The Rich Man’s House

by Andrew McGahan

  He laughed. ‘It’s true. My wife and kids think I’m mad. Why don’t I come in summer? What do I possibly see in it at this time of year? But they have never been climbers, any of them; they don’t get how good it is to be in some weather once in a while.’

  He had already apologised to Rita for the absence of his wife, even though Rita knew—as Richman must have known she knew, it was quite public—that although he was not actually divorced from his second wife, they lived separate lives. As for his children, the second marriage had produced two sons and a daughter, all adults now, but none of them had accompanied their father either. Nor had any mistress, though Rita had no doubt there must be one tucked away somewhere in his life, if not several: Richman struck her as a man who made conquests easily and frequently. But at least she felt sure that he had no designs on her, even if he was unaware of her sexuality. She had detected not a hint of flirtation in his manner towards her all evening.

  But otherwise he had been a charming and attentive host, full of solicitation about her father’s passing, expressing gratitude that she had been able to come all this way, and enquiring in detail about her voyage on the Wanderer, the latter followed up by an amusing story about how he came to invest in the cruise line. He had also revealed a little of his plans for the following few days—in particular that there was to be a rehearsal for a big laser-light and fireworks show that would feature at the formal opening of the Observatory in a month’s time.

  ‘Trust me,’ he promised, ‘it’ll be something you’ve never seen before. I’ve got a team of twenty pyrotechnic people on the island at the moment, working up and down the Mount, and a dozen lighting specialists too.’ And then, after a pause to glance at the others. ‘There’s a little business to attend to as well, while we’re all here. But that can wait. Tonight is strictly for everyone to get to know each other.’

  Except, of course, everyone else already knew each other, didn’t they? Rita was the only stranger here. It would have made her self-conscious, but the other guests, like Richman, had all seemed to be at pains to make her feel welcome. Kushal and Eugene in particular had been cheerful and friendly and inquisitive, and even Madelaine had maintained a cool politeness. Most relieving of all was that no one had made any further demands to know her opinion of the Observatory, this vast thing that these people had together created. Richman forbade it.

  ‘No one pester Rita about the house,’ he had ordered during dinner. ‘We’ll give her a day or two at least to get used to the place. Then we’ll see what she thinks. Until then, leave her be.’

  For Rita’s own part, five glasses of wine had also helped settle any tension she had been feeling at the evening’s start; it had almost even dispelled her awe of Richman himself.

  Still, she was not completely won over by him. He was very much the amiable host at the moment, but there had been hints of the Walter Richman she had learned about from reading the business section of the newspapers, where his reputation was a decidedly mixed one of ruthlessness combined with a hot-tempered narcissism.

  It was in the little things. At one point their waitress had brought out the wrong bottle of wine, and Richman had broken off from his conversation to correct her, his voice suddenly cold and curt; not rude exactly, but indicating by tone alone the relationship of master to servant. And towards Rita herself, for all that he seemed attentive, she was aware always of a distraction in him, a sense that when she replied to his questions he was not fully listening, that his hearing was directed elsewhere, his eyes always on the verge of darting away.

  She suspected he was monitoring the conversation among his other guests. And after all, they were not really guests, were they. They were staff, they were his hired hands. And though his interaction with them seemed perfectly relaxed and jovial on the surface, there was something else just beneath: a supervisory watchfulness on Richman’s part, and a wariness on the part of the others, their gazes always returning to their benefactor, as if reading his mood.

  Or perhaps Rita was just imagining it. But she had to admit, there was an existential intimidation in the mere presence of a man like Richman, for all that he was being friendly. How often were you in the company of someone so powerful they could, at a whim, either grant your every wish, or destroy your life completely? How could you not watch your tongue in such a situation? And she noted too that while she had accepted every offer of wine made by the staff, the others had been more circumspect, taking only one or two glasses at dinner. And Richman himself, before his whisky, had only downed a single glass.

