by James Salter
They boarded the train. The seats around them were empty. Amid the shouts of children and the low, murmured talk of couples, young men with cashmere sweaters around their necks, a shrill whistle blew. The train began to move. Carol walked along beside it as far as the platform’s end.
The valley fell away. On the opposite side the Brévent reared like a wall, a faint path zigzagging up it. An elderly Englishman and his wife sat nearby. He had a turned-down hat. There were blotches on his face.
“Very beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.
“I prefer the Cervin. The Cervin is much nicer,” his wife replied.
“Do you think so?” he said.
“It’s majestic.”
“Well, here you have majesty.”
“Where?”
“There.”
She looked for a moment.
“No,” she said. “It’s not the same.”
The train rocked gently. The conversation seemed like scraps of paper floating from the window as they went upward. At Montenvers a crowd was waiting to go back down.
By three that afternoon they were camped beneath the Dru. That evening they had a good meal, soup, thick pieces of bread, dried fruit, tea. Afterward a bar of chocolate. They planned to start at dawn. Above them the face was silent. The slanting rays of sun fell on their shoulders, on the warm, lichened rock and dry grass. They watched the sun go down in splendor behind the shoulder of the Charmoz. Cabot was smoking. He held out the thin cigarette as he exhaled. Rand took it from between his fingers.
“Where’d you get this?”
“Brought it with me.” He leaned back, his thoughts drifting off. “And so,” he said, “they waited for morning. I love this time. I like it best.”
“Here …”
Cabot reached for it. He inhaled deeply, smiled. It seemed he was a different man here, calmer; the strength remained but not the vainglory that clung to him below. The well-to-do family, school, athletic teams, what these had done for him the mountains had done for Rand. A deep companionship and understanding joined them. They were equals. Without a word, it seemed, they had made a solemn pact. It would never be broken.
The light had faded. It was growing cold. By nine-thirty they were asleep. An hour later there was thunder, distant but unmistakable. By midnight it began to rain. In a torrential downpour they went down the next day, soaked and miserable. They slept in the back of the van, the three of them, piled together like dogs while chill rain beat on the roof.
Three times they were to walk to the foot of the Dru. The weather was against them. It had pinned down everyone else as well. Bray was in town. He had talked to one of the guides, a man from the villages who knew the lore.
“There’s something they call the wind for the year,” he explained. “It comes on the twenty-third of January. This year it was from the west.”
“What does that mean?”
“A good day, then two or three of rain, and so forth. Variable.”
“I could have told you that,” Cabot said.
In mid-July they started up again. The weather had cleared, climbers were swarming into the mountains. Two were near them on the glacier, one a girl carrying a big pack. Her boy friend was far in front.
“What’s he bringing her up for?”
“To milk her,” Cabot said.
She wore glasses. Her face was damp. Later, having fallen two or three times on the ice, she cried out in frustration and sat there. The boy went on without looking back.
On the rognon another party was already camped—two Austrians, they looked like brothers. Cabot was immediately alarmed.
“Let’s go to the other side,” he said.
That evening they could hear, from across the valley, the whistle of the last train going down. Later there was singing. It was the Austrians.
“What do you suppose they’re doing? Do you think they’re doing the same thing we are?”
“I don’t know,” Rand said. “Where were they when it was raining?”
“We’d better start early,” Cabot warned.
At five in the morning they broke camp silently and went down onto the glacier that lay between them and the base. It was already light. Their hands were cold. Their footsteps seemed to bark on the frozen surface.
“If they’re not up yet, this will wake them,” Rand said.
“They’re doing the regular route anyway.”
“How do you know?”
“There they are.”
There were two small figures far off on the right, making for the couloir.
“Nothing to worry about now,” Rand said.
“Right.”
Between the glacier and the rock there is a deep crevasse, the bergschrund; they crossed it without difficulty. The granite was dark and icy cold. Rand put his hand on it. It seemed he was touching not a face but something on the order of a planet, too vast to be imagined and at the same time, somehow, aware of his presence.
It was just before six that they began to climb.
“I’ll take the first pitch, all right?” Cabot said.
He took hold of the rock, found a foothold and started up.
13
“OFF BELAY!”
After a bit, a rope came curling down. He tied Cabot’s pack to it with stiffened fingers and watched as it was hauled up, brushing against the rock. The rope came down again. He fastened his own pack to it. A few minutes later he was climbing.
At first there is anxiety, the initial twenty feet or so especially, but soon it vanishes. The rock was cold, it seemed to bite his hands. Pausing for a moment he could hear behind him the faint sound of trucks in the distant valley.
He reached the place where Cabot was belaying. They exchanged a few words. Rand went ahead. He climbed confidently, the distance beneath him deepened. The body is like a machine that is slow to start but once running smoothly seems it can go forever. He searched for holds, jamming himself in the crack, touching, rejecting, working himself higher.
By noon they were far up—they had reached a snow-covered ledge that formed the top of the apron. From here the main wall began. Rays of sun, far above, were pouring past the invisible summit. Sitting on a narrow outcrop they had something to eat.
