‘This is the most important secret we will ever have to keep,’ he said, raising his finger towards the ceiling of the chamber. ‘The very fate of Tibet now depends on us.’
Chapter 4
The climb down was relatively easy.
Luca began by using the ropes to lower Bill down from the ledge, but almost as soon as they started the descent, he began to feel better. The profound lethargy that had crippled him further up the mountain dissipated with each new lungful of thicker air. As the hours passed, and they abseiled quickly downhill, strength seeped back into each tired muscle.
Soon he was climbing down at almost the same pace as Luca. By the time the pair of them reached the lower slopes where they had built the snow hole, the only ill effect that remained was an occasional rasping cough.
His mood, however, had darkened. He knew that what he had experienced up there were the first signs of a full-blown pulmonary oedema. Both he and Luca had witnessed it once before on the north buttresses of Mont Blanc. A solo climber had got himself stranded high on the mountain, cut off by the darkness and high winds. Bill and Luca had turned back earlier that afternoon and reached the safety of the Cosmiques refuge, nestled on the ridge above the towering pinnacle of the Aiguille du Midi.
Throughout the night, the sounds of the dying climber crackled through on their radio.
At first he just coughed, but after a while he began breathing with a slow, laboured gurgling sound as his lungs filled with liquid. By the time the helicopter arrived at daybreak, he had slipped into a coma.
A day later, when they had made it down to Chamonix village, they found out he had died on the way to hospital — drowned on his own body fluid.
The incident was replaying itself in Bill’s mind as they trudged along a narrow ridge in silence. Suddenly, without warning, he stopped and dug his ice axe into the snow. He lifted his goggles up on to his sunburned forehead and turned to face Luca, eyes squinting against the harsh sunlight.
‘You were going to just leave me up there!’
Luca stopped and the rope between them sagged, paying out in a small arch.
‘Not for long, mate. We were just below the summit… maybe twenty minutes or so. I thought I could bag it quickly and come back for you.’
‘Don’t bullshit me. We weren’t that close.’
Luca began coiling off the slack in the rope automatically.
‘This isn’t the time to do this,’ he said quietly. ‘We’re both knackered from the climb and we’ve got another couple of hours to camp one.’
Bill picked up his ice axe, shifting the weight of his rucksack. Then he stood looking down the ridge as if weighing up his words.
‘Tell me, Luca, is that how it played out on Everest?’
The placatory expression on Luca’s face was wiped off and his grey eyes became as expressionless as polished marble. Unclipping his pack, he let it slip to the ground, trying to control a sudden surge of temper. But colour had appeared in blotches on his cheeks and when he spoke his voice was barely more than a whisper.
‘Don’t ever say that again. You know exactly what happened.’
After a pause Bill shrugged and went to trudge past him, but this time Luca remained where he stood, barring the way.
‘I’m serious, Bill. Don’t ever say that again. You know what it cost me.’
‘Then how could you even think about leaving me up there? Didn’t you learn your lesson?’
‘Learn my lesson? Jesus Christ, Bill! Did you ever stop to consider that maybe I wasn’t thinking straight up there either? Altitude hits everyone a different way. I thought we were right under the summit.’
‘It shouldn’t even have crossed your mind…’
‘Enough of this shit!’ Luca interrupted, raising his hand. Gathering up his rucksack, he started trudging down the ridge, then stopped a few paces farther on and turned back.
‘I’ve just spent the last four hours babysitting you down that cliff. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be fucking up there!’
For a few moments more they stared at each other in mutual recrimination, the heat of the argument threatening to boil over. Then Luca suddenly swung round and continued walking, his gloved hands clenched into fists by his sides.
It took them two weeks to get back, a procession of clambering aboard planes and dismounting trains throughout Tibet, Nepal, and eventually England.
