Alexandre has thought of and organized everything – packed water bottles, sunscreen, bug-repellent, even a spare camera in case I forgot mine (which I had) and, of course, his own gear. The guide will bring mine. I see Alexandre is a man quietly in control of situations – organized, methodical, leaving nothing to chance. He behaves way older than his years and has a cool sophistication about him, too. No wonder he’s been so successful at such a young age.
“That’s where we’re going to climb along the Shawangunk Ridge. Up there where you see that tower?” he says, pointing. “That’s Sky Top.”
There’s a stone tower perched on top of a mountain with a craggy rock-face below of pale golden stripes, creating from afar a series of patterns like old men’s distorted faces etched into the rock formations. It looks terrifyingly vertical. Each horizontal stripe adding age to this natural masterpiece of nature. It’s awe- some in the real sense of the word.
“Sky Top is home to about three hundred rock climbs like Strawberry Yoghurt, Petie’s Spare Rib and Jekyll and Hyde. Don’t you just love the wacky names? It’s private property and has been off-limits to climbers for more than ten years but we’ll be having lunch at Mohonk Mountain Lodge so we’re all set up. You look nervous, Pearl. Don’t be, our guide knows these climbs like the back of his hand so you’ll feel quite safe. I’ve been here several times – I know them too.”
Our guide, Chris, is young and enthusiastic and looks like a surfer. He has a hard tan and deep crow’s feet around his sun-weathered eyes. He claps his arms around Alexandre and says, “Hey, man, you made it. My favorite frog in the world.”
“Very funny. This is my friend, Pearl. What have you got planned for us today, Chris? As I told you on the phone, Pearl’s just a beginner, so we don’t want to scare her with any overhangs – go easy on her today.”
“Frog?” I ask.
“Don’t mind me, just teasing,” Chris cackles.
“As you probably know, we French get called Frogs by half the world – can’t think why. Don’t worry, when you come for dinner I won’t serve you frogs or snails.”
“You cook?” I ask Alexandre.
“A little.”
Chris squints at the mountains before us. “I thought Pearl could start with Finger Licking Good this morning and see how we go.”
We make our way along the trail until we come to a clearing beneath a massive rock-face. Chris goes through endless instructions, teaches me knots, commands, names of bits of equipment and safety checks. There is so much to learn and I kick myself. Why did I agree to this? The truth is, I lied to Alexandre. I have never been rock-climbing. Well, I once went with a group of friends in Idyllwild, California, so technically I did go. I even put on the gear but the rock-face was so daunting, I was too chicken to go through with it. I am a novice and I’m too ashamed to tell him. I’ve never, ever climbed more than several flights of stairs. It’s too late now to come clean without humiliating myself further.
Alexandre helps me step into the leg loops of my harness and tightens the straps around me, hitching me up so it’s snug against my pelvis and hips. When he touches me I sense my heart race. The shoes feel as if they are four sizes too small but they both assure me they are the perfect fit for good grip. I’m also given a helmet – uh, oh, not such a sexy look, but at this point, peering up at the rocky wall in front of me, I need all the help I can just to stay alive.
“You said this was for beginners,” I grumble.
Alexandre looks amused. “It is.”
“But I can’t climb that!”
“Yes you can. Rock climbing is about faith, Pearl. Faith in yourself. Believe that you can overcome anything and you will. Trust me.”
“I’ll try,” I say, not completely convinced.
“Good girl,” he says tapping me on my behind. “Now climb up that rock-face and remember, don’t look down any further than your feet. Keep going higher and higher. Take your time, don’t rush, don’t panic. Just believe in yourself. Now, I’ll go up first, I’ll be leading. They’ll be this rope connecting us. If you fall I’ll have you – the rope will catch you, hooked into pre-placed bolts in the rock, so don’t worry. Chris is down here with you. He’ll be coaching you all the way. Trust him. He’s been doing this for years, he’s a pro.”
