No doubt the filtering served to protect the valuable artworks in the Hall, too.
Rita commenced the long stroll down the aisle, gazing left and right at the paintings and sculptures. The stairwell that led downwards into what Clara had called the Museum was still closed by a chain, so presumably the last-minute installation the major-domo had mentioned was still ongoing.
Some of the works were obviously modern, and many others looked classically Greek or Roman, but the bulk of the collection, especially the paintings, appeared to Rita’s untrained eye to be from the medieval and Renaissance periods. And for all her lack of specialist knowledge, she grew increasingly awed by what she was seeing. There were no helpful labels to assist her here, as in a public gallery, only the scrawl of the artists’ signatures on the paintings themselves, and not always even that. But surely that painting was a Raphael, and surely that one was a Rembrandt, and surely that one was a Picasso?
Then there were the sculptures and other works. The slender marble youth with the David-like eyes—that couldn’t be by Michelangelo, could it? And was that tortured-looking figure in bronze a Rodin? And displayed in a glass cabinet, could those yellowed pages, densely handwritten and interspersed with illustrations of medical dissections, have been penned by anyone other than Da Vinci?
Rita did notice a theme emerging. Mortality. The more she looked, the more it seemed that death, either as a literal figure, or as an abstract concept, dominated most of the images about the Hall. And not only death, but death’s companion woes. Suffering. Illness. Even torture.
Perhaps this was just the preoccupation of the relevant art periods, especially the medieval, when death and torment were more daily realities. Still, it was strange, in this contemporary setting, to be walking past illumination after illumination of ancient figures being disembowelled, or crucified, or hung, or scalded with hot irons, no matter how artistically, or indeed religiously, the image was expressed.
And then there was the centrepiece of the collection. Rita had noted it on the day of her arrival—the great dark painting hanging in the otherwise unadorned nave-like lobby at the end of the Hall, drawing the eye from every vantage point. She was pulled towards it now, inevitably.
A flight of three broad steps led her up into the lobby. To her right, the doors of the main elevator were shut, hiding the two-and-a-half-kilometre plummet of the lift shaft. In the centre of the room the altar-like block of stone rose from the floor, blank and enigmatic, too high to be a seat, as she had noted in puzzlement last time, too low for a table.
But she recognised what it really was now. It was her father’s signature on the building. She had almost forgotten, so long had it been since she had toured his buildings with him, but he had always liked, in his designs, to place somewhere in the building a non-functional extrusion, be it a rough hemisphere emerging from a wall, or a blunt pyramid extending down from a ceiling. It was his way of referring to the earth and rock from which his designs were dug, the unfinished and non-practical nature of the shapes demanding attention and acknowledgement. Often his signatures were hidden away in corners, secrets to be discovered, but here in Richman’s Observatory, his greatest work, he had placed his signature in the very foyer with this solid unmissable oblong.
Smiling to herself at sudden old memories, good memories, Rita circled around the block, her hand lightly caressing the stone. Then she turned and, resting her thighs against the artefact, leaned back and considered the great painting that hung above it.
It was big, maybe ten feet by six, painted on wooden panels, medieval in style and darkened with age. And its subject, unequivocally, was death. In scenes that sprawled across a brown, blasted landscape of ruined fortresses and dead trees, a horde of skeletal figures, some with scythes, some with swords, some with nets or spears, were rounding up and slaughtering dozens upon dozens of fleeing, wailing, screaming men and women.
It was an orgy of death, inflicted in a multitude of ways and to all manner of folk. In one corner, an armoured king pleaded in vain as Death held an hourglass above him, sand run out. In another corner, richly clad dinner guests were ravaged and hauled up from their table by the relentless skeletons. In a third corner, a lone figure knelt to be beheaded. In the fourth, two Death-figures rang a funeral bell. In the background, battles raged and ships sank at sea. And in the centre, a rampant image of Death mounted upon a pale and bony horse rode swinging a scythe gleefully as a crowd tried hopelessly to flee from it, herded into a giant, open-mouthed coffin …
Surreal, Rita thought. Mad and surreal. What on earth could Richman want with this Dark Age piece of morbid fancy, hanging in pride of place?
