by Adam Popescu
I imagine my father here, whole and with both legs strong and healthy. I can see him with those boys, teasing someone like me. I pass by a map pinned to the wall, Phakding circled in bright red, “2,610 meters.” Lower than my home village, much lower. Val says she’s been to Namche Bazaar before, but no further. We’ll be in Namche tomorrow after a thousand meter ascent, and there’s a long way to go after that. A long, long way.
Dinner for my team is fried rice and a pizza made with yak cheese—a Nepali special for Daniel and Val. “Double the C of regular cow milk,” she says. For Ethan, chikken momos, fried dumplings. Val told him not to eat meat, but he doesn’t listen.
“What happens with the empty bottles you took, Ang?” Val questions.
I stare at her a moment, forgetting again that Ang is me. (Not the other Ang, the Ang wandering in the bardo.)
“Where do they go? Are they going to be recycled? The bottles?”
“Reused,” I say, catching on. “The bottles will hold oil, kerosene. We don’t throw anything away on the mountain. And there’s nowhere to dump it. We burn. Or we reuse.” Just like I’m reusing your name, brother.
“What about the trails? They’re filthy, worse than last year. Does anyone clean them?”
How can they, dear Val? How can any Sherpa bend to scoop the trash mikarus leave here if they’re busy lugging the same supplies that those mikarus bring so as to make more trash? But I don’t say that. Nima, Ang, the Sherpa girl, the good porter, whoever I am, I hold back my thoughts.
“More tourists mean more money,” I say. And that is true, of course. “Not enough money hurts the people.”
Ethan shouts, picking a long bone from a momo.
“What did he say?” I whisper to Val.
“He wants you to learn English.”
I nod. “Can you teach me? I know a little.”
“Okay.” Val rocks her head back and forth. “Okay, starting tomorrow we’re going to teach Ang English.” Back in Nepali. “Understand? Starting tomorrow.”
They’ve finished eating, and this time, they all ate. Even Ethan.
Without glancing at Lasha, I offer to show them their three rooms—each with two twin beds, pillows, wool blankets. A view of the trail we climbed, abutting the lodge’s entrance. No fireplace, but even with these thin wooden walls, it seems fancy compared to my home in Khunde. No, not fancy, but spacious. Private. I hand Daniel a key, “Good night,” then one to Val and one to Ethan. Val looks confused. “We don’t need two keys, Ang. Just one key, and one room for us.”
Another custom that I didn’t expect, and I feel a sudden wave of embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Val.”
She takes the key, opens the door, “Good night,” and she and Ethan leave me in the corridor.
Back in the kitchen, there’s an empty bottle on the table, and the boys are still playing cards, but the sirdar is gone.
“Hey, will you sit and play now? We’re ready to take your money.” Laughs.
“Just two rooms for the mikarus,” I say, passing the remaining key to one of the boys. He takes it and throws it into a box piled high with other keys.
“Good,” he says. His nose is completely flat, his forehead protrudes farther, his eyes close together. “More mikarus are coming tonight. We need the space. And if you don’t want to lose your money, we’ll wait for the other Sherpas. We’ll take their money—and then the mikarus’.”
Then the boy tosses me a key. “Here’s yours.”
My heart shudders as I trudge upstairs—I should have known I was sharing with him. A pair of cots facing each other. Lasha the sirdar, laid out, strums his wispy chin hairs as I stand in the doorway.
“Either close the door and come in, or close it and leave!” he crows. His breath hangs in the air, and I step in, a frightened girl once again, and the sirdar—he’s an all too familiar animal. It’s the first time I’ve heard more than a grunt out of him, his voice like sandpaper rubbed together. He produces a bottle from a bag, takes a sip. It’s the first time he’s looked at me.
Sweat breaks out under my arms. A shiver crawls along my spine and I struggle to control it—I turn my back and wipe my face with my hand. I busy myself with unloading my gear. I have to pee. I want to cry. I should have kept the key when Val gave it back and used it for myself. When I turn around, he’s still watching. His eyes are red, like a lizard’s. Two red beads carved into a craggy face.
“Where are you from?” Lasha asks, twirling his chin hairs, studying me.
“Khunde—”
No, why did I say that?
“Khunde? My family is from Khunde. I’ve never seen you before. I know everyone there.”
