Adam's Peak

by Heather Burt

  His thoughts now far away from the valley before him, Alec imagined a third Ernie, a secret one, taking up residence in his home, joining the Tea Maker’s fantasy Ernie and the Ernie who painted pictures and occasionally took his brother on drives into town. It couldn’t work, surely. For even if this new Ernie were a decent chap—and such a thing was clearly impossible—the house would be too crowded.

  Alec drained his coconut, and the fruit vendor came over to slice the shell in half. Alec took the halves and scraped the pulp from the inside using a wedge of shell hacked off by the man. When he’d finished eating, he pitched the coconut husks, one at a time, as hard as he could, down into the valley. Then he slumped back against the tree and stared out again at the vast sea of green. He would stay there forever, he thought—or at least a very long time. He would make everyone back home frantic with worry—even the P.D., but especially Ernie, who would have a guilty conscience to begin with and would promise to renounce his sins if only Alec could be found. But within minutes he was restless and his backside was sore. He was still miles from Nuwara Eliya—impossible to get there and back before dinner. And besides, there would be nothing to do in town by himself.

  Sullenly he stood up, brushed the dirt from his trousers, and set off down the road. He’d walked several yards when the enemy fruit vendor called to him, and Alec turned, just in time to catch a fat rambutan, drilled at him with terrific accuracy. He looked up, confused, impressed, and a little frightened.

  “Good catch!” the fruit vendor called.

  Alec hesitated, then called back, “Nandri!”—unsure in his confusion whether he’d thanked the man in Sinhala or Tamil.

  As he walked, he examined the rambutan. It was like a sea urchin, pale green spines sprouting from its thick, pink skin. Alec pierced the skin with his thumbnail and tore it away from the pearly fruit, which plopped into his hand, firm and round as a hard-boiled egg. He’d eaten hundreds of these things before, but, just as he had ignored the spectacular beauty of the valley, so too, he realized, had he failed to appreciate the extraordinary weirdness of the rambutan. The whole world, now that he thought about it, was weird and unpredictable. He tossed away the rambutan’s empty skin and bit into the fruit. Along with the sweet flesh were tenacious fragments of the woody seed, which marred the fruit’s texture, but not enough to make him spit it out.

  12

  FRIDAY MORNING, on the train, Clare studied the thick, glossy travel booklets she’d collected Thursday during her lunch break. The books described tours to various parts of the world, and each featured a page or two of itineraries with names like “Coconuts, Tea, and Kandy” and “Exploring Buddha’s Island.” Unlike her father’s dated atlas, the books had photos—images carefully selected to seduce, no doubt, but irrefutably real nonetheless. The pictures gave substance to her fuzzy imaginings, and she savoured them as her city-bound train chugged through the flat west-island landscape. She placed herself in these improved scenes, and the person she saw, strolling breezily in sandals and a bright pink sarong, chestnut hair tied in a loose knot under a wide-brimmed hat, seemed an ideal of Clare Fraser.

  At work, she tried to be more practical. Hovering in the guitar section while a teenage boy tested one Fender after another, she forced herself to confront those features of her project that would, sooner or later, threaten to scare her off. She wasn’t afraid for her safety. Sri Lanka’s political strife was distant and unreal. Her real fear was of regular people, and the necessity of confronting those people every day, relying on them for basic necessities. She could imagine what Emma would say—not the real Emma, perhaps, but certainly the other one: You deal with strangers every time you come to work, Clare. Not very well, mind you, but you manage. Horrible things aren’t going to happen just because you’ve left home. You could—

  But before she could finish, Adam’s voice interrupted. You could be walking down the Boulevard tomorrow and be hit by a truck, he said, clearly delighted with the irony of his remark. Then he became serious, kind. You don’t need to worry. I’ll be there with you.

  She allowed him to reassure her. To tell her that people would be friendly and helpful, that neither she nor her luggage would get lost, that toilets would be plentiful and easy to locate, and that she’d come down with nothing more debilitating than a cold. Satisfied for the moment, she turned her attention to her customer, who’d run into difficulty.

  “Try an E flat,” she said, and the boy’s body relaxed visibly as his song lurched ahead.

