Road-X-Trip Ch. 06

** Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited. **

High-class Encounter

Day 5. 8 :00 AM (EDT)

Finally, we should reach New-Hampshire around noon. While Olga is driving, I contemplate the dense forest crawling over the hills of Vermont. On both sides of the road, green, yellow and ochre foliage scroll in an unending parade. What's ending, though, is summer. This morning, I had to wear a sweater during breakfast: I assume this is a significant indicator...

We leave Road 302 upon arriving in Bretton Woods, NH, a small village located at the foothills of Mount Washington. Well... maybe the word "village" isn't the best to describe this peculiar place fitted with a gas station, a church, a cemetery, a diner and a snowmobile rental... with no housings around.

"This city must be living off of tourism, surely," I think to myself.

We branch off on a smaller road, headed to the mountain. We've only exited the hamlet, although the forest is already sprawling all around us. In fact, we never really left it. Since Montréal, we've been driving through lands that the forest has made its own. Landscapes so lush and so dense, but at the same time so harsh, that they have largely resisted our human expansion. Our cities acting as cancerous cells, our roads as parasitic furrows through the forest.

Further down the road, we notice the gigantic silhouette of a building emerging through the trees, looking as big as a castle, with white walls and red roof. The forest splits open before our eyes, revealing a large estate with pristine lawn, paths climbing up the terrain and, at the top of the hill, an outrageously wide manor. Gaudy and proud, the building holds a shameless stance, facing the foliage. It feels like a big and majestic, though ill, swelling inside the luxuriant nature spreading all around. A testimony of our arrogance.

We pass by the fencing of the property: Mount Washington Hotel seems to be the name of the place... Is it where they all stay? Olga and I exchange a puzzled gaze. I can't stop looking at the mansion though. While the camper moves away, I keep glancing at it in the side mirror.

"Wooah! This is splendid," Olga exclaims. "I have never seen such a thing in my entire life!"

Our shared surprise did apparently not come from the same feeling. "I don't think so! This is such a stain in the middle of this beautiful forest," I reply.

"Well... It's the whole point of staying here for a night or for the holidays, right? Waking up to these landscapes and at the foot of the mountain!"

She has a point. But... "That's exactly what we are doing. And we only need our camper!"

"Right! Although I know quite a few people who prefer the comfort of a hotel room," she responds. "Even if I don't share their feelings, I can understand them."

In fact, I too am curious to see what the hotel rooms look like in here. This seems to me like a very luxurious place...

"Still, this whole building and its surroundings are excessively disproportionated, in my opinion," I grouch.

"Hey, we'll see from the top if it's still as impressive," she concludes, shrugging her shoulders. "I bet it's not!"

I'm very dubious about it. Though, I can't help but sense a spark of curiosity invading my mind about this extravagant hotel resort... A few kilometers away, the wooded surroundings of the road unexpectedly open on a wide dirt field acting as a gigantic parking. Several motorhomes are parked here and there. As we go further, parking lots get more crowded.

At the end of the road, we arrive before a grey house, made entirely of wood planks, with large windows and proud balustrades. Red and white signs fixed on the walls indicate: "Marshfield Station: souvenirs and tickets". Here is the departure of the small railway line that climbs all the way to the top of Mount Washington. Since we've found out about this train, a few days earlier, our hearts have been hesitating between two options: either walking up by foot and climbing down with the train, or the opposite. In the end, we chose the latter, unanimously.

We park the camper and walk hand in hand towards the ticket office. We both put on hoodies and sweat pants, as the top of Mount Washington culminates around 2000 meters. Approximatively 6200 feet, if I understand the American measuring system correctly. This is our first true excursion, if we rule out Niagara Falls —which are, in my opinion, more of a tourist attraction than a real dive into nature. Here, despite the number of cars parked all around the place, it doesn't feel overcrowded at all. A few families. One group of elders. And us.

A couple of children play on big rocks aligned in the garden of the station alongside some old car models of the early 20^th century. We sit at a picnic table and have a snack while we wait for the train's departure. Mayonnaise sandwiches. I would even say double Mayonnaise sandwiches, if you ask me. Obviously, it is Olga who prepared them.