I turn my back again, parsing through the few belongings I’ve emptied on my cot. My hands are shaky. I fold my arms, sit on the cot, and meet his eyes. Hungry. And drunk. I bring my feet up onto my cot and hug my knees.
Something flashes in his look, a strange excitement.
Preserve the inner secret…
I doubt, suddenly, if he’s really from the same town as me, the town so close to where we’ll be passing in only a few days. I’ve never seen him before, I would remember. He stares without speaking, then he laughs and my throat tightens. That laugh, like a jackal, it burrows deep in me and all I can do is rock side to side on the cot, holding tight to my legs. He cackles until it becomes a hacking, dry cough. Then he drinks from the bottle and coughs again, chang dripping down his chin. He wipes it, licks a few drops from his hand, then sits up at the edge of the cot, inching closer. There’s still dew on his whiskers.
“Have you heard of the man who was cuckolded?” A drop trickles off. “What was his name? Nang, Ngung, Nuru…Norbu! Yes, Norbu. Jilted. You heard?”
News travels fast on the mountain, even if it’s false.
“Norbu Norgay, the precious jewel, the son of the great Tenzing.”
“Godson,” I hear myself say. Idiot.
“You know him? He’s from Khumjung.”
“I’ve heard of him,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “His is a famous lineage.”
Lasha grunts affirmatively.
“Did the girl not come back?” I ask stupidly.
“Jilted, boy. You know what jilted is? Fool. Even after offering twenty yaks to her father—for only one bride! Twenty! What shame. Shame to him and his namesake, all brought from that girl. If that were my son, I would beat him. And if it were my daughter, when I found her—”
“It’s not my business,” I tell him.
Lasha reflects for a moment, looks at me differently, puts the bottle down. “A girl does not leave the day before her marriage unless she is with another. Or she’s impure of heart and body. There’s no other reason. No other. When you get to be my age, boy, you know women. You know all about them. All about their tricks, their games. Their masks. All women have a little bit of dark magic. When the sacredness of the ordinary is broken…” He swigs from the bottle. “… the answers are simple.” He leans back on the cot, takes out a pipe and loads it with black tobacco. “Fool.”
He stares up at the wood beams of the ceiling as if contemplating a great thought. But he just lights the pipe and puffs. A cloud swirls around the room’s lone flickering lightbulb.
“Norbu Norgay,” he says in between puffs. “Hurry up and get undressed, boy, and go make your toilet. I’m turning the light off when I finish this.” He holds up his pipe.
I step through the dragon smoke, out the door, down the corridor and into a small bathroom. A mirror, a bucket with water, a hole. From the cracks in the ceiling, the wind howls, and I peel off my shirt, my knit cap. I tear at the tape tying down my breasts, tug against it, stretching my skin and pinching my nipples as it comes free. Such relief, I’ve wanted to remove that tape all day. There’s a mark around my chest, a thick line where the tape was. Something else: a few long wisps of my hair, renegades that didn’t make it to the sink when I cut them off yesterday, I flick them to the ground. Here they’ll stay.
I rub
my breasts, kneading out the pain. In the cracked mirror, I see the pencil marks Val drew on my upper lip are nearly gone, melted by the day’s sweat. I squat over the hole—everything back to the mountain. Val’s in her room already. With Ethan. I can’t knock on her door, I’ll have to wait until the morning, maybe get her alone during breakfast? No, I’ll have to decide for myself what to do. I have more tape in my bag, I can put that on in the morning. And the mustache? It itches so. Hard to guess if the sirdar would notice if it was suddenly gone. I could have shaved it off, I did shave it, that’s what happened. That’s what I’ll say if anyone asks. I wet my finger and rub my upper lip. There. Gone completely. I throw my shirt back on and my jacket over it, look myself over in the mirror. Just an ugly, dirty boy.
Back in the room, the sirdar hasn’t moved. He just stares up at the ceiling, pipe in hand. I move my belongings off the cot, wrap myself in the wool blankets without facing him.
I shut the light, and though the room is completely dark, I can still feel him watching me.