During the journey, the subject of the climb had been broached, but not resolved. Both of them had ended up apologising for what they had said on the mountain, and both had nominally forgiven the other for all that had been said. But it was as if a shadow had fallen over them, a lurking feeling of distrust that had never before been part of their friendship. They still bantered together but it had become stilted and hesitant, as if their time on Makalu was something to be ashamed of, rather than a near victory over one of the world’s hardest peaks.
Now they stood stiffly on the platform by the Heathrow Express, their brightly coloured rucksacks and tanned faces drawing some curious glances from passing commuters.
The normal ritual was for the two men to go to the Windsor Castle together for a celebratory pint before they split off in their different directions, but this time it was tacitly understood that this was not going to happen.
‘Well, here we are again,’ said Luca, attempting to sound cheerful. ‘Your missus will be pleased to see you’re back in one piece. You can tell her it’s my fault we’re late again.’
‘Yeah, well… maybe,’ said Bill, smiling awkwardly.
Luca stuck out his hand and they gave each other a perfunctory handshake.
‘I’ll see you around then,’ Bill said, and for a second his habitually cheerful expression flickered, revealing the bleakness beneath. Then he set his jaw and, grasping the straps of his rucksack, turned and disappeared quickly into the sea of commuters.
Luca stood looking after him, part of him wanting to call out. He had had two long weeks to come up with something to break the ice between them. It was just a matter of apologising again for what had happened up there on the ridge, acknowledging that he’d screwed up. He’d never seen Bill lose his temper before, and knew how hurt he must still be.
But somehow the words stuck in his throat. That mention of Everest had cut deep and over the time spent travelling back, fermented into bitterness. He just could not shrug it off. Hoisting his rucksack off the grimy concrete floor, Luca walked towards the gaudy lighting of a café populated by commuters drinking lattes and leafing through the morning papers. Scraping back one of the metal chairs, he ordered a double espresso from the waitress, his eyes wandering idly across the ant-like hordes thronging the platforms, and fixing upon the triangular glass ceiling of the old Victorian train station.
Once again, the image of the pyramid mountain swam in to his mind. It had been haunting him ever since the climb down. It was there whenever he closed his eyes; in the cloudscape as he’d stared out of the plane windows. Several times on the journey back he had opened his mouth to talk to Bill about it, but whatever it was that was hanging in the air between them had prevented him from saying anything more.
He could picture it now as if he were still sitting on that ledge: one face gleaming in the sunshine, edges looking like they had been filed straight then dusted with ice and snow. It was better proportioned even than the Matterhorn, like a child’s drawing of the perfect mountain.
Each time Luca thought about it he kicked himself for not having taken a photo. But by the time he had pulled Bill off the ledge the cloud had rolled back in, and not even the ring of mountains surrounding it was visible. Like his chance of reaching the summit, there had been only the briefest of windows. And thanks to Bill, he had missed both opportunities.
Someone brushed past him in a mackintosh wet from the rain, spilling some of his coffee on to the table. As Luca swore and scrambled for some paper napkins, he heard his train being announced over the Tannoy. He should really get on it — do what Bil
l was doing and go home. Take a long hot bath, empty his clothes into the laundry basket, and banish all thoughts of fantasy mountains.
The only problem was that he felt like doing exactly the opposite. And there was only one person he knew who would understand.
Breaking into a genuine smile for the first time in a couple of weeks, Luca tossed a couple of pounds on to the table, shouldered his rucksack, and set off in the direction of a phone-box.
Chapter 5
From a distance, the only indication of the two military jeeps was the dense cloud of dust trailing behind them. The two vehicles bounced over the pitted road in close convoy, engines revving high to cope with the altitude.
Second Lieutenant Chen Zhi had been squashed uncomfortably on the battered passenger seat for three hours. His olive green military uniform was grey with dust and he sat awkwardly, his heavy frame listing over and forward as if trying to see something just below the jeep’s outside wing mirror. In truth, all he was trying to do was relieve some of the mounting pressure from being jammed in the same position for so long. His lower back ached, and with each new pothole he could feel his whole body jar from the contact.