The blue sky is only troubled with a few thin clouds. The temperature is still cool at this altitude. It's even warmer than I imagined. We end up getting rid of our hoodies, that we shove in our trail bag. I notice Olga's nice top. Blue and white with orange horizontal stripes around the collar, it is made with a ribbed fabric. Zipped from the base of her chest to her neck, it fits her shapely chest perfectly.

"Strange, I've never seen this top! You look fine wearing it," I say.

"Yes, I bought it right before leaving France. It is said to be very warm! We'll see about that."

"These colors suit you well..." I lean forward and caress her hair. "It's a perfect match for your eyes."

We kiss languidly. Suddenly, a whistle blows: the train is about to leave. "When we come back, we'll fuck like animals," I whisper to her as we stand up.

She smiles back at me, nibbling at her lower lip. We pack the rest of our snack and head to the rails. The small train is quite remarkable: consisting only of a coal powered locomotive and a yellow car with the writing "Mt. Washington" painted in red on its side. Hard to do more authentic than that. Olga leaps in the wagon like an overexcited child.

Inside, all of the benches, walls and ceiling are made of wood. It seems new though replicated in the same old style from half a century ago. It really does the trick. We sit at the front, where the view should be the best during the climb. An elegantly dressed man sits behind us. Families get on the train. The atmosphere here is getting very cheerful and lively now.

A few minutes after, the employee who controlled our tickets steps on the outdoor platform and blows his whistle again. The locomotive responds with its own whistle and emerges from the train station. Shaken and pulled to the back, we start the long ascent of Mount Washington. Behind, the big grey house moves away from us. Soon, vegetation is getting rarer and more scattered all around us. There are still a few conifers, here and there, but the mountain side is getting more and more rocky. The view is getting clearer. Olga pulls my arm. "Look at the clouds! I like the shades they draw on the forest beneath."

"It looks like stains," I add. "As if someone had done a painting and spilled paint all over the forest."

"The stains, they move..."

"Do you see this cloud? It looks like a bee," I say.

"Which one?"

I point at a frayed and skinny cloud.

"Hum... I'd rather picture a lynx's head," Olga replies. "You know, the one with pointy hears!"

"Oh yeah? I can't see it..."

"By the way, do you think there are lynxes in this region? I'd love to see some!"

"Why do you want to know that? And why do you ask me? I have no clue!" I jeer.

The man sitting on the bench behind leans towards us. He speaks a perfect French. "Actually, there are lynxes around here, as probably everywhere in North America. Although if you want to see one, you will have to be very patient."

Surprised, we both turn around. "Oh thanks! I knew it!" Olga chirps gleefully. "Your accent is perfect. Are you French?" she asks with curiosity.

"Yes, that is why I took the liberty to interrupt you. I hope I'm not bothering."

"Of course not!" I answer. "Are you traveling?"

"Yes and no... One could say I'm visiting here, says the man. "I've been living in this country for a long time now. On the West coast actually..."

I take a better look at him now. He's wearing a Lacoste sky blue polo and a suit jacket. His belt bears the logo of a very luxurious leather goods brand. He seems quite muscular for a man who has probably reached his fifties. His salt-and-pepper hair is short, military style. Angular lines shape his strict face. The gaze is deep and severe. He wears a ring jeweled with a ruby.

Maybe he's feeling observed, as he raises a hand and speaks directly to me. "My name is Arthur Bossmanian. Everyone calls me 'Boss'. What about you?"

I shake his hand. "I am Richard."

"So, are you on vacation?" he asks.

"We've just started our road-trip. We were in Montreal a few days before," I explain. "Right now, we're heading down South. Then we plan on traveling all the way to the West coast!"

"Oh well. What a journey! This is only the beginning..."

His eyes drift slowly, as if attracted by Olga. His iris suddenly glowing with a strange and unsettling glint. The way he reaches for her hand... I can't really describe this feeling... This is as if he is going to seize her, delicately, without a sound. His aura is shady, ravenous. He lays envious eyes on her. He undresses her from head to toe, as if he were to devour, gobble her down.

