by Anthology
I did not need work. I did not need money. I had no particular interest in New York, and a transatlantic telephone call to John Kenyon Martindale revealed only that he was out of town until June 5th. Why would I bother with him? It is easy to forget what killed the cat.
The limousine that met me at Kennedy Airport drove to a stone mansion on the East River, with a garden that went right down to the water’s edge. An old woman with the nose, chin, and hairy moles of a storybook witch opened the door. She took me upstairs to the fourth floor, while my baggage disappeared under the house with the limousine.
The mansion was amazingly quiet. The elevator made no noise at all, and when we stepped out of it the deeply carpeted floors of the corridor were matched by walls thick with oriental tapestries. I was not used to so much silence. When I was ushered into a long, shadowed conservatory filled with flowering plants and found myself in the presence of a man and woman, I wanted to shout. Instead I stared.
Shirley Martindale was a brunette, with black hair, thick eyebrows, and a flawless, creamy skin. She was no more than five feet three, but full-figured and strongly built. In normal company she would have been a center of attention; with John Kenyon Martindale present, she was ignored.
He was of medium height and slender build, with a wide, smiling mouth. His hair was thin and wheat-colored, combed straight back from his face. Any other expression he might have had was invisible. From an inch below his eyes to two inches above them, a flat, black shield extended across his whole face. Within that curved strip of darkness colored shadows moved, little darting points and glints of light that flared red and green and electric blue. They were hypnotic, moving in patterns that could be followed but never quite predicted, and they drew and held the attention. They were so striking that it took me a few moments to realize that John Kenyon Martindale must be blind.
He did not act like a person without sight. When I came into the room he at once came forward and confidently shook my hand. His grip was firm, and surprisingly strong for so slight a man.
“A long trip,” he said, when the introductions were complete. “May I offer a little refreshment?”
Although the witch was still standing in the room, waiting, he mixed the drinks himself, cracking ice, selecting bottles, and pouring the correct measures slowly but without error. When he handed a glass to me and smilingly said “There! How’s that?” I glanced at Shirley Martindale and replied, “It’s fine; but before we start the toasts I’d like to learn what we are toasting. Why am I here?”
“No messing about, eh? You are very direct. Very Swiss—even though you are not one.” He turned his head to his wife, and the little lights twinkled behind the black mask.
“What did I tell you, Shirley? This is the man.” And then to me. “You are here to make a million dollars. Is that enough reason?”
“No. Mr. Martindale, it is not. It was not money that brought me here. I have enough money.”
“Then perhaps you are here to become a Swiss citizen. Is that a better offer?”
“Yes. If you can pay in advance.” Already I had an idea what John Martindale wanted of me. I am not psychic, but I can read and see. The inner wall of the conservatory was papered with maps of South America.
“Let us say, I will pay half in advance. You will receive five hundred thousand dollars in your account before we leave. The remainder, and the Swiss citizenship papers, will be waiting when we return from Patagonia.”
“We? Who are ‘we’ ?”
“You and I. Other guides if you need them. We will be going through difficult country, though I understand that you know it better than anyone.”
I looked at Shirley Martindale, and she shook her head decisively. “Not me, Klaus.
Not for one million dollars, not for ten million dollars. This is all John’s baby.”
“Then my answer must be no.” I sipped the best pisco sour I had tasted since I was last in Peru, and wondered where he had learned the technique. “Mr. Martindale, I retired four years ago to Switzerland. Since then I have not set foot in Argentina, even though I still carry those citizenship papers. If you want someone to lead you through the echter Rand of Patagonia, there must now be a dozen others more qualified than I.
But that is beside the point. Even when I was in my best condition, even when I was so young and cocky that I thought nothing could kill me or touch me—even then I would have refused to lead a blind man to the high places that you display on your walls. With your wife’s presence and her assistance to you for personal matters, it might barely be possible. Without her—have you any idea at all what conditions are like there?”
“Better than most people.” He leaned forward. “Mr. Jacobi, let us perform a little test.
Take something from your pocket, and hold it up in front of you. Something that should be completely unfamiliar to me.”
I hate games, and this smacked of one; but there was something infinitely persuasive about that thin, smiling man. What did I have in my pocket? I reached in, felt my wallet, and slipped out a photograph. I did not look at it, and I was not sure myself what I had selected. I held it between thumb and forefinger, a few feet away from Martindale’s intent face.
“Hold it very steady,” he said. Then, while the points of light twinkled and shivered,
“It is a picture, a photograph of a woman. It is your assistant, Helga Korein. Correct?”
I turned it to me. It was a portrait of Helga, smiling into the camera. “You apparently know far more about me than I know of you. However, you are not quite correct. It is a picture of my wife, Helga Jacobi. I married her four years ago, when I retired. You are not blind?”