I watch Alexandre as he climbs without hesitation up the sheer rock-face, clipping the rope into nooks and crannies. Easy for some. Meanwhile, Chris is explaining more technical stuff to me, how the ropes work, the carabiners.
He explains, “Now, whenever possible, Pearl, you should try to do most of the work of climbing using your legs. In the ideal case, climbers try to keep their centers of gravity over their feet and then push upwards with their legs. Only use your arms and hands just for balance and positioning.”
“But where do I put my feet?” I squeal, looking up at what seems to be an almost smooth surface.
“You’ll feel your way as you go and I’ll guide you. Little itty-bitty notches and indentations – that’s what you need to feel for with your hands which will, in turn, guide your feet into the right positions. Those shoes you’re wearing have a lot of grip. Imagine you’re climbing a ladder, it’s that simple. But keep your weight down on your toes, not your heels.”
“I wish it was that simple.” My palms are sweating with trepidation.
“Here, dip your hands in this,” Chris says, and I put the tips of my fingers into a little bag he offers me, filled with what seems like white chalk.
Alexandre is way up high, lodged on a small ledge, waiting for me. “Ready?” he shouts down.
I nod and take a sip of water to ease my nerves. Trembling, and I haven’t even started.
“How much experience do you need to have to lead a climb?” I ask Chris, double-checking Alexandre’s prowess – can I trust him?
“There’s no set answer to that. Leading is an art form, make no mistake, and it requires an incredible amount of climbing experience – stress management, decision making, route finding, rope management, gear placement, anchor systems, climbing technique and God knows what else, to be brought together all at once. You need to have a good head on your shoulders, and it helps to be mechanically inclined. I wouldn’t let Alexandre do this if I didn’t trust him implicitly. This is an easy climb but he’s led some pretty tough ones. Don’t worry, you’re in good hands.”
I know what Alexandre was talking about – Concentration with a capital C. I have never been so focused. They say the rope will catch my fall but I can’t trust the equipment, I need to do this on my own, rely on myself. I gingerly put my foot on a hold and try to push my way higher. I manage and feel elated.
“See that little orange-colored knobby bit just up at the level of your thigh?” calls Chris. “Raise your left foot up there and push up through your toes.”
“No way! Are you crazy?” I yell. “That’s miles away! I can’t lift my leg up that high and keep balance.”
“Yes, you can,” shouts down Alexandre. “Climb like a cat —quiet, deliberate, and precise. Picture the move, and then execute it. Use your feet as you would your hands. Pick out the place for your hands first – plan your move. Take your time, this isn’t a race.”
I raise up my left leg. Yoga has nothing on this.
“Now balance yourself,” Chris call up, “with your right hand. Lift your arm higher. Try to climb in an X shape with your hips being the middle of the X. Hang with your arm straight. Your skeleton can take much more of a load than your muscles can.”
Skeleton. Cat….which?
“Up you come, up you come,” Alexandre coaxes.
After what seems like decades, I finally pluck up the courage to raise myself up. I feel myself falling, my insides churn and drop to my groin, but miraculously I manage to balance myself with my right hand in time. I’m spread-eagled against the rock-face. My elbows and knees are already scuffed and scratched.
“Bravo!” cries Alexandre.
“And now what?” I scream into the
rock, my mouth kissing the stone. The sun is getting warmer now. I’m pressed like a starfish, immovable, terrified. All this to try and impress Alexandre but I must look like a total fool. My right foot starts to shake uncontrollably.
“Okay, I can see you’ve got sewing-machine leg,” Chris bellows. “That’s because the heel of your foot is hanging too far down and your leg is starting to shake like a sewing machine. This is very normal for a beginner. Don’t worry, just apply more weight to your toes so your calf muscle spasm can stop.”
