The base of Courchevel’s main ski lift stood with the stillness of a monument built by a long-vanished civilization, its empty gondolas swaying gently in the brilliant afternoon sunlight. Isabel strolled past a parade of exclusive shops—Dior, Bulgari, Vuitton, Fendi—all of which were shuttered. Next was a ski rental outlet, also closed, and a small café where two patrons, a man and a woman, were drinking coffee from paper cups at a table on the pavement. The man wore a Salomon cap and wraparound sunglasses. The woman, black-haired and olive-complected, was chastising him in rapid, vehement French.
The small lie to cover the big lie...
Smiling, Isabel crossed the street and entered the pharmacy.As she was describing her symptoms to the white-jacketed woman behind the counter, she heard the ping of the electronic door chime. A moment later a sultry Russian-accented voice said, “Isabel? Is that you?”
It was Oksana Akimova. She was wearing a formfitting Fusalp ski suit. Her skin was aglow with the cold and the sun.
Breathlessly, she asked, “When did you arrive?”
“A few minutes ago.”
“Are you unwell?”
“Just a little carsick.”
“Why don’t you come skiing with us? The snow is perfect, and the slopes are absolutely empty.”
“I’m not much of a skier, to be honest. I think I’ll just go back to my room and rest before the party.”
“At least come have a drink with us. We’ve taken over the terrace of Le Chalet de Pierres.”
Thepharmacienneplaced the medication on the counter. Isabel paid with her credit card and followed Oksana into the street. Watched by the couple at the café, they walked past the same parade of shuttered shops to the base of the lift, where Oksana had left a red-and-black Lynx snowmobile.
“I guess it’s true,” said Isabel.
“What’s that?”
“That Arkady bought every available snowmobile in Les Trois Vallées.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Oksana settled behind the controls and fired the engine.
“I’m not dressed for this,” shouted Isabel over the racket.
“It’s just a few hundred meters up the hill.”
Isabel squeezed on to the back of the saddle and wrapped herarms around Oksana’s waist. It was shockingly slender, like the waist of an adolescent girl.
“I really think I need to lie down before the party.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You can sleep tomorrow.”
Oksana turned up the slope of the hill and opened the throttle. Rather than progress in a straight line, she delighted in showing off her skill at handling the powerful machine. Like Anna Rolfe, she ignored Isabel’s pleas to slow down.
Le Chalet de Pierres, a Courchevel institution, stood on the left side of the slope. Four more Lynx snowmobiles were parked outside, and a collection of brightly colored skis and poles leaned drunkenly against the storage rack. Their Russian-speaking owners were gathered in a sunlit corner of the large terrace. The tables were littered with uneaten food and several bottles of Bandol rosé, most of them empty.
A sunburned Russian man thrust a glass of the wine into Isabel’s hand as Oksana made the introduction. “Everyone, this is Isabel. Isabel, this is everyone.”
“Hello, Isabel!” the Russians replied in unison, and Isabel responded by saying, “Hello, everyone.”
Oksana was lighting a cigarette. “Aren’t you going to take some?” she asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“The medicine you bought at the pharmacy.”
Isabel unscrewed the cap from the container and washed down a tablet with the rosé. “Where’s Arkady?”
“At the airport awaiting the arrival of tonight’s guest of honor.”