“Legally, I am completely blind and have been since my twenty-second year, when I was foolish enough to drive a racing car into a retaining wall.” Martindale tapped the black shield. “Without this, I can see nothing. With it, I am neither blind nor seeing. I receive charge-coupled diode inputs directly to my optic nerves, and I interpret them. I see neither at the wavelengths nor with the resolution provided by the human eye, nor is what I reconstruct anything like the images that I remember from the time before I became blind; but I see. On another occasion I will be happy to tell you all that I know about the technology. What you need to know tonight is that I will be able to pull my own weight on any journey. I can give you that assurance. And now I ask again: will you do it?”
It was, of course, curiosity that killed the cat. Martindale had given me almost no information as to where he wanted to go, or when, or why. But something was driving John Martindale, and I wanted to hear what it was.
I nodded my head, convinced now that he would see my movement. “We certainly need to talk in detail; but for the moment let us use that fine old legal phrase, and say there is agreement in principle.”
There is agreement in principle. With that sentence, I destroyed my life.
Shirley Martindale came to my room that night. I was not surprised. John Martindale’s surrogate vision was a miracle of technology, but it had certain limitations. The device could not resolve the fleeting look in a woman’s eye, or the millimeter jut to a lower lip.
I had caught the signal in the first minute.
We did not speak until it was done and we were lying side by side in my bed. I knew it was not finished. She had not relaxed against me. I waited. “There is more than he told you,” she said at last.
I nodded. “There is always more. But he was quite right about that place. I have felt it myself, many times.”
As South America narrows from the great equatorial swell of the Amazon Basin, the land becomes colder and more broken. The great spine of the Andean cordillera loses height as one travels south. Ranges that tower to twenty-three thousand feet in the tropics dwindle to a modest twelve thousand. The land is shared between Argentina and Chile, and along their border, beginning with the chill depths of Lago Buenos Aires (sixty miles long, ten miles wide; bigger than anything in Switzerland), a great chain of mountain lak
es straddles the frontier, all the way south to Tierra del Fuego and the flowering Chilean city of Punta Arenas.
For fourteen years, the Argentina—Chile borderland between latitude 46 and 50 South had been my home, roughly from Lago Buenos Aires to Lago Argentina. It had become closer to me than any human, closer even than Helga. The east side of the Andes in this region is a bitter, parched desert, where gale-force winds blow incessantly three hundred and sixty days of the year. They come from the snowbound slopes of the mountains, freezing whatever they touch. I knew the country and I loved it, but Helga had persuaded me that it was not a land to which a man could retire. The buffeting wind was an endless drain, too much for old blood. Better, she said, to leave in early middle age, when a life elsewhere could still be shaped.
When the time came for us to board the aircraft that would take me away to Buenos Aires and then to Europe, I wanted to throw away my ticket. I am not a sentimental man, but only Helga’s presence allowed me to leave the Kingdom of the Winds.
Now John Martindale was tempting me to return there, with more than money. At one end of his conservatory-study stood a massive globe, about six feet across. Presumably it dated from the time before he had acquired his artificial eyes, because it differed from all other globes I had ever seen in one important respect; namely, it was a relief globe.
Oceans were all smooth surface, while mountain ranges of the world stood out from the surface of the flattened sphere. The degree of relief had been exaggerated, but everything was in proportion. Himalayan and Karakoram ranges projected a few tenths of an inch more than the Rockies and the Andes, and they in turn were a little higher than the Alps or the volcanic ranges of Indonesia.
When my drink was finished Martindale had walked me across to that globe. He ran his finger down the backbone of the Americas, following the continuous mountain chains from their beginning in Alaska, through the American Rockies, through Central America, and on to the rising Andes and northern Chile. When he finally came to Patagonia his fingers slowed and stopped.
“Here,” he said. “It begins here.”
His fingertip was resting on an area very familiar to me. It was right on the Argentina—Chile border, with another of the cold mountain lakes at the center of it. I knew the lake as Lago Pueyrredon, but as usual with bodies of water that straddle the border there was a different name—Lago Cochrane—in use on the Chilean side. The little town of Paso Roballo, where I had spent a dozen nights in a dozen years, lay just to the northeast.
If I closed my eyes I could see the whole landscape that lay beneath his finger. To the east it was dry and dusty, sustaining only thornbush and tough grasses on the dark surface of old volcanic flows; westward were the tall flowering grasses and the thicketed forests of redwood, cypress, and Antarctic beech. Even in the springtime of late November there would be snow on the higher ground, with snow-fed lake waters lying black as jet under a Prussian-blue sky.
I could see all this, but it seemed impossible that John Martindale could do so. His blind skull must hold a different vision.
“What begins here?” I asked, and wondered again how much he could receive through those arrays of inorganic crystal.
“The anomalies. This region has weather patterns that defy all logic and all models.”
“I agree with that, from personal experience. That area has the most curious pattern of winds of any place in the world.” It had been a long flight and a long day, and by this time I was feeling a little weary. I was ready to defer discussion of the weather until tomorrow, and I wanted time to reflect on our “agreement in principle.” I continued,
“However, I do not see why those winds should interest you.”
“I am a meteorologist. Now wait a moment.” His sensor array must have caught something of my expression. “Do not jump to a wrong conclusion. Mine is a perfect profession for a blind man. Who can see the weather? I was ten times as sensitive as a sighted person to winds, to warmth, to changes in humidity and barometric pressure.
