Chapter Twenty-Three: No Escape
“The view from the mountain is not always as clear as the view from the sea.”
• • •
Sweat began to run off his forehead and trickle down his face at the exertion. His hair was matted and felt like it was plastered across his skull in greasy layers. Stuart reached behind him and plucked at his silky shirt, which was stuck to his back in several places. He felt grimy and hoped that he did not smell too bad. He had nothing to worry about, he was in good company.
At just over 700 metres, Mount Otemanu is not a high peak as world summits go, but on Bora Bora it is about as lofty a position as you can achieve, and it is a climb not to be undertaken without the help of a local guide: the tracks are anything but distinct and the undergrowth surprisingly impenetrable. The route is steep and very tiring in the hot climate. Stuart just hoped the view from the top would be worth all the effort. So far there had still not been the slightest chink between the trees to reveal even a flash of blue sea far below. His guide was some distance further ahead; Stuart could not see him but he could hear the sound of breaking branches, as the local man attempted to clear an easier path for his fee-paying customer.
Can’t be much further. The previously comforting sight of the great rock buttress looming above him had now disappeared from view which must mean that they were very close to their objective. Keep looking down at the ground. Don’t think about the incline. Imagine a flat surface. Try to block out the pain in your calves. One step after another. If only this green tunnel of vegetation would end and he could get an idea of his bearings, it would be something. Watch your step, a loose stone there.
The ground underfoot was getting steadily more uneven and it was progressively harder to find a solid place to step, without reaching out at the same time to regain balance with the aid of a branch, or by scrambling on all fours. Stuart’s thoughts moved ahead to the return journey: it promised to be no less arduous than the trip up. He had had the foresight, before he had set out that afternoon, to pack a water bottle, and now, finding a large rock beside the path on which to sit, he pulled out the flask and took a large draught of the refreshing liquid. He upended the bottle and poured water over his face. It seemed like a waste, but he hoped that he was close to the end of his quest and that it would not be long before he would be back at the hostel again, and enjoying a drink of something rather stronger. The Garden of Eden allusion had been on his mind ever since his conversation with Cedric at breakfast. If Cedric was the serpent, was he casting himself as Adam? And then who was left to be Eve? Yvette? He could imagine many worse candidates with whom to fall.
Stuart was brought back to the present moment by the sound of a cry from the route ahead of him. His guide was hailing him, obviously keen for Stuart to catch up and join him. He put the water bottle back in his bag and returned his attention to the ever-rising path. Stuart had only taken a couple more steps before he realised that he had been premature in his choice of stopping-point: the palm trees suddenly ended, and once again the view was dominated by the basalt bulk of the mountain. It was strange to see the peak at such close quarters. From a distance the twin volcanoes of Mount Pahia and Mount Otemanu dominate the landscape of Bora Bora, rising majestically above the chaotic mass of vegetation at their base, bridging the gulf between the blue of the sea and the blue of the sky. Otemanu is a particularly recognisable sight: the dark, cloud-draped obelisk; the most-admired snapshot in the album. Jenny had compared its shape to a broken molar: a disease-riddled tooth, blackened by decay. Stuart had argued that you could not describe a natural feature of such aesthetic beauty in those kind of terms, but secretly he had understood what she meant. Perhaps it had been more an insight into her own state of mind at the time. And his own. It was hard to cope with such idyllic beauty on this vast scale while at the same time being aware of the recent ugliness that the island had witnessed. It was like making a tiny disfiguring mark on a beautiful canvas: others might admire the perfection of the whole picture, whereas you would never be able to look at anything except the imperfection.
The mountain did look peculiar. It was the angle from which Stuart had approached it. Without him having been aware of the route they had taken, his guide had circumvented the base of the great mass of rock, such that they had emerged above the tree line at a point where the separate rock pillars were all lined up, and so appeared to converge into one solid entity. It was not the classic view that Stuart had been expecting. Perhaps it is easy to be critical in microcosm; few things look so good when viewed close up.
“No more.” Stuart’s guide, who answered to the unlikely name of Clint, was sitting on a boulder at the foot of the sheer cliff wall which lead to the summit.
Having climbed so far, Stuart suddenly felt cheated to not be able to make it to the very top. He looked, appraisingly, up and down the vertical face towering above him, “There’s no way up?”
“No more,” the guide, reasserted.