  But fuck it, why should she worry? Billionaire or not, she didn’t want anything from him—it was he who wanted her here, not the other way around. And it was not as if she easily intimidated anyway. Only a few weeks back, at work in emergency, an over-muscled over-tattooed six-foot-six Hell’s Angel had brought in his hideously injured Rottweiler at three in the morning—the dog run over and at death’s door, the owner in an alcohol-fuelled rage, yelling threats at the nurses that if the dog died then everyone in the clinic died. Rita, a foot and a half shorter than him, had stared the great fool down and told him to shut up and grow up and get the hell out and let her do her job. He had blinked at her in shock a moment, then obeyed as meekly as a lamb, shuffling off to the waiting room, blowing his nose on tissues the nurses gave him, while Rita got on with the business of saving the dog’s life. You saw it all in emergency. So why should Richman’s wealth bother her?

  As if on cue, the billionaire, his cigar smouldering in an ashtray as he swirled his drink in its deep glass, alarmed her by asking, apropos of nothing, ‘Anyway, tell me, what made you choose to become a vet? It’s a far cry from what you used to do.’

  So, had Richman had read her damn book too? ‘Maybe because it is a far cry,’ she answered.

  ‘I’ve never been one for pets,’ he mused, eyes on the fire, ‘never in one place long enough.’ He glanced at her again. ‘So, you disowned all that stuff from long ago? Your father said something along those lines.’

  She took a steadying sip from her glass. ‘I outgrew it, that’s all. I was running off the rails.’ And she had an entirely unwelcome flash of memory, of the pale faces of the other passengers on the LA flight, staring at her as she raved, all bloody and stark naked.

  ‘But that was just you personally?’ he pressed. ‘You and the drugs and things? It wasn’t your beliefs that were the problem?’

  She considered. ‘Well, not exactly, I suppose, no. Not in themselves. It was where I took those beliefs that was the problem. But once I got my head clear, I dropped all that stuff too.’

  ‘Fair enough, fair enough,’ he nodded, but again, with that distracted air, as if he was part of some other discussion. ‘Well, I’m not trying to pry. I just wondered. Your father talked about it all. I think he regretted being so harsh about it, back in those days when you fell out. He thought he could have been more understanding, given how it started.’

  But Rita did not want to talk about that, not how it all started, oh no. She changed the topic. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude before, you know, when I was saying how crazy it was for you to build a house up here. I was curious, that’s all, as to why you went to so much bother and expense. Why it was so important for you to live here.’

  That got his full attention. ‘Expense and bother? You’re not kidding.’ He took up his whisky and drank, as if reflecting on the costs. Rita had read that he was worth in the vicinity of seventy or eighty billion US dollars, but still, the Observatory had to represent an extraordinary drain on his resources, a blind investment on a project that could never return a cent to him. All for a house that he planned to live in for only a few months every year. ‘But as to the why … is it just because of my history with the Wheel, you’re asking? Am I here out of nostalgia? Am I just another old man returning to the scene of the triumphs of his youth?’

  ‘So it isn’t that?’

  He smiled. ‘Maybe it is. Why pretend that those days weren’t the most excitin
g of my life? Do you think if Neil Armstrong or Buzz Aldrin got the chance now to build a house on the Moon—or somewhere right next door to the Moon—they wouldn’t go for it?’

  Rita blinked. It was an interesting proposition, not only in itself, but because it revealed that Richman thought of himself in equal terms to the men who had walked on the Moon. And yet, why should he not? He was as famous as them, and in his way even rarer than them. Twelve men had walked on the Moon, but only one had stood atop the Wheel.

  ‘That is,’ the billionaire considered further, ‘Aldrin would go for it, at least. I always get the feeling he could keep going back into space forever. I’m not so sure about Armstrong. He seemed to put the Moon behind him, once it was done. The same way I gave up climbing mountains. Once you’ve done the ultimate, why repeat it?’ His eyes met hers briefly. ‘I know them both, you know, Buzz and Neil.’

  Rita sipped more wine. Jesus, of course he knew them. There were all those photos of the three of them together, taken in the months after the Wheel expedition. Richman had been feted all over the world; he’d met presidents and royalty and movie stars, and yes, astronauts …

  ‘But if it was really just nostalgia,’ he went on, ‘if it was just to see the Wheel again, then I could just have moored my yacht here for a few months. That would have satisfied any pangs for the old times, and would have saved me a fortune as well, not to mention several years of my life, which at my age is a consideration not to be sneered at.’

