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In the Land of Giants

Page 10

by Gabi Martinez


  Things were tense as Jordi, Yannik, and Erik set off for Shishiku. Jordi was behaving with a pseudo-military, martial attitude, quite inappropriate for a group of friends. He maintained firm rules, making sure it was quite clear who was in charge. When they arrived, they put their rucksacks into the cabin, untied the parcels that had been strapped to the bellies of the dogs, removed the saddlebags from the horses. They spent days scanning snowy forests with the binoculars, their narcotic darts ready in the rifles. The pace of work was extremely high. Their meals were mostly made from flour, powdered milk, and dried fruit, alongside the plants they knew, which they cooked occasionally. One night, a snow leopard appeared, that animal practically out of legend; although they would have preferred a different kind of encounter, they would never forget it.

  They were growing weaker and weaker. On other expeditions, Erik had experienced severe colic; Yannik had lost too much weight, and once it even made it hard for him to talk, to think clearly; and Jordi had suffered appalling headaches that no medicine from the first-aid kit was able to assuage, finding himself too far from any help, with the brothers forced to wait for him to improve or witness his agony. All this had happened on other occasions, and they had got over it with the thought that the barmanu was worth it. Yes, their wish to find the hairy beast had lasted this long. And yet this time the weakness, the lack of money, the many months of searching, and Jordi’s blindness made the brothers start to long for the date that had been set for their return to France.

  A few days later, the brothers decided to cross the mountains alone to renew their visas, which were about to expire. At sunset, they reached the area where Jordi and Erik had heard those famous unidentified cries. Erik and Yannik heard them again while they were getting ready to prepare dinner.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ muttered Erik. His brother was listening, amazed. ‘Come on,’ said Erik, hurriedly pulling on his coat. ‘Come on, come on.’

  They descended the slope. The ‘cries’ were sounding ever closer, but they couldn’t make out any animals around them of sufficient scale to make such a noise; indeed, hardly any animals were allowing themselves to be seen. They heard the cry from just a few metres away. There was something grating about it, like a huge creaking door.

  ‘It’s the rocks,’ said Yannik, waving a finger towards the rock formations that thrust down into the lake at their feet.

  They sharpened their hearing with their eyes on the rocky crags until they were able to confirm that, yes, the cries did indeed come from there. The dramatic contrast in temperatures at dawn and dusk provoked a movement of dilation-contraction that drew real groaning from the stones, which the echo amplified.

  ‘People say it’s the lament of a love-sick fairy,’ said Erik.

  ‘There are some people who think it’s the yeti having a stretch.’

  Erik smiled, despite himself. They would have to discard that piece of presumed evidence, which he had himself come to trust. He tut-tutted, shaking his head, and said: ‘Anyway.’

  When the brothers explained their discovery, Jordi listened to them distractedly and went on with what he was doing, making no comment. There was a lot to do, and he wasn’t going to let himself get thrown off the scent with theories that ultimately disproved nothing. What was this pair of fucking clowns up to? They wanted to return home, and were trying any excuse they could use to make it happen. But what could you expect from this pair of spoiled boys, the photographer and the writer, two pathetic romantics, two weaklings incapable of truly fighting for an idea? Well, then, so the little brothers have got tired, then …

  It was clear that Erik and Yannik no longer completely shared his belief, that they were planning to return to Europe, and that this subject had been dormant … until Jordi spoke.

  ‘The Arte guy’s coming to film in the summer. Stay till then. I need you here for the documentary to come out right. When it’s done, you go. It’ll only be a couple more months.’

  Yannik sank one hand into his hair. He did his old gesture of making as if to tie a ponytail, even though he no longer wore his hair that long.

  ‘You know we want to be in France for the summer. We need money, and summer is when there’s the most work. We can’t wait around for this guy, I’m sorry.’

  Jordi drew himself up, serious and magnificent in the icy air of the Hindu Kush, to launch one of his cruellest attacks on two people he really loved.

