The Steady Running of the Hour

by Justin Go

  I’d left Mireille for this. Before I left California I’d even lied to my own father about this trip. The only people I’d listened to were the lawyers and now I wasn’t even listening to them.

  I rise dripping from the pool and push through the glass doors, sprinting barefoot toward a hot tub. The air is freezing. I plunge into the churning water, floating on my back as I watch the steam lift toward the stars. A few minutes later the jets switch off of their own accord. Above the swirling vapor there is a curtain of shifting blue-green light in the sky.

  —The northern lights.

  The water laps around me, half of my body freezing and half scalded. I wonder if the lights are pointing in any particular direction.

  Later in the night I walk downtown, swigging gin and tonic I’ve mixed in a soda bottle. I climb the main shopping street among crowds of young people, picking out a well-dressed group as they turn onto a side street. They go into a ramshackle bar decorated with Christmas lights and painted palm trees. The electric sign says SIRKUS. I follow them in.

  It’s after eleven and there are only a few people inside. Everyone is dipping glasses of punch from a huge bowl on the bar. I dip myself a glass and sit down. A girl with a doll-like face passes by me and suddenly glances back as if she recognizes me. She’s holding someone’s hand and she steadies herself with great effort. The girl stares at me and says something in Icelandic. I tell her I don’t speak the language.

  —You’re drinking my punch, she says.

  —I’m sorry. I didn’t know.

  —This is my party, but I don’t know you.

  —I’m very sorry.

  The girl shakes her head slowly, leaning in toward me with a breathy whisper.

  —It’s my birthday, she confesses. Drink up.

  The girl walks on with her companion. They open an unmarked door and disappear inside. I take a sip of punch. It’s strong and must have plenty of rum, but it tastes good.

  A strange thickness builds in my throat until I begin to feel queasy. I must have drunk the gin too quickly. I go into the bathroom, but as I walk to the toilet stall I glimpse an intruder in the mirror. But I’m the intruder. I lean toward the mirror running my hand along my face, not believing it’s my own. My eyes seem wider than I’d imagined, my nose thinner and more pointed. I turn from the mirror and go into the toilet stall, sitting down for a few minutes. But it only makes me feel sicker. Finally I bend over the toilet and throw up, heaving out the whole contents of my stomach. I flush the toilet and sit back down, leaning against the cold metal walls of the stall. My eyes are shut, my head dense with muddled images.

  A damp cellar near Polygon Wood in 1917, with no fire and the soldiers wrapping wet socks around their necks to dry; the dark purple wallpaper of the Picardie bedroom, Mireille lying in the blackness with her grey eyes open, listening to my footsteps up and down the hallway; a candle lantern swinging in a snowbound tent on Everest, mittened fingers struggling to write on pages propped over the knees, the pencil skating across the paper; the blood-red house at Leksand, the tin of letters wrapped in paper and addressed to England but never sent; the lapping black water of the Eastfjords, two hundred and fifty miles away, a shuttered window beside the waves.

  There’s a pounding on the stall door. I rise slowly and wipe my face with toilet paper, unlatching the door. The bathroom is packed elbow to elbow with young men. Someone calls at me in Icelandic. Another person taps my shoulder, but I ignore them and walk out.

  The bar is packed now, the air hot and steamy. I check my watch: 2:14. I’ve slept for two hours. I edge my way upstairs, taking the last empty seat on a couch beside a young couple. They smile at me and move their coats so I can sit. I light a cigarillo. Moments pass and the young man beside me taps me on the shoulder, speaking in Icelandic first, then in English.

  —Are you all right?

  —Yeah.

  —You were sleeping.

  —I guess I drank too much.

  —That’s OK, he says. So does everyone else.

  The cigarillo is still lit. I take another drag. My eyes begin to close again, but I sit up straight and try to stay awake. I think about what Mireille said, of what I’m losing by going on with this. It’s more than just her, because I can’t imagine going back to my old life in California. But I’m also tired of this life.

