by James Salter
“Mind your own business,” Rand said.
“Yes,” she agreed. She had already risen and was gathering her things.
They drove home in silence. She sat against the door, her narrow shoulders hunched. She was folded like an insect, legs drawn up beside her, arms crossed.
In the morning her face was swollen as if she were ill. He could hear her breathing. Somehow, it seemed conscious, sorrowful, close to a sigh. As he listened it seemed to grow louder to become, he suddenly realized, the sound of a jet crossing the city at dawn.
He left behind some cardboard boxes filled with letters, shoes, fishing equipment. The letters were from an old girl friend, born in Kauai, who had cut his palm one night and, to seal their love, raised it to her mouth and drunk the welt of blood.
5
IN GENEVA IT WAS raining. The bus station was behind a church. There were only a few passengers when the driver appeared, climbed into his seat, started the engine, and steered his way into traffic to the ceaseless whacking of the windshield wiper and the voice of a comedian on a radio beneath the wheel.
Soon they were roaring along streets of small towns, barely skimming the sides of buildings. Pharmacies, green trees, supermarkets sailing past. In a front seat Rand sat high above it all. They were crossing railroad tracks, he was looking down into gardens, lumberyards, at girls running in the rain with wet hair.
The sky went pale. A few seconds later, ominous and near, like artillery, came the thunder. He felt he was being rushed to battle, across borders, through wet fields covered with mist that stretched out on either side. It was summer. The rivers were milky green. There were bridges, barns, cases of empty bottles stacked in yards, and sometimes through the clouds, a glimpse of mountains. He spoke no French. The cluttered towns with their shops and curious signs—he did not take them seriously. At the same time, he longed to know them.
The lights of oncoming cars began to appear, a sulfur yellow. The rain had ceased. The mountains lay hidden in a kind of smoke. It seemed as if the stage were being set; suddenly, at Sallanches, the valley opened. There, at its end, unexpected, bathed in light, was the great peak of Europe, Mont Blanc. It was larger than one could imagine, and closer, covered in snow. That first immense image changed his life. It seemed to drown him, to rise with an infinite slowness like a wave above his head. There was nothing that could stand against it, nothing that could survive. Through crowded terminals, cities, rain, he had carried certain hopes and expectations, vague but thrilling. He was dozing on them like baggage, numbed by the journey, and then, at a certain moment, the clouds had parted to reveal in brilliant light the symbol of it all. His heart was beating in a strange, insistent way, as if he were fleeing, as if he had committed a crime.
They arrived in Chamonix in the evening. The square in front of the station was quiet. The sky was still light. He stepped down. Though mid-June, the air was chill. A taxi took two other passengers off to some hotel. He was left alone. The town to all appearances was empty. He had a strange impression, almost a warning, that he knew this place. He looked about him as if to confirm some detail. The hotels that fronted the station seemed closed; there was light in the entrance of one. A dog trotted up to the edge of a low roof and stared at him. Above, in the trees, were the last rays of sun. He picked up his bedroll and pack and began to walk.
There was a bridge across the tracks. He went in that direction, away from town, and soon was on a dirt road. The pines had begun to darken. He came to a large villa in a garden overgrown with weeds. All sorts of junk was piled along the side, a rusted stove, flowerpots, broken chairs. Above the door was a metal sign: Chalet something-or-other, the letters had faded away. The window casements were deep, the shutters closed. He went around to the back where there was a light and knocked.
A woman came to the door.
“Is there a place to sleep?” he asked.
She did not answer. She called into the darkness of the house and another woman, her mother, appeared and led him up some flights of stairs into a room where he could stay for ten francs—she made it clear by holding up two hands with outstretched fingers. There were bunks with bare mattresses. Someone’s belongings were already there, shoes and equipment strewn beside the wall and on the single shelf a loaf of bread and an alarm clock.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
There was a washroom with one bulb. Everything was bare, unpainted, dark with years. He went to bed without dinner that night. It had begun to rain again. He heard it first, then saw it on the window. Like a beast that knows things by scent, he was untroubled, even at peace. The odor of the blankets, the trees, the earth, the odor of France seemed known to him. He lay there feeling not so much a physical calm as something even deeper, the throb of life itself. A decisive joy filled him, warmth and well-being. Nothing could buy these things—he was breathing quietly, the rain was falling—nothing could take their place.
6
CHAMONIX WAS AT ONE time an unspoiled town. Though crowded and overbuilt there are aspects which remain—the narrow curving streets, the sturdy barns, the walls built thick and left to crumble—that reveal its former character and vanished air. It lies in a deep V in the mountains, in the valley of the Arve, a river white with rock dust that rushes in a frenzy beside the streets. Overshadowing the town are the lower slopes of Mont Blanc with the snouts of glaciers alongside.
The Alps are new mountains, forced up from the crust of the earth, folded and refolded in comparatively recent times, four or five epochs ago. Mont Blanc itself is older. It is a block mountain, formed by a vast cleaving before even the time of the dinosaurs and drowned in seas that covered Europe after they disappeared. This ancient granite rose again when the Alps were born, higher than all that surrounded and clung to it, the highest point in Europe.