  Tough words were spoken in that argument, some of them irreparable — Erik would recall years later — I don’t want to go into details. Jordi was unfair towards us, though I understand that we were not the real reason for his anger but only the excuse to let it out. All the bitternesses, frustrations, and disappointments that had built up over years came out then. These words weren’t aimed at us in reality, but we took them. It should never have happened. Never. I was hurt by it, but my brother … my brother and I are very different. Yannik is very impulsive, he takes things to heart, while I’m more intellectual, I try to calm myself, to play it down. After that day in Shishiku, Yannik promised he would never speak to him again, and he has kept his word. He scrubbed Jordi out of his life. Which is why he won’t be speaking to you, either.

  ‘Erik and Yannik will return to France in July.’

  That was all Jordi wrote on 29 March to Andrés concerning his companions. He wasn’t going to concede any show of sentiment, nor any sign of weakness. He had to be focused, more than ever, he had to be practical. So — what did he need? He asked for brake discs for motorbikes, and for his brother to intercede with the Fuji company to get hold of more night-vision gear. Since January he had obtained another ten testimonials about the barmanu and had sent the displays of the footprints to the Natural History Museum to get them analysed. Wasn’t that proof enough of the work he was doing? Had nobody realised the effort he was making? Why didn’t the damn patrons show up once and for all to save him the financial stress? And now these idiots were leaving … Just as well he was always able to count on Andrés. At the worst moments, there his baby brother was, sending him money, talking to whomever he needed to talk to. Just as well I’ve got Andrés.

  XVI

  A child gives off brilliance, just like the sun.

  (Fragment from the Liber de infantia salvatoris included in a volume on paganism.)

  That spring, Jordi dithered like never before. The imminent departure of the L’Homme brothers would leave him alone in the valleys for the first time. It was true that Valicourt would be coming out in May to do research for six weeks; that the reporter from Arte would be visiting him over the summer; and that Andrés was planning to do the same in October. It was true that Khalil had flicked his fringe back solemnly to say that Jordi was like a brother to him, and that some of the Chitrali were fond of him. But remaining would mean saying goodbye to his old world. Next winter, none of his old friends, nobody from his family, would be nearby to offer morale boosts or solace, even if he seemed not to need them.

  Erik sensed that Jordi would not be going back. He was too proud — he would never return feeling like he’d failed. He was a man of another time, from Rome, from the Middle Ages, maybe from the nineteenth century, one of those periods that rewarded great drive, boldness, honesty. In the Renaissance, he would have revolutionised the sciences. In the nineteenth century, he would have explored a new continent. But today’s world was too small for him, and he was not going back, expressing that old fierce obstinacy. Besides, he’d found in Pakistan a place where he could live as he wanted, free to enjoy nature, his profession, his sexuality … No, he couldn’t return, it was impossible.

  Jordi began to devote more hours than ever to his study of Kalasha, Khowar, and Urdu.

  This is my place, my kingdom. He was resolved: there was no going back. It was time to take an unqualified interest in things in that place, to throw himself into the customs, the attitudes, and make them definitively his own. One afternoon, as he wa
s positioned in the forest waiting for the barmanu, he found himself thinking once again about the Kalash. The women’s headdresses, the brazenness of their manners, the micro-wineries in the tiered houses … Kalash images kept surprising him, more and more regularly, attracting him even more strongly than in the days when he’d discovered their existence. It was strange. Up till then he’d been drawn to the occult, the exotic, the apparently unreachable. And at this very moment, when he saw the Kalash as his neighbours, just at that time when he was convinced that the Kalash were a wasteland to him, the allure rose up once more. Why?

  The Natural History Museum sent the results for the footprints found in the snow: ‘While these undoubtedly belong to a hominid, we are not in a position to identify your prints.’ In any case, the report acknowledged that ‘the foot in question is distinguished from that of a normal man by its great dimensions, in particular its length.’

