The Yeti: A Novel

by Rick Chesler

  “I haven’t seen him since dinner. Figured he was hanging out in someone else’s tent.”

  Francesca shrugged. “I cannot imagine whose. The guides have not seen him. Jimmy is outside smoking something. The only tent left is Vergé and Egger’s, and I doubt very much he is spending time in there.”

  “Should we go look for him?” Zack asked. “He couldn’t have wandered off very far.”

  “Maybe later, if he is not back by the time we turn in.” She pointed at the trade paperback resting on Zack’s lap. “What are you reading?”

  He lifted the book and showed her the cover. She arched her long smooth neck, which appeared even fairer against the deep purple of her climbing suit.

  “Ah, the biography of George Mallory,” she said. “Quite inspiring, no?”

  “I suppose,” Zack said, setting the book back down in his lap. “If it weren’t for the unhappy ending.”

  Francesca looked perplexed. “Mallory died doing what he loved. Is that so unhappy?”

  “But he died so young,” Zack said. “Thirty-seven. That’s not much older than I am now.” He moved his head from side to side. “And he left behind so much. A beautiful wife, three young children...”

  “I am not married,” Francesca said rather abruptly. “I have no children. Would that make my death any less tragic?”

  Zack narrowed his eyes. “Of course not. I’m just–”

  “There is not only one way to live a life, you know.”

  “I’m not saying there is–”

  “But that is what you seem to think, Zack. You cannot understand risking your life for something you love, which is fine. But it is fine, too, that some of us do. Is it not?”

  Zack shrugged. “Yeah, of course, it’s fine.” He looked away from her and said softly. “Just a little selfish maybe.”

  “And what you are doing, carrying your wife’s remains to the summit, it is not selfish? Because you believe it is what she would want?”

  Zack stared down at his once-smooth hands, pursing his badly chapped lips. “I don’t know why I’m doing it, to be honest. I don’t even know if I’m doing it anymore.”

  “And what does that mean, Zack?”

  “It means it’s a long way to the summit, and I doubt very much I’ll make it. I doubt even that I’ll make the push. Truth is, I’d be happy just to make it to Advance Base Camp.”

  Francesca frowned deeply. “How responsible you are,” she said derisively, “to come all this way only to stop at ABC.”

  Zack’s head ached again. He couldn’t quite believe what was happening, how she’d turned on him so fast. What had he done? What had he said? He searched her face in the glowing light, hoping it was just the altitude tinkering with her mood.

  “I am sorry,” she said after nearly a minute of silence. “I suppose I am just upset. I have been thinking too much about what happened in Namche to the yaks.”

  Zack searched for something to say. “You’re very fond of animals,” he managed. “I could tell.”

  She smiled. Not the joyful expression Zack had seen when they’d first met, but a doleful upturning of the lips, similar to the smile he’d manufactured at Nadia’s memorial service - the putting on of a good face.

  “Animals were my...” She hesitated, searching for the word. “My refuge as a child.”

  Zack squinted to determine whether he was seeing right, whether her glassy expression arose out of tears in her eyes. But before he could discern, there was a loud noise outside his tent. A crashing, like the breaking of bottles, followed by angry shouts.

  Zack and Francesca scrambled to their feet and rushed outside the tent.

  “Cause I’m free as a bird now,” Jimmy sung at the top of his lungs, standing with his arms spread wide, like wings, in the center of the camp. “And this bird you’ll never chaaaaaaange.”

  Zack glanced to the left. Ruiz and Egger and Vergé were holding Skinner back with all their might.

  “I’ll tear you apart, you bloody wog,” Skinner cried, trying to break loose. “Just you wait!”

  “And this bird you cannot chaaaaaaange!”

  Zack bolted over to Jimmy and grabbed him by his hot pink coat.

  “What’s up, Doc?” Jimmy bellowed, before hissing something in Greek.

  He reeked of grass and wine.

  “That’s enough,” Zack said. “Whatever it is, you’ve gotten your point across.”

  “How’s my English, Professor?” Jimmy’s eyes were glazed over, and when he wasn’t singing he was slurring his words.