As he stared out through the windscreen Chen was caught between willing the journey over and dread of what he knew was waiting for him at the other end. The front wheel bounced over a hole again, connecting with the wheel arch of the jeep and sending everything on the dashboard flying into the air. Chen looked across at the driver, amazed by how many potholes he was actually hitting, but remained silent. The noise from the strained engine was too loud for him to speak.
Instead, he reached into the top pocket of his shirt and pulled out a leather wallet. Behind his own picture and official military ID was a strip of four photos taken in a train station booth in Lhasa. The picture showed his ten-year-old son sitting on his mother’s knee, with Chen himself kneeling behind them awkwardly in civilian clothes. His son was trying to wriggle free, while his wife looked over her shoulder as if to ask for his help. He wondered why he’d always liked this photo so much. Perhaps it was because it felt real and spontaneous — a lifetime away from what he had now become.
The photos had been taken four years ago, before he had even joined the service.
Amongst everything that had changed, the one constant was that on the rare weekends when he had some time off, he still took his son past that same train station on his way to play Mah Jong. The other men never said anything about the youngster tagging along. Then again, it was hardly as if anyone would have dared. They all knew Chen was in the Public Security Bureau now — and PSB were untouchable.
He sensed a new movement and turned to see the driver craning his neck forward over the steering wheel. Hammering the gearstick hard into third, the jeep jumped forward as the engine took the brunt of the braking and their speed slowed. Up ahead, a small outcrop of houses stood baking in the midday sun.
They pulled up behind the lead jeep. Chen could see the other soldiers quickly leave their vehicles and fan out across the tiny village square. All of them brandished rifles on their shoulders. The locals melted back into doorways, their eyes wide.
Chen watched through the streaked glass of the windshield. Despite the long hours and the stifling heat of the jeep, all he wanted to do was stay where he was.
Beijing must have known how much he would hate this. It was always like that. Always a test. And once he opened the door, he knew he would have to go through with it. The die would be cast.
There was a tentative rapping on the window and Chen swivelled in his seat to see a man standing only a few inches from the glass. With a flick of his wrist, Chen motioned him to back off and then, with a heavy sigh, pulled on the door handle.
Outside the air was maddeningly hot. Everything was caked in dust: houses, vehicles, people. Everything was grey, and still as the grave.
Straightening his back so that he brought himself up to his full height, Chen motioned for the man to come closer. He was not Tibetan. Indian perhaps, or a mixture of the two, with fast, shifting eyes that like a fly never seemed to settle on anything for more than a moment. His teeth were badly worn, the discoloured roots visible behind crooked stumps.
‘Where is he?’ Chen asked, staring down at him.
‘Money first,’ the man said, rubbing his fingers together slowly. Chen reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small wad of fifty-yuan notes held together by elastic bands. He tossed the money over, keeping his distance.
The man took his time, creasing back the corner of each note as he counted. Eventually he simply pointed to an unremarkable house set back from the central square.
‘You’re certain?’
‘Certain,’ the man replied in a low voice. ‘I have been watching.’
Chen signalled to the soldiers with a couple of fast jabs of his hand and they fell in behind him. As they walked the few paces to the house, he could already feel the sweat prickling up in the small of his back and armpits. He marched on, reaching the battered wooden door in just a few strides and slamming it open.
At first all he could see was blackness.
Thin shards of light pierced through the uneven woodwork of the house and eventually he could make out a tiny living area: central fire, a few pots and pans, and a couple of low wooden stools. From round the corner, a young woman in a dirty apron suddenly appeared and screamed with shock at the sight of the soldiers. Chen motioned again and two of his men moved forward quickly, dragging her out through the doorway.
Stooping under the low ceiling, Chen moved through the house and located two further rooms. In the second, a boy was sitting cross-legged on the floor. As Chen stepped into the room, the boy’s startled brown eyes followed his every movement.