“Not too bad, so far. Can I have some water?” Cabot said.
Somehow in taking it there was a slip—the plastic bottle dropped from his hand. He tried to catch it, but it was gone, glancing off the rock below once, twice, three times and dwindling into the white of the glacier which after a long pause it hit.
“Sorry,” he said calmly.
Rand did not comment. There was another bottle but now only half the supply remained. The mountain magnifies. The smallest event is irreversible, the slightest word.
A sequence of vertical cracks began. Rand was moving upward. At the top of the first one it was necessary to go to another off to the left. Between, it was nearly blank. The holds sloped downward. He tried, retreated, tried again. He had to reach a nub eight inches farther out. The smoothness threatened him, the lure of a last half foot. His face was wet. His leg began to tremble. Ready, he told himself. He leaned out. Reached. His fingers touched it. He moved across. From beneath, it seemed effortless as if he were skimming the rock and barely needed holds. Cabot merely saw him put in a piton and go on. Just then the sun passed from behind the face and blinded him. He shielded his eyes. He could not be sure but he thought he saw the bloc coincé far above.
From Montenvers that afternoon they were visible by telescope. Large sections of the mountain were pale in the sun. Some distance beneath the great, overhanging block, two specks could be made out, motionless. A white helmet glinted.
The afternoon had passed, they were still in sunshine. The warmth was pleasant. There is always endless waiting, looking up, neck stiff, while the leader finds the way. The silence of the face surrounded them, the greatness of the scale.
Suddenly, from nowhere, a frightening sound. The whine of a projectile; Rand hugged the wal
l. Something unseen came down, thudded, careened and was gone. He looked up. Above him, an awesome sight. The brush of a great wing seemed to have passed over Cabot. As if in obedience, slowly, he was bowing. His legs went slack, his arms slipped away. Without a sound he performed a sacred act—he began to fall.
“Jack!”
The rope went taut. Cabot was hanging above him and off to one side.
“Jack! Are you all right?”
Cabot’s head was bent, his legs dangling. There was no reply.
One man cannot lift another with the rope, he can only hold him. Rand had a good stance but consequences were already seeping into his mind. He let some rope pass through his hands. Cabot’s foot was moving slightly. It touched a hold, perhaps to use it for support, but slipped off. His head hit the wall.
“Are you okay?”
Silence.
“Jack, below you,” he called.
There was a better place farther down. Talking to him as he did, Rand let out more rope. As a piece of clothing can catch on a sliver, something seemed to snag Cabot and he stayed, unseeing, clinging to the rock.
Rand finally worked his way up to him. Cabot’s head turned slightly. His chin, the whole side of his face, was bathed in blood. His eyes were closed like someone fighting drunkenness. Blood drenched his shirt. Rand felt suddenly sick.
“How bad is it? Let me see.”
He half-expected the wet gleam of brains as he removed the helmet. The blood rushed forth. It was dripping from the jaw.
“Do you have a bandage?”
“No,” Cabot barely muttered.
He made one with a handkerchief that darkened as he tied it. He wiped the jaw to see if the flow was stopping. His heart pounded. He tried to see if blood was coming from the ear which meant serious concussion or a fractured skull.
One thing seemed certain even at that moment: Cabot was going to die.
“Does it hurt?”
A slow nod. The blood would not stop. Rand wiped his fingers on the rock and tried to collect fleeing thoughts. He hammered in a piton and clipped them both to it. Cabot’s head had fallen forward as if he were asleep. A thousand feet lay below them. There were two or three hours of daylight left. In any case they could not stay here.
Some distance above was an overhang that might conceal a ledge. That was the best hope. Perhaps he could reach it.
“I’m going up to see if there’s a ledge,” he announced.
Cabot was silent.
“If there is, I’ll get you up. Will you be all right? I’ll bring you up afterwards.”
Cabot raised his head slightly, as if in farewell. His eyes were dim, he managed to part his lips in a faint, terrifying smile, the smile of a corpse. His teeth were outlined in blood.
“Hang on,” Rand said.
A sickening fear spilled through him as he started, nor did it lessen. He was alone, climbing unprotected. He was worse than alone. He made his way upward, chilled by the malevolence of the wall, imagining it might shed him completely by merely letting loose the entire slab he held to.
The last train had long since gone down from Montenvers. The only eyes at the telescope were those of curious guests of the hotel out for a stroll before dinner. What they saw were details of a magnificent landscape, roseate and still. The light was pure, the sky clear. They, as well as all of creation, were unaware of the chill shadow beneath the overhang and the man, heart-empty, who was hidden in it.
He worked slowly outward, hammering pitons into a narrowing crack and standing in his étriers—slings which bore his entire weight. The crack stopped. He searched desperately, there was no place for a piton. Leaning out, he reached around the lip and felt for holds. His hand found one. He might be able to pull himself up, brace one foot against the last piton, and somewhere farther on find another. His fingers felt and refelt the unseen rock. He still had the strength for one big effort. He took a breath and swung out, bent backward, his free hand searching. Nothing. He managed to get a little higher. Nothing. A rush of panic. He was feeling about frantically. At the very top of his reach he found a hold. In tribute to his struggle the rock had relented. He pulled himself up and lay panting. The ledge was two feet wide, uneven, but it was a ledge. He set about bringing up Cabot.