I do as I’m told and he’s right, my leg stops shaking. Almost. I push up again and am amazed at myself. The impossible is melting away. I feel free, invincible. I hook my fingers onto a tiny crevice, and what is a small opening feels like a crater to my sensitive hand. Everything is magnified by a thousand. Every indentation. Every chirp of a bird, every whistle of breeze, every miniscule scar on the rock-face, which I use as my life-line to cling onto. I can smell the rock. It is alive with molecules. And right now it’s my best friend in the world. We are at one, the rock and I. I am a daughter of nature. I can think of nothing else except my hands and feet, the rock and my next move. Like a cat I push up once more. I’m not even listening to their instructions any longer; I’m trusting my own instinct, following my intuition. I’m higher now. I can no longer even hear what Chris is saying, he’s so far below. I look up and see Alexandre smiling at me but I don’t smile back. I’m too inside my own intense moment.
“You’re nearly here. You’re doing great,” he cheers on. “Grab that bit that’s jutting out to your right, above your head.”
“I can’t, it’s too high.”
“Yes you can. Just do it.”
“I reach up but feel myself slipping. Oh no! Mother of Mercy, what’s happening? I can feel my body lose balance, I’m going to fall, I’m going to kill myself. I yelp. I slip. But at the last second my right foot finds a hold and I’m re-balanced, hugging the rock-face once more.
“That’s a tricky bastard that tiny crack, isn’t it?”
“I almost fell,” I pant.
“But you didn’t. I knew you’d find that hold – you were positioned right,” he says. “Well done, chérie, well done.”
I’m in reach of him now. Just one more push and I’m there on the ledge with him. Did he just call me chérie? Or was I imagining it? I make one final heave, my leg quivering with exhaustion and I’m there, hurling myself onto him.
He catches me and hugs me tight in his arms. “I’m so proud of you, you did great. Good girl.” His skin smells of sun and open air, and something else wonderful – a happy memory I can’t quite place. He takes my hand and kisses it with a flourish, then raises my other and kisses it too, but more slowly this time, his lips soft against my fingers. I can feel the breath of his nostrils, gentle like an imperceptibly warm breeze, and I go limp in his strong arms, my legs buckling under me with fatigue.
* * *
We’re in Alexandre’s beautiful LeMans Blue Corvette heading back to New York City. I’m stretched out in the front seat going over all the sweet details of the day in my mind. It was arduous but probably one of the most satisfying days of my life. While I was getting my breath back after the first climb, mentally gearing-up for another assault on my limbs, I watched Alexandre and Chris scale a rock-face with overhangs, called Sound and Fury. Alexandre maneuvered his body with grace and precision – I was in awe, especially knowing how hard it is to cling on almost vertically, let alone upside down horizontally! They discussed it afterwards, describing their ‘free-swinging ape-man moves’ and it was true, they looked like agile monkeys – it was nail-bitingly tense to watch. Then I did another climb after lunch, harder than the first, and felt as if I’d conquered the world. It was exhilarating. We took lunch at the luxury resort hotel, The Mohonk Mountain House, situated right on Mohonk Lake. It looked like a Victorian castle, with balconies and tall windows and replete with period decor. I guess this must have been where we would have stayed had my face not registered such alarm yesterday. Shame.
I am wary of my desire to please this man. I have never felt this way before. At least, not since my early years when I wanted to please my father while learning to ride a bicycle. The determination to get it right and earn approval from Alexandre is shocking.
I’m mulling all this over, enjoying the car ride, and he turns his head and says with a little smile:
“You’ve passed the second test.”
“Second? What was the first?” I ask bemused.
“You can’t guess?”
“No.”
“You have no idea?”
“No, not a clue.”
He smiles, says nothing, and I’m racking my brains wondering what the first test was.
“Give me a hint,” I plead.
“You’ll find out, soon enough.”
I picture myself wearing the helmet today, my ungainly positions, my elbows and knees scratched all over, and wonder if he’s teasing me. The music is loud – a soulful, dusky voice surrounds us, singing about giving over your heart. I feel vulnerable and know that if I did give Alexandre my heart he could break it.
I ask him, “What’s this great song? I don’t think I’ve heard it before.”
“By an artist called Rumer.” Doesn’t she have a lovely voice? The song’s called Come to Me High.”
