Arthur appeared at the table. In addition to a white shirt and tie, he had on a jacket.
The tally was three drinks apiece for Arthur and Willem, two each for the rest of them. And this not counting the wine with the meal. Dinner was a buffet: various main dishes and salads and desserts set out on a long table. Demonstrating his dexterity, Willem juggled full plates of the three courses. Had he grown up in a family in which food had been scarce? Desserts even less available? Margaret knew so little about the man who would lead them up the mountain, who had influenced all their preparations. As she studied him, she wondered if he could even make the climb.
All the windows were open.
“If this is any indication of how cold it will be as we climb, I’m going to wish I’d brought another sweater,” Margaret said.
Saartje, in her patterned sundress, was shivering. Diana, astonishingly, seemed impervious to the temperature.
“Lovely, the cold, don’t you think?” she asked.
Margaret took this to mean that the cold was a test of character, one she had just failed. She wished Arthur would lend Saartje his jacket.
“I think Saartje could use a sweater,” Margaret said.
“I’m fine,” Saartje said brusquely, when Go to hell was what she meant. Twice now, Margaret had inadvertently irritated her. Margaret would make a point of having a conversation with Saartje in the morning. Just Saartje and Margaret. About what, she couldn’t imagine. She certainly couldn’t ask questions.
Patrick briefly covered Margaret’s hand in her lap. She wasn’t sure if this was an apology for having ignored her in his euphoria at having caught so many fish (seven, as it happened) or in the absentminded manner he normally did it. I am suddenly thinking of you. Or possibly he was anticipating sex in the old Kenya room, and this was his way of telling her. In the next instant, he removed his hand to cut his meat.
The drinks and the altitude had taken their toll (they had ascended two thousand feet during the day), and conversation was listless during dinner. Saartje shivered so violently, Margaret wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. Even Diana began to rub her bare arms. Arthur looked distinctly under the weather, as if he were already nursing a headache. All of this seemed to make Diana cross.
“You’re all very dull tonight,” she said.
“The beef is as tough as shoe leather,” Arthur said.
“Not properly aged,” Willem agreed.
“Don’t you think, Arthur,” Diana insisted, “that everyone is being very dull?”
“Hadn’t noticed, actually.”
“Really. I’m surprised. You’re normally very observant.”
Did Margaret only imagine a quick glance in her direction?
“Leave it out, Diana,” he said.
Had Arthur had more than three drinks?
“I was reading up on Mount Kenya last night from Gregory’s The Great Rift Valley,” Patrick offered, trying to deflect further matrimonial bickering. “Gregory has one story in which he talks about the early Europeans bringing various tribes to the mountain while on expedition. The reactions of these Africans were often those of fear and suspicion. One morning, the men came to tell Gregory that the water they had left in the cooking pots was bewitched. They said it was white and wouldn’t shake, and if you hit it with a stick, the stick wouldn’t go in. They begged Gregory to have a look. Gregory went to the pot. He put it on the fire and predicted that the hard white stuff would soon turn to water. The men sat around and watched. When it had melted, they were giddy. They told Gregory that the demon had been expelled. He told them that they could now use the water. But as soon as his back was turned, the men poured it out and filled the cooking pots with rushing water from a nearby brook.”
“Marvelous story,” Willem said with almost no enthusiasm in his voice. He had speedily moved on from his main dish of lamb (or was it goat?) and was tucking into his second pudding, a shivery, gelatinous lime. He noticed Margaret’s gaze and raised his spoon. “No better way to absorb the alcohol.”
Margaret had already decided that the man’s advice was suspect at best.
“Did you know,” Margaret asked, “that the Kikuyu built their huts with the doors facing the mountain, and that Kirinyaga, which is what they call the mountain, means has ostriches?”
“The feathers are the top of the mountain. Where did you learn that?” Arthur asked.
“Guidebook,” Margaret said. “Also that the Embu name for Mount Kenya was Kirenia, which means mountain of whiteness? And I love this one: Meru songs refer to Mount Kenya as the mountain is all speckles.”