  She said, ‘Why then?’ And was aware, suddenly, that the others around the fire, who had been chatting among themselves, had fallen silent now, and were watching their employer with attention.

  Richman frowned. ‘Well, in one way it’s the same reason that I climbed the mountain in the first place—because the notion came me and wouldn’t go away. The human will defines itself, you know, and needs no other reference. But in addition to that, to me it doesn’t feel that I’ve come back to the Wheel at all. It’s more that I’ve never left it. There’s a link between me and that old monster out there, formed on the day I reached the summit. I don’t talk about it much’—this, with a glance to his other listeners—‘but it’s true. I’m the only one who has ever stood there in the Hand of God, the only one who has seen the mountain’s final secret. That’s a privilege and a responsibility, and the Wheel, I think, respects the fact that I’ve kept its secrets ever since. I feel—there’s no other way to say this—I feel that it wants me here. That this is the place where I should see out the last years of my life—last decades, hopefully—and where, when the time comes, I should lay that life down.’

  His tone was levelly sincere, as if his motivations were nothing but deeply held. Spiritual, even. But again, the caution nagged in Rita. When he talked of standing alone on the Wheel’s summit he made it sound as if his being alone there was by fate’s decree, as if circumstance had forced that burden upon him, rather than it being something that he himself had insisted on, to the outrage of all those other climbers.

  ‘And, of course,’ Richman added, ‘when it came to an architect to fulfil my dreams here, your father was the only choice.’

  And it was decent of him to keep praising her father, except—the doubt again—who was he really praising? Richard Gausse? Or himself, for being clever enough to hire Richard Gausse?

  She asked, ‘How did you know of his work?’

  ‘Oh, I visited the house he built for Maurice Berthier in the Pyrenees, and saw the potential his ideas might have, if given raw material as grand as the Mount here. And also the funds to make it possible.’

  ‘Maurice Berthier?’

  ‘You haven’t heard of him? He’s one of the Rothschilds, a lesser one, true, but still, very rich. And a keen amateur climber.’

  Kushal addressed Rita from the couch opposite. ‘And you don’t know the house your father built for him? But it’s famous! La Maison de la Colline, it’s called. It’s cut into a crag that juts up out of the Pyrenean foothills—a less dramatic version of the Observatory, you could say, though with its own charms, and in beautiful surrounds.’

  Rita kept her voice neutral. ‘No, I’ve never heard of it. I can only guess my father designed it during the time we didn’t speak—which was quite long. I made no effort to keep track of him then.’

  Richman bent his head towards Rita. ‘He was so happy that the estrangement ended, you know. He talked about you a lot, especially in this last year or so. He was very reflective about things. Maybe he felt his time coming, I can’t say. But that’s one of the reasons I wanted you here this weekend. I’m sure it would have made him happy.’

  Rita felt a fleeting puzzlement. One of the reasons? Wasn’t it the only reason she was here? In honour of her father’s memory?

  ‘I still wish I’d got there earlier on the morning of his attack,’ the billionaire was musing sadly. ‘The doctors assure me there was nothing anyone could have done, that it would have been too late, but even so. He should have been here this weekend, sharing in this triumph. It was always my intention to have this small gathering at the completion of the build, before the big party, just to especially thank those most responsible for what we’ve created here. Indeed, I’ll say it now—my thanks and congratulations to all of you.’ And he raised his glass to the others. Kushal, Madelaine, Eugene and Clara all dutifully raised their glasses in return.

  ‘As to the next few days,’ Richman continued, ‘I want you all to simply relax. Eat, drink, swim, admire the finest view on the planet. Indulge yourselves. For the time being, we’re on holiday!’

  Smiles and nods came from his audience, and above, on the Terrace, the wind rose once more to a sob, before falling away.

