A Change in Altitude

by Anita Shreve

  Patrick’s body went still, as if each muscle were shutting down, one by one. “Where did you hear that?” he whispered.

  “Here. I overheard two students talking at the table next to me.”

  Patrick moved closer. “What else did you hear?”

  “Why?” She studied Patrick’s face. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  He looked away.

  Margaret reached out and grabbed his arm. She felt something like aftershocks on the surface of his skin.

  “Why hasn’t it been reported in the press?”

  Patrick was silent for a time. “No newspaper in this country would print that story.”

  “Why not?”

  “The press, Margaret, is controlled by the government. Anyone who printed something like that would be out of a job and probably arrested.”

  “Couldn’t we get the story out, then?” she asked, having no clear idea of what she was suggesting. “Feed it to the New York Times? Or anyone? I mean… this… this is huge, isn’t it? Fifty students in a mass grave?”

  “We’d immediately be deported. Or worse.” He did not define the worse. “I have only hearsay myself, and I can’t reveal who told me, for obvious reasons.”

  “It doesn’t feel right,” Margaret said, shaking her head. “This is crazy.”

  “It feels crazy if you’re an American on American soil. It’s easier to understand if you’re sitting at a café in Nairobi.”

  Margaret wondered if that was true. “Isn’t it worth it to be deported in order to bring this thing to light?” she asked. “Why were they killed?”

  “They’re rumored to be part of a student group protesting the arrest of the novelist Thomas Oulu. He’s being held without benefit of trial.”

  “Why?”

  “For writing material the government considers seditious.”

  “These protesters, they’re just kids, though.”

  Patrick looked off and then leaned in close to her. “If I say one word to the Evening Standard, just to use that as an example, I can’t be sure the editor won’t pass this information on to someone in the government. In fact, he’d almost have to if he was even considering investigating the story. And if he did, I would be arrested, and possibly you, too. And I’m guessing it wouldn’t take them too long to work out who my source was. That man would be arrested, possibly executed. His family would almost certainly suffer reprisals. But let’s say I don’t do that. Let’s say I leave this country voluntarily and go directly to the New York Times. They, too, are going to want my source—a source I can’t give them. And if they miraculously decide to pursue this story anyway and assign someone to investigate, will anyone with certain knowledge speak to an American reporter? Fear of family reprisals keeps most Kenyans mute.”

  “Maybe you underestimate the skills of good reporters.”

  “Do I?”

  “When did you know?”

  The student at the next table glanced up at Margaret.

  “About a week ago,” Patrick said, again keeping his voice to a whisper.

  “And you didn’t tell me?” she asked.

  “I don’t think I’d have told you until I knew it was true. And maybe not even then. I wish I didn’t know.”

  “How can you live with this knowledge?”

  Patrick spoke fast. “The same way I can live with the knowledge that the Mathari slum is a hellhole, that it’s not an uncommon occurrence for a panga gang to stop a vehicle at night and machete all the passengers, and that ruthless corruption from the top down will get significantly worse when Kenyatta dies.”

  “And yet you were eager to come here. For what?”

  “To do my bit? To selfishly study something of great interest to me? To further my career?”

  “You do it to save lives,” Margaret said.

  “I hope so.”

  She smiled.

  “You all set?” he asked.

  Margaret gathered up her straw bag and the package of boots she had bought earlier. Patrick stood and left some shillings on the table.

  As she and Patrick left the café and passed through the lobby, she slid her hand up under his rolled shirtsleeve. It felt safer there.

  Arthur seemed mildly amused. Diana was appalled. A cloud had burst and was sending down a drenching rain so dense and thick Margaret couldn’t see a single thing beyond the windows. They were sitting in a small room off the drawing room that hadn’t yet been identified. Tea had been brought in by James, and Diana was pouring. Margaret noted that her own hands were trembling and wondered, Why now, when I am safe?

  Patrick sat across from Margaret, having just returned from changing a shirt that had soaked through in the run from the car to the house. Diana had driven into the city to fetch them. Margaret had waited in the car with her while Patrick had gone into the police station to file the paperwork.

  “You poor dear,” Diana had said repeatedly, as if Margaret were her niece.