Diana was making good on her promise to drink half a gallon of water. Or was it a gallon now that she had had two drinks? She demanded the waiter stand and fill and refill her glass as she sipped.
Margaret, too, had a slight headache. Too early for the drinks to have done their worst; it must have been the altitude. The grounds were lit here and there, but beyond their perimeter, all was darkness, Mount Kenya outlined only by the stars, in great abundance. The mountain appeared otherworldly, a place where no man should go.
“Weather moving in,” Willem declared. “Didn’t want to mention it earlier. Would have ruined your afternoon. We’ll have thick cloud all day.”
He sat back and patted his belly while the others groaned.
“Too bad about the weather,” Arthur said. “Makes a hard day grim.”
Diana shot a glance at him.
“But it’s only grim if we make it grim,” he added. “As for me, can’t wait to start the damn thing.”
Margaret wanted to whisper to Patrick, Let’s get out of here. But where would they go? Would they stay at the lodge until the others returned? Patrick would never allow it. Of all of them, he was the only one in a genuinely good mood.
Margaret summoned the waiter for another glass of water.
Patrick turned and whispered to Margaret, “Let’s get out of here.”
* * *
The next morning, they drove in the Rover provided by the lodge to Park Gate. There they left the car and unloaded the gear. They all had on parkas, unzipped, though soon enough gloves and hoods would appear. They were easily identified by color. Diana had on a bright-red jacket with a white fur collar. Saartje wore a high-fashion lime-green ski parka. Margaret had on a bluish-gray jacket with a hood. Willem’s contours were unrecognizable beneath a white ski outfit. It was all Margaret could do not to look at Patrick, who would have been unable to contain himself. Arthur had on a beat-up Barbour jacket that looked as though it had last been worn in a stable. Patrick matched Margaret with the same bluish-gray. They had bought the jackets on sale in Boston before leaving.
They met the porters and the guide, who’d been waiting for them. The men shook hands. The guide’s English was excellent, though Willem preferred Swahili, thus complicating communications for those who couldn’t keep up, which may have been only Margaret.
They set out in a line, the guide at the front, the porters at the back, so that they were protected at each end in the event that a stray lion decided to attack. The Africans didn’t carry guns, but they had very noticeable pangas at the ready. Earlier, Margaret had caught a glimpse of Willem’s handgun. None of it was reassuring.
Margaret started out with a sense of fear mixed with exhilaration. As for the exhilaration, they were climbing Mount Kenya. This was as daring an adventure as she had ever had. She was on her way and would complete the climb, and it would be a story to tell when she came down. The fear wasn’t as clear-cut. Not entirely a physical sensation, though there was some of that, it was more a fear of the unknown. She wasn’t certain what lay ahead of them, nor did she know how much of the climb she could really endure. She’d had so little training or experience.
She was afraid, too, of the dynamics of the six of them. No one, except Patrick, had left the dinner table in good spirits the night before, and some of the group were hungover when they’d gathered at breakfast. Neither Willem nor Arthur ate anything,
even though Willem kept exhorting the others (and himself) to do so. Diana, as she often did, seemed to want to get going.
They began walking up a hill through low forest. A wind came up, and Margaret’s nose ran. In front of her, she could see hoods being raised, gloves coming out of pockets. Already she was adjusting her focus to a small universe that included her feet and the ground right in front of her. She realized almost immediately that she wasn’t noticing the scenery around her, and that all her effort came down to the single task of putting one foot in front of the other. Breathing was taxed.
The others were far ahead of her. From time to time, Patrick would drop back to see if Margaret was all right, but he couldn’t help his own pace. Margaret grew embarrassed at her lack of speed, but attempts to catch up left her winded. She thought seriously of aborting. She hadn’t gone so far as to not be able to get back on her own, but she knew that Patrick would feel that he had to go with her, despite her protests. She didn’t want him to miss out. There was nothing to do but keep going.
