My throat is so dry I find it hard to reply. ‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘After Everest we can go to New York, okay? Whenever you like.’
My duplicity crawls up my spine and over my scalp.
‘Is everything okay?’ Jordan asks, sensing something.
I hide my guilt with bluster. ‘More than okay.’ I turn to Norbu and say, ‘Norbu, I think you’re going to be my best friend in Lhasa.’
He chuckles. ‘Miss like massage?’
‘Oh no, Norbu, miss loves massage.’
Especially if he can rub away my treachery.
CHAPTER
10
Under bright stars I see Mount Everest, and it is so hauntingly beautiful I am both empty and full at once.
I think about magic and alchemy and sorcery and voodoo; how this mountain must be the answer to a billion earthly and unearthly questions. This is power. This is enchantment. Every cell inside me longs to bow down and offer myself to this giant.
‘Everest,’ the pilot says as we shudder past. Our helicopter is a gnat in the presence of the great mountain. I wonder if Jordan feels it. I could lean forward and share the moment with her but it feels too big, too precious. I want to keep it for me alone.
We descend into a valley. I feel even smaller as we sink to earth, the mountains towering around us. Buildings are shrouded in the darkness; a monastery at the heart of a small settlement. Candlelight flickers in its windows.
The pilot lowers the helicopter onto a grassy field. I’m surprised to see a few Western-style tents erected nearby. He pulls off his headset and smiles. ‘You are in Nepal.’
‘Thank you,’ Jordan says, taking off her own headset, her exhilaration as palpable as my own.
I chose the helicopter journey over the Himalayas from Tibet to Nepal so we could see Everest by moonlight, but mostly I chose it because it was the fastest way out of Lhasa. If Simon showed up there I’d be so busted.
There is no phone reception here so we should be okay for a while. The plan is to have two nights in this tiny mountain town, Tengboche, then hike down to the bus to Kathmandu and fly to New York. Jordan freaked when she found out how much the helicopter was, but I always have some cash bundled away ‘in case of emergency’. She doesn’t need to know where I got it. Even if it was from the safe at the St Regis …
The rotors are slowing. Jordan leaves the door open for me and I get out after the pilot grabs the bags.
Tengboche is in the middle of nowhere. It feels so remote, my soul wants to ride the icy winds into the mountain peaks and soar like an eagle. The term ‘Nirvana’ was created for a place like this.
I glance at Jordan, wondering if she’s feeling it too, but she just looks exhausted. She’s been this way for too long. She better buck up soon or she won’t be ready to take on New York.
‘That is Tengboche Monastery,’ the pilot says, as we follow him past the monastery. The doors are closed but the deep thrum of the monks’ evening chanting is so resonant it feels like the vibrations have journeyed from the centre of the earth to my heart.
This should be the soundtrack of the world, I think.
Yak butter candles flicker along the windowsills, and I shiver with the cold, even though it’s still only autumn.
I glance over at Jordan. Her arms are wrapped about herself. Her eyelids are heavy. Should I be worried about her?
‘You okay?’ I whisper in her ear.
She shakes her head. ‘Tired.’
The guesthouse is a grey stone building set opposite the monastery. I’m relieved to see a handful of Westerners in the restaurant on the ground floor. It means there will be an easy way out of this village. We really are a lazy breed.
‘Hikers stay here for trek to Everest Base Camp,’ the pilot tells Jordan. ‘You will be comfortable.’
A woman at reception shows us to a room on the second floor. It’s tiny, the floors and walls are bare, and there is no electricity or water, but I couldn’t be happier when I catch sight of Everest from the window.
‘Thank you,’ Jordan says, as the pilot places the bags on the floor. ‘That was so special.’
He reaches out and they shake hands. ‘You look very tired. Have some sleep please.’
‘Yes. I will. Fly safely.’ Jordan shuts the door and sinks onto one of the single beds. ‘It’s really cold in here.’ She gets under the thick wool blankets, still in her clothes.
‘What can I do? Do you need anything?’
Jordan yawns and shakes her head as she shuts her eyes.