The view was impressive even so. It was possible to see the irregular curve of the island’s coastline, and the contrast between the green of the land and the turquoise-blue of the shallow waters in the lagoon. A broken band of white indicated, precisely, the position of the line of the submerged reef, where the waves were breaking across the top of the exposed coral; darker areas of blue revealing the safe channels in between. The motus were visible as the mini, paradise islands that they were, dotted with tiny palm trees, and in the distance other islands in the Society Island chain were just visible as hazy blips in an otherwise featureless ocean.
The sun felt oppressively hot. Perhaps it was psychological; that extra few hundred metres closer to the life-giving star was the difference between comfortably warm and sweltering hot. Stuart wished that he had saved some of his water. He would have liked to have savoured the view longer, but he knew that he would soon have to retrace his steps and be escorted back along the path that he had so recently followed. In order to delay the inevitable for a few extra minutes, he began to ask Clint a series of questions, the answers to which he had no earthly interest.
“This plant,” Stuart tugged at an adjacent vine, “What is this called?”
“Yes.”
“And this one,” Stuart touched a different plant, “Is this the same?”
“Yes.”
“And...”
Stuart was interrupted by a sudden, surprise monologue from his guide, the words obviously learned by heart. “When the gods saw Bora Bora they were so struck by its beauty that it caused them to weep tears of joy. One of these teardrops fell upon the ocean causing a massive wave. This wave struck the land pushing the rocks skywards, forming the peak which we now know as Mount Otemanu.” Clint lapsed into silence.
“Is that true?” asked Stuart, bemused.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Really sure?”
“Yes.”
“Or is it a total pack of lies that you have fabricated to keep tourists happy so that they keep paying their francs?”
“Yes.”
• • •
The journey back was actually quite eventful. Clint knew of a different route down from the mountainside, which emerged closer to Viatape than it did to Chez Ato, and so resulted in Stuart having to hitch a lift for the last couple of kilometres back to his dwelling. He saw Jan, dining out at a chic restaurant in the town centre, but thought twice about approaching him, knowing that he would only be setting himself up to be ribbed once again about his unsuitable choice of luggage, or for the fact that he was British, or, most likely, both. He also thought that he glimpsed Courtney again, as he shot past in the accommodating van that had stopped at his hopeful, raised thumb, request. When you find yourself recognising the locals on your travels, you know that it is time that you should be moving on.
• • •
It was easy to see how days could turn into weeks could
turn into months at Chez Ato. It was the idyllic, Epicurean commune. There was nothing to do except laze in the sunshine, eat the fruit which grew plentifully from the trees in the garden, and enjoy the discourse of the fellow residents.
“The man who cannot be satisfied by simple pleasures will never be satisfied by great riches.” Cedric, following the rich tradition of his countrymen, was proving to be something of a closet philosopher.
Stuart nodded sagely. He had all but given up attempting to enter the conversation on equal terms. Cedric was used to an audience and spoke like a lecturer addressing his students: you were allowed to take notes, but you were not encouraged to speak up in class.
Yvette, unusually, had abandoned the sanctuary of their room, and had joined Stuart and Cedric in the chairs surrounding the courtyard pool. Stuart could not remember hearing her having said a word during the whole evening. She had evidently given up trying to compete with Cedric’s eloquence long ago.
“I learn everything from my books,” Cedric admitted. He picked up a battered paperback, from where it lay, pages splayed out, on the floor beside his chair. It was a French edition of Len Deighton. “I learn much from this.” He flicked through the pages, like a croupier spreading a pack of cards.
“Espionage?” Stuart asked, jokingly.
“Many, many things. I like this.” He read silently for a few seconds before paraphrasing the text, “There is an African village where they catch fish in order to trade goods with the next village. There is a big problem though. The river in which they catch their fish is also full of crocodiles.”
“Not so good.”
“No. But it is essential that they catch fish in order to trade with their neighbouring village, so they must continue.”
Stuart realised that he was being manoeuvred into asking for the punch line: the straight man to Cedric’s comedian, “So what do they trade with the other village for their fish?”
“Prosthetic limbs. It is funny, no?”
“Yes.”
“And apt too.”
“Apt?”
“How all work is pointless.”
There was silence for a moment before Cedric continued, “You know my favourite book?”
“No.”
“Frankenstein. By your Mary Shelley.”
“You surprise me, I would have thought ...”
“The chase. You have read it, no?”
“Yes.”
“The chase. Do you remember the chase?”
“Yes.”
“Frankenstein never stopped in his pursuit of the monster. Across countries, across whole continents. Do you remember the ice?”
“Yes.”
“He never gave up.”
