“No, Sonam, I can’t say I have but, at last count, there were about fifteen thousand Sherpas working in the Nepali climbing and trekking world. Not even I can keep up with them all. In fact, if he’s anyone in the Everest world, I am surprised that you don’t know him already.”
“Oh, no, Miss Richards, I think this Sherpa has been dead for many years. It is possible that he was a Tiger.”
Henrietta’s face creased with curiosity as Quinn deliberately put his big frame between her and the old Sherpa to prevent the conversation going any further.
“We are at the entrance,” he interjected. “Let’s go in quickly before this crowd gets any worse.”
Henrietta and Sonam stopped talking and filed in, but as Quinn waited for Sanjeev Gupta, he saw that he had already taken out a short pencil and was scribbling something down in his notebook. Quinn knew it was the name Ang Noru and the reference to “Tiger.”
It hadn’t crossed his mind until Sonam had mentioned it, but then, watching Gupta, the connection struck him like a lightning bolt.
39
Entering Pashupatinath’s historic, sprawling complex of temples and ghats, any possibility for further discussion of the matter was lost. Street vendors beckoned and pawed at them from all sides, desperate to offer bright garlands of marigolds, powders in every color of the rainbow, thin guidebooks in English, Spanish, or Mandarin Chinese, even see-through rain macs branded “Monsoon Proof.” Quinn shooed them away to permit their party to slowly wind its way down the crowded, slippery street toward the river, noses increasingly overwhelmed by the smell, an unholy mixture of incense, crushed flowers, sewage, wood smoke, and, god forbid, burning bodies.
With every downward step, Quinn wanted to kick himself instead. Firstly, because he had missed the link to a history he knew well, and then secondly, because the old Sherpa had instantly publicized it to Henrietta Richards, the one person who would most definitely connect the dots. The devil in the detail, as Henrietta put it, was as much in Dawa’s wife’s reference to a tiger as in the actual name that Dawa had uttered. Quinn had stupidly ignored the pertinent detail of the tiny woman’s outcry, automatically assuming that any tiger stalking Dawa was simply the inevitable boogeyman that would haunt the nightmares of a desperately wounded Sherpa. It was only as Sonam mentioned it to Henrietta that Quinn instantly remembered that the word, title even, “Tiger” had a far more specific significance when linked to the Sherpa.
At first, it was little more than a nickname of appreciation, an accolade bestowed on the fifteen mountain porters, out of the original mixture of fifty-five Tibetans and Sherpas selected, who remained fit enough to assist in the preparation of the high camps for that ill-fated 1924 British expedition to Everest. Over subsequent expeditions as the Sherpas particularly excelled on the great mountain, it became something more: a stamp of undisputed excellence. By the midthirties, Bill Tillman, who along with Eric Shipton and Frank Smythe had taken up the British torch of being the first to summit Everest, was awarding “Tiger Badges” to the handful of Sherpas able to carry loads to their Camp VI set at 27,200 feet—higher in itself than the summit of the sixth-highest mountain in the world. The British Himalayan Club, based in Darjeeling where all the early expeditions set out from, soon followed this example by formally minting “Tiger Medals” for any porter who successfully carried through to 25,000 feet. Few were given, and the recipients, the “Tiger Sherpas” became well-known in the prewar mountaineering world of their day.
By the time he had made it down to the bank of the river, Quinn knew it spelled more questions about the axe. Dawa had clearly referred to it before he mentioned Ang Noru, and if he had been a Tiger, then that could date it to well before the Russians, if they had ever existed. But, just as quickly, Quinn reined himself in with the reminder that another famous Tiger Sherpa had summited Everest a year later than those legendary Russians in 1952, and that man was Tenzing Norgay.