15
I’M FLOATING ON A RIVER. TROPICAL. PALM TREES, BLUE SKY, BLUE waters, like something I’ve watched on a screen in the cyber cafe. Smiling monkeys peer down from lush branches. Pink dolphins sing to me. I’m in the water, but I’m not wet. I’m dry. And warm. And I feel the touch of the sun shining through the trees. I feel it on my cheeks, like the caress of my mother’s hand. A feeling of childhood. I’m happy. Safe. But then the monkeys drop their smiles, the dolphins change their tune. The palms shake and fall, and the water freezes. The jungle is gone. And I can’t move, I’m frozen in ice.
When I open my eyes, I smell the musk wafting off his breath, see the devil dancing in his eyes, see every hair of his caterpillar mustache, that’s how close Lasha is. I’m shaking. Like in my dream, just like those trees before they died. He’s right over me now, one hand tracing my leg, smiling when he grabs me where no man has ever touched me. And when he smiles, I can see his black teeth, stained from tea and tobacco, his stink fouling my nose. Under his weight, I’m pinned—my hands are under the blankets, and I reach with outstretched fingers—my flailing fingers trace the wall, flicking the light switch on by chance. Lasha throws a leg over me, one hand still probing me, the other pulling back the covers. I keep reaching with my free hand, stretching for something I’ve kept close—and as the sirdar unbuckles his pants and dips a hand in his trousers, I grab what I’ve been looking for and bring it to his neck.
I can’t hear anything over my beating heart. I push into soft flesh and he jumps back, the top of his head hitting the low-hanging bulb with a bolt. The swaying light shines on my kikuri, then swings and catches his shocked face, back on the blade, back and forth, both of us locked on to the other, bathed in light before we’re swallowed by the black. Still aiming, I rise, my arm growing tired. But I keep my aim steady. He’s off the cot completely now, takes a step back, doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even put a hand to his neck. When the light passes over him, his lips look stitched together. Red drops hit the ground with a steady pat, pat. He takes a step back, away, then another, another, a dance that I lead and he follows. I push closer and we dance until he cowers into a corner of the small room, me pointing the blade like a sorceress wields a staff, Lasha shrinking until he’s no longer a lecherous man. Now he’s like a child begging for his life. And I…I’ve grown into something else.
“You’re the jilter, aren’t you? That’s why you knew Norbu Norgay!”
Never breaking my gaze, my weapon still trained, I don’t answer. I take my pack and throw my belongings in it, roll up my blankets, and step out of the room.
Only when I’m down the corridor do I lower my kikuri. My heart pumps like boulders crashing, blood so hot I don’t feel the icy floor under my blistered feet. I move like a scared animal. Too late for that key and my own room, I settle in the dining hall. But I’m not alone. A few other Sherpas—men from other treks—are sleeping on chairs, under tables. I finger my kikuri, my magic wand, and pick another corner, farther away from the men, keeping my hand on the blade’s hilt all the while. Safe. Safer. I scan the other Sherpas. Three men. All of them sleeping. Dreaming of the mountain and the goddess in it.
The sound of the wind and a faraway wolf’s howl blend in the drafty room. Then more howls. Closer. They’re singing to one another. A song of night, a song of yearning, of pain, hunger, sadness. I shut my eyes, swallow a deep breath, and listen to the wolves, hoping the mountain song will be my guide to sleep.
I’m up before the roosters crow. Before the sun arrives, I bundle what little I have and creep to the bathroom. Looking at my naked chest in the mirror, marks from the sticky tape still visible, I’m not sure whether to keep up the farce. Then I suck in my breath and tape my breasts down. I no longer have the pencil, no down on my lip. But it doesn’t matter. I’m still Ang when I look in the mirror, still Ang when I step out.
When I see Lasha in the dining area, sitting alone, huddled over a cup of tea, he looks at me without blinking, then shifts his eyes and sips from his mug. There’s a kerchief covering his neck, right where my blade pricked him. Across from the sirdar sit a pair of trail Sherpas, the men who slept here last night, eating plates of steaming food. None of them speak, not a word, too busy fueling for the day.
I step into the kitchen and help myself to tea and eggs, served out of a huge pan by the blemished teenagers who run the place. They grin at me as I take my food but say nothing. I sit for breakfast at a table opposite Lasha’s, scanning the men. Some look my way in between bites or assembling their gear. The sirdar doesn’t so much as glance in my direction.