  At the start of her lunch break, she walked to the passport office to pick up an application. On the way back, she stopped at a photography studio, and a dark-haired man with a thick mustache and a heavy accent took her photo. Peering through the viewfinder and gesturing with his enormous hands, he directed her to move a little to the right, to lift her chin, to sit tall. As he dried the prints with a hair dryer, he nodded, satisfied. “Very nice,” he said. “Very beautiful.” Clare smiled awkwardly, but as she walked back to work, she told herself that perhaps travel could be that easy, and her step quickened with the sensation that her trip had already started.

  After lunch, when business was slow and Markus was in his office doing paperwork, she sat at the front counter and began filling out the application. The form gave her a queer, almost joyful, confidence. Inside the designated boxes, she supplied the first few facts—FRASER; CLARE JEAN; 14 • 03 • 1965; MONTREAL—delighted both with the certainty of the bold block letters and numbers and with her government’s willingness to be satisfied with such a primitive account of who she was.

  She was in the process of converting her height to centimetres when Peter slipped behind the counter. He rested his forearms on the glass and ran his silver tongue stud across his teeth a few times.

  “Whatcha doing?”

  Clare folded the application. “I thought I’d see if anything needs reordering in the books.”

  Peter jutted his chin in the direction of the form. “Is that for a passport?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Are you going away again?”

  Clare bit her bottom lip. She glanced in the direction of Markus’s office, and when Peter leaned in, she said, “I think so.”

  “That’s great. Where to?”

  “Sri Lanka.”

  Peter raised his eyebrows. “Très cool. Do you know anyone there?”

  “Sort of. Yeah. I’ll be going with a friend who’s from there.”

  Again Peter’s tongue clicked over his teeth. “Hey, that’s kind of a coincidence. I think I heard something on the radio this morning about Sri Lanka. I missed most of it, but it sounded like there was drama of some kind. Know anything about it?”

  Clare shrugged. “I haven’t heard anything.”

  “You should ask your friend.”

  A woman entered the store, and Peter drifted off to help her. Clare tapped the edge of the folded passport application against the counter. She really did need to speak to the Vantwests—for information, yes, but more importantly for their approval. She went to the staff room to put away the application and for the rest of the afternoon flipped distractedly through racks of songbooks, searching for a reasonable excuse to show up at Adam’s house once again.

  By the time she’d resigned herself to the frightening necessity of simply going across the street and presenting her plan outright, her shift was almost over. She completed the order form she’d been working on, then, charging herself to go straight to the Vantwests’ from work, she collected her things from the staff room and left.

  Stepping off the train, she was still determined. She walked purposefully from the station, rehearsing her lines. She would tell Mr. Vantwest and his sister that Adam had inspired her plan, that she’d been wanting to travel and he had given her a direction. Which was true, in a sense. But as she veered off Whitmore Drive onto Morgan Hill Road, the pattern of her existence tightened around her, holding her back. She looked down at the pavement and urged herself on, but when she reached the
foot of the Vantwests’ driveway and lifted her eyes to their sad, solemn house her determination failed, and she hurried to her own front door, suddenly afraid that her moment of hesitation had been noticed.

  Inside, her mother was checking her reflection in the hallway mirror, fluffing her hair and pressing her lips together.

  “I’m just off to the shops,” Isobel announced. “You haven’t by chance seen Ray Skinner’s measuring tape, have you? Joanne thought he might have left it here when he was helping us move the furniture.”

  Clare sighed and shook her head. She started heavily up the stairs, the same chorus of anonymous voices that had warned her against the motorcycle ride now attacking her fears. In a feeble show of persistence, she paused halfway and turned back to her mother.

  “Has Joanne heard anything more about Adam?” she said.

  If there were good news, she would go across the street.

  “She didn’t mention anything.” Isobel slid her spring coat out of the dry cleaner’s wrapping. “But, you know, I’ve been thinking. It was lovely of Mr. Vantwest to invite us for dinner, but before we do that, I’d like to have him and Mary over here. It would be a nice break for them. Maybe next week sometime, after the painting’s done and the new furniture’s in.”