14
THE SUN HAD GONE down behind Mont Blanc. It was colder. The sky was still light, the small Bleuet stove making tea.
Cabot sat slumped and motionless. The blood had dried on his head and face but his eyes, staring down, were vacant.
The cup was passed between battered hands.
“How’s your head? It seems to have stopped bleeding.”
Cabot bared his black-edged teeth. He nodded slightly.
“I think we’re all right for now,” Rand told him.
Cabot was silent. After a moment, he murmured, “How’s the weather?”
The sky was clear. The first pale star had made an appearance.
“We don’t want to fool with the weather,” he mumbled. This seemed to exhaust him. He sank into meditation. Rand took the cup from his hand.
In the distance the lights of Chamonix were visible. As it grew darker they became more numerous, distinct. They meant warm meals, conversation, comfortable rooms, all of it unattainable as the stars. It was colder now, it had come quickly, covering the peaks. The long vigil of night began.
Cabot was covered, hands in his pockets, bootlaces loosened. The wall was in shadow, the brown of ancient monuments. A feeling of intense isolation, a kind of claustrophobia came over Rand. It was as if he could not breathe, as if space were crushing him. He fought against it. The three cold stars in the belt of Orion shone above. His mind wandered. He thought of condemned men waiting out their last hours, days in California, his youth. His feet were cold, he tried to move his toes. Hours passed, periods of oblivion, of staring at the stars. There were more than he had ever seen. The coldness of the night increased them. They quivered in the thin air. On the dark horizon was the glow of Geneva, constant through the night. A meteor came down like a clot of white fire. An airplane passed to the north. He felt resentment, despair. His eye went down the wall, a thousand feet. He was falling, falling. Cabot never moved; from time to time he moaned.
At first with only the slightest changing of the sky’s tone, dawn came. The blue became paler. The stars began to fade. Rand was stiff, exhausted. The huge dome of Mont Blanc soared into light.
“Jack. Wake up.” He had to shake him. Cabot’s eyes flickered. They were the eyes of a man who could do nothing, who was dissolute, spent. “It’s daylight.”
“What time is it?”
“Five-thirty. Beautiful morning in France.” His fingers numb, he somehow lit the stove and got out food. Without seeming to, he tried to examine the inert figure.
“I feel better,” Cabot unexpectedly said.
Rand looked at him,
“Do you think you can make it down?”
“Down?” There was a pause. “No.” He was like a powerful beast that has fought and is bloody and torn, seems killed but suddenly comes to its feet. “Not down,” he said. “I’m all right. I can make it.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I can make it,” Cabot insisted.
“The hardest part’s ahead.”
“I know.”
Rand said no more. As he was putting things away and sorting out gear, he tried to think. Cabot was strong, no doubt of it. He seemed in control of himself for the moment. They had come a long way.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“Yes. Let’s go on.”
At first he could not tell, the start was slow. They were stiff from long hours and the cold. Rand was leading. Soon he saw that Cabot could barely climb. He would stay in one spot as if asleep.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m just taking a little rest.”
They proceeded with frightening slowness, as one does with a novice. From time to time Cabot would make a gesture: it’s all right, I�
�ll just be a minute, but it was nearly always five or ten. Rand had to pull him up with the rope.
They had passed the bloc coincé and begun an inside corner where two great slabs of rock met like an open book. It seemed they were not really here, they were part of some sort of game. They were going through the motions of climbing, that was all. But they could not go down. The time to have done that was earlier, not after they had struggled up an additional five hundred feet. They were near the place where the first party to climb the face had retreated, going around to the north side and descending. Exactly where that was, Rand did not know. He looked for the bolts that had been placed years before but never found them.
They came to a wide slab, chillingly exposed. The holds were slight, hardly more than scribed lines. There was no place to put in a piton. As he went out on it, Rand could feel a premonition, a kind of despair becoming greater, flooding him. It is belief as much as anything that allows one to cling to a wall. He was thirty minutes crossing as many feet, certain as he did that it was in vain.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he called.
Cabot started. He moved very slowly, he was moving by inches. A third of the way across, he said simply,
“I can’t make it.”
“Yes, you can,” Rand said.
“Maybe there’s another way.”
“You can do it.”
Cabot paused, then tried again. Almost immediately, his foot slipped. He managed to hold on.
“I can’t,” he said. He was done for. “You’ll have to leave me here.”
Silence.
“No, come on,” Rand told him.
“I’m going back. You go on. Come back for me.”
“I can’t,” Rand said. “Look, come on,” he said casually. He was afraid of panic in his voice. He did not look down, he did not want to see anything. There is a crux pitch, not always the most technically difficult, where the mountain concedes nothing, not the tiniest movement, not the barest hope. There is only a line, finer than a hair, that must somehow be crossed.