‘I’m going to get you some food. I’ll be right back.’
The sound of the helicopter draws me outside. I watch the lights retreat into the dark sky. It must be close to midnight but although things are far from perfect—I’ve betrayed Jordan and I doubt Dillon will ever talk to me again—the Himalayas surround me in their mystical grace and here, just now, I feel content.
In the morning, Jordan is vomiting daal bhat into a bucket. It’s a putrid shade of yellow-green and it reeks. I thought it would be all out of her by now, but no, she’s still going. More rice. More lentils. It started a few hours before dawn. I heard her groan, then the unmistakable sound of projectile vomit hit the floor.
Like a good mama, I got dressed and cleaned her up. I found a bucket to swill away the mess and put it by her bed, just in case. Just in case has turned into every half hour or so until there is nothing left and she’s dry retching.
I’ve written a note at reception: ‘The girl on second floor is sick. Please help her.’ There isn’t a lot more I can do. Especially if she needs a doctor or something.
I’m holding a wet towel to her head. ‘How can I help? Tell me.’
‘Let me die,’ she croaks.
‘That’s not funny.’
I want to weep. I’m actually really worried about her. She looks so pale and weak. I think back to the headaches she’s been complaining about and feel my chest contract. ‘Maybe it’s worse than food poisoning. Maybe you will die.’
‘So comforting …’ Jordan tries to laugh but she doesn’t have the energy for it. She falls asleep again, sweat beading on her forehead even though it’s cold in here.
I leave her sleeping. I don’t know what else to do. I go down to reception and watch the staff fuss about. I see the message I wrote sitting there unread, and I flick it in front of one of the women. She picks it up and looks at it. She shows it to another woman and they discuss it, in some language I’ve never heard. Maybe Nepalese? Maybe Sherpa? As they talk a monk comes in. He looks rather splendid even though he’s wearing a burgundy polar-fleece jacket that looks like it’s from a sale at Kathmandu (the adventure-wear chain store, not the capital city) over his robes.
The three of them hold an earnest discussion, then one of the women leads the monk upstairs. I follow them to Jordan’s room.
Jordan is lying asleep with her mouth wide open. I’m mortified for her and rush over to squeeze her lips shut. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, this wakes her. She starts coughing, pushing my hand away. ‘Olive.’
The monk perches on the edge of her bed. ‘Hello.’
Jordan becomes fully conscious and struggles onto her elbows. ‘Oh! Hello.’
The monk puts his hand on her shoulder. ‘Please. You are not well.’
She lies back down on her pillow, her eyes switching between the Nepalese, clearly wondering what’s going on.
‘You are here alone?’ he asks her.
I wish she would say, ‘No, I have a friend looking after me.’ But she doesn’t. I guess she can’t.
‘Yes.’
The Nepalese woman is shaking her head as she combs Jordan’s hair back from her forehead. ‘No good. No good. Very hard.’
‘Yes,’ Jordan says, closing her eyes.
It makes her look so vulnerable. In many ways Jordan has been travelling alone. She’s been isolated from the other backpackers since we started—she’s had to be the weirdo who hangs out by herself, refusing invitati
ons to join in and declining seats so she can sit with me. She must look like a snob or a loser to everyone around her, but she’s never complained. Not even about getting sick. Yes. She was alone with that too. Hell, I feel awful. There is so much I cannot do for her.
I kneel by the bed and place my hand on her leg so at least she knows she’s not alone now.
‘Please rest until you are well,’ the monk says. ‘You are safe here. Saraswati will look after you.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Jordan tries to insist. ‘It’s just food poisoning, I think …’
‘There is no rushing. Just healing. Stay a day, a month, a year, ten years—you are always welcome at Tengboche.’ The monk stands and holds his palms together, bowing a fraction. ‘Namaste.’
‘Namaste,’ she replies.
‘Wow,’ I say after the monk and Saraswati have left the room. ‘That was a real monk.’
‘Mhmm.’ Jordan has her eyes shut again. She must need sleep. I stay by her side, just watching her breathe.