‘Do you know the artist, and the painting?’ came a voice behind her, startling.
She turned, and found the security chief Kennedy standing on the other side of the stone altar, gazing at the painting with a tight smile.
‘No,’ she replied, trying to appear unruffled. He had come up without a sound, so must have trod softly down the Hall, and yet a latent energy in him seemed close to the surface, as if he had just dashed here at speed, or come from a fist fight. It was something about the brightness of his eyes, and the tension in the way he stood.
But his voice was perfectly calm, placid even, in its controlled American drawl. ‘It’s called, you won’t be surprised to hear, The Triumph of Death. And it’s by a sixteenth-century Dutch artist named Pieter Bruegel the Elder. I don’t know who the fuck the younger Bruegel was. But this is the elder.’
Rita turned back to the painting once more, nonplussed as much by the security chief’s manner as by his information. A figure was plunging into a lake, a millstone tied around its neck. Wild dogs pursued a naked man. A gallows lurked in the distance, a victim dangling from its crossbeam.
Kennedy spoke again. ‘Can you tell what it is that Richman likes about it so much?’
She shook her head. It was a vast and striking work, even a masterpiece for all she knew, but what in the world was there to like about it?
‘I’ll give you a hint,’ said Kennedy serenely. ‘It’s a particular object in the painting. You can find the same object in a dozen or so other works here in the collection, some by Bruegel himself, who had a particular fondness for drawing it.’
Rita glanced back into the main Hall and all its portrayals of suffering. ‘The only common theme I can see in here is different ways to die.’
‘You’re close,’ the security chief nodded, his eyes too bright. ‘I’m talking about a particular way to die. A specific device of torture.’
Rita stared again at The Triumph of Death, could only shake her head hopelessly.
‘There,’ said Kennedy, pointing to the upper right corner of the painting. ‘See? Those things that look like cart wheels, stuck up on poles.’ Rita stared more closely. There were indeed several of the strange objects depicted in the middle distance, like wagon wheels, as Kennedy had said, stuck atop tall poles. And now she could see that human figures were bound to the wheels, spreadeagled and wretched, exposed naked to the sky.
‘They’re breaking wheels,’ said Kennedy. ‘Of all the medieval punishments, they must have been the worst. First your limbs were deliberately fractured; then your stomach was slashed open and your entrails laid bare; then you were hoisted, tied and helpless, into the sky for the birds to get you. First, they’d peck out your eyes, then they’d eat your guts alive.’
Rita stared in horror. ‘It was a real thing? They actually did that to people?’
‘What do you mean, real?’
‘I mean, it’s not just an imaginary torture that was made up later, something fake to use in waxwork dungeons, like the iron maiden?’
The security chief shook his head. ‘Do you see an iron maiden anywhere in that painting? No, Bruegel was depicting only the real deaths of his time: hanging, war, starvation, all perfectly factual.’
Rita had to agree. The wheels looked utterly matter-of-fact in their depiction, drawn from life, for all their g
houlishness.
And then she saw it at last, the answer to Kennedy’s original question, obvious really. ‘That’s why Richman has this hanging here,’ she said. ‘It’s all about the mountain, that’s what you mean. The breaking wheel is meant to be some kind of metaphor for the Wheel the mountain?’
The security chief nodded with a sudden sourness. ‘A metaphor. Sure, that’s what it is. A motherfucking metaphor.’
Rita looked away uneasily. Was something wrong? Was he angry about something? It was impossible to tell. She said, ‘So Richman thinks the mountain is like a torture device?’
‘I think,’ said Kennedy with an air of precision, ‘it’s more a question of ordeals. Ordeals that must be endured and overcome.’ He took a slow glance back into the Hall. ‘Most of the art in here is about that. But The Triumph of Death is the key. Richman went to extraordinary lengths to get it. It’s a famous picture, you know. It was in a state museum in Madrid, and they were very reluctant to part with it. But money, and I mean hundreds of millions, talks.’