  But Rita was struck again by a sense of incongruity. These people patently were not on holiday. They were professionals, and this all had the air very much of a work meeting. Indeed, she was aware of a sense of impatience around the group, a falseness in the way they were all draped on the couches about the fire, the way that feet tapped restlessly, the way glasses were swirled but seldom raised to lips.

  The mood was directed mostly at Richman, as if his four employees secretly resented him for wasting their time. But some of it, Rita had the disconcerting feeling, was also directed at her, as if there was something they were waiting for her to do or say.

  But what, and why? How could anything that she did or said really matter to any of these people?

  She finished her glass, caught the ever-watchful eye of the barman, and nodded for another. It would be her last, most likely (in company at least, she may well have a nightcap back in her apartment); the evening was surely drawing towards its close.

  But she was wrong about that, for barely had her glass been refilled when Richman sat up abruptly. ‘But I’m forgetting, you haven’t had a full tour yet, have you, Rita?’

  She hesitated. ‘Well, Clara showed me …’

  ‘Yes, yes, the rest of the house—but not my part of it. You haven’t seen the Cottage yet.’ He glanced up to the Atrium dome. ‘Yes, it’s a clear night out there for all that it’s windy. So why not now then? Shall we take a visit to the Lightning Room?’ He leapt up from the couch, addressed the group. ‘C’mon, we’ll all go! Bring your drinks.’

  Rita was flustered, sensing more strongly than ever the impatience in the others. ‘No, really, it doesn’t have to be now. Everyone else here has surely already seen it anyway …’

  The billionaire was having none of it. ‘Are you kidding? They love showing this place off to new people for the first time. And the Lightning Room, well, it’s something special. You’ll see.’

  And dutifully, Richman’s staff all laughed and nodded, and climbed to their feet.

  14

  NOT A MOUNTAIN

  Article by Abe Jenkins, from Climbing magazine,

  November 1976

  There is an oddity about the much-celebrated Richman expedition that many have noted: of the six hundred and more climbers who took part in the epic assault upon t
he Wheel, hailing from all corners of the globe, not one of them was a Sherpa. The ethnic group widely held to produce the best climbers in the world, men who grow up with the Himalayan giants as their playground, had no representation whatsoever in the greatest climbing challenge that history has yet seen.

  Why was this?

  In fact, the Sherpa weren’t the only group missing from Richman’s roster. There were also no Spanish climbers. The Spanish, however, were excluded at Richman’s own instigation. (It was the billionaire’s rather petty revenge for certain stories that were circulated about him in the Spanish climbing community some years earlier.) The Sherpa, meanwhile, were most certainly invited to be part of Richman’s great enterprise. And the wages would have equated—in the poverty-stricken part of the world from which the Sherpa hail—to a respectable fortune. And yet, to a man, the Sherpa refused.

  Why?

  Well, first, a little history. The Sherpa people, a minority of Tibetan heritage, are mostly inhabitants of Nepal, through which the central Himalayan ranges run, though Sherpa are also to be found in the neighbouring states of Tibet, Bhutan and India. Ever since international climbers have been visiting the region, they have sought the help of Sherpa locals to get to the tops of the high peaks.

  At first, that help was mostly in the form of guiding and load carrying. But gradually it emerged that the Sherpa’s high-mountain abilities marked them down for more serious duties. Born and raised at altitude, they were physiologically attuned to the thin air, and were also tireless and loyal climbing companions. By the early 1950s, they were being enlisted as full climbing members by expeditions in the Himalayas, and with success. When the greatest mountain in the region, and the second highest in the world, Mount Everest, was finally conquered, one of the first two men to stand upon its summit was a Sherpa, Tenzing Norgay.

  The year was 1953, and Norgay’s companion on Everest’s peak was English climber Thomas Bourdillon. Both men were part of a team entitled the British Everest Expedition. This was a large campaign consisting of a dozen climbers and dozens more support staff but, as with all Himalayan expeditions, it was scarcely heard of outside climbing circles. World attention, when it turns to mountaineering, is only really ever interested in the Wheel, and in the latest news, often disastrous, of the expeditions assaulting its defiant ramparts.