Adjoining is an army of pyramids and pinnacles, the aiguilles, which have drawn climbers—the English to begin with and then others—for more than a hundred years. At first sight they seem to be numberless. They lie in ranks and rough arcs to the south and east, some of the largest, like the Grandes Jorasses, almost hidden by those that were closer.
The north faces are the coldest and usually the most difficult. They receive less sun, sometimes only an hour or two a day, and are often covered in snow throughout the year. The winters are cold, the summers brief and often cloudy. The people are mountain people, hard and self-reliant—for years the Chamonix guides accepted in their ranks only those born in the valley. At the same time new roads opened the town to the world. In July and August huge crowds arrive. The restaurants, hotels, even the mountains themselves are filled. In September, as if by decree, everyone vanishes and there remains nothing but the blue letters that spell CARLTON shining mournfully at night above empty streets.
It rained for days, clouds covering the mountains, a cold steady rain. The dampness crept indoors. He sat by the stove in a plaid shirt and boots. Two young Germans who had come back soaked the first afternoon occasionally uttered a phrase or two. Bad weather, they would say. South wind is always bad. Where was he from? Ah, California! They nodded but he could tell them no more.
Then one day it was clear. The mountains appeared. There was activity everywhere, one could feel it. Chamonix with its tin roofs and small shops came forth into sunlight.
In the post office the doors to the telephone booths were constantly opening and closing, the high, impatient voices of the clerks filled the air. He stood in line. In front of him was a Japanese with a two-day growth of beard—to pay for stamps he searched a small, canvas bag. In it he found a purse. He opened it. There was another, smaller purse within.
“Can you believe this?” Rand said. There was a bearded face behind him, an American face.
“Now he’s going to find out he doesn’t have enough money.”
The Japanese had shaken some coins onto the counter; he evidently thought he had more. He shook the purse again. A single coin dropped out. Not enough.
“I’ll len
d it to him,” Rand said. “What, do they weigh every letter?”
“Sometimes they weigh it again after you put the stamps on.”
“What’s the reason for that?”
“Please. It has nothing to do with reason. You’ve never been to France?”
His name was Paul Love. He was a travel agent, in Chamonix for his third season. Wryly, he described the local scene which included bone-poor English stealing fruit and sitting for hours over a single bottle of beer. The Japanese were different. They came in vast numbers, armies of them, and could be found in the mountains everywhere, sleeping in cracks and upside down, frequently falling off—it was not unusual to see one in midair.
“They only buy round-trip tickets for half of them,” he said. “Where are you staying?” Now was the time to get a camping site, before the crowds showed up, he advised.
“Where are you camping?”
“Come on.”
He led the way. They walked up past the cemetery where Whymper, who was the first to climb the Matterhorn, lay buried. Beyond were woods. Ferns and dense greenery were everywhere. The town was not visible from here, only the sky and, opposite, the steep face of the Brévent.
“Where are we?”
“The Biolay,” Love said. “Later in the year it doesn’t smell too good.”
He had already made up his mind about Rand judging from his clothes, the veins in his forearms, the cared-for equipment, but above all from a certain spot of coldness somewhere in him. He did not know him by reputation or name, but that meant nothing. He was absolutely sure of his sizing-up.
“What have you been climbing?” he asked.
“Nothing yet.”
“You’re not one of these maniacs who start out by doing the Bonatti Pillar?”
“No, I’m just getting into shape. And you?”
“It takes me all summer. Would you like to do something?”
“Whatever you like,” Rand said amiably.
They decided on Pointe Lachenal. Conditions on it weren’t bad, Love had heard. And the approach, in his words, was conceivable.
“What kind of climb is it?”
“It’s rated T.D. Très difficile. I’m not really the world’s champion climber,” Love admitted.
“Is that right?”
“But I know how to climb.”
What was almost a friendship sprang up between them in the green of the woods, the earth fragrant from the rain, the air pure and still. There were the blackened stones of old campfires on the ground. Love’s eyeglasses glinted. “Love and Rand, that’s like blood and sand …”
“Glove and hand.”
“Much better!”
They made some tea. The pleasant hours of afternoon passed.
Early in the morning they were making their way toward the Col de Rognon, a low ridge on the side of Mont Blanc. The snow was firm underfoot, not yet softened by the sun. Great peaks and pinnacles, all of them strange and unknown, were everywhere.
They were walking unroped, a little awkwardly. The terrain was steep.
“Good snow,” Love said.
When they paused for a moment, Rand asked offhandedly, “Do you know how to self-arrest?”
“Not really,” Love said.
“Let me show you. If you’re falling down a slope, first try the pick”—he demonstrated with his ice ax—“then the edge, and if neither works, drive in the shaft.”
The explanation seemed to open the door to certain vague dangers. Love considered they might do well to rope up but decided to say nothing. He started off again. After a while he pointed.
“There it is.”
They had crossed the ridge and off to the right, the early sun on its face, was a wall like a lump of anthracite, eight hundred feet high. There were greater peaks behind but this one seemed to stand out despite its smaller size, like a menacing face in a crowd upon which one’s gaze happens to fall.