Rita still could not pick what it was that was different about the security chief today. She said, ‘I’m surprised he sees the Wheel, the mountain, in such morbid terms. I would’ve thought he would think about it in more positive ways.’
Kennedy snapped a short laugh. ‘You don’t understand. The breaking wheel means pain and defeat for its victims, just as the Wheel the mountain has meant pain and defeat for all those who’ve attempted to climb it. Except for one man, that is. Except for Richman. He’s the only one who has ever stood atop the Wheel, the only one who has beaten the world’s greatest mountain. And to beat the Wheel is to beat the breaking wheel. You follow?’
‘To beat death, you mean?’
‘I suppose I do.’ Kennedy had moved closer to the painting, studying the skeletal figures striding amid the dying masses. ‘I’ve watched the way he looks at this. It’s called The Triumph of Death, yeah, but when Richman hung it here, it was his own triumphs he had in mind.’
‘You’re saying he thinks he’s immortal?’
The security chief shrugged. ‘Isn’t he? You think his name will ever be forgotten? You think Neil Armstrong’s name will ever be forgotten? But it’s more than that.’ His over-bright eyes roamed the corpse-strewn landscape. ‘Anyone else, like you or me, when we look at all the different deaths happening in this thing, somewhere in there we see ourselves. We know we won’t be allowed to escape it; we know we’re gonna die. But not him. I’ve watched him stare and stare at this picture a dozen times, looking from death to death to death, and he always smiles, because you know what—I’m sure he has never seen himself in it. Everyone’s death is represented there, except his own.’
Rita studied Kennedy a long moment. His hands were on his hips as he searched the painting (and what death did he see for himself depicted there?) the pose drawing back the coat of his ill-fitting suit. She could catch a glimpse of a shoulder-holstered gun, and also, strapped to his belt and held in a clipped pouch, a pair of stainless-steel handcuffs.
She said, ‘You seem to have inferred a lot about Richman from his artwork.’
His eyes never left the painting, and his Midwestern drawl seemed to slow down even further. ‘Oh, never mind me. I’m only talking this way because I just snorted a huge fucking line.’
She stared at him.
He gave her a glance, bright and contemptuous. ‘Why should I care if you know? Who are you going to tell? Anyway, I seem to recall you had a thing yourself for the nose candy once—at least, if my old friends in US Customs are to be believed.’
Rita suppressed a shudder. Well, yes, of course he would know about that, it was on the public record. But it was still crass of him to throw it in her face. She said, ‘I don’t care what you do. But I’m surprised Richman hasn’t noticed.’
His gaze was on the painting again. ‘I normally wouldn’t touch it on duty. But in this fucking mausoleum, what else is there to do? There’s no threat on the horizon of any kind. Richman is holed up in his Cottage, and my only job is to keep track of the staff. Oh, and one guest. Did you enjoy your swim this morning?’
Rita started. He’d been watching her?
His expression remained deadpan, despite the fever in his eyes. ‘There are cameras everywhere, at least in the public zones. You can’t be surprised by that? There’re cameras in the staff tunnels too—though somehow we missed that little cleaning lady when she got lost. She’s been fired, you know.’
‘Fired? Why?’
‘For talking to you. Christ, cleaners are the last people who should be seen or heard. It’s actually a problem we’ve had with a lot of the Australian staff here; they don’t do subservience well, think they can talk to goddamn anyone.’ He shrugged. ‘Or maybe it’s because she told you about the corpse in the steam room.’
‘Richman ordered her fired for that?’ Rita pressed, appalled at the idea.
The security chief barked another laugh. ‘Of course not. He doesn’t bother with the firing of fucking cleaners. I fired her. Or at least, I instructed the House Manager to do it. No, as of this moment, Richman knows nothing about the whole encounter. Nor do I plan to tell him. I’d advise you not to do so either. He would not be pleased to hear it.’