  Clare considered this while her mother scrutinized her coat under the vestibule light. Presenting her travel plans in her own house, with her mother listening, would be too awkward, surely. She wasn’t even certain she would want to take part in this neighbourly get-together, whose primary purpose would be to christen the new living room furniture. But still ...

  Slowly she climbed two more stairs then turned again. “I’ll go over and invite them if you like.”

  Isobel looked up. “I suppose you could do that, pet. I was thinking I’d give them a call later on, but an invitation in person might be nicer. Should we suggest a date?”

  “Tuesday?”

  Minutes later, from the window of her studio, Clare watched the Oldsmobile reverse into Morgan Hill Road. She needed to leave before her mother returned, but she went first to the piano and sat down. With mounting confidence, she played her conversation with the Vantwests. The greeting—quick and light, a little Baroque. How are you? I hope I’m not interrupting. The dinner invitation—ordered and predictable, a march. My mother and I were wondering ... Ta-dum, ta-dum, ta-dum. Adam—the bridge, the segue into the unpredictable. We talked about Sri Lanka. I’ve actually been thinking I might ... She improvised, stepping gently but surely from phrase to phrase. It sounds like a beautiful place, so different from here. I’d appreciate any advice you could give me. We could talk more when you come—She stopped, lifted her fingers from the keys, and lowered the fallboard.

  “Okay,” she said aloud.

  From her closet shelf she took down a burgundy sweatshirt with “Concordia” stitched in white across the front. She put it on then reached out and ran her fingers down the sleeve of Adam’s leather jacket. In her search for a reason to show up at the Vantwests’, the jacket hadn’t occurred to her at all. It was the perfect excuse. Not even an excuse really—a responsibility. She slid it off the hanger. It still carried a faint smell of Adam’s cologne. But she couldn’t imagine giving it up—not yet. She hugged the heavy leather then put it back on its hanger.

  Between her own house and the Vantwests’ she kept her arms crossed and clutched her keys tightly in one hand. The journey across the street, though she’d made it twice, hadn’t become any easier. At the front door, allowing no time for second thoughts, she held her breath, unclenched her hand, and rang the bell. She expected the aunt, but Mr. Vantwest answered.

  Clare smiled. “Hi, I hope I’m not ...” She hesitated, for Mr. Vantwest seemed not to know her. He stared blankly, then his gaze travelled past her, settling on the Fraser house, and he gave a small nod of recognition.

  “Hello. Hello,” he said.

  Something was wrong. Mr. Vantwest’s speech was slack, his eyes glazed. He looked ill. Clare wished, suddenly and desperately, for the aunt to appear, but there was no sign of her. Behind Mr. Vantwest, the house was oppressively quiet.

  “I, uh ... I came to see if ...” She forced herself ahead. “My mother and I were wondering if you and Mary would like to come for dinner. On Tuesday.”

  He said nothing. Though Clare had smelled the evidence when he answered the door, it wasn’t until that lumbering moment of silence that she realized Mr. Vantwest was drunk. Not completely pie-eyed, as Isobel would say, but not himself. He frowned in an apparent effort to understand what she’d proposed, while she, wretched and ashamed on his behalf, clenched her hands and shifted her gaze to the mailbox next to the door.

  The rhythm of her plan was lost. The whole idea had been preposterous, and she wondered what on earth she’d been thinking. The man’s son was in the hospital, in what condition she couldn’t say, and there she was, a shy, stupid stranger, expecting to engage him in a friendly conversation about her travel plans. Even the dinner invitation seemed inappropriate. And now, she had to extricate herself from a monstrously awkward scenario that she herself had created.

  “Uh, you could let us know tomorrow ... or whenever.” She retreated to the stairs. “It doesn’t really—”

  “Come in,” Mr. Vantwest said. “Please.”

  Clare froze, one hand gripping the iron rail.

  “I don’t want to disturb you. I just came over to ask about—”

  “Please come in.”

  His words, though slack, were insistent. Half-convinced he would yell at her if she refused, Clare released the rail and stepped past him into the house. Mr. Vantwest closed the door then shuffled to the living room, where he sank into his armchair. Clare sat on the edge of the chesterfield, placed her keys on the coffee table, and clamped her hands between her knees. It was the very circumstance she’d wished for on her last visit: she and Mr. Vantwest alone. But it was all wrong.