At its foot Rand stared up. He reached out to touch it. The surface was chill, as if asleep. There was a vertical crack, the start of the route. He felt a sudden uncertainty as if here, for some reason, in this remote place, his ability to climb might be lost. His confidence had vanished. He put his hands on the rock, found the first foothold, and began to climb. Slowly, meter by meter, the uneasiness left him. He made his way upward.
At the first belaying stance he took off his sweater and stuffed it in his pack. The sun was warm. Love was coming up beneath, his beard already disheveled. When he raised his face he looked like a young Karl Marx.
Rand was at home. It seemed he knew instinctively where holds would be. The route was not hard to find, marked in many places by pitons which he removed as he went, clipping them into his own supply.
“We really shouldn’t be taking them out,” Love said. “They leave them there to save time.”
“Never trust a piton you don’t put in yourself.”
“You mean that?”
“Absolutely. On belay?”
“On belay,” Love said.
“Here’s a traverse. You’re going to like this.”
Love was beginning, psychologically, to lose ground. In places that Rand passed without comment, he found himself struggling. He knew he must climb at his own pace, but he was conscious of being slower, that someone was waiting. He flexed his fingers, his eyes on the rock in front of him, trying not to think of anything except the next hold.
The sun lay on them now with all its weight. A kind of dizziness, a sense of abandonment came over Love. The white of the glacier and the snowfields far below seemed to shimmer and rise. The sky was a flawless blue.
Thirty minutes later they heard something above them. Voices. They searched the face.
“Over there.”
Off to the right, near a ridge toward which they were heading, were two figures. For Rand a certain pleasure he had felt was now gone; they were not alone, they were following another pair. Love listened.
“French,” he said.
The leader was wearing a red sweater, talking to his second, then turning to hammer in a piton. He struck it a glancing blow—out it came. The steel rang as it hit the rock far down and shot straight out, glinting for a moment as it disappeared against the flatness of the glacier.
“Merde.” They were laughing and shouting at one another, their voices floating down. The leader was trying to put in another piton. It came out, too, but he caught it. Suddenly he went limp in a parody of helplessness and frustration.
Before long, they had caught up to them. Rand was fifteen feet or so below the second man. Here he had to wait, interminably, unable to move. He became impatient.
“Hello,” he called.
There was a brief downward glance.
“Can we go ahead?”
They had resumed their shouts in French, they didn’t answer.
Suddenly from near the leader’s foot something sprang loose, gathering speed.
“Rock!” Rand hugged the wall. Leaping, arcing, the rock went by. It was the size of a shoebox. He heard it explode against the wall below.
“You son of a bitch.” He shouted. “You shouldn’t be climbing! You should be playing golf!”
Love came up beside him.
“That nearly hit me.”
“Next time he’ll kick down something bigger.”
“Try and call out earlier.” He leaned there resignedly, his beard awry. “My reflexes have always been a little slow. Anyway, I hope you don’t mean bigger. The whole face of the Blaitière broke loose one time.”
“One of these guys must have been climbing it.”
“Actually, the French are very good climbers. As good as any. The Italians, too. I’m not very fond of Germans. I suppose they’d have to be included,” he decided.
Love glanced down. They were about halfway. The glacier had become very small. It seemed he was somewhere—he had felt this many times before—where a terrible event, some suspension of physical law might take place and everything he knew, was sure of, h
oped to be, in one anarchic moment would dissolve. He saw himself falling.
This feeling alternated with one of confidence. A layer of frailty had been stripped away and a stronger, more spiritual being remained. He almost forgot where he was or what he had given himself to. His eye wandered godlike over the silent peaks. He was awed by their immensity and stillness. He was, in a sense, part of them. Whatever happened, their majesty would enhance, even justify it. He felt equal to the climb, immeasurably close to his companion whose character he admired.
“There’s the Aiguille du Géant,” he said. “There are the Grandes Jorasses.”
Rand was looking upward.
“We’re going to be here all night,” he said.
Finally the way was clear. The French were far ahead. Love had begun to tire, he could feel it, he was losing his strength. The rock became implacable. He could feel its malevolence.
He watched Rand above him, still in harmony with it, still undismayed. A movement one way, no good, another slightly different, this one successful. There were times when he seemed to be doing nothing, not even exploring the surface, and then would reach out, pull, try to get his foot on some flaw. He moved in smooth advances and pauses, even retreats, like a snake swallowing a frog, motionless, then a slight flurry, then a pause. If a thing did not work he would withdraw, change position, flex his fingers to loosen them and try again. The physical acts are not hard to imagine but the endless succession of them, far up on a wall—that is another thing. And the distance beneath.
Gathering himself, Love followed. There were moments when he nearly gave up, his legs began to shake. If he fell, the rope would hold him but more than anything, more than life itself, he did not want to, he dared not fail.
Section by section, some easier, some not, they climbed to the top. The others were not in sight. It was over. As they unroped, the anguish Love had felt, the shame at his weakness and lapses of will, all vanished. He knew an exultation beyond words. In his whole life, it seemed, he had never felt more worthy.
“Not a bad climb,” Rand said.