May wise Axular’s wishes be fulfilled.
The crevasse
THE SHADOW OF DEATH passed over Camp One when Sherpa Tamng arrived with the news that Philippe Auguste Bloy had fallen down a crevasse. The usual bustle and laughter of supper ceased abruptly and cups of tea, still steaming, were left forgotten in the snow. Not one of the expedition’s members dared ask for details, no one said anything. Fearing they had not understood him, the sherpa repeated the news. The ice had swallowed up Philippe Auguste, the crevasse seemed very deep.
At last the man who was leading the expedition asked: “Couldn’t you have gotten him out, Tamng?” The man’s name was Mathias Reimz, a native of Geneva, a man who merited an entry in every encyclopedia on mountaineering for his ascent of Dhaugaliri.
The sherpa shook his head.
“Chiiso, Mister Reimz. Almost night,” he said.
It was a weighty enough reason. As soon as night fell, the cold—chiiso—was intense, the temperature around Lhotse could drop to forty below zero, a temperature that could in itself prove fatal to a climber but that also destabilized the great slabs of ice on the mountain. At night new crevasses opened up, while other older ones closed over forever. Rescue was almost impossible.
“What did you leave as a marker, Tamng?”
Turning around, the sherpa showed his back. The missing rucksack in red nylon was the marker, securely fixed at the top of the crevasse with pitons.
“Was he alive?”
“Don’t know, Mister Reimz.”
Everyone assumed that the sole aim of these questions was to begin preparations for the rescue party that would leave at first light the following day. To their surprise, Mathias Reimz began clipping on his crampons and calling for a torch and some ropes. The man from Geneva intended setting out immediately.
“Lemu mindu!” shouted the old sherpa, making gestures of surprise. He did not approve of that decision, which seemed to him suicidal.
“The moon will help me, Gyalzen,” replied Reimz, looking up at the sky. The moon was nearly full. Its light illuminated the newly fallen snow, making it seem even paler.
Then, addressing his companions, he declared that he would not accept anyone’s help. He would go completely alone. He was the one who should risk his life, it was his duty.
Mathias Reimz and Philippe Auguste Bloy worked together at the ski resorts around Geneva and that was how the Europeans on the expedition understood the decision, as the result of the close ties formed during their long acquaintance. Less well-informed, the sherpas attributed it to his position as leader, as the man responsible for the group.
When the orange shadow of Reimz’s anorak disappeared into the snow and the night, a murmur of admiration arose in Camp One. It was an admirable thing to do, to put one’s own life at risk to save that of another. Some spoke of the power of friendship and the heart, others, of the spirit shown by mountaineers, their daring and their sense of solidarity. Old Gyalzen waved his white prayer shawl in the air: may good fortune go with him, may great Vishnu protect him.
No one suspected the truth. It occurred to no one that the decision might have its roots in hatred.
Philippe Auguste Bloy’s broken leg ached as did the deep cut he had sustained in one side. But even so he was falling asleep; the drowsiness brought on by the cold in the crevasse was stronger than pain, stronger than his will. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He could already feel the warmth that always precedes the gentle death of mountaineers.
He was lying down on the ice, absorbed in his private struggle, trying to distinguish the darkness of the crevasse from the darkness of sleep, and so he failed to notice the ropes thrown from above when they landed on his boots. Nor did he see the man who, having lowered himself down on them, was now kneeling beside him.
When the man shone the torch on him, Philippe Auguste Bloy sat up with a shout. The light had startled him.
Then he exclaimed: “Don’t shine the torch in my face, Tamng!” and smiled at his reaction. He felt safe.
He heard someone say: “It’s me, Mathias.” The voice sounded threatening.
Philippe Auguste tilted his head to one side to avoid the glare of the torch. But the beam followed his movement and continued to dazzle him.
“Why have you come?” he asked at last.
The deep voice of Mathias Reimz echoed around the crevasse. He spoke very slowly, like a man who is very tired.
“I want to talk to you as a friend, Phil. And what I have to tell you may seem ridiculous. But don’t laugh. Consider that before you is a man who has suffered greatly.”
Philippe Auguste put himself on guard. Behind that statement he heard the hiss of the serpent.
“Vera and I first met when we were very young,” Mathias went on. “We must have been about fifteen; in fact, she was fifteen and I was sixteen. And she wasn’t a pretty girl then. She was even rather ugly. Too tall for her age and very bony. But despite that I fell in love with her the moment I saw her. I remember I felt like crying and for a moment everything seemed bathed in violet light. That will seem odd to you, but it’s true, I saw everything that color. The sky was violet, the mountains were violet, and the rain was violet too. I don’t know, maybe falling in love changes the sensitivity of the eyes. And now it’s almost the same. The feelings I had when I was sixteen are still there. They didn’t even disappear when we got married and you know what they say about marriage putting an end to love. Well, not in my case. I’m still in love with her, I carry her always in my heart. And that’s how I managed to climb Dhaugaliri, because I was thinking about her, that’s the only reason.”
The silence that followed his words emphasized the solitude of the crevasse.
“We’ve never been to bed together, Math!” Philippe Auguste shouted suddenly. His words resounded around the four frozen walls.
Mathias gave a short laugh.
“I almost went crazy when they showed me your photos, Phil. Vera and you holding hands at the Ambassador Hotel in Munich on the sixteenth and seventeenth of March. Or at the Tivoli in Zurich on the tenth and eleventh of April. Or in Apartments Trummer in Geneva itself on the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth of May. And at Lake Villiers in Lausanne, for a whole week, just when I was preparing for this expedition.”
Philippe Auguste’s mouth went dry. The muscles in his face, grown stiff with cold, twitched.
“Math!” he cried, “you’re making too much out of things that have no importance whatsoever.”
But no one heard him. The single eye of the torch was staring pitilessly at him.
“I’ve had many doubts, Phil. I’m not a murderer. I felt really bad every time I thought about killing you. I was on the point of trying it in Kathmandu. And when we landed in Lukla. But those places are sacred to me, Phil, and I didn’t want to stain them with your blood. Now, though, the Mountain has judged you for me, and that’s why you’re here, because it has handed down its own sentence to you. Whether it will take away your life, I don’t know. You may live until morning and the rest of the group will rescue you. But I don’t think so, Phil. I have the feeling you’re going to stay in this crevasse forever. That’s why I came, so that you wouldn’t leave this world without knowing how much I hate you.”
“Get me out of here, Math!” Philippe Auguste’s bottom lip was trembling.
“It’s not up to me, Phil. As I said, the Mountain will decide.”
Philippe Auguste breathed deeply. He had to accept his fate.