By this time, the snow was pouring down and it was possible that the worst was yet to come.  My stomach was tying up in that twisted horrible knot again, and I faintly wondered if there was a working phone in the cabin.  Would Joy and Jason be able to make it in this weather?  It was highly doubtful, and if they couldn’t then what would I do? 

I was made aware of how painfully quiet I had been since we left the station, as his eyes darted in my direction every so often, a bit nervous – and I didn’t blame him.  The roads were slick, deceptively patched with ice and slush… and driving up the mountainous road was tricky anyway.  We slowly turned a sharp corner, and the bridge that Simona had mentioned unfolded before us, its dimensions barely visible in winter’s fury.  Nicolas stopped carefully, then got out and checked the bridge. 

There was a magazine or a book I read some time ago – and for the life of me, I can’t recall what it was, or when I read it – that mentioned dangerous situations as being a fantastic aphrodisiac, that people in the throes of adrenaline and fear often felt sexual arousal as well.  I think there’s some merit to that.  The whole time he was outside, he was a distraction to my worrying mind… the snowflakes falling on his face and his shoulders, his eyes intense and cold and calculating, his hands… oh, those beautiful hands… I was a crazy woman, staring at him that way, thinking those thoughts.

After seeing that all the underpinnings were secure, he got back inside and gave me a “thumbs up”, which I assumed would have the same reassuring meaning in either language.  The bridge soundly accepted our passage, but after we crossed I realized I had instinctively lifted my feet and held my breath in anticipation.  He noticed even before I did, and giggled as he pointed at my feet - since I was a little girl, I’ve always done that when crossing bridges in a car, and I guess it is a strange quirk of mine.  I was embarrassed, but also laughed, and things seemed a little better now, a little easier.

The mirth and relief of the moment was cut short by a strange noise behind us.

At first I thought it was a train, but the rumbling and shaking was violent and impending, not coming from a distance.  I was terrified to look behind us, so I looked at Nicolas instead… but he was craning his neck to look through the rear window, his eyes huge and foreboding.  A deafening crash, tearing through wood and metal, caused me to cover my head and duck down instinctively between my knees.  We were lifted from our seats and lurched forward a little, and I winced as my legs banged against the dashboard – then, silence.  I was afraid to look up, but I heard him get out and slam the door.  After a few seconds, my curiosity coaxed me to jump out as well.  When I opened the door, I was hit with a sharp blast of wind, that almost pushed me back in my seat.  I couldn’t see anything – the snowflakes were whizzing by so hard they were stinging my face, and then I realized that it wasn’t snow at all – it was soft crumbs of ice. 

The bridge was gone… destroyed by an avalanche. 

All I could see was white – the sky, the ground, the air, everything white.  There was no indication that the bridge had ever existed… even our tire tracks were wiped clean from the barren earth.  He was standing a few feet behind the truck with his back to me, in stoic shock.  I really didn’t know what to say, but I wanted to at least see how much damage had been done.  As I walked closer to where the bridge had been (and it was really just a guess at this point – there was nothing left), Nicolas grabbed me by the upper arm and pulled me away… the cliff tapered off to oblivion down below, covered with a smooth sheet of soft ice and heavy layers of slush.  We went back to the truck without another word, without even looking at each other.

***********************

Now, I really don’t know anything about walkie-talkies or at what altitude they no longer function, but when he tried to call for help and nobody answered, we were both grateful for the radio that was in the cabin when we arrived.  Later I discovered that Jason’s dad was a ham radio fanatic and the cabin’s location was great for exchanging transmissions all over Europe.  After clearing a path to the front door and unlocking it, Nicolas made contact with the station while I brought in the groceries and luggage.  Per Joy’s instructions, I picked up the essentials for any decent vacation in Italy – bread, cheese, grapes (which I was very surprised to discover were available), olives, and wine.  Two bottles of red wine, plenty of alcohol to calm anyone’s nerves… and I was really needing it.  As I dragged in my suitcases, I wondered how Joy and Jason would reach the cabin, or even contact us.  Would anyone in Alagna have any idea we were trapped?  Surely Nic would be able to contact someone… but if he could, how would they get here?