Thinking about it all, he asked himself whether he shouldn’t just share his find and his thoughts with Henrietta; after all, she was helping him with her report. But something held him back. Dawa had wanted him to have the axe, was even now trying, from the depths of his own misery, to give him clues about it. He couldn’t make Dawa well, he couldn’t settle his financial problems, but he felt that he should respect Dawa’s wishes—wishes that seemed to suggest that he wanted Quinn to keep it.
Crossing over a narrow bridge, they filed up a flight of worn stone steps before turning right onto a terrace that looked across at the jumble of temple buildings, their stacked pagoda roofs the originals of the style that now defined the Far East. Below, on the opposite riverbank, were the burning ghats, seven heavy granite daises that projected from the greasy slabs that banked the slow-moving, khaki-colored river.
On one a fire already raged. Bright orange flames feasted on a pile of rough-hewn logs, the faint shadow of a blackening corpse within. The funeral pyre’s pale smoke plumed up into a sky filled with darker clouds, slate grey and heavy in anticipation of the afternoon’s coming monsoon downpour. Quinn watched a monkey artfully and carefully climb up the side of the ghat, intent on the crumbling edges of the fire and the burning body within, only to be violently beaten away by a skinny man with a long bamboo pole. As it fled, the man screamed at it, outraged at an intention of theft that insulted the laws of nature.
While they stood there waiting, a file of Sherpas paid their respects to Henrietta Richards as if she was as venerable as Pashupatinath. The Everest spring season now finished, they were all back in Kathmandu. Quinn saw among them those incredible men like Dawa who each had ten, fifteen, or even twenty Everest summits to their names. Each saluted Henrietta with a bow and the greeting “Namaste.” A number draped long, cream-colored silk kata scarves around her neck. After, they passed Quinn and looked straight into his eyes, as if in silent understanding, nodding their heads as they went. “The good thing, if there is any good to come out of all this, is that Sarron is finished in this town,” Henrietta whispered to Neil. “The Sherpas will never let him return. They’ve known for a long time what sort of person he was but had to suffer it for his employment.” She turned and looked at Quinn intently. “They know so much more than they ever let on, don’t you think, Neil?”
“I’m sure they do,” Quinn replied, slightly unsure at what she was hinting at, uncomfortable with the question. He changed the subject quickly. “Talking of which—without Pemba’s and Dawa’s testimonies, have you been able to complete your report about the climb?”
“I have, even if subsequent events have somewhat overtaken it. I can’t explain the boy’s death—I have no hard evidence—but I have set out what seem to be the pertinent details, both of the climb and its aftermath, and it suggests that you should have the benefit of the doubt. I suspect that will not be enough for Tate Senior; he seems to be a man who is very black and white in his approach, so I hope that Dawa will at some point be able to speak to me about what happened up there as that will back up your story to no end. So what now, Neil?”
Quinn shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know really. I’m broke, physically and financially. The only thing left in my wallet is my return ticket to London. I guess I’ll use it and try to scrounge enough money to put some gas in my bike to get me to Chamonix so I can work the Alps for the summer.”
“You’ll be on French soil then and you know what that could mean?”
“Possibly, if he wants to find me.”
“Oh, he will, Neil. Sooner or later, he will. You can be sure of it.”
“Well, I have to take that risk. I know people there and hopefully it will get me back on my feet, even if I have to accept that my Everest career will be finished by all this.”
“Look, Neil, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll email you a copy of my report so you can show it to anyone who questions your suitability to guide. In return all I ask is that if you come to any conclusions about that old ax
e, you’ll let me know.” She hesitated before adding, “But only when you’re ready. And in the meantime, I would recommend keeping one eye looking over your shoulder.”
Before Quinn could thank her, a scuffle broke out in the crowd assembled behind them. From its center, a small DVD camera curved up into the air, hanging there momentarily like a fly before landing with a soupy plop into the middle of the dirty river. A rotund, orange-faced man in a transparent pink waterproof jacket that encased him like a condom was then ejected off the viewing terrace with a well-placed kick up the behind from one of the Sherpas.
