by W E Bowman
12
Not High Enough
NEXT MORNING SAW the departure of Wish for Camp 3. After he had left I lay in my sleeping-bag thinking over his unhappy story. How strange, I thought, that all my companions – with the possible exception of Shute, with whom I had not yet had the opportunity to talk – had had such unexpected and melancholy experiences. How little one suspected of the secrets locked in the human breast! How seldom did one guess that the cheerful smile hid a breaking heart! This, I resolved, should be a lesson I would not forget: that we are all team-mates in suffering. I resolved that never again would I judge a person by his exterior, no matter how impenetrable or forbidding it might appear.
At that moment Pong entered with my breakfast. When I looked at his impenetrable exterior I realized that he, too, was just a human being, after all. Who knew what agony and desolation lay behind his flat and forbidding exterior? While suffering breakfast I thought about this. Had we, perhaps, been unkind to Pong? Poor fellow, he was the outcast of the expedition. Nobody seemed to like him. Was he, perhaps, intolerably lonely? Was he aching for a kind word or a smile?
It was almost too sad to think about. I put my breakfast aside and went to Pong’s tent. I found him filing a fork into a bowl. He took no notice of me. After a while he laid down the fork and began to grate a piece of rock. I thought I had better let him get used to my presence before trying to communicate with him; so I sat down and watched him. After chopping up a portion of climbing rope and mincing an old sock he threw everything into a pan of pemmican stew and stirred for five minutes, adding sand and paraffin to taste. Finally, he strained it, spread some of it on a slice of leather, and took a hearty bite.
This, I thought, was my opportunity. Drawing his attention by a cough, I pointed to the leather and to my mouth.
At first he did not seem to grasp my meaning. I repeated the gesture, then made motions of mastication, smiled, and rubbed my stomach. His hand came slowly forward, as though he was still not sure what I wanted. I took the leather from him, bit off a small piece and returned it to him.
We chewed in silence. I let the situation consolidate itself for a few minutes, then I coughed again. To my great delight Pong coughed too! I turned one of his pans upside down and, with the point of a fork, drew on the dirty bottom a rough picture of a Yogistani fiancée. I pointed to Pong and to the drawing, and raised my eyebrows.
He didn’t seem to understand. I kept on raising my eyebrows, and suddenly he started doing the same. He put his face quite close to mine and raised his eyebrows in time with my own.
I held my ground, and we went on like this for some time. I did not like to stop, fearing to hurt his feelings.
Then something strange happened to his face: something quite indescribable, like nothing I had ever seen before or imagined possible. I stared, fascinated. What could it be?
Then I knew. It was a smile!
I admit freely that I was touched. That Pong’s forbidding exterior should break into a smile seemed almost like a miracle. What undreamed-of emotions could be the cause of it? With great eagerness I set about finding out.
I will not weary the reader with an account of the steps by which Pong and I developed our sign-language and came at last to understand each other. Such a thing might well seem impossible; but, as I have often had occasion to remark: good will is the best interpreter.
I told him about my family and described my home. I spoke warmly of our English cooking methods, and gave him one or two recipes. In return he showed me how to fry rubber, and told me that he was a graduate of the University of Yogistan, where he had taken a third degree in cookery. At last, after some hours of persistence – for he had a tendency to chatter about trifles – I got him to tell me about his fiancée.
He had never wanted a fiancée. He had, he said, the artistic temperament, which he held to be incompatible with the sentiments and behaviour proper to one betrothed. He wished me to understand that he had nothing against the opposite sex – quite the contrary – but his artistic soul rebelled against the regimentation necessary to official engagement. Unfortunately, it is the Yogistani custom for children to be betrothed at an early age by parental arrangement. Thus, Pong was firmly engaged long before his artistic temperament showed itself, and when it finally did it found itself immediately at loggerheads with society, with his family and with his fiancée. Pong had always had a horror of loggerheads; his sensitive soul was intimately tuned to the most subtle nuances of social intercourse. Finding himself now at what appeared to be permanent and irreconcilable loggerheads with his fellow-creatures, in general and in the nearest particular, he underwent a spiritual crisis. As he saw it, he must choose once and for all between his art and his heart; he could be either an artist or a lover, but not both. The conflict was terrible. Pong told me that nobody could possibly have the slightest idea of what he went through. He had, until that time, been willing to accept his fiancée, and genuinely fond of his family and friends. Now, his deepest and most imperative urge was to abandon them all to follow the lonely path of his calling.
For months he lived in an agony of indecision. It seemed that his soul was being torn in two. Then one day something occurred which forced him to a decision. he was spending Saturday afternoon, as usual, at the home of his fiancée, who on these occasions was in the habit of preparing some special delicacy for her beloved. He sat down to table, grasped his chopsticks firmly in his right hand, placed his left hand on his hip, and assumed an expression of pleasant anticipation. The lady walked in proudly and placed a dish before him.
The next moment, Pong uttered a cry of horror and flung the bowl from him. The poor lady laid a hand on his arm, but he brushed her aside and rushed from the house.
