And that is probably what Daniel Atijas had been meaning to say at one point: the collapse of his country now can and must be seen as the culmination of a series of givens, and history from here on will always be interpreted that way, but each of these givens was preceded by a moment in which someone made a choice which led inexorably to that outcome. In short, whether deliberately or otherwise, fate did not allow us to have our picture taken. We proceeded along Saint Julian Road, one behind the other, in a row, as if we were already on the mountain trail. Ivan Matulić’s grandson led the way, Daniel Atijas was behind him, and I was last. Occasionally a car would pass us, and we met cyclists in black shorts wearing red helmets. I spotted a squirrel but didn’t mention it. I wanted to reach the beginning of the trail as soon as possible, in hopes, I guess, that the feeling of there being a goal, even if it was the summit of the mountain, would be welcome for all of us, especially me. Daniel Atijas had meanwhile taken his guidebook out of his pocket again, and in a solemn voice he announced that now we were at an elevation of over thirty-nine hundred feet, and that when we reached the highest point of our climb we would be at nearly fifty-one hundred feet. Nothing special, I told him, compared to the other peaks in the Rocky Mountains, but quite enough for us. Ivan Matulić’s grandson replied that as far as he was concerned, he would gladly stop at the spot where we were standing just then, sit down, and stay there, perfectly still. Daniel Atijas couldn’t believe, he said, that we were so willing to give up on a climb that would, as happened every time we neared the sky, bring with it a spiritual upsurge, an ascent into the divine sphere, and cohesion to the soul.
Especially as far as I was concerned, he said, turning to look at me, that should be clear, since I came from the plains. We were just reaching a parking lot, where Ivan Matulić’s grandson was the first to catch sight of the sign marking the beginning of the trail, and actually I found this welcome, because as it was, I couldn’t have come up with a reply to Daniel Atijas’s comment. The plains are stifling, on this he and I had agreed long ago, but I was not prepared to embrace the claim without reservation that every ascent of a body implies an ascent of the spirit, that he who lives on a mountain is moving at the same time on spiritual elevations which are inaccessible to people on the plains. Perhaps none of that matters, I thought, especially after my failed attempts yesterday to interpose the face I had been carrying inside me on the face that was standing before me. Daniel Atijas proposed that we wait for a group of walkers who were at the corner of the parking lot to get ahead because he would like, he said, for us to have our peace and quiet while we climbed. Once we set out, he said, we would need to follow our own pace and shouldn’t have to adapt to the hurrying or slowing of the group hiking ahead of us. Ivan Matulić’s grandson opened his backpack, took out his water bottle, and had a few sips. Then he wiped his mouth with his upper arm and put the bottle back in the pack. The voices of the hikers could no longer be heard, but Daniel Atijas still gave no sign for us to begin. Clouds were moving across the sky, so we were sometimes covered by a pale shadow, though we could feel the warmth of the sun’s rays more often.
Daniel Atijas looked at his watch and nodded. Ivan Matulić’s grandson again led the way, but now I went after him, leaving Daniel Atijas to wrestle with his map as it puffed up with wind while he folded it, and to run after us as if he wanted to conquer the first slope at a jog. Later, once we’d crossed the road with the same name as the mountain, the going got easier, the slope was less steep, the trail meandered gradually, the pines and fir trees gave off a pleasant scent, but before that, while we were still on the first part of the climb, I really thought I’d give up, that I’d plop right down on the ground, just as Ivan Matulić’s grandson had wanted to, and slide back downhill to the parking lot. I hoped, of course, that this would convince Daniel Atijas to return, but he quickly passed me, panting, it’s true, but not as much as I, and went on hiking right next to Ivan Matulić’s grandson. They immediately struck up, or rather resumed, their conversation, picking up, I assume, the threads spun while we were walking along Saint Julian Road, but my lagging, along with my louder and louder panting, meant that all I heard were fragments of sentences, shards of words. Then a darker shadow that looked like a snake forced me to stop altogether, and though I immediately scolded myself for such nonsense, since in Banff at such an elevation there were unlikely to be any reptiles, this little slip in caution contributed to my climbing alone for the next several minutes until I made it up to the road. Daniel Atijas and Ivan Matulić’s grandson were waiting for me on the other side, surrounded by a group of Japanese tourists to whom they were trying to explain something. Each of them was holding a map or guidebook, or at least the publication one receives upon entering the Banff National Park, and they were staring at them, trying to decipher the meaning of the instructions they had been given.
Then all at the same moment they closed their books and folded their maps, bowed and said thank you, hurriedly crossed the road, and headed down the part of the trail I had just come up. I longed to sit down and catch my breath, but Daniel Atijas and Ivan Matulić’s grandson were adamant. Let’s keep going, keep going, said Daniel Atijas, as if the fate of the entire world depended on our efforts. Again I considered giving up; it still wasn’t too late for such a decision, and I wouldn’t have had to go back all the way to the start of the trail, because the road we were on, which had the same name as the mountain, also ran down to the Centre, but then I realized that Daniel Atijas might take that as an affront, as I definitely would have done had I been in his place. He didn’t strike me as the type of person who would readily assign cosmic value to things of no importance, but there was no need for me to test that at this moment, when all he had was a day, maybe two, before his departure. Now I can, of course, berate myself for not giving up, but then I simply wished that, despite my disappointments, I could keep our relationship on the best possible terms, and I obediently set out after them, having taken a few sips before that of orange juice. The slope became gentler, the trail meandered among the firs and pines — admittedly a respite of sorts. And besides, we stopped in many places surrounded by shadows and had a look at the views that were spreading before us as on a stage. This revived me, and so I could briskly follow Ivan Matulić’s grandson, who was leading the way, and Daniel Atijas, who followed him, peering from time to time into his guidebook.