  I’m sick of traveling. I’m sick of searching, sick of questions I can’t answer, sick of disappointing Mireille and disappointing Prichard, sick of eating bread and cheese from my backpack and filling water bottles in public restrooms, sick of counting foreign coins, sick of war and dead lovers and the billion cruelties of the past that never, ever could be set right, not by a thousand of me circling Europe for a thousand years.

  I collect my coat and go out into the cold. It’s a long walk back to the hostel.

  15 May 1924

  Rongbuk Monastery, 16,700 feet

  Rongbuk Valley, Tibet

  The expedition has been beaten off the mountain by terrible weather, forced to retreat into the Rongbuk Valley below. They have come to seek the blessing of holy men. They carry gold brocade and a wristwatch for gifts. The true present, the yakload of cement, had been delivered a fortnight before.

  They trail past a great stone chorten, its golden paint flaking off in the wind; they file in silence beneath a web of flapping prayer flags, approaching the low whitewashed rooms of the monastery.

  The battered men stand in the open court: British, Gurkhas, Sherpas, Bhotias. Climbers, noncommissioned officers, porters, syces, muleteers, cooks, a lone cobbler. Seventy men. In grimed palms they clasp a pair of rupee coins as offerings, rationed out an hour before from the expedition’s oaken coffers.

  A monk leads the British and their interpreter up a narrow staircase. Unseen trumpets begin a ceaseless drone. The deep note continues without interruption: as one trumpeter exhausts his breath, another begins to blow. The nails of the climbers’ boots skid on the stone steps. Cymbals clash in time, marking the intervals. At first the British can see nothing in the dark, then a few rays of window light upon the worn steps.

  —Some of those trumpets, Noel remarks, are made of human thighbones. They’ve drums made of skulls, with human skin on top.

  Ashley peers through a window to a man braying a trumpet on a landing below.

  —Looks like brass to me, he whispers hoarsely.

  They enter a cramped dining room lit only by a few butter lamps. Amid the blackness they make out an array of small dishes set on a low table. The British sit awkwardly upon cushions on the floor.

  —What is it? Mills says. I can’t see.

  —Macaroni and spices, the colonel says. What else?

  The British eat with lacquered chopsticks, the monks replenishing the empty bowls. The colonel glances at Ashley’s bowl, shaking his head.

  —A bowl and a half, the colonel says. You’ll spark a riot. The head lama has been dressing and preparing for two days.

  —How many have you had?

  —Three, the colonel says. And I’m cooked.

  Ashley lays his chopsticks across his bowl. His right leg has fallen asleep and he struggles to find a better posture.

  —What’s the lama like?

  —Damned impressive fellow, Noel says. Supposed to be the reincarnation of a god. Spent thirteen years in one of those hermit’s cells in the valley.

  Mills lifts his chopsticks to the hovering shaft of light. The red lacquer is chipping at the ends, the wood mottled with indentations.

  —Tooth marks, Mills murmurs.

  —They’re probably older than you, Noel says.

  Noel is on his seventh bowl. He grins and keeps eating.

  The British file into the small chamber. A low ceiling; the scent of juniper smoldering in an urn. Monks sit on benches beneath huge bronze effigies, blowing horns and pounding drums. A pair of monks hold taut a piece of silk, screening something behind. The interpreter presses his face to the floor in reverence. The English stand silent,
clutching their hats by the brim. No one speaks.

  Slowly the monks lower the screen. A figure is revealed, fixed in Buddha posture and clad in rich silk gowns, the visage staring past. The trumpets drone on. The face is golden, expressionless, beautiful. The lama perceives the British, but does not react to them. No one speaks.

  The screen is raised, the figure obscured once more. The trumpets cease. The British look at one another, bowing awkwardly to no one in particular. They file out of the room.

  Now they all feast. The porters drink chang and buttered tea and further bowls of noodles. The British hate the tea and claim the yak butter is rancid, but they gulp it down before the monks’ eyes.

  Ashley is sweating even as his body feels chilled. He excuses himself, navigating a maze of corridors and small chambers until he passes through the front gate into the bright sun. A syce leans against the outer wall, standing vigil over the mules and swinging a whip of yak wool in the wind. He extends his tongue in greeting.