  On the way home, with Patrick in the backseat, the storm had started. It would stop, Margaret knew, as suddenly as it had begun, and within minutes the sun would light up the wet landscape so that it glittered with hidden jewels scattered in the trees and sprinkled along the grass. She had been frightened as Diana had driven through the heavy rain, unwilling to stop and wait it out. Visibility had been nil.

  “The point is,” Arthur was saying, “that you’re supposed to give the parking boys five shillings to watch the car, with the promise of five more shillings when you return. Thus ensuring that the vehicle will be there when you want it.”

  Margaret wondered if she could have negotiated that bargain in Swahili. She had a silent go at it, drawing a blank with the subjunctive.

  “What is it now? Four times you’ve been robbed?” Arthur counted, trying not to shake his head and smile. Margaret hated the man in that moment.

  “I’ve been paying the boys eight shillings the whole time we’ve been here,” Margaret said in her defense, immediately regretting it.

  “My point exactly.”

  “Arthur,” Diana scolded.

  “It’ll turn up,” he offered in a more conciliatory tone. “They always do. Some wog needs a car to go visit his wife at the shamba. He can’t possibly hire a car on his own, so he makes a deal with the parking boys. That older boy you spoke of? He’s fifty shillings richer tonight. Well worth it to him. It would have cost the wog half his wages to pay the boy, so I’m guessing his errand was urgent. A sick child? A need to deliver money fast? A family dispute that might turn violent? Who knows?”

  “And when he’s done,” Diana said, “he’ll abandon the car within walking distance of a matatu so he can get back into the city. It almost always works like that.”

  Margaret’s hands were shaking so much, she didn’t dare pick up her teacup. Arthur, always vigilant, noticed.

  “I think we can segue right into whiskey,” he declared. “What time is it?” He stood and checked his watch, as if the time made any difference. He put his hand briefly on Margaret’s shoulder, making it clear that he was taking care of her.

  Margaret welcomed the whiskey. She pondered getting tipsy. It seemed as good a way as any to introduce herself to Saartje and Willem, who were arriving at seven. Get mildly looped, have a bath, meet Saartje and Willem. At least it was a plan. She picked up the copy of the Kenya Morning Tribune that was on the table. Patrick watched her as she examined the front page. Margaret hoped Saartje and Willem were the forgiving kind. There was something profoundly humiliating in having one’s car stolen. It suggested a naïveté that went beyond mere nationality.

  “Well, here’s some good news,” Diana said. “The plumber has been found and is coming tomorrow. I can’t promise he’ll get it fixed in one day, though, God, I hope so. Otherwise, he’ll be sleeping here, too. Well, not here.”

  Margaret understood. The plumber would sleep with James in the cement box just behind the garage that James shared with the evening askari. It was thought to be an excellent arrangement:
one worked days, the other nights. Margaret had never been in the cement hut, though she was curious.

  “Great,” she said, trying not to sound too relieved.

  “Except they do the cattle rustling with automatic weapons now,” Willem was saying while Arthur chuckled.

  The meal, a joint, as Diana had referred to it, with gravy and potatoes, had revived Patrick. His skin looked tanned and healthier now. Margaret knew she’d had too much to drink and was showing it by slurring certain words. She tried to say as little as possible. Patrick glanced at her several times during the meal, assessing her condition. He was forgiving her, Margaret knew, because of the incident with the parking boys. Saartje seemed a bit cool toward Patrick and Margaret, though it was clear she was fond of Diana. The bond, the glue, that cemented the two couples was there, Margaret thought: Saartje and Diana. Willem played manager in chief, which, in fact, he was. In the matter of climbing Mount Kenya, Arthur deferred to Willem, which made a pleasant change. Diana, of course, deferred to no one.

  Saartje, too, had weathered skin but was tall and lovely with nearly white-blond hair, turquoise eyes, and full, unpainted lips. Willem was overweight and nearly bald, and seemed the prototypical burgher, partial to beer and sausage. Saartje was taller than her husband, which only emphasized Willem’s robust figure.

