miles a day. Physically you’re in good shape. Mentally, though …” She rolled her shoulders, and her small, pink tongue darted out to nab the teardrop of mayonnaise at the corner of her mouth.
She was right, of course. That hollowness continued to spread through me. At the end of each visit with Marta, I found myself fearful to return to my apartment. And I hated myself all over again for being such a coward.
As the tram bumped along, I leaned over to the man next to me—an Indian fellow with streamers of white hair sprouting from his large, brown ears—and asked him if he had ever heard of the Canyon of Souls.
He responded, but in his language it meant nothing to me.
2
FORTY MINUTES LATER. THE TRAM LET ME OFF AT
the lodge. It was cool, not cold, and I slid the zipper of my jacket down. The air smelled smoky. The sky was dense and gray to the east, but the west was a vibrant blue, uncorrupted by clouds, and the sunlight glittered like fire on the frozen peaks of the distant mountains. Down the valley stood the monsoon forests, heavily green and like a canopy over the land.
My room was small but adequate, furnished in alpine furniture and with a full wall of windows that faced a stand of evergreens and a dilapidated shed. Two young men helped carry my bags to the room, and I paid them in rupee I’d exchanged at the airport. I proceeded to unpack with the lethargy of someone submerged in water. Exhaustion weakened my muscles and brought my eyelids lower and lower. Finally I succumbed and climbed onto the bed where I napped for a few hours.
When I awoke, the wall of windows was black. I took a long shower, then dressed in a pair of cargo pants and a long-sleeved cotton shirt. I grabbed the book on George Mallory I’d brought, then crept out into the night.
The lodge was comprised of one main building and several smaller four-bedroom units scattered in no discernible fashion about the property. The buildings looked run-down and forgotten, but I could tell they weren’t cheap. This trip must have cost Andrew a fortune.
I entered the main building and crossed the lobby to an iron stairwell that wound down to a subbasement. It wasn’t a bar per sebut a small eatery, poorly lighted, with a bar along one wall and large wooden tables and chairs spaced out along the floor. At the far end of the room, a fire blazed in a stone hearth.
There was no alcohol at the bar. A dark-skinned woman with horrible teeth served me a mug of hot tea, which I carried over to the fire. Situating myself in one of the sturdy wooden chairs, I thumbed through my book while sipping the tea. It was scalding hot and tasted like pine needles. My mouth watered for some liquor.
As I read, a few people shuffled in and out of the room. They whispered in a language I couldn’t comprehend. A few times I craned my neck to see them; their shadows, amplified by the proximity of the fire, danced along the stone walls.
I returned to my book, skipping all the way to the final chapter, which described Mallory’s demise on Everest’s north face. I felt a twinge of claustrophobia, and I couldn’t help but recall that night nearly two years ago when I’d almost died in that cave in the Midwest.
Andrew’s voice popped into my head—
What were you doing in that cave by yourself?
—and it was simultaneously Marta’s voice as well. A good question.
Someone appeared behind me. When he spoke, his voice startled me, and I sloshed some hot tea into my lap.
“It’s a good book,” the man said. He had a low, meaty voice.
I looked up and found he was less bulky than his voice had me believe but in good shape. His face was sunburned and creased with ancient gray eyes, though he looked about my age.
“Course, you skip to the end like that and you miss all the details.”
“How’d you know I skipped to the end?”
He sat in one of the empty chairs and held his hands up to the fire. “You were on the tram with me from the airport this afternoon. I
She was right, of course. That hollowness continued to spread through me. At the end of each visit with Marta, I found myself fearful to return to my apartment. And I hated myself all over again for being such a coward.
As the tram bumped along, I leaned over to the man next to me—an Indian fellow with streamers of white hair sprouting from his large, brown ears—and asked him if he had ever heard of the Canyon of Souls.
He responded, but in his language it meant nothing to me.
2
FORTY MINUTES LATER. THE TRAM LET ME OFF AT
the lodge. It was cool, not cold, and I slid the zipper of my jacket down. The air smelled smoky. The sky was dense and gray to the east, but the west was a vibrant blue, uncorrupted by clouds, and the sunlight glittered like fire on the frozen peaks of the distant mountains. Down the valley stood the monsoon forests, heavily green and like a canopy over the land.
My room was small but adequate, furnished in alpine furniture and with a full wall of windows that faced a stand of evergreens and a dilapidated shed. Two young men helped carry my bags to the room, and I paid them in rupee I’d exchanged at the airport. I proceeded to unpack with the lethargy of someone submerged in water. Exhaustion weakened my muscles and brought my eyelids lower and lower. Finally I succumbed and climbed onto the bed where I napped for a few hours.
When I awoke, the wall of windows was black. I took a long shower, then dressed in a pair of cargo pants and a long-sleeved cotton shirt. I grabbed the book on George Mallory I’d brought, then crept out into the night.
The lodge was comprised of one main building and several smaller four-bedroom units scattered in no discernible fashion about the property. The buildings looked run-down and forgotten, but I could tell they weren’t cheap. This trip must have cost Andrew a fortune.
I entered the main building and crossed the lobby to an iron stairwell that wound down to a subbasement. It wasn’t a bar per sebut a small eatery, poorly lighted, with a bar along one wall and large wooden tables and chairs spaced out along the floor. At the far end of the room, a fire blazed in a stone hearth.
There was no alcohol at the bar. A dark-skinned woman with horrible teeth served me a mug of hot tea, which I carried over to the fire. Situating myself in one of the sturdy wooden chairs, I thumbed through my book while sipping the tea. It was scalding hot and tasted like pine needles. My mouth watered for some liquor.
As I read, a few people shuffled in and out of the room. They whispered in a language I couldn’t comprehend. A few times I craned my neck to see them; their shadows, amplified by the proximity of the fire, danced along the stone walls.
I returned to my book, skipping all the way to the final chapter, which described Mallory’s demise on Everest’s north face. I felt a twinge of claustrophobia, and I couldn’t help but recall that night nearly two years ago when I’d almost died in that cave in the Midwest.
Andrew’s voice popped into my head—
What were you doing in that cave by yourself?
—and it was simultaneously Marta’s voice as well. A good question.
Someone appeared behind me. When he spoke, his voice startled me, and I sloshed some hot tea into my lap.
“It’s a good book,” the man said. He had a low, meaty voice.
I looked up and found he was less bulky than his voice had me believe but in good shape. His face was sunburned and creased with ancient gray eyes, though he looked about my age.
“Course, you skip to the end like that and you miss all the details.”
“How’d you know I skipped to the end?”
He sat in one of the empty chairs and held his hands up to the fire. “You were on the tram with me from the airport this afternoon. I
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