Baron von Lingenhoven
By Golda Wolfe
This is an excerpt from an unpublished novel. All Rights Reserved. No use without permission.
Baron Eric von Lingenhoven bought the chalet in the Engadine when its rocks were splotched in bright lichen, attesting to their undisturbed age. Inside, von Lingenhoven breathed the fragrance of sap that sweetly seeped from the century-old coffered walls and ceiling. For all its charms, the chalet had needed double paned windows, modern plumbing and rewiring to meet the building code. Otherwise, von Lingenhoven did not change anything. He believed in continuity. Like his parents, grandparents and great-grandparents, von Lingenhoven couldn’t imagine spending the month of December anywhere but at the chalet.
He broke with family tradition the winter after Buzz White skied into his life. White was an auto parts tycoon from Ohio he met riding the lift on Corviglia-Piz Nair. On their ride Buzz bragged that he had built his family’s salvage business into the largest company of its kind in the U.S. By the time they reached the top of the run, Von Lingenhoven had learned that White’s devotion to skiing was the opposite of his own: At the age of 17 Buzz made a vow that he would ski every resort in the world once, before he skied the same one twice. That December when Eric met him, it was St. Moritz’s turn. At 34, Buzz White was 12 years younger than Eric. His physique suggested that he bench pressed engine blocks to stay fit for extreme skiing, or perhaps it was the other way around. Von Lingenhoven was smitten.
“I’ve got 5,920 ski resorts to go,” Buzz White said, when their conversation about his youthful vow resumed. “I know I might not do all of them, but there’s winter in two hemispheres, you know, which increases my chances. In Switzerland there are so many ski resorts close together, I figure I can knock off eight in two weeks,” he said.
“This is absurd,” the Baron declared. They had enjoyed an excellent day skiing together, at the same level. He invited Buzz to his chalet. Over raclette dotted with tiny pickles, marinated onions and crusty bread Eric suggested they spend a few days together on the mountain. Buzz pursed his lips and his jaw tightened: The sudden prospect of romance with von Lingenhoven was enticing, but it threatened to slow his pace of accumulating ski days at different resorts, he said.
“And you’re telling me you won’t come back to St. Moritz until you’ve skied everywhere else?” the Baron asked, in disbelief.
“Pretty much,” Buzz answered, mesmerized by the licks of flame winking at him from behind the grate of the ancestral kachenhoven. Neither man spoke for a few minutes.
Buzz broke the silence. “Has it ever occurred to you that this room looks really old-fashioned, with that big ugly furnace?” He figured von Lingenhoven could well afford to update it, to be in step with the spare, water-colored and wide-open interiors that were being done everywhere. Perhaps his older friend needed encouragement from someone younger, to stay current. The Baron was again shocked by Buzz’s — what was the English word he wanted? Values. When von Lingenhoven recalled this conversation later, he realized that this buff American auto parts entrepreneur that he had fallen in love with, didn’t have any.
They were sharing a bottle of Bunnahabhain 25 on the crackled leather sofa and had drunk more than half of it. Von Lingerhoven continued to taunt Buzz about his “vow.”
“Surely you don’t think you can keep that stupid promise you made to yourself when you were a silly boy,” he said. “I bet you have broken it, already. Why wouldn’t you go back to a place you loved, just to try out something new?”
Lubricated by the best scotch he’d ever tasted, Buzz White spilled his truth.
“Well, there is one ski resort I’ve been back to a number of times,” Buzz said quietly, as if somebody else might hear his confession. “Maybe, five times.”
“Oh my God, just as I thought!” roared Eric, pleased that he had exposed Buzz’s lie. He thought he might be able to put a little trust in what this man said, going forward. By that point the American had agreed to stay the night and ski with Eric at least one more day.
“And now what place is it that you think is worth skiing at — five times! — and yet you won’t come back to St. Moritz even twice?”
Buzz deliberated a long time. Von Lingenhoven thought he had fallen asleep.
“Vail,” he slurred into Eric’s ear. “Meet me there next Christmas.”