by MK Schiller
“England?”
“Among other places.” She tapped her finger against her lips. “I bet you’re a climber, right?”
“How do you know I’m a climber and not a tourist? Or do I just have a sign on my back?”
“I can tell from your build.” Was it his imagination, or did she give him a once over? Did her gaze pause around his abs?
“Climbers don’t have a build. They can be short and stout or tall and athletic. I’ve seen old and young. Hell, I’ve climbed Everest with a crippled man. There is no type. You’d be surprised.”
She quirked her brow. “You climbed Everest?”
“I owned a trekking and touring company in Nepal.”
“Oh.” Her mouth tilted downward as if this news disappointed her.
“I should get going,” Tristan said. The conversation had become enticing quicksand and he was getting sucked in fast.
“It’s more than your build.”
Too late. “Oh, yeah?”
“Tourists are usually enjoying themselves. You’re far too focused to be on holiday.”
“That obvious?”
“Not just that. It’s the way you looked at the painting. There was respect there. Perhaps even a reverence. I’ve seen that look in others.”
“You sure it’s not desperation?”
“Maybe.” She set the book in her hand back on the shelf. “I would say… It’s more of a hunger. Or better yet, a thirst. Yes, a thirst that can’t be quenched.”
“And most likely won’t be.”
“I would not give up before you even start. You have to possess a good attitude.”
Was she actually giving him a pep talk? “This isn’t a self-confidence issue. I’m having trouble obtaining a permit.”
“I see.”
He jerked his head toward the picture. “It is a nice watercolor,” he said with the ease of a man trying to churn out words into dry, humid air in hopes of keeping the conversation going. Which was to say there was no ease in it at all.
She conferred with the saleswoman who removed the painting from the clips that held it on the wall. She placed it flat against the counter. The edges began to roll. Bright Eyes pinned one side of the frayed edge and Tristan held the other.
Bright Eyes pointed to one of the peaks. “Is this where you’re going?”
“That’s Nanga Prabhat. It’s pretty damn impressive, but it isn’t where I’m headed.”
“Well, you’re a little too far north for Everest. Unless you’re lost?” She pointed to the highest peak.
“I’m not lost.” He placed his finger over the tallest peak. “This is where I’m going.”
She titled her head, her brow furled. “I don’t understand.”
“That’s not Everest.”
“I thought it was the highest mountain in the world.”
“It is.” He chuckled. “The drawing isn’t to scale. For some reason, the artist made K2 higher. It’s actually the other way around.” The distinction is what drove thousands of people to Everest every year and only hundreds to K2.
“You’re going for K2 then?”
He nodded. “Yes. K2 is second in height, but many say it’s more dangerous due to its slope and unpredictability. I would agree.”
The store clerk began to roll up the painting, muttering something, most likely about how they were wasting her time. Speaking of time, he checked his watch once more. Traffic was going to be a bitch at this hour, and the permits office was clear across town. Bright Eyes spoke in Urdu to the saleslady. They chatted for a moment, probably forgetting his existence.
He opened his mouth to bid them farewell. Instead he said, “I want to hear that story.”
“Good choice.” She translated his request to the store clerk. The store clerk had disapproval on her face. “She says it’s time for her lunch.”
“Tell her I’ll buy the painting if she tells me the story.”
“As you wish.” Whatever she had said caused the store clerk to move with a newfound speed. The scroll was unraveled once more. The old woman’s voice, throaty and spirited, spoke for several solid minutes. The clerk focused on Bright Eyes the whole time and paid Tristan no mind. He did his best not to stare at her too. Another game he would lose.
His translator seemed as mesmerized by the old lady’s story as Tristan was with her. The heat in the place made his T-shirt stick to his back, but she seemed at ease in the cramped store. The girl sighed, not the sigh of frustration or boredom, but the sigh of sweet dreams that were reserved for only the very young or the very optimistic.
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Sorry. I’ll do my best to tell it correctly.” She took a deep breath before she began. “There is an old woman who lives on the base of a great mountain where you are traveling. People say she has lived a hundred-thousand suns, a direct descendent from the Goddess of the Mountain herself.”
“Goddess?” he asked.
“You don’t know about the Goddess of K2?”
Folklore of the region said a goddess lived on every mountain, a fierce spirit whose goal was to protect the mountain from those who wished it harm. “I’ve heard of her.”
“Perhaps you will meet her one day. Anyway, this woman, who is of her bloodline, spends her days making paints from the materials of the land.” She ran her finger over the edge of the scroll. “She creates pieces like this. She never speaks to anyone except through her paintings. The story goes that she lost her love to the mountain. They climbed it together and always held hands when they descended. A snowstorm halted them on one of their climbs.” She used her hands when she talked, some of her gestures sweeping as if she was schooled in the ancient art of storytelling. “When the night air grew cold, he covered her with a blanket, but it wasn’t enough. So he gave her his furs. But the winds were merciless. Finally, he lay on top of her, seeing her through one of the coldest nights the mountain has ever experienced. It is said it wasn’t his body that saved her, but rather his heart. She lived, but he did not survive. He gave her everything he had to give, but the goddess was jealous of their love. Legend has it, when the wind howls just right and the stars light up the sky, she feels her lost love’s hands clasped tightly on hers and hears the faint melody of his heartbeat. That’s when she paints. She won’t stray from the mountain base because his spirit still lives there. She knows with every beat of her heart he will reclaim her someday.”