  In the drawing room after dinner, Diana and Saartje, the two blondes, sat close together on the claret-striped sofa. Willem leaned over the coffee table with papers spread out before him. Patrick was languid in a wing chair, his reclined body making a diagonal line. Arthur seemed to have no seat at all, supplying and resupplying drinks, fetching guidebooks he just knew he had somewhere. He was serving Margaret rusty nails, which he’d already learned to make for her. She thanked him for that effort and success, though she wondered at his motives. Margaret loved the familiar smoky taste of the first drink but was wary of the second. For just a moment, her vision blurred when she swung her head in Patrick’s direction. But then a double image coalesced, and all was well.

  “We leave Nairobi at nine in the morning,” Willem said. “That’s Saturday, the twenty-second. We’ll spend the night at a lodge at the base of the mountain. I’ve made all the arrangements. Got us quite a deep discount, too.”

  Thanks were expected and received.

  “I’m driving,” Diana said. “If we use the Rover, and I’m assuming we are, I’m driving.”

  “Yes,” Willem said, adding that the Rover would fit all six of them with the gear tied down on top. “The next morning we’ll make our way to Park Gate to pick up the porters. One per couple, then a guide and a cook. Five in all.” He paused. “Oh, and a word to the wise? Don’t show up Sunday morning with a hangover. Won’t do you any good on the climb. Staying hydrated is key, and starting off with a fuzzy mouth will make the first day a nightmare.”

  “Arthur,” Diana said, and left it at that.

  “On Sunday, we walk from Park Gate to Met Station. Helps with the acclimatization. Who’s provisioning the food?”

  “I will,” Patrick said. “I assume there’s a decent list somewhere?”

  “I have recommendations,” Willem said, lighting a cigarette. “And I’ll tell you this about food. We don’t want to skimp here. Last time I did the climb, we subsisted on dried food. Bloody awful. We’d be eating the crud and look over at the next party, and they’d be having hot soup and coffee.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Patrick replied. Margaret noted that he hadn’t broken his diagonal to volunteer.

  “Staying at Met Station will be tough. The altitude plays with your sleep. I highly recommend Nytol. But we’ll get to the meds in a moment. Who’s doing meds?”

  “I will,” Margaret said. It seemed a chore she could handle.

  Willem handed out paper and pens for everyone to take notes with. Margaret wrote on hers: Meds. She knew Patrick would help her.

  “You’ll each be responsible for your own gear, though the porters will carry it. Sleeping bag. Foam mat. Parkas. Rain gear. Hats and sunglasses are a must. The sun is brutally strong when it comes out, even if you don’t feel the heat. Snow blindness is sometimes a real problem. Wear wool or synthetic socks. Never cotton. Speaking of which, always walk with two pairs of socks. If one gets wet, you can just peel it off. Keep your essential stuff in your backpack, since you might get separated from your porter for several hours.”

  “How’s that?” Margaret asked.

  Willem turned to her and smiled. He smiled a lot, Margaret realized, a great big Dutch burgher smile with lots of teeth. “They might go ahead and set up camp,” he suggested, “when the trail is fairly obvious to us, for example.”

  She nodded. She hoped she wasn’t exaggerating the earnestness of the nod.

  “The Teleki view is astonishing,” Willem said. “After that, we make a brief descent and then a very tiring climb to Mackinder’s Camp, where we’ll spend the night. Saturday. Sunday. Monday. Monday night. We want to get there quickly and have an early night. We’re supposed to wake up at two a.m. the next day.”

  “Ouch,” Patrick said.

  Margaret couldn’t shut her eyes, even for a moment. Sharp focus was required to keep the room from spinning. She wished she could ask for a thick piece of cake to absorb some of the alcohol, but they’d already had the dessert, a sherry trifle. It was the third or fourth they’d had at Diana’s table. Perhaps Margaret could find some of the leftovers in the kitchen, though probably not. James almost certainly had cleaned up by now. He might even be asleep in the concrete hut at the back of the garage. Diana and Saartje were laughing at something Margaret hadn’t heard. They were drinking crème de menthe in champagne glasses. Margaret could smell the sickening liqueur from where she sat.