            I was pouring myself a glass of wine, which was nicely chilled from sitting in the trunk of a very cold, very nonfunctioning car, when I heard him say something in the radio’s microphone that I thought I understood.

            “Potete spedire un elicottero?”, he asked.  He was most likely speaking with another officer, and I recalled the word elicottero – that was “helicopter”.  I saw that word somewhere at the airport.  The rest of it meant nothing to me, but was obviously bad news judging by the sick look on his face.  He turned off the radio and rubbed his face with one hand, leaning against the desk with the other, then stormed outside and slammed the door.  I followed him out, and was hit with an icy blast – the blizzard was picking up speed and when the wind hit your face it was almost painful to stand outside for too long.  He was peering up above us, then down around the side of the mountain to our right.  Abruptly he turned to me, partially covering his face with his hands.

            “Nessun elicottero… no, no.  No stanza.  Troppa neve, big neve!”, he shouted above the wind, and spread his arms wide to encompass our space and to suggest where it could land… or rather, where it could not land.  After a couple of minutes of frustrated gestures and shouting, I realized that the helicopter would not be able to rescue us until the storm backed off.  With the limited space to land, it was just too risky.  The reality that we could be stuck there for a couple of days clawed its way through my last semblance of rational thought., and I felt myself slump down into the snow.  I didn’t care how cold it was or if my clothes were getting soaked through.  All I could think about was that bizarre, paranoid thought that passed through my mind when I agreed to come here.  You guys had better not bail out on me or leave anything unplanned, I think I said.  I knew it wasn’t their fault, but I still felt a bit betrayed… and lost.  After staring at the sky for awhile, fretting and worrying and mildly amazed at the colors of the impending sunset against the blue mountains, I brushed myself off and began to feel the effect of the extreme temperature.  I shuffled towards the cabin, my butt and lower legs numb from the cold.

            As I reached the door, I was almost certain I heard… humming?  Was he actually humming?  Who in their right mind would be in such a pleasant mood after all that’s happened today?  I carefully opened the door, trying to keep snow from blowing into the cabin.  It was essentially one large room with a plastered wall on the east end… I imagined I would find a bedroom and bathroom on the other side of it.  The kitchenette – and I use that word in the vaguest sense possible – was nothing more than a table, a small fridge and a few cupboards, and the rest of the room was comprised of an overstuffed green couch, a floor lamp and a fireplace.  There was a stack of wood along the opposite wall, but it was hard to say how long it had been there.  We had electricity, provided by a generator outside which he had thoughtfully started up for us, so I was able to store the groceries in the fridge (which, thankfully, was also working and clean as well).

            I started a fire with some matches I found in one of the cupboards, then polished off my glass of wine as I listened to him in the back room… he was still humming, a soft slow tune I’d never heard before.  The wall was thin enough for my curious ears to hear him move around… what could he be doing in there?  Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was a momentary sense of security that I wish I had possessed a few hours ago, but I could almost imagine him undressing… maybe he was stripping off his jacket, boots and shirt, leaving only his pants.  Surely he wouldn’t be taking off any more than that.  What was he wearing underneath?  If I could only see through this wall… damn.  After a few minutes, he was quiet, and I sat on the couch to warm my legs by the fire. 

            When he finally came out, I was mildly disappointed to see that he was still fully dressed.  He said nothing to me as he poured himself a glass of wine, and seemed reluctant to even make eye contact.  Until that moment I hadn’t really thought about how awkward this evening might be for both of us, since neither of us could understand each other… the impending sexual frustration I was feeling sure as hell didn’t help matters.  Hopefully, one of us would fall asleep soon and there would be no time for an attempt at conversation.  He timidly sat on one end of the couch, still unwilling (or unable?) to look at me as I was thumbing through my translator guide for anything helpful.  I was relieved to come across something meaningful to say, and as I tried to speak I realized I was probably as nervous as he was!

            “Qualcosa mangiare?”, I fumbled, pointing at the refrigerator.  He seemed just a little startled that I said something he halfway understood, and looked up at me with a shy smile.  I was starting to get a little hungry, and he was too. 