Tristan let out a low whistle. “That is…epically sad.”
“Yes, but beautiful too, no?”
“I suppose.” He pointed to the highest peak. “Do you think that’s why the artist made K2 the biggest one in the picture?”
“Perhaps. This is a one-of-a-kind piece.”
He ran his finger over the Oriental symbols at the bottom right side of the scroll. The artist definitely hailed from the Chinese border of the mountain. “What is her name? This artist?”
She asked the question to the sales clerk who pointed to the same etchings. Bright Eyes closed her eyes, the lines of her mouth tightening. “Maiden Shina is what they call her. Maiden Shina.”
Before he knew it, the salesclerk rolled up the scroll, secured it with twine, wrapped it with more newspaper, and placed it in a larger plastic bag. He fished out the rupee notes from his wallet and paid for his purchase.
With the scroll under his arm, he followed her out of the store. They both blinked, trying to adjust their eyes to the sharp contrast in atmosphere. The harsh sun and loud noises almost broke the trance…almost. She adjusted the scarf so it covered her head.
“I’m Tristan by the way. Tristan Sinclair. I didn’t catch your name.”
She bit her lower lip. “Farah Nawaz.” She used the Eastern pronunciation of the name, which slowed it down a few beats…Faw-rah. Her name was Farah. It was pretty. It fit her.
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br /> “Farah,” he repeated to make sure he got it correct. Was it his imagination or did she smell like Hershey’s kisses?
“Tell me,” she said, “when you’re standing on top of the mountain, what will you pray for?”
“That’s not a when. It’s an if, and a huge if at that. There is no guarantee I’ll summit.”
“Let me rephrase. If you make it to the top, what will you pray for?”
That was the last question he’d expected. Of all the meticulous planning he’d done, prayers never made the list. “Wasn’t planning to pray for anything.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’ll be so close to God, how could he not hear you?”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
What to do now? If he was back home, he might ask her out for coffee, but that wasn’t exactly protocol here. Who was he kidding? It wasn’t protocol for him either. He rarely dated. He sure as hell wasn’t about to start now. He lived a nomadic life, and if he needed companionship, he found it in a woman who was amenable to one or two nights of satisfaction. He doubted Farah Nawaz was such a lady, and this place wasn’t the appropriate venue.
Turns out, he didn’t need to ponder too much about it.
“Au revoir, Quebec. Best of luck to you.” With that, she pivoted and headed down the street, not looking back. Not even once.
Eh, shortest love story in the world.
Chapter 2
The city was built in the late sixties, the buildings and streets very modern. It resembled other large cities right down to the traffic jams. The ten-kilometer taxi ride took over an hour. His little detour with the strange violet-eyed beauty had cost him valuable time. Thankfully, the cool breeze from the open window brought clarity.
The sun shone low and bright, making the taxi feel like a boiling tin can. Yes, that was the reason for his fascination with her. Dehydration combined with very strong incense had made the encounter more than it was.
That’s all it was.
It turned out, he didn’t need to rush after all. The man he needed to see, the Minister of Expeditions, had decided to take a long lunch. Tristan sat outside his office, shifting in the uncomfortable metal chair. The Minister of Expeditions… Might as well have been going to see the Wizard of Oz and begging for a heart. Of course, if anyone asked his family, they would say it was a brain he needed. At least no one doubted his courage.
Finally, he made it into the impressive Office of the Minister. The man didn’t stand up from his ornate desk. In fact, he barely glanced at Tristan, concentrating on the papers before him.
He pointed a gold-plated pen toward the empty chair. “You may sit.”
Tristan took the offered seat and waited for the man to finish looking over his papers. There were portraits of the minister with his family vacationing in mountain areas.
“Are you a climber?” Tristan asked, hoping to break through the glacial ice forming between them.
The man shook his head. “My family enjoys the scenery and the climate of the hillsides. Pakistan is a beautiful country.”
“She is,” Tristan agreed.
If the man felt any camaraderie with Tristan, he did not voice it. “My profession involves granting permission for these kinds of quests, but I’ve never understood a man’s desire to ascend to heights that he isn’t meant to go.”
“Who says he’s not meant to, sir?”
The minister tapped his pen against his desk. Tap, tap, tap went for several seconds before he grinned. “Gravity.”
“With all due respect, if everyone felt that way, we would still be traveling by steam engine and the moon would be a mystery.”
“Are you saying climbing a mountain like K2 will better mankind?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Good, because at the heart of it, this is a selfish and self-centered pursuit, is it not?”
“I disagree.”
“Then please tell me. What makes humans pursue such dangerous acts?”