What I could not see was cloud formations, and those are consequences rather than causes. I could deduce their appearance from other variables. Eight years ago I began to develop my own computer models of weather patterns, analyzing the interaction of snow, winds, and topography. Five years ago I believed that my method was completely general, and completely accurate. Then I studied the Andean system; and in one area—
only one—it failed.” He tapped the globe. “Here. Here there are winds with no sustaining source of energy. I can define a circulation pattern and locate a vortex, but I cannot account for its existence.”
“The area you show is known locally as the Kingdom of the Winds.”
“I know. I want to go there.”
And so did I.
When he spoke I felt a great longing to return, to see again the altiplano of the eastern Andean slopes and hear the banshee music of the western wind. It was all behind me. I had sworn to myself that Argentina existed only in my past, that the Patagonian spell was broken forever. John Martindale was giving me a million dollars and Swiss citizenship, but more than that he was giving me an excuse. For four years I had been unconsciously searching for one.
I held out my glass. “I think, Mr. Martindale, that I would like another drink.”
Or two. Or three.
Shirley Martindale was moving by my side now, running her hand restlessly along my arm. “There is more. He wants to understand the winds, but there is more. He hopes to find Trapalanda.”
She did not ask me if I had heard of it. No one who spends more than a week in central Patagonia can be ignorant of Trapalanda. For three hundred years, explorers have searched for the “City of the Caesars,” Trapalanda, the Patagonian version of El Dorado. Rumor and speculation said that Trapalanda would be found at about 47 degrees South, at the same latitude as Paso Roballo. Its fabled treasure-houses of gold and gemstones had drawn hundreds of men to their death in the high Andes. People did not come back, and say, “I sought Trapalanda, and I failed to find it.” They did not come back at all. I was an exception.
“I am disappointed,” I said. “I had thought your husband to be a wiser man.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone wants to find Trapalanda. Four years of my life went into the search for it, and I had the best equipment and the best knowledge. I told your husband that there were a dozen better guides, but I was lying. I know that country better than any man alive. He is certain to fail.”
“He believes that he has special knowledge. And you are going to do it. You are going to take him there. For Trapalanda.”
She knew better than I. Until she spoke, I did not know what I would do. But she was right. Forget the “agreement in principle.” I would go.
“You want me to do it, don’t you?” I said. “But I do not understand your reasons. You are married to a very wealthy man. He seems to have as much money as he can ever spend.”
“John is curious, always curious. He is like a little boy. He is not doing this for money. He does not care about money.”
She had not answered my implied question. I had never asked for John Kenyon Martindale’s motives, I had been looking for her reasons why he should go. Then it occurred to me that her presence, here in my bed, told me all I needed to know. He would go to the Kingdom of the Winds. If he found what he was looking for, it would bring enormous wealth. Should he fail to return, Shirley Martindale would be a free and very wealthy widow.
“Sex with your husband is not good?” I asked.
“What do you think? I am here, am I not?” Then she relented. “It is worse than not good, it is terrible. It is as bad with him as it is exciting with you. John is a gentle, thoughtful man, but I need someone who takes me and does not ask or explain. You are a strong man, and I suspect that you are a cold, selfish man. Since we have been together, you have not once spoken my name, or said a single word of affection. You do not feel it is necessary to pretend to commitments. And you are sexist. I n
oticed John’s reaction when you said, ‘I married Helga.’ He would always say it differently, perhaps
‘Shirley and I got married.’ ” Her hands moved from my arm, and were touching me more intimately. She sighed. “I do not mind your attitude. What John finds hard to stand, I need. You saw what you did to me here, without one word. You make me shiver.”
I turned to bring our bodies into full contact. “And John?” I said. “Why did he marry you?” There was no need to ask why she had married him.
“What do you think,” she said. “Was it my wit, my looks, my charm? Give me your hand.” She gently moved my fingers along her face and breasts. “It was five years ago.
John was still blind. We met, and when we said good night he felt my cheek.” Her voice was bitter. “He married me for my pelt.”
The texture was astonishing. I could feel no roughness, no blemish, not even the most delicate of hairs. Shirley Martindale had the warm, flawless skin of a six-month-old baby. It was growing warm under my touch.
Before we began she raised herself high above me, propping herself on straight arms.
“Helga. What is she like? I cannot imagine her.”
“You will see,” I said. “Tomorrow I will telephone Lausanne and tell her to come to New York. She will go with us to Trapalanda.”
Trapalanda. Had I said that? I was very tired, I had meant to say Patagonia.
I reached up to touch her breasts. “No talk now,” I said. “No more talk.” Her eyes were as black as jet, as dark as mountain lakes. I dived into their depths.
Shirley Martindale did not meet Helga; not in New York, not anywhere, not ever. John Kenyon Martindale made his position clear to me the next morning as we walked together around the seventh floor library. “I won’t allow her to stay in this house,” he said. “It’s not for my sake or yours, and certainly not for Shirley’s. It is for her sake. I know how Shirley would treat her.”