Low cloud had descended. Margaret had been for walks in the snow in New England on gray days, the bare limbs of the winter trees outlined against the colorless background, and she had felt a kinship with the weather that seemed to drain the life out of her. Surrounded by the bleak landscape, she felt a similar kind of dread on the lower slopes of Mount Kenya. Even the parade of bright parkas ahead of her failed to lift what was rapidly beginning to be a mild depression. She began to yearn for the sun.
She was staring at her feet when she noticed an absence of sound. As she glanced up, she saw that the line had stopped. Willem had put up his right hand, mimicking the guide in front of Diana. In any language, Willem’s sign meant halt.
A buffalo had revealed itself around a corner. Margaret could see the distinctive curving horns, the massive brown-black body, and the horizontal swagger of the head. She couldn’t make out the animal’s eyes, but its broad nose was pointed in their direction. Early in her stay, Margaret had been told that the buffalo was the most dangerous animal in Kenya, particularly if a trekker happened to bisect the distance between a female and her calf. The buffalo in front of them was enormous.
Margaret noted that the guide had his panga out. Willem held his handgun so that it pointed straight down. Would bullets penetrate that thick hide? Margaret watched as the line in front of her took a single slow step backward. So as not to rustle any leaves or debris, their steps were shallow and cautious. The buffalo might charge at any moment. The guide evidently felt that their best chance was to back away. Even people in cars had been charged, toppled, and killed.
It seemed that none of them was breathing. Slowly, the others made their way back to where Margaret stood, and then they all began retreating. They lost a fair amount of hard-won ground. Margaret had no idea if they would retreat all the way back to the gates, or if they would wait the animal out. There were tales of expeditions having to stand perfectly still for two or three hours until the buffalo moved on.
Eventually, the retreat came to a halt at a junction in the trail. Margaret saw the guide speak to Diana. He motioned with his arm to the porters behind Margaret that the group would be taking the other trail. They moved forward with caution, which suited Margaret’s pace. No one spoke for at least a half hour. When the guide determined it was safe enough to walk at a brisker pace, the party sped up, and Margaret was again left behind.
Margaret had too many muscles that had not done any serious work in some time. She watched as Arthur stepped out of line. He waited until she had drawn even with him.
“Need a push?”
Margaret tried to laugh, but her airway hurt. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I shouldn’t have come.”
“Nonsense. It’s watching you that’s giving me so much pleasure.”
“Glad to oblige.”
Instinctively, she looked for Diana, who was at the head of the line. Beside her was Willem, and behind them were Saartje and Patrick. Perhaps there was some good in these noncouple pairings. With someone not your partner, mightn’t you make a better effort? She noted that she did seem to make more progress with Arthur at her side. She also seemed to be able to talk in short bursts.
“You handled the ants so well,” Arthur said.
“I did not.”
“Very entertaining, all the same.”
Arthur put his hand at the center of her back and gave her a slight push. His hand lingered as if he might give her a second, but then he let it drop.
Margaret was still frightened by the climb and sorely tempted to let Arthur take care of her. She knew Arthur would be more than happy to accommodate her. Margaret’s lack of speed on the climb made her vulnerable. If they’d all been wildebeests, Margaret would have been the orphan, straggling behind, ripe kill for a leopard or a lion.
“Diana seems eager to get to the bunkhouse,” Margaret said. Their destination that day was Met Station.
“She’s always eager.”
“Surely that’s a good trait.”
“Of course. Marvelous trait. Useful in all sorts of endeavors.”
Margaret couldn’t see Arthur’s face. All of them had on hoods that they’d drawn tight around their heads, obscuring eyebrows and, in some cases, lips. Arthur’s breath lay listless on the damp air.
“You’re actually helping us, you know,” he said.
“And how’s that?”
“By slowing us down. Willem and Diana and I would have competed to be the first to get to the hut. It would have been bloody awful. Possibly literally,” he said.
“What about Saartje?” Margaret asked.
“Saartje.”
“She’s managing?”
“She’s managing well. You’re not doing so bad yourself.”
Margaret smiled. “So I am.”
“You see?” Arthur said. “You needed me.”