The rest of what appeared to be a Korean or Chinese tour group, each in their own matching sausage-skin jacket, swiftly followed, wailing in alarm, hands pawing the air in panic. The assembled group of mourners gave a loud cheer at their exit, clapping and whistling, forcing smiles onto their concerned faces.
The incident seemed to slightly lighten the mood. Quinn mentioned as much to Henrietta, who whispered in reply, “Neil, it is a Sherpa custom to try to not be unhappy at funerals. They believe if you are it brings bad luck, and a rain of blood will follow.”
Too late for that, Quinn sadly thought as a quiet descended on the crowd.
A solitary bell began to toll.
Four men arrived on the opposite riverbank holding a stretcher supported by two thick green bamboo poles. On it was a loosely swaddled body. They stopped before one of the ghats, the raised stone slab already stacked with huge logs, all space between stuffed with tinder.
After other bystanders had restrained a crying woman who desperately tried to fling herself onto the laden stretcher, the four men gently laid it on the funeral pyre. One of them then pulled back the folds of orange sheet arranged over the body to expose a young, dead face. It was Pemba. The sight set off a hideous wail from the young woman, who was now being physically held back from the body and the platform.
Taking a long, lit taper from a brass pot, another man draped its curl of flame across the Sherpa’s lifeless face and then in and around the orange material covering his dead body. It seemed to almost kiss and caress it. A small plume of smoke was the only clue that the fire was catching until it suddenly roared into a conflagration that quickly sucked the swaddled remains from sight.
The pyre burned for what felt like an age.
Everyone stood silently, lost in their own remembrances.
Quinn thought about Pemba, about Dawa, about Nelson Tate Junior left behind up there, frozen in eternal death, denied the chance for such an instant, fiery dissolution.
He thought also of the old ice axe, how it strangely seemed to link together everything that had happened from the moment it was found, how it seemed to save, but also punish, of how he just couldn’t seem to get away from it whatever happened.
When the flames finally began to dwindle and the fire collapsed in on itself, attendants stepped forward to push the still-smoking logs and glowing ashes over the side of the platform and into the river. The burning embers spat and popped as they made contact with the dirty water, the bigger, still-burning logs caught by the river’s slow current to float off twisting and turning gently, puffing thin trails of smoke behind them like small steamers.
Watching them go, Quinn told himself that he would find out the true story of the ice axe. He couldn’t explain to himself why but he knew that the answer was important: important to him, to Dawa, to Henrietta, and also, the memories of Pemba and Nelson Tate Junior. It seemed, at that moment, to be the only thing he had left to offer anyone.
40
Steamship Gneisenau, Bay of Bombay, India
March 9, 1939
5:45 p.m. (Deutsches Reich Zeit)
Josef and Magda’s daily meetings continued as the Gneisenau steamed east and the days grew hotter. Connecting Josef’s need to avoid Schmidt with a necessity for the both of them to stay out of an increasingly strong sun, Magda conjured times and places where they could quietly pass the time together. Shaded by umbrellas or hanging lifeboats, they continued to watch the ocean flow by, telling each other truthful details of their lives that carefully avoided the real reasons why either of them was on that great ship.
Despite the fact they came from very different backgrounds, it was a comfortable, amusing companionship driven by Magda’s keen wit and Josef’s kind nature. He enjoyed telling her about his home village, his family, his friends, carefully reconstructing through his words and memories everything that had been stolen from him. The more he spoke, the more he understood how his had been a simple, honest life based on kindness, friendship, and trust; a way of life doomed to extinction under the Nazis.
The realization made him want even more to tell Magda everything, but Pfeiffer’s invisible dagger was still sharp. The stab of its point stopped him every time, leaving him instead to take in the beauty of the girl and the precious moments they shared.