For a brief moment, a very sexual tension fills my entire body. Though this feeling is not clear at all. It is blurred by the apparent restrain he demonstrates. Nothing but his gaze betrays the animal impetuosity that he seems to withhold, coldly deep down himself. He addresses Olga. "And what is your name?"

My girlfriend does not seem taken aback. Radiant as always, she vigorously sakes his hand. "It's Olga. Happy to meet you!"

"Well, I'm pleased to meet you too," he answers. "So, where in France do you come from?"

"We live in Lyon," she replies. "Have you ever visited the city?"

"Oh yes... I got relatives living there too. It's a beautiful town."

"And where did you grow up?" Olga asks.

"Hum... These years are long gone now... Will you be walking down the mountain?" Bossmanian continues.

He is kicking the ball into touch... This guy Boss seems very strange to me. I can't read through him at all. It is awkward. My thoughts drift slowly and I lose sight of the discussion. Olga seems delighted though. Or is she enchanted? She is usually very acute when it comes to delve into people's soul. I should probably trust her...

"Hey Richard!" Olga nudges me with her elbow.

"Oh yes, what?"

"We've almost reached the top! Look around us!"

I take a look through the car's window. Not a single tree in sight here. The mountainside is rocky, even more than earlier. Outside of context, you could even mistake this place for a desert area...

The locomotive halts. The platform is only made of a few wooden planks, aligned next to the rails, just like at the station down there. We get off the train. Bossmanian leaps from the wagon and steps a few meters down the stone covered slope. Olga runs to the balustrade. Here we can observe the whole region and its undulating terrain.

"This is gorgeous!" shouts Olga, enthused.

She hugs me. In turn, I squeeze her slender body. We behold the sumptuous landscape then take a picture together. Olga has started posting images of our trip on Instagram. She will surely post it this evening, when we come back to the camper. Further down the hill, Mr. Bossmanian seems thoughtful. Hands in the pockets, he looks in the distance.

A few minutes goes by. Then, he climbs up the steps and join us again. "The view is even better from the other side," he says.

"Oh, then we should go there!" Olga exclaims.

We walk down a path bordered with rocks. Here and there, quite a few buildings cap the top of Mount Washington: to the right a welcoming house for visitors and an antenna; to the left a small control tower, a diner and other structures... We walk on gravel. I notice a road zigzagging all the way up to the top. A few vehicles lay on a parking lot, a hundred meters below us.

To me, this place looks like a facility. I can't help but to grouse. "Why should they always build things everywhere? Couldn't they leave this place as they found it?"

"Well, this mountain top has been used for scientific research way before becoming a tourist attraction," Bossmanian explains. "At first, it was a meteorological observatory. It is still standing. This is the big building up there."

Olga curtails my complaining. "Oh! And what is this?"

She points at a long and old building made of rustic stones, elevated amongst the rocks. Above the entrance, a sign indicates 'Tip-Top House'. We come closer. According to the explanatory board, this place is a former hotel, built in 1853. We walk inside. The atmosphere is cold and stark. The wooden floor creaks under our footsteps. Pictures of the parc's fauna and flora are displayed on the walls. I don't really pay them attention. Olga, though, contemplates the photograph of a raspberry pink bird. "This one is a purple finch," she tells me. "It only lives in North America."

"Oh yeah, it's nice..." I answer, my mind drifting to other thoughts.

Mr. Bossmanian seems more intrigued by these pictures than I am. He leans forward to investigates each and every detail. I decide on asking him a question that has been dancing in my head for a few minutes already.

"I didn't ask you earlier... would you mind telling us what you do for a living?"

He turns to us. Olga raises her head to hear his answer. The mysterious Mr. Bossmanian stares at us, as if weighting our souls, weighting if we are worthy of knowing. We wait impatiently for him to talk. At last, he breaks the silence.

"I'm working in the luxury entertainment industry. Show-biz, rather. I organize very exclusive event where talents that I manage meet very wealthy clients."

"Your talents? What do they do?" Olga asks.

"All the men and women who work for me have a career of their own: some are comedians, others are models or gymnasts," he clarifies. "They choose to dedicate their art to the ultimate form of entertainment."

We head outside as he speaks. Bossmanian's words are very elusive to me. I press on my inquiry. "Sorry but... I'm having a hard time understanding what these entertainments are about?"