‘I wasn’t supposed to know about the steam room?’ Rita asked, still outraged. ‘Or about the man in the Lightning Room either?’
Kennedy nodded. ‘Not yet you weren’t, at least. But oh well, spilt milk …’
‘Why? What does it matter?’
‘You’ll see. When Richman decides it’s time for you to see.’ He straightened, gave The Triumph of Death a final glance. ‘You know something? I’ve only just noticed this—every single death in this painting is the result of an act of violence.’
Rita was distracted. ‘What?’
‘I mean, there’s nothing natural,’ he explained patiently, eyes still cocaine bright. ‘No act of god, like. I don’t see anyone here dying because of a flood, for instance, or because of a forest fire, or a tornado. There’re no deaths here by any force of nature at all. It’s all deliberate murder and killing.’
‘So?’ asked Rita, bewildered.
‘So, do you think Richman has noticed? If not, it’s a bit of an oversight, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I don’t—’
‘I mean, this painting is really only about the triumph of one sort of death. And that means Richman might have missed the point completely.’
And before Rita could demand anything further of him, Kennedy had turned away and gone striding away down the Hall.
5
THE QUESTION OF PRESSURE
Article, National Geographic,
July 1972, by Robyn Fay
In the far wilds of the Southern Ocean, two days by ship south of Tasmania, an extraordinary collection of men and materials is being gathered to attempt what has hitherto proved impossible: to defeat the highest mountain on Earth, the infamous Wheel.
Of course, Walter Richman and his quest scarcely need introduction here. The expedition has already been covered extensively in this publication, and its progress, once climbing begins, will be tracked closely. The purpose of this article is to discuss the particular challenges that the Wheel poses for Richman and his team.
That the Wheel is a perilous place is no news either. In the last two centuries, nearly two hundred climbers have died upon the mountain’s slopes, and it is doubtful that even Richman’s lavishly supplied and technologically advanced attempt will be fatality free. Even to set foot upon the Wheel’s lowest shore can be deadly, as the first men to do so, the hapless companions of the young William Bligh, Barnabas Clover and Orald Makepeace, could attest if they were able to speak from beyond the grave. They were the first of the Wheel’s casualties, killed by one of the mountain’s notorious storms only a few hundred metres above sea level.
Indeed, in many ways the foot of the Wheel is as dangerous as the summit. It is a dreadfully exposed position, lying beneath twenty-five ki
lometres of slope that is overladen with ice and rock and snow, all of it liable to avalanche or landslide at any time. Ancient debris paths on the Wheel’s lower flanks, some miles wide, are grim indicators of the devastation that has been wrought there in ages past.
But only in ages past, luckily. To our great fortune, the current era finds the Wheel and its geological region in a period of prolonged stability. While minor falls do regularly pepper the lower slopes, there has been no major collapse in recorded history. But ten thousand years ago, or twenty, a Richman-type expedition would have been dodging huge avalanches from day one—yes, and the tsunamis those avalanches throw up.
But up to ten thousand metres, the Wheel, steep and cruel though it may be, is a mountain like any other mountain. But above ten thousand metres (and recall, the second highest mountain in the world, Mount Everest in the Himalayas, tops out at just under nine thousand metres) the Wheel transforms into a territory that for humans is far more deadly and alien.
Why is this?
The most important consideration is air. Or, more to the point, the lack of it.
Now, as everyone knows, air gets thinner the higher up you go, which is why it gets harder to breathe. That difficulty in breathing can cause headaches, nausea and fatigue, as well as slowing down digestion and degrading sleep. At high altitude, above six thousand metres or so, an unprepared human will lapse into unconsciousness, and even acclimatised individuals can suffer life-threatening complications, such as pulmonary oedema (fluid on the lungs) which can cause death by suffocation, or cerebral oedema (fluid on the brain) which causes migraines, hallucinations and blindness.
Ancient peoples attributed the unpleasant symptoms to the actions of displeased mountain gods, or to curses for transgressing on sacred ground.
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