All day and all night he paced the mountainside. In the morning he came down a changed – and a dedicated – man. From that morning he had devoted himself to his art. His fiancée, his family, his friends forsook him; he was uncompromising, and no one loved him sufficiently to understand and to accept second place in his affections. He became an outcast; not willingly or wilfully, for he was a sociable soul, but because the artist must tread his own unfrequented heights.
And as his skill increased and his insight sharpened, his desire for companionship increased also, until it was well-nigh intolerable. Yet the very strength of his longing was an added barrier between himself and his fellows; on the few occasions when he had revealed it the would-be friend had been appalled by its intensity. He became lonelier than ever.
At last he gave up the effort to reach his fellowmen. He retired completely into his inner world and poured all the vigour of his affections into his art. After taking his degree he made his own experiments and founded a new school of cookery which was acclaimed by the radical element throughout the country as the embodiment of the spirit of the age. He became universally respected and honoured, but never loved.
And now, he said, his life’s work was done. He would never climb higher than he had already climbed. The rest would be mere repetition. Younger men must stand on his shoulders. For him, there remained gratitude to life for making use of him, the determination to grow old gracefully, and, deep and inextinguishable as ever, the human hope that he might yet find the affection of an equal.
*
That, if I understood him correctly, was Pong’s story. For some minutes after he finished there was stillness in the little tent. Neither of us spoke a gesture. Then, with the sigh of one who returns to earth after an excursion into dreams, Pong drew out his pouch and offered me a pipeful of stunk. Too full for signs, I whispered a heartfelt: ‘No thank you, old chap,’ and hurried from the tent.
Back in my own tent I spat out the leather and got into my sleeping-bag. I lay a long time thinking about Pong’s strange story and trying to imagine what the sign-language for ‘maestro’ might be. The expedition seemed very far away and everything connected with it strangely unreal. But at last I roused myself to a sense of my responsibilities. Where were the
others? What should my own movements be?
A sharp twinge about the middle provided part of the answer. It was no use trying to pretend that I had no stomach-ache. A friendly Pong was not likely to be any more acceptable as a cook than he had been before. My dyspepsia tablets had run out. Unless help reached me soon I was lost.
I seized the walkie-talkie and buzzed. To my delight I made contact with Wish, who was at Camp 3. He had already been speaking to Constant and Shute, who had advanced to Camp 2. Burley and Jungle were still at Camp 1.
This was excellent news. The whole party could at last be united by radio. We soon discovered that I was out of range of Camp 2; I could speak to them only via Wish. Wish, likewise, could not reach Camp 1; his conversation with them must be relayed via Camp 2. I asked Wish to arrange for Constant to stand by at Camp 2 and Burley at Camp 1. While he was doing so I tried to make plans for the assault on the summit, still 7,000 feet above me. But the only plans I was able to make were connected with my stomach. I decided that dyspepsia tablets must be sent up at once, by porter, from the medical store at Camp 1.
When Wish called me again his voice was very faint, and I raised my own voice, asking him to speak up. Instead of doing so he became even fainter. I learnt afterwards that I was speaking too loudly and he, as one does in such cases, dropped his own voice instinctively. He was now almost inaudible to me, and I shouted as loudly as I could, which quite saturated his receiver and nearly deafened him. Neither of us could understand a word the other was saying. We might have given it up in despair had I not, while pausing to recover my breath, overheard Wish telling Constant that I was shouting his head off. This put me right, and soon Wish was able to tell me that they were all standing by.
But just as I was about to speak the radio began to crackle. From that moment we had the greatest difficulty in making ourselves understood. To make matters worse we forgot, in our enthusiasm, Jungle’s careful training, and spoke as in ordinary conversation. The result was as follows:
MYSELF to Wish: Tell Burley to send six packets of number eights to Camp 4.
WISH to Constant: Tell Burley to send six packets of Weights to Camp 4.
MYSELF (who had overheard this): Not dates; eights.
WISH: I didn’t say plates.
MYSELF: I didn’t say you did.
CONSTANT to Wish: What do you mean, you didn’t say crates? I know you didn’t; you said packets.
WISH: No! No! I was talking to Binder. He says not dates. Or was it plates? Anyway, he doesn’t want them.
MYSELF: But I do want them.
WISH to Constant: He says he does want them, after all.
CONSTANT: Wants what?
WISH: Why . . . er . . . just a minute! Binder: was it dates or plates?
MYSELF: Oh dear!
WISH to Constant: He says he wants some cold beer.
CONSTANT: Well, he knows we haven’t got any. Is he light-headed, do you think?
MYSELF: Not beer! Not beer!
WISH to Constant: I think he must be. He says he wants some hot beer now.
CONSTANT: This is serious. He must be delirious. Ask him if he knows Burley.
WISH: Binder, Applecart wants to know if you rose early.
CONSTANT: Not Curly, you fool! Burley.
WISH: I didn’t say Shirley.
MYSELF to Wish: I know you didn’t.
CONSTANT to Wish: I didn’t say you did.
WISH: WILL EVERYBODY PLEASE KEEP QUIET WHILE I GO GENTLY MAD.
BURLEY to Constant: What’s going on, Applecart? Why are you talking nonsense?
CONSTANT: There’s no wonder. Binder and Fiddler have gone off their heads.