“Why do you like it so much?”
“It is like me.”
“What? Who are you pursuing?” Stuart was immediately on his guard. Thoughts of the cheese-thief’s accusations sprung to mind. Was Cedric trying to subtly warn him that he would not give up with his blackmail; that there was nowhere to run from his knowledge.
“No. It is the other way around,” Cedric said, “I am the monster, yes?”
Stuart looked puzzled and so Cedric continued, “It is I that is forever doing the running. I think you understand me. I see it in your eyes. You too. You are running from something too.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You are never relaxed. Jamais.” Cedric let his arms drop limply by the sides of his chair and slouched lower in the seat to illustrate the state. “If you cannot be relaxed here...” His meaning was all too plain.
Stuart tried to steer the conversation back around to the subject of Cedric. It wasn’t difficult. “So what are you running away from?”
The Frenchman waved his hand in the air, letting out a breathy Pah! of exasperation, “Life.”
“It’s a difficult thing to escape,” said Stuart, teasing.
“On the contrary,” disagreed Cedric, “it is very easy.” He drew an imaginary knife across his neck. “You slit here. Poof! You escape life.” He made a stabbing motion towards his stomach, “Or here. You escape life. Or this. You escape life.” He made an imaginary gun of his hand pointing it at his forehead, the thumb cocked. “Bang.”
“You wouldn’t…”
“No, no, no.” Cedric was all smiles, “I joke.”
“What then?”
“Life. Everything. How you say... expectation?”
“Yes.”
Cedric ran his fingers through his long, tangled hair, “In France, would you think that I had been to university?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“And that I worked in ... you say, a merchant bank.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“I could earn close to one million Francs.”
“So, why give it up?”
Cedric tapped his book again, “Do you read the philosophers?”
“Not really,” Stuart admitted. “A rich man through the eye of a needle, and all that?”
“Non,” said Cedric.
For the first time Yvette ventured an opinion. She spoke English hesitantly, with a slight American twang, “Freedom. It is what you have bought.”
“Freedom costs nothing,” argued Cedric, “It is a state of mind.”
“You would say that your life was a ... prison,” continued Yvette.“So it was,” said Cedric, “That is why I gave it all up. To escape from the ... everyday.” He twirled his hand as he spoke.
“But all this,” Stuart’s gesture took in the accommodation but was supposed to indicate the island as a whole, “costs. Not everyone can be this free.”
Cedric was contemptuous, “Pah! Freedom is a state of mind. Everyone can be free.”
“I don’t agree.”
“You have just not discovered it yet,” countered Cedric.
“So have you stopped running now? Thrown off all your shackles?” Stuart asked.
Cedric glanced towards Yvette before once again meeting Stuart’s eye and answering, “A different philosopher said that you should never mourn that which can be taken away from you tomorrow.”
“Or that which you might leave?” asked Stuart, quietly.
“I think you understand me,” said Cedric.
“So you are not truly free?”
“Not quite. Not quite.”
“By your definition,” said Stuart, “I can never be free.”
“Why not?” asked Cedric.
“Because guilt is the securest prison that I know.”
• • •
He remembered going to bed, but he did not remember waking up.
Norbert’s hands were around his neck. He tried to struggle but he could not move. His arms were pinned at his side; he felt a heavy weight upon his chest. It was the albino man, sitting astride him, preventing him from lifting off the bed. He could see the dead look in Norbert’s eyes, leaning over him; feel the grip tightening around his throat, the pressure increasing upon his windpipe. He stood no chance against the two men. He attempted to arch his back, to kick out with his legs, but he could feel the life slipping away from him; he was too weak to resist. There was a sound of laughter. As his eyes began to go misty, and he struggled to maintain a focus on the room; on the pale hulk on top of him; on the short, blond locks of the inverted image of the face directly above him, for one fleeting moment before he blacked out he saw a third figure in his dormitory room, a woman laughing, bent double with the weight of her amusement. She straightened up, her mouth still contorted into a gaping, mocking chasm, the other features of her face changing and distorting: Corrie’s thin-framed glasses and pronounced cheek bones; Jenny’s freckles and round cheeks; Yvette’s olive skin and long, dark hair; and Tessa’s pitying eyes. Derisive of him, every one of them. He tried to shout out; a desperate plea for help; a cry which would wake him from this dream and launch him back into the real world, but no sound would come.
&
nbsp; Stuart’s flight from his fears was to last seven days.
Section Three: Trout Quintet And Fugue