  Ashley sits down on a crumbling half-wall, his stomach churning. A few minutes later Somervell emerges from the monastery with a cheerful gait, his hands in his pockets, his scarf flapping wildly.

  —Something disagrees with you?

  Ashley glances up at Somervell.

  —That wretched tea. I don’t mind the macaroni, but the stench of that rancid butter makes me sick. And I drank a whole cup, God knows why.

  Somervell nods. —Perhaps you’d as well get it out.

  Ashley unwinds his muffler, walking a few yards to a cluster of dusty rocks. He bends over and lets the tea come out of him onto the stones. He returns to his seat on the wall.

  —Blast, Ashley says. Have you got a handkerchief? My last was nicked—

  Somervell hands him a handkerchief and Ashley wipes his mouth.

  —We ought to have given them handkerchiefs, Ashley says. More useful than brocade.

  Somervell rests his hand on Ashley’s shoulder.

  —Let me have a look at you. Your face has gone raw.

  —No worse than anyone else’s.

  —Doctor’s orders. Indulge me.

  Reluctantly Ashley lifts his face to Somervell. His skin is broken and scaled, the color going from pink to red to white.

  —Have you shown Hingston?

  —No.

  —Naughty boy. How does it feel?

  Ashley coughs. —Perfect bliss.

  —What have you been putting on it?

  —The glacier cream. But it runs off in the sun.

  —Use the Sechehaye. It’s a firmer compound. Been greasing your face at night?

  —Yes sir.

  Somervell leans back. —Fair enough. Keep it greased. And out of the sun when possible.

  Ashley wraps his muffler around his throat. Somervell squints at him.

  —Your voice is getting worse.

  —Wasn’t any good to begin with.

  —How’s that cough of yours?

  —Not too bad.

  —It sounds ghastly.

  Ashley wipes his face again and folds the handkerchief neatly into a square.

  —No worse than yours.

  —My cough is wretched, Somervell says. But you’ve a precondition. Weren’t you wounded in the throat?

  —That, Ashley says, was in the war. This is a climbing holiday.

  —You may have frostbitten the lining of your throat. It could block up and strangle you. If the cough worsens, you must tell Hingston. The colonel too. It’s not only for your sake.

  Somervell strokes his beard thoughtfully.

  —You push yourself too hard, Walsingham. You’re very strong, but no one’s that strong. It’s none of my business, but you can’t forever be taking up someone else’s slack to impress the colonel, or trying to better Price at every turn. The weather this season has been appalling, and what’s worse is that we can’t predict it. Sometimes on Everest you simply must turn back. You and Price each make splendid climbing partners, but I worry what you might try together—

  —It doesn’t matter, Ashley counters. Even if the colonel puts me in one of the summit parties, it wouldn’t be with Hugh.

  —He’ll put you in. I believe you’ve won the colonel over. He thinks you’re mad, mind you, but he knows you’re damned fit and keen as mustard. I’d wager the first party will be the colonel and me with the gas, the second party you and Price without. We’re to be the capable pair, you two will be the irresistible force. Any idea what the immovable object is?

  Somervell shakes his head.

  —I don’t like this funny weather, he continues, it’s worse than ominous. We ought to have packed it in yesterday, but no one wants to sulk back to England as failures a third time. And no one wants to have to come here again. The colonel worries what the press will say, what the committee will say. Everyone expects us to triumph, though they don’t know a damned thing about it. Price needs to climb the mountain so he can do his lecture tours, and besides, he must get past Everest before it ruins him. So they need the summit. But I can’t see why you should risk your neck in the same way. Do you follow me?

  —Certainly.

  —Of course, you’ll do your duty and more, Somervell adds. All I’m saying is don’t let Hugh lead you further than you think you should go. Everest will always be here, she’s been here millions of years. This may not be the year. For God’s sake, it may not even be possible to climb her.

  Ashley looks at Somervell. He extends the soiled cloth to him.

  —Want your handkerchief back?