  “Is Mary here?” she said.

  “She’s gone shopping. Insisted on walking.”

  His voice was tired. The thinning hair combed across his scalp was askew. On a low stool next to the armchair, Clare noticed the glass of clear drink, nearly empty. Mr. Vantwest reached for it but retracted his hand at the last instant.

  “There was a bombing in Colombo yesterday,” he said. “An office building. Dozens killed. Hundreds injured.”

  His announcement crushed the awkwardness. A full, flattening blow, just like that.

  “My God. What happened? Who—”

  “Suicide bombers. They drove a truck through the front door and blew the place to smithereens.” He spoke with mock enthusiasm then fell serious. “These people have no regard for human life. No thought as to the ramifications of what they do.” He crossed his legs; he uncrossed them. “Bloody idiots. Did they think there would be only government sympathizers in that building? Only Sinhalese? They kill off even their own kind.”

  Again he reached for his glass and this time took a drink. Watching him, Clare remembered Rudy.

  “Your son. In Colombo. Is he—?”

  “He’s lucky,” Mr. Vantwest said, cryptically, swirling his drink. “I expect fate to be entirely vindictive, but occasionally it surprises me.”

  “Sorry. I don’t understand.”

  Mr. Vantwest drained his glass. “You’ll have a drink? There’s whisky, sherry, arrack ...”

  Clare glanced at the photograph of Adam, then at the crocodile lamp. “Whisky. Please.”

  “Water? Ice?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Straight up? Good.”

  Mr. Vantwest disappeared down the hall. Eyes fixed on the lamp, Clare repeated the shocking news to herself: a bombing in Colombo. An event she now had reason to care about. She got up and crossed the room to where the crocodile stood. She ran her fingers along the rough, dry skin of the creature’s outstretched foreleg. The lamp teetered, and she pulled her hand away. From down the hall came sounds of clinking and pouring. Again she recalled h
er wish to sit with Mr. Vantwest in his own territory, on his own terms. Hands clenched, she followed him into the study.

  He looked up as she entered. He was bent over a small tea service trolley, replacing the cap of a whisky bottle. In front of him were two glasses.

  “You would prefer to sit in here?” he said. “Please, take a seat.” He gestured to a leather armchair.

  Clare looked around the room. There was a desk, but its chair was piled with laundry. “But there’s nowhere else,” she said. “Where will you sit?”

  Mr. Vantwest handed her a glass then used his slippered foot to move a wooden crate that sat upended next to the armchair. His balance was off, and he stumbled, mumbling “Dammit” under his breath. When the crate was in place, he sat on it, facing Clare, and again motioned to her to take the armchair. She forced a smile and did as he requested.

  “To your health,” he said, raising his glass.

  Clare sipped her whisky. It stung her eyes and burned her tongue. Mr. Vantwest, perched on his crate, crossed one leg over the other and took a long swig. Neither spoke. Clare took in the books and trophies crowding the shelves, the photographs on the wall, the dark, thread-bare rug covering most of the carpeted floor. On a lower shelf she saw the spine of an atlas not unlike her father’s. The crate on which Mr. Vantwest sat was stamped with the words Strathclyde Estate and Colombo in black ink.

  A bombing in Colombo; hundreds injured.

  The information refused to stick. Colombo was a speck on page seventy-two, a boulevard of pristine colonial architecture from the Adventures Abroad brochure. She struggled to imagine the ravaged office building, but the ruins of her travel plans were more immediate, more disheartening.

  “That’s terrible about the bomb,” she said.

  Mr. Vantwest nodded. “Terrible. Yes. Unless, of course, one simply places it in the natural course of things.” His drunken voice meandered, but he was strikingly coherent. “You seem surprised. But think about it. When natural disaster strikes—an earthquake, a flood—we all say how tragic it is. But in our hearts we know that earthquakes and floods are part of nature’s way. We mourn the losses, but we don’t condemn nature for doing what it must.”