He was lucky. They stayed the night in Dughalam, a village right by the border. In the dark, Jordi called a meeting.
‘We should cross in the small hours — at that time of night none of the guards will be at the checkpoints, as there’s nothing for them to check.’
‘But they’ll still see us,’ said Khalil.
‘They’ll see shadows. They’ll think we’re neighbours or countryfolk who come and go. What kind of lunatic would think of walking around here if they weren’t local people?’
He said this in order to relax the mood, but there was no laughter and no joking to break the silence.
At 5:30 in the morning they crossed the border on foot beside an empty guardpost. As he had calculated, all the soldiers were praying or drinking tea. They got past three controls in a row like this.
Back in Bumburet, Jordi wrote a letter to Valicourt containing details of the trip, certain that the trail was a good one:
I’m going to go back. If I manage to see the barmanu I’ll contact you as quickly as I can. I think it would be correct to notify (in the event of a confirmation) Monod, Saban, and Chaline, asking for their discretion. You might inform my brother Andrés, also in strict silence. If you come over, he should come with you. Tell Pascal Sutra Fourcade in the event we need a camera. And also a lawyer and S.A. Sadruddin Aga Khan, who’s at the U.N. If I catch the barmanu, best thing would be to extract it directly from Jalalabad to Europe in a special U.N. plane. Let’s hope the gods are on our side.
He would later return to Jalalabad on an excursion that was much less reckless and eventful, but the city was no longer going to bring anything new to his research on the barmanu, although it did offer him a privileged view of how the Taliban movements were expanding. Those Muslims had nothing to do with the legions of self-sacrificing victims who, following colonisation, had resigned themselves to deferring to the yoke of the conquerors until they were almost enjoying their renunciation.
No, in Jalalabad Jordi was aware, rather, of having witnessed an orgy of spirits inflamed by their ambition to take control of their land following the three divine movements of Love, Struggle, and Totality. They loved the Koran, and fought to impose their own interpretation of it and thereby attain paradise. There was no doubt about the path to be taken. They had retrieved the pride that had lain buried for centuries. But the repression of so many years had poisoned them. Rather than restoring order, what they aspired to was the imposition of an idea, their idea, quashing any kind of dissent, annihilating any scrap of thought that could be attributed to an inheritance from the foreigners. As though there were no other way pride could be expressed. By confusing dignity with vengeance and power, they had opened the door to horror.
‘You’re right,’ Jordi acknowledged to Khalil. ‘I was wrong. We shouldn’t have done that trip.’
Months after the beginning of their excursions, they were still unable to supply anything tangible, anything concrete or real. And what would he say to Valicourt now? Failure in Jalalabad? He was sure that the scientist was waiting for an excuse to pass sentence on him, once and for all. Cat would not give him another chance, so he wasn’t going to be so stupid as to hand her his own head on a platter. What he needed was credit from Paris, confidence, they couldn’t demand instantaneous results from him. That wasn’t the way it was — he was going to make that absolutely clear.
In the months that followed, his letters to Valicourt resumed their earlier critical tone. As he was drafting one of them, he punched the tip of the biro into the paper until he pierced it. He felt so vulnerable, so abandoned, in this lunatic project of his … He knew that was how the rest of the world would see it. He was curious to see how the lack of results would transform all these efforts into an indication of great stupidity in others’ eyes.
What could he do? He needed to gain some time, change the strategy, and somehow restore his value in the eyes of Valicourt and the scientists. Yes, that was how he ought to behave. He threw away the letter with a hole in it, and began another in which he demanded a more prominent role in the scientific expedition being prepared in Paris. And he set conditions. ‘Cat, if my mother wants to come, bring her to Chitral.’ His mother. The trembling lines that, from time to time, Dolores managed to draft always acted as an indestructible lifebuoy to him:
Dear Jordi:
I am glad you are well. I very much hope you will be coming back soon. Until soon, then. Many kisses.
Mamá
[letter from Dolores]
Valicourt confessed to a feeling of incredulity at this whim. Did he really expect to bring his mother over with the museum’s money? Was he trying to test her? As though the avalanche of attacks she’d been receiving from the neo-Darwinists after her latest public speeches hadn’t been enough!
Of course he was serious. A spell taking the oxygen in the valleys would work wonders for Dolores’s chronic cough, and it would be an infallible cure for her gout, her skin, and her rheumatism. And would it really be so hard for Cat to add one more ticket to the party?
Besides, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to bother her a little; if madame was now getting the red-carpet treatment, she might expect everything would be easy for her. Jordi had heard rumours that, in an unexpected U-turn, his friend had received support from Yves Coppens. When he asked her about this, she was terse and ambiguous, although it was true that, contrary to predictions, the investigators’ élite had just opened their Olympus to her. Valicourt was right in the middle of a media phase finally disseminating his revolutionary ideas, and, in truth, the expedition to Chitral was providing her with more hassles than benefits.
