The Mountain

by Paul Yoon

  You broke each other’s hearts, Philippa said, still leaning on my shoulder.

  I rested my head against hers and squeezed her hand.

  Yes, I said.

  I thought she would say more, but she didn’t. I thought she was angry with me. Or sad. I tried to recall the last time we had held hands. I looked down and saw that Philippa had fallen asleep and was breathing heavily, almost a snore. I laughed. She didn’t wake. I flicked popcorn off her shirt. I unclasped the watch, adjusted the strap size, and put it on her again.

   •

  I didn’t see her for a long time after that. Like her mother, she was on other trips, other sites, other digs. I worried about her leg. When we spoke on the phone, she sounded happy and full of energy, ambitious and stubborn, determined to work as much as she could.

  During Christmas one year she surprised me by appearing in London with a duffel bag. We ate out every night and celebrated the New Year with the furniture store workers at a bar on Bermondsey Street. From across the room I saw her wrap her arms around one of the men and kiss him. I smiled, looked away. She got drunk. She got drunk enough to tell them what we did, what we had been doing for years in their store, and the workers shouted and dragged us back and we all sat on the furniture and listened to music on my laptop. I watched as my daughter leapt down from a mattress and grabbed the cane she sometimes used to play some air guitar. Her long hair glowing in the dark. There were shadows around her, dancing.

  Every year from then on she came, always in the fall or the winter, and through the years we began to explore England together, heading south into Wales and east to Suffolk and then north, until that year when we reached the very tip of Scotland. She was in her forties by then. I remembered my father on a bench on a cliff. We had reached another one here. And this time the sea.

  III.

  There was a long period of time when I forgot about Takashi Inoue. Then one day I met someone who reminded me of all this again.

  I had arrived early in North Yorkshire for a vacation with Philippa. This was years before we had reached Scotland. She had booked us two rooms in what had been an estate of some kind. Philippa wasn’t coming until two days later, though, so I had some time alone. I was skeptical about the place, worried it was too much of a tourist trap but Philippa had promised that it would be wonderful.

  The estate was called Milner Field. I read about the place. You could ride horses, go on hikes, get lost in the maze of a garden, shoot clay pigeons. The grounds, of course, were haunted. There had been a mill here, before the mansion was built. The husband had been a mill worker and had died in an accident at the factory. The story was that the wife he left behind continued to roam the property.

  Haunted! Philippa said over the phone, and for a moment she sounded like she did when she was very young.

  Milner, Philippa said. Perhaps from miller.

  The silo collapsed and the husband was crushed under the weight of the grain.

  The entire property, including the main house, a mansion—with its original Gothic architecture—had been converted into a hotel. As I arrived I could make out the brick turrets and the peaked rooftops, a paddock field with horses, a tall fountain. Waiting by the entrance, there were men dressed in old uniforms. One of the men opened the door to my taxi, asked the driver to please open the trunk, and the driver looked back at me. I was embarrassed to admit that someone had taken my luggage by accident on the train up, thinking it was their own. I had been told it was en route on the train the day after.

  This was the first time a luggage complication had happened to me. I liked packing light and most times I had only a bag under my seat. But Philippa wanted to dress up one night for a fancy dinner at the mansion, so I had packed formal wear, which was also in the luggage.

  Perfectly understandable, sir, he said, and I was touched by the sincerity in his voice.

  He promised they would deliver the bag tomorrow to the room. He was in his twenties and polite and quick on his feet and escorted me inside where I was left, for a moment, breathless.

  It was true: it was wonderful. I had never seen such a chandelier before. It was both elegant and reckless, as though the sun had been captured about to burst. There was red carpet on the marble. Statues of horses. Oil paintings in gilded frames. I smelled perfume in the air, mild and pleasant, and I wished my father were here. He would have been speechless. I would have made an awkward joke to get him to laugh.