When the ship passed through the Suez Canal and into the Red Sea, they met after dinner on the rear middle deck to look across the inky water at the faint outline of the shore, seeing little detail in the dark but feeling the warm desert wind on their faces and imagining the hidden, mysterious kingdoms it had passed over to reach them. Magda, immaculately dressed, having come from dining in the first-class hall, yet tense and exasperated by the politics and pomposity of its elaborate assigned seating that rotated the wealthiest passengers around the ship’s captain and senior officers, would visibly relax as they spoke.
Josef knew that Schmidt was requesting individual team members join him to dine at his table each evening but he was never invited. It didn’t concern him. He was happy to keep his distance from Schmidt, from the entire expedition in fact. His days now revolved entirely around the time he spent with either Magda or preparing for the mountain. He began to concoct an elegant fantasy that perhaps if he was successful in climbing it, the prestige and glory that would come after might allow him to return to her.
The day before they were due to arrive at the Port of Bombay, an orderly approached Josef with a handwritten card from Schmidt inviting him to join his table that evening. Josef was surprised at the invite but immediately hopeful that it might give additional opportunity to be with Magda. He dressed carefully in the suit that Pfeiffer had instructed him was for formal occasions with Schmidt. It was tailored to fit him perfectly and Josef felt a shiver of anticipation at the possibility that she would see him in such fine clothes. Walking to the first-class lounge to meet Schmidt for his predinner cocktail, an electricity of excitement coursed through Josef’s body.
The professor was already there, holding a martini, his little finger faintly twitching as it projected into the air. He looked Josef up and down with a mixture of amusement and surprise.
“Obersturmführer Pfeiffer certainly equipped you well for your little adventure. Let’s hope that clothes do indeed make the man,” he said with a smirk, finishing his martini in a gulp. “There is, however, one thing missing, boy.”
Schmidt produced a small enamel badge from his pocket. Without pause he pinned it onto Josef’s satin lapel, its red and white vivid against the black of the suit, its swastika surrounded by the words “National—Socialistiche—D.A.P.” there for all to see.
“Good. Now you are ready for your first dinner in first class. I know you will enjoy the company at the table, well, at least some of it.” Schmidt gave Josef a sly look before standing back and grinning to himself as he smugly surveyed the assembling dinner guests and called for a second cocktail.
The professor’s cheeks were flushed by the time he had finished a third and dinner was announced. While the diners began to file in from the bar, Schmidt leaned in close to Josef and said in a blast of alcoholic fumes that hinted at a deeper foundation than the three martinis, “Bon appetit!”
Josef didn’t reply, rendered speechless by the sight that opened up before him as they entered the dining room. Beneath elegant crystal chandeliers, the plu
sh red carpet was studded with polished round tables, each laden with sparkling glassware, lines of silver cutlery, and floral centerpieces interspersed with gleaming silver candlesticks. With the first-class passengers, their guests, and the ship’s senior officers, more than 150 people were sitting down to dinner. Josef had never seen anything like it.
Perhaps this is how it will always be when I am the man who first climbed Mount Everest.
The ship’s purser headed Schmidt’s table. The other guests were diplomats and businessmen heading to India or further east—polished, well-dressed men with silent, cold-looking wives who stood slightly behind them as they made their introductions. The last three guests to arrive were Magda von Trier and her mother and father. Schmidt turned to look at Josef as they appeared but his eyes were so caught on Magda that he didn’t notice the almost triumphant leer on the professor’s face.
Magda smiled back when she first noticed Josef, but then, as her father was presenting her as if it was the first time they had met, her eyes dropped to linger on the party badge that Schmidt had stuck into his lapel.
Josef immediately felt any force disappear from the soft squeeze of her handshake, a look of disappointment hardening the gentle curves of her face as she quickly moved away to take her seat.
The start of the dinner was restrained and Josef felt totally excluded from the conversation. Even Magda said nothing to him.
Josef noticed that Schmidt was constantly looking at Magda and her mother. He asked himself repeatedly what the hateful man was so intent on, until, with a chill that squeezed ice water through his veins, an answer came to him in the form of another question.
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