  “Just fine,” Zack said, backing him off in the direction of Jimmy’s tent. Jimmy and Francesca were Ian’s only clients who weren’t made to share a tent - Francesca because she was the only female, Jimmy because his father paid Ian extra to honor the request.

  Jimmy shrugged away from Zack and retreated into his tent. Zack waited outside while Gaston Vergé attempted to cool Skinner down across camp. Zack gazed up at the stars. He’d seen so few of them in the past few years back in the States.

  Inside Jimmy’s tent, the top of a beer bottle popped off. Followed by the unmistakable sound of a bong.

  As he stepped away from the Greek’s tent, Zack smirked, trying to fathom how, at nineteen thousand six hundred feet, Jimmy Melonakos could’ve possibly felt the need to get high.

  * * *

  Zack couldn’t sleep. The altitude again. That and he was growing more concerned about Dustin. It wasn’t late, not by civilized standards. But on the dark frigid mountain it felt like the veterinarian had been gone forever. Zack pushed himself to his feet and stepped outside. Everyone else was already resting soundly in their tents. Everyone except for Gaston Vergé.

  The Frenchman sat quietly in the middle of camp, barely visible against the tarry backdrop of night in his black one-piece climbing suit. With no one else around, Zack felt obliged to walk over to him.

  “Can’t sleep either?” Zack dropped on his rear next to the quiet Parisian businessman.

  “No,” Vergé said. “I can’t.”

  “The altitude?” Zack stretched, realizing he was oddly in the mood for conversation. “Dr. Kapoor said even the most experienced mountaineers develop insomnia up high. I guess you’re used to it by now.”

  “It’s not the altitude. It’s the blonde-haired piss-ant I’m sharing my tent with. Can’t seem to shut his trap for five minutes.”

  Egger. So Zack and the Frenchman had something in common.

  Zack smiled and began to rise. “I’ll give you some peace and quiet then.”

  “No, please, sit. So long as you don’t ramble on about your sexual exploits and athletic achievements for hours on end, we’ll be fine.”

  Zack sat back down. He studied the Frenchman’s face. It was a hard visage, the same tough exterior displayed by Skinner and Ian Furst. Yet his warm chestnut eyes seemed somehow soft in the starlight.

  “I don’t have many of either,” Zack said, still battling his headache. “So I’m sure it’d be an extremely brief discussion.”

  “How merciful,” Vergé said, with the trace of a smile.

  Zack tensed. The mere sound of the word had struck him like a bullet in his gut. At first, he wasn’t sure why.

  Then he realized. Mercer. Todd Mercer.

  The image of the killer - after all, that’s what he was, wasn’t he? - stuck in Zack’s hypoxic mind like a pushpin. He spent the next few minutes in silence trying like hell to bite it out.

  It was Vergé who finally spoke. “Skinner ultimately settled down some. Hopefully we’ll hear nothing more this evening from our young Greek friend.”

  “I’m pretty sure he passed out,” Zack said, covering his mouth as he coughed. “I only caught the tail end of it. What were the fisticuffs all about?”

  “Apparently our adolescent shipping heir didn’t take too kindly to being scolded at the puja ceremony back at Base Camp. Seems he’s a rather vindictive bastard. Saw fit to move his bowels in the Kiwi’s rucksack at some point this a
fternoon.” He paused. “Monsieur Skinner was none too pleased, to say the least.”

  Zack thought back to the puja, then made a mental note to check his own pack as soon as he got back to his tent.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Vergé said, “--that I had a bit of a run-in during the puja with a guide myself. But that was different, friend. I’d overheard Ruiz say some foul things about the Sherpas, about how they were heathens. That just didn’t sit well with me. If you wish to believe in a sky god or a holy ghost, that’s fine. But then don’t dare undermine other’s beliefs, as though your supernatural benefactor were real, while everyone else’s were simply make-believe.”

  Zack bowed his head.

  “A shame,” Vergé said softly, “that in this day and age, some educated people still rely on such a dangerous crutch.”

  Zack, even though he largely agreed, felt uncomfortable with the subject. “So,” he said in an attempt to digress, “I understand this is your second-to-last peak to complete the Seven Summits.”

