divided nature? Absurd. Was it a delay in the hardening of the bones, a hint of foetalism, as the biological boys used to say and perhaps still did?
He held out his hand, and it seemed natural to take hold and allow myself to be pulled up off the low rock. The careful Swiss had inlaid hollow trunks in the road so that though the path sloped slightly up, the water ran straight across it. To get across was no more than a step. We crossed into a place where it seemed there was no solidity but a dimly seen rail on the left hand and tree roots on the other.
I stood still.
“For a scenic stroll, it’s spectacularly null.”
“This’ll clear.”
“If it weren’t for the silence, we might be strolling in Regent’s Park. I come here in expectation of scenery and all I get is a white-out.”
“The manager said it was unusual for the time of the year.”
“Every two hundred years.”
“You’re putting me on.”
“I must have been to dozens of places where they swore to me it was the worst weather for two hundred years. Always two hundred years. Cairo, Tbilisi—”
“Now, now!”
“Remind me to tell you some time about the highest tide for two hundred years.”
“Tell me about the highest tide for two hundred years.”
“I crewed for a man once in his yacht. Highest tide for two hundred years. I ran him aground on it.”
Rick laughed, a genuine, unservile, happy laugh.
“If he was skipper, it was his doing.”
“No, no. I claim the distinction. Curse this fog.”
“We start climbing again soon. I guess we’ll climb out of it.”
“Quote, mother, give me the sun, unquote.”
“The medics say he got his facts wrong.”
“He got everything wrong. Stagey old twit.”
Rick gave a scandalized guffaw. He was having a real good time. I could see his mental notebook. All the same—
“I know! I know! Gee!”
“Like Wagner.”
The guffaw prolonged itself. There was a sudden extraordinary twisting of the vapour before our faces, a humming sound in the air, a wooden knock on the left, then somewhere down in the fog a mighty thump.
“Oh my!”
“It’s the mountain, Rick,” I said, not yet too scared to play the imperturbable or, if you like, insensitive Englishman. “It’s the bloody mountain, old fellow. He, she or it is throwing rocks at us. We ought to be flattered. Are you flattered?”
“I want out.”
He turned to go but I caught his sleeve.
“This is a sheer gift for a writer. Just think, Rick. Now we can describe what it sounds like to be missed by a cannon ball. What wouldn’t Tennyson have given?”
“We better get back, Wilf.”
“What’s the hurry?”
“There’s no knowing what might be going on up above, Wilf. I know mountains. I was born—why, it could be a real slip, real dangerous.”
“Currently.”
“Yeah.”
“As of this moment in time.”
“Yeah.”
“The lightning never strikes twice in the same place. We ought to see where it struck.”
Securely prevented by the dense fog from experiencing the hideousness of the drop, still unperturbed and wishing to show this young man who had unexpectedly revealed a too profound concern for his own safety, I stepped to the rail.
“Aw—c’mon Wilf!”
“I can’t see a thing.”
Still unperturbed, I put my hand on the rail and leaned out. The rail went with me.
The next few seconds can be described in a few words or a few hundred. My instinct—voluble as ever—is for the hundreds. It’s not just that I make my money by selling words but that these seconds were very important seconds as far as I was concerned. The first of them, I have to confess, was an hiatus, a nothing. The second was a contraction, a shock too immediate to be called belief or even apprehension. It was, if you like, the animal body’s awareness, alerted to death so near, the falling to it. The third second was more human in a way—the rail now moving out and down faster and more easily—was blind terror which I became, awareness
He held out his hand, and it seemed natural to take hold and allow myself to be pulled up off the low rock. The careful Swiss had inlaid hollow trunks in the road so that though the path sloped slightly up, the water ran straight across it. To get across was no more than a step. We crossed into a place where it seemed there was no solidity but a dimly seen rail on the left hand and tree roots on the other.
I stood still.
“For a scenic stroll, it’s spectacularly null.”
“This’ll clear.”
“If it weren’t for the silence, we might be strolling in Regent’s Park. I come here in expectation of scenery and all I get is a white-out.”
“The manager said it was unusual for the time of the year.”
“Every two hundred years.”
“You’re putting me on.”
“I must have been to dozens of places where they swore to me it was the worst weather for two hundred years. Always two hundred years. Cairo, Tbilisi—”
“Now, now!”
“Remind me to tell you some time about the highest tide for two hundred years.”
“Tell me about the highest tide for two hundred years.”
“I crewed for a man once in his yacht. Highest tide for two hundred years. I ran him aground on it.”
Rick laughed, a genuine, unservile, happy laugh.
“If he was skipper, it was his doing.”
“No, no. I claim the distinction. Curse this fog.”
“We start climbing again soon. I guess we’ll climb out of it.”
“Quote, mother, give me the sun, unquote.”
“The medics say he got his facts wrong.”
“He got everything wrong. Stagey old twit.”
Rick gave a scandalized guffaw. He was having a real good time. I could see his mental notebook. All the same—
“I know! I know! Gee!”
“Like Wagner.”
The guffaw prolonged itself. There was a sudden extraordinary twisting of the vapour before our faces, a humming sound in the air, a wooden knock on the left, then somewhere down in the fog a mighty thump.
“Oh my!”
“It’s the mountain, Rick,” I said, not yet too scared to play the imperturbable or, if you like, insensitive Englishman. “It’s the bloody mountain, old fellow. He, she or it is throwing rocks at us. We ought to be flattered. Are you flattered?”
“I want out.”
He turned to go but I caught his sleeve.
“This is a sheer gift for a writer. Just think, Rick. Now we can describe what it sounds like to be missed by a cannon ball. What wouldn’t Tennyson have given?”
“We better get back, Wilf.”
“What’s the hurry?”
“There’s no knowing what might be going on up above, Wilf. I know mountains. I was born—why, it could be a real slip, real dangerous.”
“Currently.”
“Yeah.”
“As of this moment in time.”
“Yeah.”
“The lightning never strikes twice in the same place. We ought to see where it struck.”
Securely prevented by the dense fog from experiencing the hideousness of the drop, still unperturbed and wishing to show this young man who had unexpectedly revealed a too profound concern for his own safety, I stepped to the rail.
“Aw—c’mon Wilf!”
“I can’t see a thing.”
Still unperturbed, I put my hand on the rail and leaned out. The rail went with me.
The next few seconds can be described in a few words or a few hundred. My instinct—voluble as ever—is for the hundreds. It’s not just that I make my money by selling words but that these seconds were very important seconds as far as I was concerned. The first of them, I have to confess, was an hiatus, a nothing. The second was a contraction, a shock too immediate to be called belief or even apprehension. It was, if you like, the animal body’s awareness, alerted to death so near, the falling to it. The third second was more human in a way—the rail now moving out and down faster and more easily—was blind terror which I became, awareness
Similar Books