  I was checked in, and they confirmed the arrival of my daughter in two days. The woman behind the desk was also young, much younger than Philippa, and as she handed me the key she wished me a happy birthday.

  If she caught the confusion on my face she didn’t show it. I understood a moment later that Philippa had lied, as she did on occasion, to see if the hotel would do anything special for guests who were celebrating their birthdays or their anniversaries.

  They did. We had our connecting rooms on the fourth floor and in mine they had set up a plate of chocolates on the table by the window. Happy Birthday! was written on the plate in ganache. They had also brought up a bottle of wine. I drank the wine that night, trying to get used to the old style of the room with its velvet drapes and antique furniture. My phone rang. It was the office, and I ignored it. I had trouble sleeping. I wasn’t tired. Perhaps I was anxious for Philippa to get here. Perhaps I felt a bit out of place.

  I wandered the halls for a while, looking at the tapestries and the paintings. I couldn’t hear anyone else. My footsteps echoed. I stepped more loudly and then softly and did it again, listening. I passed still lifes and more velvet curtains, running my hands over them. Through a hall window there was a view of the shooting area. It was a clear night and as I gazed out at the property I realized I was waiting for the ghost to appear. I sat on the bench for a while.

  I didn’t see the mill worker’s wife but I did see a horse. It must have gotten loose. It was a bay, I think, I couldn’t tell in the dark. I tracked it grazing and then, to my surprise, it looked up. It looked up, I thought, in my direction, and then it went on, away from the stable, farther into the field.

   •

  I did manage to sleep but only a few hours that night. The next day I woke early and went for a walk outside, had breakfast at the bar, and began reading a novel Philippa had sent to me. There was a light rain. The sound of it on the glass was pleasant and calming, and it began to match the rhythm of the background music. Or perhaps I was imagining this as I read the first chapter of the novel.

  For years she sent me copies of books she had read. Never new copies but hers. Every now and then I noticed her handwriting or a sentence she outlined, and even sometimes there was a small note for me on the margins, saying hello, wondering if I was in fact reading the book, promising she would test me later. I don’t know why but I always wrote back to her on those margins, answering, Yes, or asking a question about the plot.

  The restaurant and the bar were almost empty. An older couple sat in the far corner of the restaurant, not looking at each other. The television was on. The news. I grew restless. I wasn’t sure what to do. I had the day to myself. I had two voice mails. The first was from work again and the second was from Philippa, saying she was excited to see me tomorrow, wondering how I was settling in. I tried calling her back but she didn’t answer. I wished I had cleaner clothes. I had never been to this region before. I lingered by the bar, flipping through the hotel guide and the brochures of the moors and the rivers. Several movies had been filmed in this area.

  I heard airplanes fly by low, low enough so that when I turned I could see the RAF logo on the tails. The bartender told me there was an air base nearby. It drove the horses mad. I thought he was the man who had greeted me when I first arrived but it wasn’t. It was his brother, and they were twins, and he grinned and said I wasn’t the first person to make that mistake.

  I wondered how they were both here, working at the hotel together. He said they grew up in the town. It was what they did ove
r the summer. Work at Milner Field. Staff, grounds keeping, food service.

  I asked what town that was, the one he grew up in.

  Thoralby, he said. Just down the road.

  He collected my plate, wiped the counter, and refilled my water. There was a game on with Newcastle United and we watched it together for a bit.

   •

  In the early afternoon I checked with reception to see if my bag had come. She apologized, said it hadn’t, and assured me that it would by the end of the day. She also offered me a gift certificate and pointed across the grand lobby to a store I hadn’t seen when I arrived. Sundries. Chocolates, postcards, and bathing suits.

  She was trying to be kind. The other brother, the one who stood attention at the entrance, walked in, waved to me, and asked how I was. Before I could respond he assured me my luggage would come.

  I was going to say that I met his brother but I noticed the umbrella he was carrying, still wet, and asked if I could borrow it. Then I asked if they could point me in the direction of Thoralby.