            “Si, grazie!”, he responded, nodding his head enthusiastically.  I could barely breathe, he was so beautiful… it was more than just the firelight.  It was everything about him; his piercing, intense eyes, his half-smile.  He looked away quickly and started to take off his boots, and I realized that Simona might have been right… he was bashful, but the contrast between his demeanor and his physique was intriguing to me.

            I cut up some bread and cheese for him as I watched him hang his jacket by the door.  He was broad-shouldered, but surprisingly slim.  Narrow hips, gangly legs, but a powerful build nonetheless.  When he turned to face me, I was afraid he had sensed me staring at him, but he didn’t seem to notice.  I handed him the plate without saying a word and then got some grapes for myself.  I couldn’t eat much more than that… my nerves were kicking back at me again, and so I simply perched on the couch and nibbled and watched.  As I watched him devour his meal – he was famished, judging by the way he tore through the bread – I wondered what Joy and Jason were doing at the moment, whether they would find us and what they would think of our guest.  And where on earth would he sleep?  Given his kind and chivalrous behavior, I felt he deserved to have the bed, although I doubted it was much more comfortable than the couch.  Again, I thumbed through my guide.

I cleared my throat to speak.  “Nicolas?”

He looked up at me expectantly, sipping his second glass of wine.  “Si, signora?”

It had never occurred to me that he didn’t even know my name!!  “Ummm… uh… dormirete?”.  The guide only offered a few words on sleeping arrangements.  “Dove dormite?  Base?”.  I really, really sucked at this.  It was evident by his initial reaction… he stared at me in puzzlement as I tried finding something, anything in the book that made sense.  Finally, I pointed at him, then pointed at the back room.  “Dormite, dormite”.  He suddenly comprehended what I was trying to say, and broke into a wide smile, looking away again in deference.

“No, no, signora… dormite qui.  Is okay.”, he said, pointing at the couch.  I was bemused by his response - his European sense of honor wouldn’t allow for a lady to sleep on a hard surface, I suppose.  He was just too polite, almost docile, nothing like the cliché Italian that people warn you about… this stud wouldn’t pinch my butt at gunpoint, even if I begged for it.  Just thinking about this made me laugh a little, and this perplexed him even more.  He watched me as he finished his wine, then stood up to set his plate and glass on the table.  I was just finishing my grapes when he spoke up again.

“Ahhh… il vostro nome!”, he said, holding up my passport.  It must have fell out of my purse when I was unloading the luggage.  He pronounced my name with a heavy accent, affecting it with a strangely salacious tone.  I blushed a little, knowing that he must have had no idea how erotic it sounded.  “Nome di unione?”, he asked, holding up his hand and pointing to the ring finger, then clasping both hands together with a quizzical expression… I realized that he was asking if it was my married name.  He was wondering if I was married?  Hmmm…. 

“No, no unione.”, I answered, hoping I got it right.  He seemed satisfied with my response and sat back on the couch with the bottle of wine in his hand, still scooted just a little too far away for my taste.  Damn, this man loved his wine… I doubted there would be any left by tomorrow.  I wasn’t complaining though.  It seemed to break down his barriers a bit, as he was becoming less reluctant to meet my gaze.  He poured a glass for both of us, without my asking, and watched me as I took a big gulp.  I had no idea that wine could be so heady, so enticing… if there really was such a thing as “nectar of the gods”, this had to be it.  When I finished my glass, I realized that he was still regarding me with a warm glint in his eyes.  For just a moment, I entertained the remote possibility that he wasn’t so demure, but I let it slide.  The last thing I needed was my imagination running wild on me.  I got up to set my glass back on the table and turned around to realize that he had followed, and was still watching me.  When we made eye contact, I thought he would look down at the floor in embarrassment, but he didn’t.  He was rubbing his hands nervously, still fixated on me, and I felt warm and flustered at this sudden attention.  I hope he’s not some psycho, I thought, but he didn’t make me feel apprehensive.  Quite the opposite, in fact… I was wrestling with the impulse to pounce on him, and what I imagined seeing in his eyes didn’t help matters at all.