  ‘That’s it!’ cried Jordi, waving the sheet of paper that included the concise analysis, the scientific corroboration that he had got somewhere. ‘It’s not a conclusive piece of evidence, but they recognise that they’ve not seen anything like it before. After all the things these people have studied and analysed, they’ve never seen footprints like these!’

  Yannik and Erik scratched their arms, their heads. All of a sudden, science was giving them hope. That was just the way things were. The thing was, they, too, had been a part of that victory, and after all they also believed in the barmanu; they had learned to believe in it. Very well, then, the trail was valid. Jordi had not stopped talking.

  ‘We’ve got to send faxes, call everyone. Let’s go, let’s go.’

  Straight away, they spread the discovery to their network of friends and collaborators. When the eminent professor Théodore Monot congratulated the expeditioners from Paris, and they began to receive even more questions than shows of support, Erik became aware that people were starting to look at them differently. ‘Maybe this will be the year,’ wrote Jordi in his diary.

  Cat Valicourt was in situ to share the fallout of the news, an unimprovable introduction to launch her explorations in Pakistan.

  ‘Well, if we do find relict humans …’ she said, as she set off from Chitral towards the valleys.

  And even though these men had not appeared, the witnesses who were consulted, the recognition of the field, and seeing her theories and proofs succeeding in gaining respect in Paris made her definitively consider the real possibility of capturing it. Valicourt appeared elated — Jordi had never seen her like this before.

  ‘We’ve got to keep going,’ said Valicourt when she came back from her first excursion. ‘We’re not going to stop now.’

  Jordi nodded without a word. Stop? Was that even an option?

  ‘I’m going to propose to the UN that they create an agency for the study and protection of these creatures,’ announced the scientist.

  Very well. Cat was going to push even harder from France. Those mountains were infallible as a stimulant; he’d always known that if Cat visited, her conviction would be multiplied a hundred-fold, a thousand-fold, and so his colleague’s enthusiasm did not excite him. He had sort of predicted it, and besides, the long-awaited visit from Cat had been diminished by another encounter Jordi had had not long before.

  ‘This is my brother Shamsur,’ said Khalil one morning in Ayun. He said it with a certain flourish because, though Jordi and Shamsur had seen each other several times already, this was their ‘official’ introduction. There was good reason for it.

  Jordi played along. He touched the front of his pakhol and shook the hand of the young lad, nine or ten years old — not even his brother remembered how old he was — blonde with green eyes, stuffed into a shalwar-kameez.

  ‘So, you’re the famous Shamsur,’ said Jordi in English, as the boy spoke a bit of the language brokenly. ‘Khalil’s told me a lot about you. Do you like horses?’

  ‘A bit.’

  Shamsur didn’t know where to look. Khalil and his parents had warned him that this man was going to educate him, that he’d have to live with him. Apparently the pair of foreigners who were there with him would soon be returning to Europe, so this Jordi also needed help with things around the house.

  ‘I like them very much,’ Jordi went on. ‘I’m a big fan of polo, and of course you have the best riders here.’

  ‘The Argentinians are very good.’

  ‘Well, then, you clearly know what you’re talking about.’

  Poverty, the impossibility of offering their son even the meanest education, and the trust that Khalil placed in Jordi had convinced their parents that Shamsur should go live with the barmanu-hunter. In exchange for keeping the house in order and cooking for him from time to time, Jordi would act as his schoolmaster. He would teach him French and English, and eventually he would hand his books over to him.

  On the first night they shared, after finishing a dinner they had prepared together, Jordi sat on his bed and Shamsur flopped for the first time onto his, on the other side of the small room. Jordi talked about the nobility of Shamsur’s Kafir ancestors, of the very close ties they had with the Kalash, and the right his people had to recover the status they had lost.

  ‘I want you to be a great man, a great Kafir of Nuristan. When I can, I’ll enrol you in a school, and you’ll travel with me to France so you can learn about other ways of living. I’d like you one day to be able to return to your country to help your people.’

  Jordi was rambling without being entirely clear if the boy understood everything he was saying, but was convinced he was getting the gist of his speech.