The lyrics speak my mind. I am on a high. A high from the feeling of staring death in the eye. Of course it wasn’t really that way, the ropes could have caught my fall, and did at one point on the second climb – but still, every nerve in my body has been awakened by the thrill of today. The buzz of fear, the fear of failure, and the thrill of the way Alexandre makes me feel inside.
“You should feel proud of yourself, Ms. Robinson.” That R again. That sexy accent. “You’ve really piqued my interest,” he purrs in a soft voice.
He puts his hand on my bare thigh and I feel a shiver run up my spine. I’m wearing a thin cotton skirt which he pushes a couple of inches higher up my leg. His fingers linger on my flesh and I’m too stunned to stir. He starts to move them softly, one hand edging towards my crotch, but oh so subtly – so much so I wonder if I’m imagining it. His other hand is on the wheel. I can feel that pulse deep in my groin again. I look at him. So gorgeous! His chest muscles are ripped from today’s action. I saw him change out of his T-shirt and put on a linen shirt before lunch, and I nearly passed out. His skin was smooth, tanned and flawless with just a small amount of body hair in between his pecs. Just thinking about his body now makes me throb with desire – his elegant fingers imperceptibly still resting on my upper thigh – I feel as if my heart-beat is between my legs. But then, he takes his hand away, back to the steering wheel. I let out a sigh of frustration. He’s tormenting me with this tease.
“Tell me about yourself, Pearl. You’re a mystery to me. I know you’re brave and up for a challenge. I know you like dogs, and I can sense you’re smart. What else?”
I feel as if he’s asking, what else do you have to offer me? I can’t seem to answer him. I rack my brains for something clever to tell him about myself, something impressive. I’m still wondering what the first test I’ve passed is. Rock-climbing being the second – but the first? “I don’t know what to say, really,” I begin. “My life is pretty hum-drum compared to yours.”
“I doubt that very much. Tell me about your family.”
“Well, my mom died three years ago. Of cancer.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, it changed my life, we were very close. I’m only just getting over it. I mean, you can never really get over it but I’m finally accepting what happened. My dad lives in Hawaii and owns a surf shop.”
“Another passion of mine. So you surf, then?”
“No. No, not at all. I’ve never even tried. He left us when I was six years old to go ‘find’ himself. He did. He found himself. Found himself a new wife, too. I guess I always associated surfing with abandonment. I went to see him last year – see
if I could lay a few ghosts to rest. I wanted to tell him what I thought of him, unleash all my anger.”
“And?”
“And….well, it didn’t work out that way. The second I laid eyes on him I burst into tears and all I could think about were all those wasted years between us. We hugged like two long-lost bears. He had such a kind face. I fell in love with his little-boy-lost look, just the way my mom had done all those years ago, and I couldn’t help but forgive him. He was lonely – his second wife had died several years previously. All my anger melted away. We talked every night watching the moonlit waves, drinking cocktails under the stars. Then he came to Manhattan to visit me. We keep in touch by e-mail – Skype every week. You know, I’m so glad to have him in my life, even after all the heartache he caused.”
“And what about brothers and sisters, you have them, too?”
“I have a brother who lives in San Francisco. Anthony. We see each other once in a while.” I want to tell him about my late brother, John, who died of an overdose ten years ago but I can’t seem to bring myself to mention his name.
“Does Anthony have children, a wife?”
“No, he’s gay. He lives with his boyfriend, Bruce. What about your parents?” I ask.
“Well, I had a similar upbringing to you. My mother was a single parent. It was just the three of us. ‘The Three Musketeers,’ she called us. All for one, and one for all. We were very close. Still are.”
“Oh, I thought when you said that your dog, Rex, lived with your parents, your dad was—”
“My step-father. She re-married when I was sixteen.”
“Ah. Is he nice?”
“He helped me and my sister set up our business. He’s a good man. And most importantly, he’s a great husband to my mother.”
Forty Shades of Pearl (Part One of The Pearl Trilogy) Page 4