Tristan tightened his hands around the wooden armrest of the chair. “I cannot speak for all people. Everyone has their own reasons.”
“I’m sure you have a theory.”
“Why do men want to do what is considered impossible? That’s like asking why we want to know the unknown. Either way, I’m sure the answer to those questions are best left to philosophers and poets. I am neither.”
The Minister of Expeditions rubbed his goatee in a way that suggested he was deep in thought. “I’ve done this for a long time, young man. I’ve seen men from every corner of the world come into my office to request permission from this government to climb one of our mountains. In my experience, there are two kinds of men who pursue such reckless dreams—the type who want to be closer to God and the type who want to be God. Which one are you, Mr. Sinclair?”
Tristan doubted this debate was a common exchange in the permit’s office. “I’m neither, sir. I climb because you can’t beat the view. Because climbing challenges everything I have in here.” He made a fist and patted his heart. “And everything I have up here.” He gestured to his head. “There is a sense of accomplishment unlike anything else when I summit. I don’t feel like a giant. Quite the contrary, I appreciate just how grand the world is and I am in awe of it all.”
The minister shuffled some papers around his desk. “I see.”
Clearly, the wrong answer.
He could have at least offered a multiple choice.
It took two hours of waiting for this moment, but only twenty minutes for Tristan to realize he’d be denied again. He thought of doing something he’d never done before and use his family connections, but that might have the opposite effect here, depending on the political motivations of this official.
The minister droned on about the number of permits already issued and Tristan’s other high-altitude climbs which, in his opinion, were too recent to allow for issuance of this permit. Tristan kept his composure and nodded along. Arguing would not win his case.
Why did he keep getting rejected? The official repeated what the others had said. They didn’t think it was prudent to award him a permit considering he’d climbed Everest so recently. That didn’t make much sense to him. He’d seen other less-seasoned climbers who had climbed more than one big peak in the same year get their permit. After all, permits happened to be a great source of income for this country.
His gaze fell upon a small photo in a white frame, the words Riyadh Golf Courses—our Pearl in the Desert written across the bottom. Inside the frame was a picture of the minister, smiling in a checked shirt with his arm around the shoulder of another man.
How did he not see it?
The most obvious explanation was always overlooked.
“Did my uncle tell you to ask me those questions or did you come up with them on your own?”
The minister looked at the photo and back at Tristan. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. The man in the photo is a US journalist.” The tap of the pen was less steady now.
“A US journalist who did an in-depth article on my uncle three years ago. In the article, he spoke of playing a round of golf with several officials of the Pakistani government and embassy officials in Saudi Arabia. Not to mention when I asked about my uncle, you never assumed the journalist could be my uncle, which implies you know who he is.”
The minister didn’t lose his cool. “As entertaining as this is, I have another appointment.” Even being caught didn’t faze him. “Do you have anything relevant to add to your case?”
“No, sir, nothing else. Something tells me I’m arguing with the wrong man anyway.”
He left the office sans permit, but at least he had a few answers.
Goddamn Uncle Elliot.
Elliot was his father’s best friend. Elliot was v
ery powerful in Pakistan. Elliot had been like a second father to Tristan. Elliot was a climber himself, but gravely disapproved of Tristan’s pursuit of K2.
How could he not have seen it? Hell, his family was already involved.
He didn’t want to cast suspicion where it didn’t belong, but watching less experienced climbers get permits with complete ease left little doubt that someone was blocking him. There was only one person who had the motive and power to do such a thing.
He understood it came from a place of concern, but Elliot needed to back off and realize why Tristan wanted to pursue this. Needed to pursue this. Climbing K2 was not another victory on his extensive resume. It was much deeper than that. This wasn’t just for him. It was for Drew. Nothing defined a man more than the promises he kept and those he broke. Tristan refused to break this vow, even if everyone he loved disagreed with him.
He pressed the button for the elevator. Elliot wouldn’t have his personal phone on during work. He dialed his office number, gave his name, and waited patiently as the secretaries at the US Consulate shuffled him around until he finally got to Elliot. Tristan entered the elevator just as Elliot answered.
“Tristan, it’s great to hear from you. I was wondering when you’d get around to calling me. You’ve been in town for weeks, and I have to say, I’m more than a little hurt you can’t make time for your favorite uncle, especially when we’re on the same side of the world.”
“How’d you know I was here?”
“The bigger the city, the louder the echoes.”
“Are you free for lunch tomorrow? Say around one at the Shalimar? That’s where I’m staying. You probably already knew that though.”
“Of course, I do. All the climbers stay there. Best carrot juice in town. I’ll be there.”
The elevator doors slid apart at the lobby. A small government-run gift shop sat opposite the elevator banks. Tristan blinked several times at the display in the window.
What the hell?
Just when he thought this day couldn’t get any stranger. Despite being worn-down and pissed off, he let out a hearty laugh as he took in the large display of identical, yellowing scrolls. The kind that were made to look old, yet were massed produced. They featured the Karakorum Range.