‘Are you still here?’ Jordan mutters after a moment.
‘Watching over you.’
‘God.’
‘What?’
‘You’re such a drama queen,’ she says. ‘Piss off and let me sleep.’
‘Fine. I’ll leave you in peace. Just don’t die.’ I shuffle to the door, glancing through the window at the Himalayas. ‘It would be a lovely place to die, though.’
‘Why are you still here?’
‘I’m going!’
I meet Saraswati coming up the stairs with a tray of all sorts of bits and bobs for Jordan: water, tea, some kind of crushed herbs. I’m glad there is someone looking after her who knows what they’re doing. I wish I could do more. I feel useless. Especially when the most helpful thing I can do is leave.
Fortunately, this is a perfect place to while away time as someone convalesces. The mountains are so irresponsibly beautiful you could be hypnotised by the scenery, walk off and die of exposure. I need to be sensible. I can’t romanticise the area, I need to see it as it really is, as Jordan would say.
I follow a well-beaten path down the mountain, the one the trekkers seem to be taking to Everest Base Camp. Part of me is tempted to hike there but I’d prefer to do it with Jordan. I’d like to be all serious about it too. You know, have the fancy hiking gear and the adventure-of-a-lifetime attitude. Going to Everest Base Camp needs to feel epic. Just rocking up in my sneakers and jeans would make it less significant—and being helicoptered in here is a bit cheaty.
I amble further down the valley, surprised by the ancient trees growing either side of the track. I thought trees wouldn’t grow at this altitude. In a sunny crook of the valley I find a collection of old stone buildings. They are worn and rundown. A sign out the front says in English ‘old nuns monastery’. It makes me giggle. Are the nuns old or is the monastery, I wonder?
Upon further inspection, the place looks a bit grim. These women don’t have the resources of the male monks up the mountain. The feminist in me shrieks in fury. I spot an elderly nun perched on a pillow in the sun, silent in prayer. She looks so content, despite the dilapidated conditions around her. I envy her.
Drawn to her, I sit beside her and look up at Everest. Tom once told me I had my own Mount Everest worth of baggage. I’d appreciated the image at the time but I don’t now. The reference makes me feel like my problems are massive and unconquerable.
I sit beside the nun for over an hour. A few times I think to get up, but it’s so peaceful I can’t think of anywhere I’d prefer to be. So I sit until the nun stands and tucks her pillow under her arm.
‘Did you like that?’ she asks.
I squint at her. She’s got to be over ninety, and her eyes are opaque like she has cataracts or something, but she’s looking straight at me.
What the hell, I think, and say, ‘I did. Thank you.’
‘Good.’
She is rubbing her legs—they must be stiff from sitting. My own legs are tingling with pins and needles.
‘You speak English?’ I ask her, avoiding the more pressing question of how she knows I’m there.
‘In another life I lived in London.’
‘You remember a past life?’
The nun giggles.
‘No. No,’ she says. ‘Before. When I was young and beautiful.’ She hobbles away and disappears inside a building. She doesn’t seem to care if I follow her or not. It must be wonderful to be so detached. I don’t toss up whether or not to follow her, I know I will.
Inside the stone building, two small windows cast dim light over a low room that is bare except for a long wooden table and benches. The nun picks up a broom made of twigs and starts sweeping the stone floor. She looks way too old to be working.
‘Can I do that for you?’
She passes me the broom but instead of sitting down, she finds another and starts sweeping the other end of the room. The twig broom is surprisingly effective. I don’t know why we bother with fancy plastic ones—this one works wonders on the stone floor.
‘Where are you from?’ the nun asks.
‘Sydney. Australia.’
She doesn’t reply and I wonder if I should say something else, but then she says, ‘You are most unusual.’
And it makes me laugh so hard, I have to try really hard not to pee myself. Especially when the nun joins in, giggling madly.
I usually hate sweeping but it’s okay with this old nun. It’s not a bad way to spend some time. After we’re done she pours water into two chipped glasses and we go outside and drink it in the sun.