  Vergé nodded. “You say it as though my reaching the summit of Everest and Vinson is a given.”

  Zack lifted his shoulder. “Well, you’ve conquered the other five. I just figured...”

  “I’ve conquered nothing, Dr. Hitchens. I’ve merely climbed some very tall mountains, nothing more. And it’s taken me twelve years to even get this far. This will be my fourth and final attempt at Everest.”

  Zack inhaled deeply. “Well, if anyone can get you up there, it’s Ian Furst.”

  “I agree.” Vergé frowned. “I’ve tried some less expensive outfits only to find I was more experienced than my guides. In fact, my first guide on Everest had never even made it to the top himself.”

  “There are a lot of con men up here,” Zack said, nodding “I suppose that’s because there’s barely any regulation.”

  “Right you are,” Vergé agreed. “And it leads to a lot of senseless loss of life. Have you seen some of the teams at Base Camp? The Poles needed to be shown how to strap on their crampons. And the Russians arrived with hardly any supplies at all. The only teams that seem to me to be even remotely prepared are ours and the Scots’.”

  Zack sat silently for a few moments. Then quietly, he said: “I have to admit, I’m still trying to figure out the lure of this mountain.” Because it’s there. “How about you, Gaston? Why the Seven Summits? Why Everest?”

  Vergé actually cracked a smile. “Competition.”

  “Competition?” Zack repeated. “With whom?”

  “Myself.” Vergé leaned back and sighed. “If you don’t test yourself, Zack, you’ll die never knowing what you were capable of.”

  Zack grinned. “Can’t you test yourself at sea level? Someone mentioned that you’re a brilliant businessman. Haven’t you been tested enough?”

  “In business, at best, your savvy is tested. At worst, only your greed. The mountains, on the other hand, tests everything. The body, the mind. Even the heart. Altitude tests your endurance, your resourcefulness, and at times, even your courage and kindness.” He gazed up at the night sky. “Don’t you ever feel as though you are missing something, Zack?”

  “Such as?”

  “The struggle, of course. The philosopher Bertrand Russell wrote: ‘The human animal, like others, is adapted to a certain amount of struggle for life, and when by means of great wealth homo sapiens can gratify all his whims without effort, the mere absence of effort from his life removes an essential ingredient of happiness.’”

  “So, this effort on the mountain, this struggle for life...”

  Vergé nodded. “It returns this essential ingredient to me. Simply put, Zack, it makes me happy.”

  Before Zack could digest Vergé’s words, he heard what sounded like a rockfall not far from camp. He turned, rising to his feet with the Frenchman. Standing stock-still, together they scanned the inky base of the Western Cwm.

  They didn’t move. Minutes passed before they heard another sound - footfalls on rock-hard ice.

  Something emerged slowly from the darkness.

  Then a brilliant beam of light struck Zack in the face, forcing him to shield his eyes. When his vision finally adjusted, he watched a torn royal blue climbing suit materialize at the foot of the Western Cwm, carrying a flashlight.

  “Dustin?” Zack called out.

  As Vergé and he rushed toward the hobbling climber, Zack was better able to see his face. Dustin it was. But not the Dustin he’d shared dinner with hours earlier. This Dustin was as white as the snow. And he had fresh bright red blood slathered across his face.

  Chapter 14

  “Bollocks,” Ian shouted into the radio from his communications tent at Base Camp. “What the hell do you mean he’s refusing to come down? It’s not some bloody request; it’s a fucking order.”

  Skinner’s voice sounded promptly in reply. “Says he’ll descend to Base Camp with the rest of the team in two days as planned.”

  Ian turned to Patty, who swiftly removed the amused look from her face. “Can you bloody well believe this?” he said. “Blaisdell had himself a bad fall last night, may bloody well have a concussion, and he’s refusing to come down to Base Camp to let Aasif have a look at him.” He turned back to the radio. “What in blazes was he doing away from Camp One in the bloody darkness to begin with?”

  “Says he got lost,” Skinner replied.

  Behind Ian, Aasif folded his arms across his chest. “It’s no problem, really. I’ll just climb up to Camp One to check him out.”