  Somervell grins. —Clever fellow. Keep it.

  The British are seated on a bench, spectators to a troupe of writhing dancers. Ashley follows the huge grinning masks of the dancers with grim fascination, understanding nothing of the ritual. Noel runs his cine camera; Somervell takes notes of the percussive music on a sheaf of staff paper brought from England. The performance ends and Ashley and Price help Noel pack his camera equipment into cases. Noel puts his hands on Ashley’s and Price’s shoulders.

  —There’s something I have to show you chaps.

  Noel fetches the expedition’s interpreter and they follow an ancient lama through a series of windswept hallways. In a dark passage the lama halts along an inner wall and gestures. Noel kneels beside him.

  —It’s new. Done since the last expedition.

  The lama speaks to the British in a grave voice. Ashley squats beside the painting, making out the great pyramid of Everest, the plume of cloud and ice streaming past its pinnacle. A fallen white man lies below the peak, speared by some mysterious object. The figure is surrounded by demons and barking dogs, by lions and wild men. Ashley turns to the interpreter.

  —What is he saying?

  The interpreter clutches his dusty bowler hat. He translates in a tentative voice, barely audible over the animated words of the lama.

  —The holy lama says you have come to violate the goddess mountain. But the mountain will destroy you.

  The lama keeps speaking. The interpreter lowers his eyes into his hat.

  —The holy lama says the mountain is very strong. She can take men as she pleases.

  Ashley looks back at the fresco. The lions are painted the same color as the snow. The lama is waving at the image of the fallen European, his voice forceful.

  —Go on, Ashley says.

  —The mountain has forced you back before. She shall force you back again. The mountain can open her sides and swallow men. Against her you are powerless.

  Price shakes his head. —They said the same thing last time.

  Ashley looks at the lama. Only a few teeth remain in his mouth. His shoulder and arm are bare to the elements, the skin sooted from the smoke of dung fires. He stares back at Ashley without flinching.

  —The holy lama asks you something. He asks why you suffer and let others suffer for this pointless thing.

  Noel nods to the interpreter. —Tell him we’re on a pilgrimage. We’ve come to the world’s highest mountain to be closer to heaven. To be
as close to heaven as we can in this life.

  Noel comes to his feet grinning.

  —Tell the lama I’m fasting and I’ve given up yak butter until we reach the summit. It’s my sacrifice for the pilgrimage.

  The interpreter finishes translating. No one speaks. Suddenly the lama bows his head, a lone tooth emerging from his smile. He continues down the corridor, Noel and the interpreter following behind.

  Price and Ashley linger beside the fresco, Price kneeling in the dirt. He drags a match tip against the rough wall, holding the flame against the mountain’s summit.

  —It’s strange, Price says. The picture’s reversed.

  Ashley nods and stands up.

  —Probably the colonel wants us back—

  Price runs the match along the painted ridge.

  —Don’t you see? Those are the steps on the ridge. But they’re on the wrong side.

  —You’re right, Ashley says. But let’s be off.

  Price shakes the match out and drops it into the dust. He follows Ashley down the dim corridor.

  —It isn’t pointless, Price whispers.

  THE RING ROAD

  I’m up before dawn in the hostel dormitory, packing my backpack as quietly as I can. It’s Tuesday and the estate will pass on Thursday; I can’t stay in Reykjavík any longer. I know my leads are worthless: the jeweler Ísleifur Sæmundsson who was born in Seyðisfjörður, the nineteen-year-old Charlotte Derby listed on a steamer bound for Eskifjörður. But both those towns are in the Eastfjords and I’d rather go after something than nothing at all.

  A young Norwegian snores on the bunk above me. I wrap my spare clothes protectively around the folder holding the letters, then stuff my sleeping bag and books and toiletries into the backpack, cramming a plastic bag of food into the top.

  Outside at the bus stop I wait for a long time. When the bus finally arrives I take a window seat, riding among sober commuters half-dozing or reading the newspaper. We travel north toward the suburbs, passing bright red and yellow houses with shining steel roofs. The clouds to the east are burning off with the rising sun.