BURLEY: Lost their beds?
CONSTANT: NO!
WISH to Constant: What on earth are you raving about? Can’t you keep quiet while I try to think?
CONSTANT to Wish: If you want to think, turn off your ruddy receiver.
BURLEY to Constant: Who on earth wants to think? What are you talking about?
MYSELF to Wish: I didn’t say anything. Are you sure you feel all right?
WISH: I FEEL AWFUL.
This was bad enough. But so far we had managed to synchronize our switching so that when A was speaking B was listening, and vice versa. Now we fell out of step. A and B would both be speaking and neither listening. Quite probably we were all speaking together at some time or other with nobody listening at all. For a long time it was chaos. I am sure that before very long we should have driven each other really mad, or at least that our faith in the rationality of human behaviour and man’s control of his own destiny would have been seriously damaged. But we were spared this. Into our bedlam broke a voice: a lovely, controlled, pedantic, competent voice:
‘Wanderer to Applecart. Wanderer to Applecart. Are you receiving me? Over. . . . Wanderer to Applecart. Wanderer to Applecart. Are you receiving me? Over. . . .’
Constant says that it came to him like the voice of a Superior Being. Through the crackling and distortion the familiar phrases rang clear and unmistakable. The monotonous chant which had seemed so strange when we rehearsed at Base Camp pushed like a bulldozer through the disturbance; the ear, not having to chase up and down, was able to ignore the interference. And the message left him in no doubt as to who was speaking to whom.
Constant took up the ritual joyfully:
‘Applecart to Wanderer. Applecart to Wanderer. Receiving you loud and clear. . . .’
Wish, hearing him, put me right too, and our planning was soon proceeding smoothly. Burley promised to send off the number eights first thing in the morning. He and Jungle were uncertain as to their state of fitness and would remain at Camp 1 a little longer. Constant and Shute would stay at Camp 2 to rest after their climb. Wish would stay at Camp 3. This arrangement would keep open the radio contact. I decided that since the stomach tablets could not reach me before evening next day I might as well do a day’s work while I was still strong enough to climb. I would go as high as I could, dump the equipment for Camp 5, and return to Camp 4.
*
I spent a restless night and rose unrested. Pong, when he brought my breakfast, was as inscrutable as ever, except that he allowed a powerful belch to escape him – a thing which had never occurred before. I wondered whether he had begun to take advantage of my sympathy; but rebuked myself immediately for the uncharitable thought.
When I summoned So Lo he, too, belched at me. This, if not a conspiracy, was a remarkable coincidence. I decided to keep my ears open in future. It is not pleasant to suspect that one has been taken advantage of. Apart from one’s desire not to be thought a fool, or to think oneself one, one never knows whether to despise the other person for having taken mean advantage, or oneself for suspecting him without justification. It was with mixed feelings that I began the day’s climb.
It was not long before my feelings were a good deal more mixed. I let So Lo take the lead as usual – it would, in fact, have been difficult to prevent him – and fell victim immediately to Binder’s Butter Beans, which had attached themselves to the tune of ‘Let Us With A Gladsome Mind’ and were ten times as persistent as before. Besides fighting the Beans, I was trying to plan for the future. I was also trying to keep an eye open for warples and hallucinations and an ear for belches.
I was experiencing new and startling pains about the waistline, and the labour of climbing and breathing was getting more difficult. My mind began to wander. It seemed at one time that my companions had brought their fiancées and families with them; somewhere below me was a struggling crowd of people: Prone with his nasty wife and awful children, Burley and his unfortunate fiancée, Constant and Travers – singing sea-chanties – Jungle and his host of lost loves, and poor Wish with the fiancée he could not quite believe in. They were all my dear friends – even Prone’s family – and I told myself I must make an effort for their sake. ‘Come on, Binder!’ I said to myself. But it was more easily said than done. It was no use trying to convince myself that I had no stomach-ache. My
character was, I realized, already weakened by the lies I had told myself during the last climb. To deceive oneself was folly and cowardice. I must face up to the truth and accept it gladly. To accept truth was to accept life, and life itself would reward me.
So I started on my stomach-ache and tried to be happy about it. Let my pain, I said, be my offering to life and to friendship. I would bear it happily for Pong’s sake.
That sounded very nice, but it wouldn’t work if I suspected Pong of taking advantage. For the sake of the expedition I must believe in Pong. After all, I told myself, Yogistani is spoken from the stomach; those belches might well be Yogistani for ‘good-morning’.
So I put away my suspicions and tried to gather Pong and the others, and my stomach-ache, and all the rest of my troubles, into a single ecstasy. ‘I will live!’ I cried, and fell flat on my face.
I picked myself up and added a painful nose to my ecstasy. Aching with joy I forced myself on and up. And step by step the going became easier. I was thrilled to find myself climbing as I had not climbed for days. Had I found the secret of life and energy? The slope seemed barely perceptible; it was almost as though we were walking on level ground.
I raised my head and looked around me. We were on level ground!
I walked on a few steps and bumped into So Lo, who had stopped. I stood still, regaining my breath, then looked ahead, wondering what obstacles might be waiting for us.