  ‘And you, where are you from?’ asked Shamsur.

  ‘I’m from a city called Valencia. So I’m Valencian. Then Catalan. And then Spanish.’

  He would have continued to lecture him on the importance of ordering your homelands, of knowing which flag you’d fight for first, but best to keep out of trouble. It was a rather tricky subject. Sometimes he got caught up in disquisitions that confused him and which he didn’t know how to conclude when he discovered he was contradicting himself. But what fault was it of his that he sympathised with the Falange and even admired Primo de Rivera, and yet at the same time loathed Franco and the Church? No, he was done with that interminable argument, and besides, enough was enough, when talking to Shamsur he had to speak clearly.

  ‘It’s good to have people to believe in,’ said Jordi. Shamsur watched him, impassive. ‘People who, when you think about them, they give you energy, strength.’

  ‘Who do you think about?’ asked the boy.

  ‘About the Romans. They built a robust society because they trusted in talent. No cronyism, no favours. You need an élite to do the governing. But a real élite.’

  He half-closed a fist in front of his lips and imitated the sound of a trumpet playing the Spanish anthem.

  ‘Do you like anthems, Shamsur?’

  ‘I don’t know. What are anthems?’

  ‘The pieces of music that represent countries, and teams.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Shamsur started to whistle a little ditty that often played on the radio, and Jordi, laughing, joined in. Then they went to sleep.

  In the morning, very early, Shamsur noticed some movement. The sun was already filtering through the fine curtains that covered the windows, and he watched, still sleepily, as Jordi, outlined in the gloom, opened the side door. He was bathed in a huge rush of light. From the middle of the glare, Jordi raised his arm, as was his usual ritual, said a few words in Latin, and ended with a phrase in Spanish that Shamsur would come to understand later: ‘I want to be a human being.’

  It had a real impact on Shamsur. He had started to admire him.

  ‘Wash and comb your hair a bit, go on. You’ve got to look presentable,’ ordered Jordi when he saw him awake.

  Taking care of Shamsur and educating him had im
mediately become his priority, despite the fact that Cat Valicourt was still combing the valleys. He’d already done his part, hadn’t he? He’d played the good host, he’d given his friend the advice she needed … and, after all, Cat was going to be leaving in a few days, just liked those wretched L’Homme brothers. When everyone else had scarpered, Shamsur would still be there. This lad had come to occupy the imminent future, and they should be preparing to face it.

  ‘Take whatever you need,’ he said to Shamsur. ‘We’re going to Islamabad for a few days.’

  And they travelled to the capital with the excuse of sorting out some papers and the objective of the boy getting his baptism of fire in city life.

  Cat was a woman jealous of her independence, and so she worked away at her own thing with no problems and no reproaches for a Jordi who had a sense of autonomy to match her own. In any case, their friendship ended up strengthened, and on Cat’s return to France they exchanged an affectionate correspondence.

  In July, the reporter Pascal Sutra Fourcade touched down with his cameras.

  ‘You ready to go looking for the barmanu?’ Jordi asked Shamsur. They often talked about wild men.

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ said the boy. ‘But hundreds of people have gone to hunt for it, like my father, and nobody has found it.’

  ‘It’s out there, Shamsur, believe me. It is.’

  ‘OK, OK.’

  Yannik and Erik had already said goodbye. In their last Chitrali days, the brothers devoted themselves to regaining the weight they had lost on their expeditions.

  ‘We look like corpses,’ said Erik when he saw his whole body in the mirror on their return to Chitral. He stepped onto the scales. He had left eighteen kilos in the mountains.

  Yannik today is the father of a family. Erik is a citizen of Tierra del Fuego.

  To appear on television, Jordi put on his camouflage trousers with a knife at the belt, donned his mountaineering goggles, and picked up his rifle. That was who he would be to the world. Perhaps because that was who he was. The uniform made him feel not only incredibly comfortable, but also the man he had once wanted to be, someone different, and — why not say it? — great. A great man.

 

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