  The brother seemed puzzled. He looked at me as though uncertain why I would bother, and then concerned as though someone led me astray.

  I wonder if there’s a store there, I said. For clothes.

  Oh, yes, he said. Certainly. Of course.

  He said there was. The reception clerk offered to call me a taxi because of the rain but I felt like walking. The brother gave me his umbrella, a hotel umbrella, and told me to take a right at the end of the estate driveway.

  So I walked that afternoon, in the countryside. It was a narrow lane and sometimes a car slowed so as not to splash me, and I was surprised by the courtesy of this. Drivers waved. I waved back. For a time two horses decided to follow me, along the fence, and I realized they must have thought I had a carrot or an apple for them. I wondered if one of them was the one I saw the night before. They followed until they couldn’t, reaching the border of the property, and I left them as the lane sloped up and over a hill and a low stone wall appeared.

  The rain never got heavy but it was consistent and soon my sneakers were soaked. My feet were cold. I was cold. Still I kept going. I was cold but happy. The landscape had made me happy. The long fields. The distant high hills covered in heather. I thought I would like to take Philippa on this walk and we could jump a fence and take one of the trails when it wasn’t wet. We could go to the moors. Perhaps we could find an old English cottage for me to fix up and live in.

  I walked for an hour. At an intersection, I followed the sign for Thoralby and descended into a village in the hills that was no longer than a few blocks of gray stone houses and a church. At the start of the street there was a rotary with a wide building that contained several stores, each of them with a fluorescent sign. I went toward the one that seemed like a clothing store, tried the door, not noticing the sign that stated that whoever worked there was out for lunch. I looked in. I saw camping equipment. Wellingtons. A wall of rifles.

  I stepped back and took in the village. Smoke was rising from chimneys. There was a pub across from the church. I thought I would go there, and I almost did, except I heard a bell ring farther down, a door opened, and a postman walked to his truck.

  In that store window a toy train was circling the track, and a string of lights hung above it. Other things were on display, too. Pewter candlesticks. The torso of a mannequin wearing a Shetland sweater. It was a general store of some kind. I walked in and there were aisles of canned food, clothes, and miscellaneous gifts. More sundries. I smelled soup. In the corner, near the window, was a computer on a small desk, where a man in a wool shirt was checking his e-mail. A handwritten sign above listed the price per minute of logging on to the Internet.

  I followed the aisles, found packages of underwear and T-shirts, socks, and picked up a sweater, too. I wondered if they had Wellies here. They did. I picked up a pair of those and then picked up another pair, guessing Philippa’s size.

  I didn’t know how much any of this was. I didn’t know why I kept picking things up and placing them on the counter. There was no one there. I was never so flagrant with expenses. I was still happy. My feet were cold and wet but I had enjoyed the walk and I was looking forward to seeing Philippa in a day.

  I rang the counter bell. From behind a beaded curtain I saw a young woman come out, holding a bowl of soup, slurping noodles with a pair of chopsticks. She was, I thought, a Japanese woman. I wasn’t sure if my face registered the surprise. She kept slurping noodles and seemed curious and indifferent at once. She had long, braided hair, wore very dark eyeliner, and her nose was pierced.

  On holiday? she said.

  She had a British accent.

  Yes, on holiday, I said.

  Where are you from?

  In my life I have been asked this question enough to know in that moment that the woman wasn’t asking where I lived.

  Korea, I said. My parents were from Korea.

  She placed her soup bowl next to my sweater and wiped her mouth with her hand. She grinned. She said a few phrases in Korean. I didn’t hear it often in my life these days. I raced to open that old corner of my memory. I asked if she was Korean.

  No, she said. My grandfather. He was born there. He used to live there. When he was young. His family did. You know. The great colony. Then he came here. I think. Or he went somewhere else first and then he ended up here. Anyway, he used to speak to me in Korean and I remember some phrases. Hello. How are you. Basic stuff.