"Oh, they are true and unique experiences. When I was a kid, I was bewildered at the fairground attractions. But as I grew up, I felt they missed a crucial something to make me feel alive: and that I think is storytelling. You know, the buildup, the narration, just like in the movies... Although, I want my client to be the central player of the story, and not only a simple viewer. Thanks to my talents, my crew of designers and technicians, I offer a once in a lifetime attraction. You'll understand that these entertainments are reserved for those who can afford huge expenses and have time to spare for these... kinds of pleasure."

"That's crazy! Can we spectate these?" Olga wonders.

"Unfortunately, not. We ensure our clients a private and exclusive experience."

"Oh, too bad! I would have loved to see that... What's the craziest thing you have set up then?"

Olga appears to be fascinated. She can't stop looking at him, hanging on his lips. I can feel it too, the strength and vital energy emanating from him. But there's something off with his character and I don't know what. Something is missing and, just as Olga, I am longing to know what he is hiding beneath this façade. That being said, I feel more at ease now. Olga seems to really trust him. And also... his life may be very different than ours, that is all. He has surely gone through things we don't even imagine!

Bossmanian thinks for a few seconds. "Four months ago, I worked with a client who wanted to reenact the chase from the movie North by Northwest. We've played the climax on the roof of Mount Rushmore, or rather, the scene before the climax. It was quite impressive, a great success."

Olga and I are left eyes open. Oh well! I am astonished. I don't really know what to say about that. Olga, though, wants to learn more. But Bossmanian pulls the rug out from under her. "By the way, I think you'd have what it takes to be a talent Olga... Though, I prefer not to dive further into my activity right now, if you would. Look, here is the promontory."

Olga seems disappointed. I can see that she craves to hear more about it. But, as we discover the other side of the land, joy quickly reappears on her pretty face. We step down the edge of the slope, strewn with rocks everywhere. The countryside runs to the horizon in valleys and hills. Right ahead of us, the mountainside slowly moves away towards the foothills, just like a sand dune. You could walk on top of it until reaching ground floor. Besides, I spot the parking lots and the train station. Oh, and a bit further in the distance...

"Look Richard!" Olga shouts. "This the hotel from before. It looks so small now! So tiny compared to the forest."

"I've just noticed it, indeed. Well. I don't think it's that tiny but..."

"Have you visited the Mount Washington Hotel?" Bossmanian asks, suddenly paying attention.

"Oh no. We just drove by it," Olga answers. "But I wish we had!"

"This is a peculiar place... atypical. I'm staying there right now."

"Oh! You're not kidding?" she exclaims. "How lucky!"

Looking at the man's appearance, we could have guessed it ourselves...

"Well. How about I invite you for a drink this evening?" Bossmanian suggests.

Olga opens ever wider eyes than before. She turns to me, a big smile covering her face. I believe there is no hesitation here. I nod. "Of course."

"With pleasure!" Olga adds.

He seems pleased. "Then I'll leave you two here," he says. "I have a few business-related matters to handle. Meet me at 7:00 PM at the main entrance of the hotel."

Bossmanian greets us and walks back to the train. I watch him leap nimbly from rock to rock. As well as the rest of his character, his gait is of high standing. Olga pulls my sleeve. "Richard, this is so great! We will visit the hotel!"

I point at the mountainside. "Well, yes. Now we still need to walk down this mountain..."

"Let's go then!" Olga jumps on the next stone. She freezes. "Hum. Can you hand me my hoodie? I'm getting cold..."

***

We found a path leading from the top to the station. Well, 'found' may not be the appropriate word since we kind of got lost among the rocky terrain, searching for an easier way to go down the mountain. It is a very kind woman, in her late sixties but seemingly in a good shape, veteran trekker as we could see from her equipment, who shared with us the way to follow.

We have been walking for almost an hour now. All around us, the mountainside is still very stony. The station still looks small, yet we're making some good progress. I stop from time to time to take pictures. We have left the crowd up at the top. It is relaxing to be alone together.

We walk quietly, until Olga breaks the silence. "I bet I'll run faster than you to this rock."