He was wiry and dirty, his face streaked with mud. Despite his age there was a certain calmness to the way he stared, as if in the battle between confusion and fear, he had not yet managed to decide between the two.
He remained seated, his chin tilted upwards as he took in the entirety of the huge man looming over him.
‘What is your name?’ Chen said in Tibetan, feeling the words fall from his mouth.
‘Gedhun,’ the boy replied quietly.
At this response Chen shut his eyes for the moment, blocking out the world. When he opened them again, the boy was still staring at him.
‘Come here,’ Chen said, gesturing with his hands.
The young boy stood and took a hesitant step forward across the room, his small hands balled nervously into fists.
‘Everything will be OK,’ Chen heard himself saying. ‘Shut your eyes.’
He was looking at those hands, trying not to think of his own son.
‘Go on,’ he said again. ‘Shut your eyes.’
The boy squeezed them shut and a couple of tears rolled down his dusty cheeks, leaving two clean tracks.
His lips were still moving in prayer when the bullet came. With a deafening crack, his small body was thrown back across the room, slamming into the far wall before sliding down into a pile of disjointed limbs.
The dying noise of the shot left an eerie stillness behind it. Chen sagged to his knees, trying to fight against the suffocating feeling that seemed to cramp his entire abdomen.
It wasn’t imaginary — suddenly he couldn’t breathe. The air just wouldn’t pass into his lungs. He clawed at his shirt collar, desperately trying to loosen his tie. Lurching forward on to his feet, he stumbled out through the living area, toppling a pot resting on the corner of the fire. He heard it crash to the ground just as he arrived outside and into the terrible heat.
They were all there, staring at him. They fixed him with their vacant, stupid gazes, as he pushed past them towards the jeeps. He leaned against one of the cars, finally dragging the dry air deep into his lungs. Pulling open the door, he frantically tried to find the cigarette pack he had seen earlier which belonged to the driver. It was jammed under his seat, by the door. Chen broke open the pack and put a cigarette to his lips
then tried to inhale. It didn’t work. He tried again, sucking hard on the filter.
Why was it not working?
It was the sergeant who grabbed his shaking hands, holding them still for a moment as he brought a light to the cigarette. Chen inhaled deeply, once, twice, and then a third time in quick succession. Eventually he let out a long, ragged breath, sending a plume of smoke skywards.
‘Get the body. Beijing will want to see it,’ he managed. ‘And get those fucking people away from the house.’
The sergeant nodded curtly and then ran off towards the house, barking orders. Chen watched him go then silently moved around behind the two stationary jeeps, into the shade of one of the nearby houses. He inhaled on the cigarette again then leaned forward, his hands on his knees, and vomited.
Chapter 6
‘I don’t hear from you for three months. Then you turn up out of the blue with a rucksack full of dirty clothes and want me to dig up some old satellite maps… Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?’
Luca smiled, resting his hands on the arms of his leather chair. He still remembered the days when he used to be genuinely terrified of Jack Milton’s craggy face and withering gaze. As a boy he’d sat in this study, in this same sagging armchair, and felt the weight of the long silences that seemed to be part of every conversation he had with his uncle.
For the young Luca, Jack’s prematurely lined face and shaking hands had always been just another sign of his strange otherwordliness. He was a professor of geology at Cambridge University and somehow different from everyone else. Everything about him was unpredictable, often erratic and confused. It was only as an adult that Luca saw these idiosyncrasies for what they really were — the signs of an ex-alcoholic who had strayed too close to the edge before purging himself of his addiction. Now he drank endless cups of coffee, channelling his compulsive drive into the minutiae of the rocks he studied.
The study hadn’t changed in all those years and was still crammed with books. Wooden shelves honeycombed the walls right up to the ceiling, so that the uppermost volumes threatened to shower down amidst a cloud of dust. At shoulder height, some of the books were pushed aside to make room for selections of rock samples, stacked in small piles and having long since lost their identifying labels.
The Cloud Maker Page 3