  I wondered why her grandfather had left Korea.

  He was orphaned, the woman said. Lost his parents. He went to live with relatives. Sorry. I should know more about this. I didn’t see him that much. He was always vague about it.

  She shrugged. And then she grew embarrassed and looked down, suddenly aware that she was talking to a stranger.

  I wanted her to go on. I was gripping one of the packages of socks.

  I asked if her grandfather ended up here in Thoralby. She laughed.

  No, she said. I did. I married a damn pilot. His family. It’s their store.

  A moment later we heard the engine of a jet pass over. She lifted a chain around her neck and kissed the cross there.

  Superstition, she said. Habit. Just in case.

  I said I understood.

  He courted me from the air. You know that? He flew right down near the river in Norwich where I was in school and he was nearly expelled from the RAF because of that stupid stunt. He was so damn handsome.

  It wasn’t beyond me that she had just used the past tense.

  You don’t see him much, I said.

  She shrugged and picked up her soup again.

  It’s nice to say something in Korean, she said. I didn’t realize.

  Yes, I said, and meant it. I didn’t realize either. I hadn’t spoken it very much since my father died.

  The bell rang. We watched the man checking his e-mail leave. It snapped her out of wherever she was because she looked down at the clothes I had carried over from the aisles.

  Staying awhile, are we?

  I explained the luggage situation.

  She rang it all up. It was twice as much as I guessed but I gave her my credit card and I heard the machine dial up and connect to the system. While we waited she packed everything with great care in a large paper bag, and even wrapped the sweater in tissue paper for me. She was about to hand the bag over when she asked me how I was returning to the hotel.

  I’ll walk, I said.

  She looked outside. It was still raining. She looked at my umbrella and the bag.

  Come on, she said, and went around the counter and I saw then that she was shorter than I was, she must have been standing on a platform of some kind. She put on a waxed cotton coat. Her own Wellingtons. I heard the rattle of keys in her coat pocket. She carried the bag out, and I followed her across the rotary to the small parking area, where she approached a scooter. She wiped down the seat. She gave me the bag, got on, and started the engine.

  I’m Ma
ya, she said. Put this on.

  Maya handed me her spare helmet. Across the rotary two women were watching us. They were sitting in front of the church door, drinking tea.

  They bought the church, Maya said. They’ll renovate it and live there together. Gives the town something else to talk about. Usually they talk about me.

  I suppose they’ll talk about this, I said, and sat behind her.

  Doubtful, she said, lit a cigarette, and pulled out of the rotary.

  I had tucked the bag and the umbrella under one arm and the other I wrapped around her stomach.

  Shy one, she said, blowing smoke into me, and I laughed and leaned in.

  She went faster. We headed up the valley, turned, and soon we were driving back on the lane. We passed the stiles and distant sheep on the hills. The stone wall. The horses. The roof of the mansion appeared as we dipped down and up. The jet passed us, loud, and I saw Maya blow it a kiss and give it the finger. Then I leaned into her again and I stayed like that for the rest of the way.

  Maya dropped me off in the afternoon. I stood with the brother at the entrance as she waved and went back down the driveway.

  I see you met Maya, the brother said, and grinned.

  I waited for him to go on but he went inside to help another guest.

  I hadn’t asked about her grandfather’s name. I never would. I would see her a few more times but I didn’t know this yet. Standing there, in front of the mansion, I was aware of the improbability of all this and yet I wondered why I wanted to believe that it was possible, that I had found a lost thread in my father’s life.

  I thought Maya would turn right, back into Thoralby, but she turned and sped the other way. Some horses followed her.

  IV.

  Philippa arrived later that afternoon. She surprised me by coming a day early. She came with her bags and mine as well. She had seen the taxi driver pick it up from the train station and recognized the tag on it. I shared a ride with your luggage, she said, and hugged me quickly, and said that I looked like shit.