I break the yolk with my knife, mix it with the white of the egg and place it in my mouth, unable to really taste the food. Two Sherpas sit at my table. They nod at me, I nod back. A dozen bites later, I carry my empty plate back to the kitchen. No grins from the youngsters.
When I sit back down, cradling a hot mug, no taste to the tea, the Sherpas get up. Maybe the sirdar just warned them—crazy girl with the blade, stay away. Or maybe they were just ready to return to the trail. The sun peers through the lodge’s dirty windows. Soon Val and the others will be up. Across the room, the old man gathers his pack. I try to get a sense of what’s to come, but he still won’t look at me. Lasha stops at the door, adjusts the kerchief and scratches his neck—and then he’s off. Out the lodge and onto the trail, without a word.
An hour later, we’re climbing again. No sign of the sirdar—he’s surely far up by now—which means I have until tonight to find out if he’ll try to tell Val or anyone else. I haven’t said a word to Val. Of course not. What would she say if she found out? Will she keep her promise, will she keep my secret? Or will she say I fooled her to save face in front of Ethan and Daniel? The mikarus are quiet as we move. They didn’t sleep well on the first night of their trek, I can see it in their faces. Enlarged pupils and red eyes, labored breathing.
Climb high, sleep low.
The air is already so much thinner than they’re used to. The mikarus are tiring easily, even so early in the day. An hour more, we stop at a checkpoint, a bamboo hut manned by two soldiers with oily hair and bad skin, sticks for arms and legs. They look my age. Maybe younger. The one with the worse acne holds an old wooden rifle. I wonder if it’s ever been fired, or if he knows how to use it. We’re the only trekkers on this stretch, and for once, we’re alone on the trail.
NOW ENTERING SAGARMĀTHĀ NATIONAL PARK, the sign announces in Nepali, painted in a faded blue, then in English under it. I can see inside the guard hut—no windows, glass is too expensive. There’s just a large open space where a window would go, and I see another ancient rifle and, next to it, an open tin of crisps, a small fire warming a water pot, and a sleeping dog who flicks his tail at the buzzing flies. What do soldiers do up here, alone and bored for days on end—shoot pheasants? It’s hard to imagine there are Maoists left on the mountain to fight, much less any other reason for the army to remain in the Khumbu. Maoists in the government
, I remember Father saying years ago, when they made the peace. Maoists everywhere.
“Passports,” one of the boys says in Nepali. “Passports,” he repeats in English.
My mikarus dig through their pockets, offer them with outstretched arms. The shiny watch on Val’s delicate wrist glistens as she holds up the document. The soldier rests his rifle on one shoulder, takes the passports with the other. He scans the passports, flipping the pages with fingernails caked in dirt and grease. “American, yes?”
He looks down at the pictures and back up to the three faces in front of him. Then he closes the passports. “Three thousand rupees,” in Nepali first, then in English. The mikarus don’t know what to do, then he barks and takes the rifle from his shoulder and points it and they fumble for their money. He turns to me. “Where are your papers, boy?”
“What papers?” I manage before the other soldier grabs my arm.
“Three thousand for you, too.”
I try to put my hands up, but he pushes me, then raises the rifle and aims it at me now, then back at the mikarus and back at me. “Please, brother,” I say, trying to calm him. “Please.”
Behind him, back in the hut, the boiling pot of water starts whistling, and the dog yaps. The other soldier runs to fetch his gun, and the dog squeals. The soldier must have knocked over the pot and hit the mutt.
“I have the money,” I hear myself yell. “I have it!” But the rifle is still in my face. I’m so close to the boy holding it that I can count the blemishes on his cheeks, picturing those dirty fingernails scratching at his face. The rifle is just as pockmarked, the wood full of small holes as if termites have infested it.
Click. There’s a sound like a twig snapping, and when I turn my head, I see Daniel’s finger on the camera, dangling from his neck. He took a photo.
One of the soldiers reaches for the dangling camera, pulls at it, and Daniel resists. “Whoa, whoa, here’s the money!” He breaks free and offers up the rupees. The soldier grabs the money, flashing a look like he’s about to raise the rifle again, then Val steps forward, clasping her hands and speaking so quickly, I can’t make out the words. The soldier who pushed me shakes his head and glances at their wallets. “No. Now five thousand.” There’s a cobweb hanging from the barrel. A small spider crawls towards the hole at the end. Escape.