, but before I have done more than a couple of plates, there’s a tap on the window to my right, and I look across to see Jacques from the bakery down the valley, holding a stack of baguettes and a giant bag of croissants. I pull off my rubber gloves and open the door, breathing white into the cold morning air.

“Salut, ma belle,” he says around his cigarette as he hands the bread over, and then he takes a long drag of his Gitane and blows the smoke over his shoulder.

“Hi, Jacques,” I say in French. My French isn’t perfect, but I can hold a conversation. “Thanks for the bread. What do you say to the forecast?”

“Ah, well, it isn’t pretty,” he says, also in French, taking another long, thoughtful drag and looking up at the sky. Jacques is one of the very few people who actually grew up here. Almost everyone else is an incomer, either a tourist or a seasonal worker. Jacques has lived here all his life; his father owns the bakery in St. Antoine le Lac, and Jacques will be taking over for good in few years when his dad retires.

“Do you think there will be the possibility to ski today?” I ask.

Jacques shrugs.

“Perhaps, in the morning. But the afternoon…” He holds his hand out and makes the rocking motion the French use to signify that something might go one way or the other. “There’s heavy snow coming. You see the color of those clouds over La Dame?”

La Dame means La Dame Blanche—the big peak that looms over the whole valley, casting a near permanent shadow over the chalet. Now, as I look up at the top, I see what he means. The clouds that gather up there are ugly and dark.

“But it’s not just that,” Jacques says. “It’s the wind. It makes it difficult for the guys in the avalanche-control teams. They can’t get out to start the small falls, you know?”

I nod. I’ve seen them doing it on fine days, after big dumps—setting off small charges to safely release the buildup of snow on the upper slopes before it can get to critical mass. I’m not sure how they do it exactly—sometimes they seem to use helicopters, other times it looks more like some sort of gun. Either way, I can imagine that the wind makes it too hazardous and unpredictable.

“You think that there is a danger of falls?” I ask, trying to hide my uneasiness.

Jacques shrugs again.

“Serious ones? Unlikely. But there will be slopes closed this afternoon for sure, and I wouldn’t plan any off-piste skiing.”

“I don’t ski off-piste,” I say shortly. Well, not anymore.

Jacques doesn’t respond to that, he just looks thoughtfully up at the slopes and then blows out a ring of smoke. “Well, I must be going. See you later, Erin.”

And he crunches off through the soft-fallen snow towards the funicular. I feel my stomach shift with the lingering chill from my dream as I watch him go, and then I turn back, into the warmth of the kitchen.

Inside, I am stacking the bread on the table when the sound of a croaky, sleep-hoarse voice comes from behind my shoulder, making me jump.

“Monsieur Bun the boulanger’s son?”

It’s Danny, leaning against the counter, squinting at the bright morning lights.

“Jesus.” I put a hand on my chest. “You startled me. Yes, it was Jacques. He says there’s going to be more snow.”

“You’re shitting me.” Danny rubs a hand over his stubble. “There’s not going to be any more of the stuff left up there. Will we get any skiing in?”

“I think so. This morning he reckons. He says the runs will probably be shut in the afternoon—avalanche risk.”

“It’s already on orange,” Danny says, referring to the colored scale published by Météo France. Orange is level three—“considerable risk” of avalanche occurring—and means off-piste skiing is inadvisable, and some of the steeper slopes are probably going to be shut. Red is level four and is when the whole resort starts to close. Black is level five and means risk to settlements and roads. Black is like, Make sure your last meal is a good one, but the control teams don’t let it get to that point if they can help it.

I’m gathering up the tray of coffee cups when Danny speaks again, his voice casual.

“Who’s Will?”

The question is a shock—enough to make me stumble, and two of the cups slide off the tray and shatter on the floor. By the time Danny and I have gathered up the shards, I’m composed enough to answer.

“What do you mean? There’s no one here called Will.”

“You were dreaming last night, shouting about someone called Will. I heard you through the wall. It woke me up.”

Fuck.

“Huh, weird.” I keep my voice light, and just a little puzzled. “Sorry about that. Nightmare I guess.”

And then before he can pursue the question, I leave the room. I carry the tray through to the dining room with hands that are only slightly trembling and begin laying out the breakfast things on the big wooden table. I’m setting out the last jars of preserve when I hear the click of heels on the stairs and look up to see Eva coming into the lobby. She looks pissed off.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi, what’s happened to the internet?” she says without preamble. My heart sinks. Shit. I’d hoped it was a temporary thing.