  Ian swung around in his chair. “The hell you will. It’s already nine o’clock; you’d never make it through the icefall by noon. He’s got to come down. Skinner could have him here in just over an hour, well before the midday sun hits the glacier.”

  Ian turned back to the radio. “Skinner, put the bugger on. I want to speak with him. Now.”

  “Stand by.”

  Ian leaned back in his chair, wondering for the first time whether this was his final expedition. What in bloody hell did he continue to do this for anyway? He was fine financially, had enough money to see him through the rest of his life. And besides, his Number Two, who was now leading a team up the North Face of Eiger, was ready to take over the reins. The business wouldn’t suffer. Here in the Himalayas, Skinner more than possessed the ability to lead; hell, the bloke handled Everest as well as anyone Ian had ever seen. Besides, he’d have plenty of help. Patty would no doubt stay on, as would Aasif and the Sherpas. And hell, even a git like Miguel Ruiz could read a bloody weather report.

  Ian glanced over at Patty with a raised eyebrow. Sure would be nice to get into her knickers one last time, he thought. But Ian knew that was a long shot. Things change. Last time they’d shagged had been some six years ago. Just before the death of his son.

  A hell of a lot has happened since then, he thought.

  The radio woke up. “Dustin here.”

  “Blaisdell,” Ian croaked, “now I’m only going to say this once, mate, so listen close. I am ordering you to descend to Base Camp with Skinner today, in the next fifteen minutes, in fact. Dr. Kapoor needs to have a look at that gash Skinner tells me you put on your head. And he needs to test you to see if you’ve sustained a concussion. Understand?”

  A brief pause, then: “I appreciate your concern, Ian, but I’m fine, really. No concussion. Keep in mind, I have a degree in medicine. Over.”

  Ian couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re a bloody vet, for hell’s sake. And you’re not a goddamn fox terrier.” He smacked the table with his right hand, so hard that it stung. “Now, I say again, Blaisdell: you return immediately to Base Camp with Skinner, or you may as well take the next bloody flight out of Syangboche.”

  Ian ended the connection. “The hell with this,” he snapped. He turned to his Base Camp manager. “Patty, monitor communications. If Skinner contacts us, tell him we’ll expect him and Blaisdell in just over an hour.” He pointed at the team doctor. “Aasif, you stay the hell put. Don’t go near th
e goddamn icefall under any circumstances.” He zipped up his parka. “I’m going for a bit of a walkaround, clear my bloody head.”

  He stepped outside the tent. Damn clients, grew more insolent every year. Used to be that Ian Furst’s word was law in the Himalayas. Now it had gotten so that he couldn’t get a bloke with a bad case of summit fever off the mountain without a team of Sherpas to physically force him down. No one listened; every client acted as though he were his own bloody guide. As if Ian’s job weren’t trying enough. Putting a handful of amateurs on the highest rock in the world. Trying to get them to the roof and back safely. It was bloody absurd. Suicidal, they all were. Well, after this season, whoever wanted to die on the mountain could do it on their own. This was it. Ian Furst’s last goddamn stand on Everest.

  He sighed, trying to recall when it all started to go so wrong. Wasn’t the day of Luke’s death. No, the worst had begun well before that. By the time their son Luke died on K2, Ian’s wife Liz already bloody well hated him.

  Didn’t she?

  Or had Ian been telling others that for so long, that he was starting to believe it himself?

  He buried his hands deep into the pockets of his parka and turned toward the icefall. How long had it been since he’d climbed it?

  Six years. Same season Luke climbed K2.

  Same season Luke fell and broke his bloody neck.

  “Ian,” Patty’s voice called from the front of the communications tent.

  Ian wiped his eyes and turned around.

  “Skinner just radioed. Looks as though Blaisdell’s coming down.”

  Damn straight he is, Ian thought, nodding his head in acknowledgment. Either that cheeky bastard’s coming down, or I’m going the hell up to fetch him.

  Chapter 15

  “What’s your name?”

  “Dustin Blaisdell.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Everest Base Camp, Nepal.”

  “What month is it?”