  “Day three of climbing. The scree and the glacier.” Willem stubbed out his cigarette. “We climb in darkness most of the way. I don’t generally like to do the glacier in the dark, so we’ll leave a bit later. Three o’clock would be good. That way, we’ll just get to it at daybreak. The glacier will be bloody.”

  Margaret thought about the notion of a glacier on the equator. Did it melt and freeze, melt and freeze? Or had it been frozen for eons?

  “I won’t lie. The scree is brutal. You’re looking at three hours of very steep climbing and deep breathing. It’s usually there that the AMS kicks in. The guide and the porters will see us across the glacier. Mind what they say. They’ve done it hundreds of times. We’ll all be clipped into a guide rope, anchored by the guide and the porters. The guide will have a pickax with which to make the footprints that we will follow. It’s scary as hell and thrilling. We traverse the glacier at a steep angle, and, believe me, it’s a long way down.” He took a sip of his drink. “Then it’s off to Top Hut. Those who are fit enough at that point will attempt the summit. Let’s see. There are six of us? Only two will make the summit.”

  “What will happen to the rest of us?” Margaret asked.

  “You’ll be moaning on your cot with headache, or you’ll be hurling. Of course, one hopes for the former. Misery enough, the headache. Takes about forty-five minutes straight up through a snowfield to make it to the top. Quite a reward if you get there.”

  “Well, isn’t that the whole point?” Diana asked. “To get there?”

  “Do you think so?” Arthur countered. “I should have thought the climb itself was the point. To have done it, I mean.”

  “Right now, I wouldn’t mind having done it,” Patrick said.

  Margaret smiled at her husband.

  “And then we have to go down,” Arthur said, clearly relishing that part of the trip.

  “Swift descent,” said Willem. “Be careful on the scree. Easy to break an ankle there. Now the medical. Two really severe conditions: HAPE and HACE. HAPE is identified by bloody frothing at the mouth. HACE by ataxia, slurred speech, general confusion. No cure but to get off the mountain as soon as possible. And sometimes even that doesn’t work. HAPE is deadly serious stuff.”

  Margaret
thought, but didn’t mention, that she might be having a touch of HACE at that moment.

  “So here’s what we need,” Willem said, turning to Margaret. “Aspirin for fever and headache, ibuprofen for muscle aches, paracetamol for colds, Diamox as a prophylactic for AMS, Imodium to stop you up if you get the runs, oil of cloves for dental use, and water-purification tablets.”

  “I thought we were carrying our water,” Saartje said, her first foray into the conversation, though she’d said plenty to Diana.

  “The porters can’t possibly carry enough water for all of us for four days. We’ll be getting our water from streams.”

  “Not actually,” objected Arthur.

  “Yes, actually,” said Willem.

  “Right.”

  “So where were we?”

  “Water tablets,” Margaret said, reading from her list.

  “Oral rehydration salts for the replacement of fluids, and the Nytol for sleeping, of course.”

  “Somebody better bring the booze,” Saartje said. “This whole thing sounds bloody boring.”

  “It is, in a way,” Willem agreed. “Boring. There’s a lot of time at the huts to kill. You think you’ll want to play cards or drink or talk, but you won’t. You’ll just want to eat and sleep. And definitely no booze. Surest way to kill yourself up there.”

  “I suggest we do a practice try on the Ngong Hills,” Arthur offered. “Break in our old boots, get our legs under us. What do you say?”

  “When?” asked Diana. “I have a client coming from Mombasa on Saturday.”

  “Sunday?”

  “Sounds fine to me,” Patrick said, looking at Margaret.

  For a moment, Margaret wondered what all this had to do with parking boys and mass graves and infants shitting in the streets. The room spun out of control, and even the hardest focus on Patrick’s face failed to make it stop. She prayed for him to notice.

  Margaret slept, then woke, then slept again. When she woke for the second time, she needed water and went into the bathroom with a glass. She picked up the Mount Kenya guidebook and wandered from the guest room along a hall and into the drawing room, which happily had stopped its spinning. She hadn’t been out of the guest bedroom at night since Patrick and she had temporarily moved in. Margaret was hoping that by tomorrow they would be sleeping in their own bed in the cottage.