In any case, Cat’s replies gave him confirmation that there was something going on between her and Coppens. How it affected him! What was this sudden ball of sourness in his stomach? Envy? Jealousy? Spite? Of course he was going to call upon his mother. He would signal to Valicourt that he at least didn’t forget his people; that without his family, his friends, without his private sentimental universe, none of that would have been possible. While you just think about satisfying Coppens, the man who insulted you, I am remembering my mother.
In any case, the imminent trip to Pakistan would surely be overwhelming Valicourt. She wouldn’t declare her fears, but of course she wouldn’t be able to get the December attacks out of her head — attacks that had left twenty-five dead and two hundred injured in Peshawar, in addition to thinking that, truly, there was a good chance of finding nothing in the mountains. Anyway, the project was on the move now, the institutions had financed it, it was too late to go back.
In her letter in response, Valicourt suggested that Jordi forget the idea of bringing his mother, and she firmed up the details of when she would be traveling to Chitral.
She also alluded to her new professional relationship with Coppens, and let slip personal details that revealed some complicity.
The valleys were suffering the asphyxiating heat that came every June; but if Jordi’s temples were starting to throb and his carotid tensed, it was because that pair of names was expanding unstoppably, oppressively, inside him. He could never have imagined them truly united. Cat and Coppens. Cat and Coppens. Cat and Coppens. The old visceral enemies were at oar together for a common cause. They were considering the possibility of relict humans. The press were listening to their theories. But what about him? Who knew what he was doing?
XXVI
THERE are people who go off to hunt the invisible. Commander Gould journeyed in 1933 to Loch Ness in search of the monster they said lived there. Gould questioned a number of people who lived by the lake, and managed to obtain testimony of some sightings. All the same, he understood that this would not be enough to locate the monster, and he hired an expert in big-game hunting and a photographer, in addition to getting hold of sonar equipment for sweeping the waters.
He found nothing.
There were, of course, people who made fu
n of Gould. Some — the scientists especially, amused at the soldier’s paranoia — launched quite nasty attacks. The thing was, even the professional investigators like Heuvelmans, Koffman, and Porshnev, with great experience from scientific universities and who likewise defended the existence of invisible beings, found that the scientific leadership didn’t believe them either.
John Grem, seeker of those North American yetis they call the sasquatch, had no problem coming to terms with his ever-so-eccentric labours: ‘People like me will be expelled from the circuit, and personally I’ll be glad.’
But Jordi didn’t think like this. To begin with, he wouldn’t have the barmanu spoken of as though it were a myth, because that would somehow suggest that he himself didn’t consider it real. And he was ready to defend the good sense of his project before anybody — they weren’t going to kick him out that easily. If you have a truth, you’ll fight for it, to bring it into the light, so others know about it. Of course he wasn’t going to give up.
XXVII
VERY shortly before the arrival of Cat and her team, Jordi went into the mountains with Fjord. The heat was surpassing every prediction, and, back home, both of them fell ill. On the second day, Fjord became completely lifeless — his extremely long tongue hanging out — for more than two hours, flopped down in the coolest corner of the bedroom, ignoring the bowl of water a couple of feet away.
‘Fjord!’ cried Jordi from his bed with all the strength that his listlessness would allow. He, too, was barely able to move. ‘Fjord!’
The dog didn’t even blink. You aren’t going to die, are you? Don’t even think of doing that to me.
There was a knock at the door. With a superhuman effort, Jordi sat up in bed as straight as he could.
‘Yes.’
Ainullah came in.
‘Are you alright?’ asked the boy. ‘Do you need anything?’
‘Get some paper and a biro, and write what I tell you.’
Jordi wrote his apologies to Cat and the rest of the expedition for not going to fetch them at the airport in Islamabad. Well, at least his illness would spare him that annoying trip, all the more so considering the terrible state his finances were in.
‘Send it to her today from Babu’s fax.’
‘Before I go, I’ll bring you something to eat.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You need to eat.’
‘What about Fjord?’
Ainullah glanced at the deathly looking Malamute.
‘He’ll get better.’
Soon afterwards, Ainullah put a tray down on the bed with plate of white rice, another of cut-up cucumber, and a glass of water. Jordi ate only the cucumber. He left the glass half-full.
In the mid-afternoon, Fjord tried to get up, but his legs buckled under him. His master managed to walk over to the bowl to position it under the muzzle of the dog, who started to drink anxiously. They were going to get through this.
The researchers Jean Luc and Claire G. had accompanied Cat from France. The remainder of the group was completed by Ainullah and the two archaeology students, Ilal and Hassan. Using the museum’s money, they hired a red jeep and plunged into the treeless Mastouj road between blocks of quartzite scattered across the plain, before crossing the arid corridors of the Yarkhoum valley.
The newcomers were struck by the secretive horsemen with pseudo-Neanderthal faces, the nomads who milked yaks. Claire almost cried out when she saw the white lavender or wild garlic, a consolation for the disappointing rocks of the first days: ‘Nothing interesting. Everything less than a hundred years old.’ (Diary)
The cedar forests, the rows of tamarind trees, and the Shusht enclave rising up where the snow ended around the foot of a dazzlingly white mountain provided the geologist with some compensation for the slight technical discoveries. She was surprised to find marble in the Bagtamshal grotto.