* * *
Most of the climb was hard and grim and sometimes ugly, and it was always cold and wet. Margaret had had days in her life when the only way to the other side was through it, but seldom was that more apparent than on Mount Kenya. At a certain point, she could not turn back unless she feigned illness, which she would not do. The only way was forward and up, followed by what she hoped would be a blissful descent. She began to study the sky from time to time for breaks in the clouds. Even a modest sliver of blue would have set her up for hours. Without the sun to illuminate the scenery, the climb began to seem more and more existential. Why hike up a mountain with the almost certain knowledge that one would be able to see nothing from the summit?
They had climbed eighteen hundred feet to reach Met Station. On the other hand, they’d gained five thousand feet, part of it by Land Rover, since leaving the lodge that morning. The climb from Park Gate to Met was meant to take three hours. And had it not been for Margaret, the rest would have accomplished it easily. As it happened, it took nearly six, and they were all ravenous when they got there at three, not having eaten anything since seven, some of them not having eaten anything at all.
The building at Met Station was a banda made of wood, with a covered veranda. First making a fire, the porters set up camp. The trekkers would have a hot lunch that would in fact be dinner. To keep hunger at bay until the lunch was cooked, the group was offered tea and bananas. They sprawled on the veranda, letting their backpacks slide off their bodies. Willem had been right. Though part of an afternoon and evening stretched before them, no side expeditions were planned. No games proposed. No conversation offered. They wanted only food and a place to sit, later followed by a place to lie down, which turned out to be on the canvas cots in the banda, lined up the long way. There were ten cots. A party of three young German climbers had arrived at Met forty-five minutes after the group had. Flushed and fit, they spoke enough English to be polite. They’d intended to go straight to Mackinder’s Camp, they said, but had gotten a late start. Diana explained that it was just as well they hadn’t. Met was there primarily to provide an overnight at altitu
de so as to acclimate trekkers. The Germans smiled, and it was impossible to tell whether they were smiling because they thought Diana was funny or because they were glad to be reminded of this important point.
It was impossible also to tell if there was a view. Low cloud still surrounded them. Night fell closer to seven o’clock because of the altitude. So that they could pick out their cots and set up for the night, a lantern had been hung just inside the bunkhouse. Trips to the latrine were accompanied by a porter. A flashlight was turned off at a discreet moment, but it couldn’t have been a pleasant duty for the poor African assigned the job.
Nearly everyone had lain down within an hour of sunset. Dinner had been filling. Arthur and Willem seemed exhausted, which was, Margaret thought, still a residue of hangovers. Diana, who claimed the cot closest to the door, argued with Willem for the spot. Theoretically, a man should have the cot closest to the door in case of danger. But Diana was adamant, making fun of Willem for pretending chivalry. Margaret thought, Careful, Diana, as she came dangerously close to insulting the man. To Margaret, the matter was simple. Diana’s constant need to get going compelled her to have the cot by the door and to be the first out in the morning. In the way that one couldn’t help but wonder from time to time about another’s marriage, Margaret could not imagine Diana making love with any pleasure. Margaret guessed she would be brusque and quick and eager to get on to the next item on her agenda.
They lay side by side: Diana and Arthur, Saartje and Willem, Margaret and Patrick. Margaret didn’t relish sleeping so close to Willem, who was uninhibited with his farts. She faced Patrick in complete darkness as soon as the lantern was snuffed out. She fell asleep listening to German and woke in precisely the same position as she’d been in the night before.
The first challenge of the second day was the treacherous vertical bog. The mud sucked at Margaret’s new boots with ferocity and made her think the bog was alive. If there had been a distance between Margaret and the others during the easy part of the climb the day before, the distance increased exponentially. Margaret grew panicky with the gap, which by now was too far even to make herself heard. Though the porters never left her, she wished for a companion, someone to encourage her on as Arthur had, to make sure she didn’t break an ankle. Patrick did occasionally wait for Margaret to check that she was okay, but even when she told him, “This is pure hell,” he nodded in agreement and then, as if he were captive to his feet, went on ahead of her.