‘How do you know I’m here?’ I ask after we have sat in silence for a while. ‘Can you see me?’
She reaches for my shoulder but doesn’t touch it. ‘I don’t see you, I sense you.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘Your energy is transmitted whether you believe it or not. Just because it’s invisible doesn’t mean it’s not there.’
I’m not the person who can argue with that.
‘I have been practising compassion, heart energy, for more than fifty years,’ she tells me. ‘You are drawn to me because of it. It is not unusual. I have spirits come to me often.’
‘I am not a spirit.’
‘Everyone is a spirit.’
‘But I’m alive.’ I feel an urgent need to prove it. I reach out and touch her. ‘See.’
‘Yes. You are special. I don’t understand it, but I feel the energy is different.’
‘I’m cursed,’ I say solemnly. ‘I’m invisible.’
I expect her to pity me or show concern of some kind, but she shrugs it away. ‘Interesting. But the least of your problems.’
‘What?’
‘I said, it is the least—’
‘Yes, I heard you. I just can’t believe you think being invisible is the least of my problems.’
She shrugs. Sips her water.
‘So what is my biggest problem then?’
‘You’re not ready to hear.’
‘No, please. I’m fascinated to know.’ Okay, yes, it comes out kind of mocking and disrespectful. Not that the nun seems to care.
‘You reject love. You push it away.’
‘You could say that about anyone.’
‘Many people—yes—but not all. You in particular let hurt and anger win. It controls you.’
It’s certainly controlling me now. This nun is driving me nuts. ‘Well you’d be hurt and angry too if you were invisible!’
‘No,’ she says simply. ‘I wouldn’t choose hurt and anger. I’d choose love. Love attracts love.’
‘Love won’t make me visible!’
‘Love will make you content to be you. Visible or not. Doesn’t matter.’
I snort. ‘Maybe to you it doesn’t.’
Walking back to the village, I think about what the nun said. Choose love? Is it really that simple? What does it even mean?
I take the steps to our room and see Jordan softly snoring. What would it mean
to ‘choose love’ with Jordan? I’ve told her a million times I love her.
After a moment she opens her eyes. ‘Olive?’
‘Yes.’
Her mouth forms a crooked line. ‘Here to watch over me?’
‘Always.’ I pinch her toes. ‘I love you, Pins, you know that, right?’
She narrows her eyes suspiciously. ‘What do you want?’
‘Nothing!’ My heart contracts. Maybe she doesn’t know how much I care about her. Maybe instead of telling her, I should show her. An idea springs to mind—which will kill me—but looking at Jordan, I know it’s the right thing to do. ‘Give me one minute.’
I jog down the stairs and steal the emergency satellite telephone at reception, pulling it by the cord into the broom closet.
‘Simon?’
‘Yes, who is this?’
‘Jordan’s sick. You should come.’
He hesitates.
‘Can you come?’
‘Of course. Tell me where she is.’
CHAPTER
11
The world does seem brighter for the next few days. Saraswati looks after Jordan while I visit Ani at the nunnery. Ani means nun. She says she doesn’t need a name to identify her, which is strange, considering people are usually desperate to make a name for themselves.
Ani laughs at everything. She seems to ride above it all like she’s on some freaking magic carpet. She tells me that ‘every tremor is an earthquake for the young’, which, to be honest, I found pretty insulting. But I didn’t say anything because, well, you know, she’s old, and that must suck. Not that it gets her down, she’s hilarious. And opportunistic.
So far she’s had me washing windows, cutting back shrubs, chopping and collecting wood. Today she has me on the roof, lashing new prayer flags across the joists. It’s a little dangerous but I don’t mind. It’s good to be useful. And I don’t want Ani up here.
‘How is your friend today?’ she asks when I climb down.
‘Better. She’s holding down her food now.’
‘Good.’
I take up one end of the old prayer flags she’s rolling up and start rolling towards her. ‘I’ve been practising what you’ve taught me. Meditating on opening my heart.’
The Implausible Story of Olive Far Far Away Page 7