As for Jordi, while he was enjoying a place that felt familiar, he knew that those enquiries weren’t going to improve the opinion that the scientific community had of him, so he restricted himself to escorting the expeditioners, instructing them, saying goodbye.
In any case, during this trip he felt even closer to Claire. He’d liked this geologist, this spirited girl with her dishevelled hair and elfin face, since they’d met in France after a conference on wild hominids. The interest was mutual. Claire found in Jordi a man besotted with very individual ideas about society. And, best of all, he confronted other people’s ideas with solid arguments.
When the two of them said goodbye, Ainullah asked Jordi: ‘Do you have a wife?’
‘No. I did have one, but she died in a car accident,’ he lied. ‘That was all a long time ago now.’
‘Claire is a good woman, it’s alright,’ said Ainullah.
Jordi looked at him for a few moments. He gave a little smile.
‘Yes, it’s definitely alright,’ he replied.
Why am I attracted to Claire? Because of what she says. Because of her discretion. Because of the evocative story of her life. If I remain in Chitral, perhaps we will meet again next year; I wouldn’t mind getting to know her better.
And he faced up to another winter.
The temperatures fell quickly from October onward, and the snow came. Jordi sent a fax to Andrés: ‘Nothing new round here. The only current news is the war in Afghanistan.’
Massoud was growing his legend by trampling the Taliban. Jordi daily read books in French and English out loud to Shamsur, although the student was still not making much progress. Jordi also read, silently, about the Kalash. From time to time, he would go down to the Mountain Inn in Chitral, greet Babu, and sit in one of the chairs in the garden, smoking cigarettes until the cold became too unpleasant. He would gauge the lie of the mountains. Behind him were twenty-three empty rooms.
He had the sensation of being alone.
Of being unique.
If he wanted to communicate with the outside world, with Peshawar or the west, he would cross the threshold and say: ‘Babu, put a sandwich on for me, with three eggs and tomato. I want to send this fax.’
Or he’d say: ‘I’m going to make a phone call.’
And Babu would set him up with a phone line, serving him fruit. In summer, he would eat mangos, bananas, oranges, apples, pears, apricots, melon, watermelon. And the same in winter but macerated, alternating them with dried fruits. The radio usually notified them of kidnappings, attacks, and battles. Sometimes Jordi and Babu would share loose pages of a newspaper.
‘How’s the barmanu?’
‘He hasn’t got long left in hiding now.’
That was the only thing he ever talked about with Babu, or even with the hotel guests. They paid him real attention — everybody there believed in yetis. They didn’t yet know that Chitral would not be receiving any more hunters like him. To this day, Jordi was the first and the last.
As Babu had guided hundreds of groups on hikes and safari, they also talked about mountain routes. If they fell silent, the silence could last some time.
Babu fiddled his inseparable string of beads between his fingers.
The radio was reporting news.
‘See you later, Babu,’ said Jordi that afternoon, as on so many others.
And he went out onto the avenue of the Great Bazaar. He walked past the shops of huddled salesmen. He passed no women. He felt himself a part of that landscape now. He had assimilated its light and its images, and he was capable of looking without seeing nightmarish scenes that would have suited our Middle Ages. Mutilated men dragged what was left of their legs through the dirty snow, supporting themselves on hands that were gloved with shoes. Toothless mouths exhaled mist like dragons. A child deposited a steaming pot in front of the heap of rags that turned out to be harbouring an ancient man, or what was left of him.
He thought about how to get money.
About h
ow to stay there.
He thought about the Kalash, who survived under siege and in the toughest of circumstances. They had borne it for millennia. What might they teach him?
I need to settle in their valleys.
He arrived home later than usual, and found it empty. Shamsur had gone to spend a few days with his family in Shekhanandeh. Ainullah had already pedalled off to his hut. He breathed in deliberately to smell the wood and the scent of spices and herbs that characterised the house. In solitude, the earth, the countryside, smell more strongly.
Jordi prepared some tea for himself, and carried out the same ritual as every evening: he opened out an old shawl on the bed, and called Fjord over to come lie on it. They played around until the dog settled, suggesting it was time for a cuddle. And as he usually did, while he stroked him, Jordi talked. He talked about how human beings had allowed religion to pervert their instincts and about how hard he still found it to understand the Muslim prayers in the early mornings. He recalled a fanatical Catholic missionary he’d met in his first days in Chitral, and some people’s insistence on dragging those they considered infidels into their divine causes. He’d had so very many arguments about damn religion.
‘Monotheists have no pity,’ he murmured, and he cursed the preacher in a very mild tone that would not disturb Fjord. Soon afterwards, the dog leaped off the bed and lay down beside the animal hide that served as his mat, and they both slept.
In the morning, early, Jordi drove two hours to the Bumburet valley. He knew a number of Kalash, but superficially, and he decided to begin where he had truly begun.
‘Hello, Abdul. How are you? We met in 1988 in this same hotel, remember? I was with a friend, Yannik, a guy with long hair …’
In the Land of Giants Page 16