— Let me stay. I really have to go.
I let the girl wait beside me. For a moment she keeps my hand in hers. She wears an oversize black sweater over electric blue tights. Her reddish bangs hang down to her eyes.
— Thank you so much, she whispers.
The girl asks where I’m from. I try to steady my gaze and concentrate on her words. She has an accent I can’t place. I notice a silver brooch pinned to her sweater.
— That’s Celtic, isn’t it?
The girl looks at me, cupping the brooch in her fingers. It is a weaving of silver strands depicting a dragon and a pair of snakes, their bodies locked in struggle. I lean in to look closer.
— Christ. I’ve seen that before.
— Were you in Iceland?
I stare at the brooch. There was something similar in my grandmother’s jewelry box in the garage, but I can’t remember exactly what it looked like.
— It’s a Viking style from Iceland, the girls says. It’s some kind of battle. The dragon is good and the snakes are evil—
The girl frowns. She puts a cigarette in her mouth and lifts the brooch toward her eyes, reappraising the warring creatures.
— Or is it, she wonders, the other way around?
One of the restroom doors opens. The girl thanks me and dashes inside. Soon the other bathroom is free and I go in. As I lock the door and walk by the mirror, a shudder pulses through me and I turn away instinctively. I look back into the mirror. Something looks unfamiliar, some part of my face doesn’t seem right. I lean on the sink and breathe in slowly, staring at my reflection. Are my eyes shaped differently now? Or is it the corners of my mouth, or the crown of my forehead? The fear begins to overwhelm me. I turn away.
— It must be the drinking, I whisper.
A few minutes later I come out of the bathroom, but the Icelandic girl is gone. I walk through all the dance floors looking for her. A few times I think I catch her silhouette under a strobe light, but when I come closer it’s always someone else.
An hour later I leave the club, staggering out into the painful light of dawn. A long line of people is still waiting to go inside. I scan the crowd’s faces for the girl, but she isn’t here, so I ride the U-Bahn back to the hostel, rocked to sleep by the swaying train. A man shakes me awake holding an ID card before my eyes. A ticket inspector. I flash my ticket, skipping off the train at Rosenthaler Platz as the doors close.
The desk clerk at the hostel is asleep on the counter. I set a euro coin before his slumped head and sit at one of the lobby computers. I write an e-mail to my stepbrother.
Hi Adam—
Europe is impressive. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be gone. Tell Dad I’ve been industriously researching UK grad schools. He’ll be disappointed. If you told him it’s 7 AM in Berlin and I’ve been out all night, he’d probably be happier.
I have a favor to ask. It’s a little strange, but trust me, it’s important. I need you to find a brooch in my grandmother’s jewelry box. It’s in the garage, in one of those cardboard boxes on the top shelf. I don’t know which box, but it’s labeled and should be near the top of the stack, since I looked through it last month. The jewelry box is green. Look for a silver brooch — it’s supposed to be a dragon and snakes, but it basically looks like a bunch of woven strands.
Can you mail the brooch to me as soon as you can? I’ll be eternally grateful. Send it to this address, the fastest delivery you can get, I’ll pay you back:
Circus Hostel
Weinbergsweg 1A
10119 Berlin
Germany
Thanks a million. When I’m back I’ll have some stories to tell.
Tristan
P.S. Don’t tell anyone about the brooch.
30 April 1924
30 April 1924
Mount Everest Base Camp, 18,190 feet
Rongbuk Valley, Tibet
He stands in a maze of wooden crates scattered among the stones. The expedition arrived at the base camp yesterday. Along the valley the wind blows viciously, flurries of snow churning the darkening sky. The crates surround Ashley, their lids breached, their contents open to the snow. He gives instructions to a pair of porters in bad Hindustani, his hoarse voice barely above a whisper. The porters nod in incomprehension. Ashley lifts his head to the swirling sky and tightens the muffler around his neck.
The steep valley walls crumble to a floor of colorless pebbles and dirt. The expedition’s tents lie huddled beside a frozen lake, a moraine heap above lending meager shelter from the wind. On clearer days the mountain’s pyramid might loom in the sky, but for now the blizzard obscures all.
Ashley runs along a column of yaks, a screwdriver in his mittened palm, scanning the cases roped onto the animals. He calls at a Tibetan handler to halt a yak. The handler pats the animal and unropes the case onto the rocks. Ashley unscrews the lid and lifts a tin up to the dusk light. HARRIS’S SAUSAGES ARE THE BEST. He sorts the tins into other labeled crates, each of varied size so that they all hold forty pounds when correctly packed. Camp I, Camp II, Camp III, Camp IV. Ginger nut biscuits. Beef tongue. He screws the finished crates shut and paces among the emptied cases, squinting in the fading light. He ought to get his electric torch.
— Walsingham. Time for dinner.
Price approaches, a candle lantern swinging in his mitten. Ashley clears his throat and barks a reply.
— Something celebratory? Cheese omelette à la Rongbuk?
— No, Price says, Kami is under strict instructions. It’s the menu the general planned. Four courses and the champagne.
Ashley and Price cross the valley toward the mess tent, its four oil lamps glowing in the distance. They pass Mills, the young climber pounding a wooden stake with a huge stone. A porter holds the stake upright in the gale, his eyes fixed on his vulnerable fingers as he grips the wood. Mills waves at the two men.
— Come along, Price calls.
— Be right there.
They walk on. Beyond the curtain of blowing snow the army of hired local peasants prepares for the night. There are no tents for them. Some stack rocks to build shelters; others lie blanketless amid the snow, their thick woolen coats drawn tight over their chests. A few peasants struggle to relight a pile of yak dung in the wind. The dung is smoking, but no flame will come.
Price pauses to give instruction to a Gurkha corporal erecting a Whymper tent. Ashley waits beside them, stamping his feet to keep warm. They are only at the base camp and they are already wearing every stitch of their climbing kit.
A few minutes later they reach the mess tent. It is little warmer inside, but at least there is no wind. Most of the nine men are already seated at the table, each in his own camp chair. The folding table is without a cloth, the condiment bottles arranged neatly at the center. The colonel sits at the head of the table; Price and Ashley take their seats nearby. Price spreads his napkin over his lap and looks at the colonel.
— We need to have another powwow about the stores.
— After dinner, the colonel says. Let’s keep our appetites while we can.
Price nods. His camp chair is so low that only his head is above the level of the table. The brim of his hat hangs down over his face, save for where it is held up by a large safety pin covered in candlewax.