The Eiger Sanction (12 page)

Ben looked uncomfortable and out of place sitting up against a pile of pillows in the Valparaiso hospital. By way of small talk, Jonathan accused him of malingering there because he was making the nurses every night.

“I wouldn't touch them with a barge pole, ol' buddy. Anyway who would take a man's toes when he ain't looking would take just about anything.”

That was the last mention of the amputated toes. They both knew Big Ben would never make a major climb again.

They felt neither elation nor accomplishment as they watched the mountain slip into the sea beyond the stern of their ship. They did not feel proud of having made it, nor did the Germans feel shame for having failed. That is the way it is with that pile of fossilized shit.

Back in the States, Ben set about establishing his little school for climbing in a corner of Arizona where many kinds of natural face problems abound. So few people wanted the kind of advanced training he offered that Jonathan wondered how he kept his head above water. To be sure, he and twenty or so other skilled climbers made it a practice to patronize Ben's school, but that is just what it was—patronizing. The repeated struggles to force Ben to accept payment for lodging and training embarrassed Jonathan, and he stopped coming. Soon after, he stopped climbing altogether as his new home and his collection of paintings absorbed all his interest.

“Yeah,” Ben shouted as they landed back in the seat after a bad bump, “I sure paid that old bitch back, didn't I?”

“You ever consider what would have happened if you had gotten local frostbite?”

Ben laughed. “Oh, my! There'd have been wailing and moaning on the reservation, and lots of Indian girls dripping tears, ol' buddy.”

They broke over a little rise and started winding down into Ben's valley, leaving a rising trail of dust in their wake. Jonathan was surprised as he looked down on Ben's spread. It certainly had changed. Gone was the modest grouping of cabins around a cookhouse. There was a large swimming pool flashing emerald and surrounded on three sides by the body and wings of a pseudo-Indian lodge, and what appeared to be a patio lounge was dotted with the white blobs of people in swimming suits who looked nothing at all like climbers. There was no comparison between this and the Spartan training school he remembered.

“How long has all this been here?” he asked as they slithered down the steep road.

“About two years. Like it?”

“Impressive.”

They sped across the gravel parking area and banged into a retaining log before rocking to a stop. Jonathan climbed out slowly and stretched his back to regroup his bones. The unmoving earth underfoot was a pleasure.

It was not until they were sitting in the shadowy cool of the bar, concentrating on much appreciated glasses of beer, that Jonathan had leisure to look at his host. Robust virility was projected through every detail of Ben's face, from the thick, close-cropped silver hair to the broad leathery face that looked as though it had been designed by Hormel and shaped with a dull saber. Two deep creases folded in his heavily tanned cheeks, and the corners of his eyes crinkled into patterns like aerial photographs of the Nile Delta.

The first beers drained off, Ben signaled the Indian bartender for two more. Jonathan recalled Ben's epic fondness for beer that had been an object of comment and admiration among the climbing community.

“Very posh,” Jonathan complimented, scanning his surroundings.

“Yeah, it begins to look like I'll make it through the winter.”

The bar was separated by a low wall of local stone from the lounge, through which an artificial stream wound its way among the tables, each of which was on a little rock island connected to the walkways by an arched stone bridge. A few couples in sports clothes talked quietly over ice-and-foliage drinks, enjoying the air conditioning and ignoring the insipid music from ubiquitous but discreet speakers. One end of the lounge had a glass wall through which could be seen the pool and bathers. There was a scattering of prosperous-looking men with horizontal sun-tans who sat in drinking groups around white iron tables, or sat on the edges of gaudy padded sun chairs, concentrating on stock journals, their stomachs depending between their legs. Some waddled aimlessly along the sides of the pool.

Young ladies lolled hopefully on beach chairs, most of them with one knee up, revealing a beacon of inner thigh. Sunglasses were directed at books and magazines, but eyes above them scouted the action.

Ben regarded Jonathan for a moment, his droop-nig blue eyes crinkled up at the sides. He nodded. “Yeah, it's really good to see you, ol' buddy. My phony guests really make my ass weary. How you been doing? Keeping the world at arm's length?”

“I'm staying alive.”

“How's that screwy church of yours?”

“It keeps the rain off my head.”

“Good.” He was pensive for a moment. “What's this all about, Jon? I got this telegram telling me to take care of you and get you into condition for a climb. They said they would pay all expenses. What does that mean, ol' buddy? 'All expenses' can cover a lot of ground. Are these people friends? Want me to take it easy on them?”

“By no means. They're not friends. Soak them. Give me the best accommodations you have, and put all your meals and drinks on my bill.”

“Well now! Ain't that nice! Goddam my eyes if we don't have some kind of ball at this expense. Hey! Talking about climbing. I've been invited to be ground man for a bunch taking a shot at the Eiger. How about that?”

“It's great.” Jonathan knew his next statement would cause comment, so he tried to drop it offhandedly. “Matter of fact, that's the climb I'm here to train for.” He waited for the reaction.

Ben's smile faded frankly, and he stared at Jonathan for a second. “You're kidding.”

“No.”

“What happened to Scotty?”

“He had an auto accident.”

“Poor bastard. He was really looking forward to it.” Ben communicated with his beer for a moment. “How come they picked you?”

“I don't know. Wanted to add class to an altogether undistinguished team, I guess.”

“Come on. Don't bullshit me, ol' buddy.”

“I honestly don't know why they picked me.”

“But you are going?”

“That's right.”

A girl in an abbreviated bikini came up to the bar and squeaked her still-damp bottom onto a stool one away from Jonathan, who did not respond to her automatic smile of greeting.

“Beat it, Buns,” Ben said, slapping her ass with a moist smack. She giggled and went back to the poolside.

“Getting much climbing in?” Jonathan asked.

“Oh, I gimp up some small stuff, just for the hell of it. Matter of fact, that part of the business is long gone. As you can see, my patrons come here to hunt, not climb.” He reached over the bar and took an extra bottle of beer. “Come on, Jon. Let's go talk.”

They threaded their way along the lounge walkway and over a bridge to the most secluded island.

After waving the waiter away, Ben sipped his beer slowly, trying to collect his thoughts. Then he carefully dusted the top of the table with his hand. “You're—ah—what now? Thirty-five?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Yeah.” Ben looked out across his lounge toward the pool, feeling he had made his point.

“I know what you're thinking, Ben. But I have to go.”

“You've been on the Eiger before. Twice, as I recall.”

“Right.”

“Then you know.”

“Yes.”

Ben sighed with resignation, then he changed the tone of his comments, as befitted a friend. “All right, it's your thing. The climb starts in six weeks. You'll want to get to Switzerland for some practice runs, and you'll need a little rest after I'm done with you. How long do you want to spend conditioning here?”

“Three, four weeks.”

Ben nodded. “Well, at least you don't have any fat on you. But you're going to have to sweat, ol' buddy. How are the legs?”

“They reach from the crotch to the ground. That's about all you can say for them.”

“Uh-huh. Enjoy that beer, Jon. It's your last for a week at least.”

Jonathan finished it slowly.

“Whadymizid?” Jonathan asked.

“Pardon me, sir?”

“What... time... is... it?”

“Three thirty, sir.”

Jonathan turned back into the room and fell across the bed, muttering to himself, “This can't be happening.”

No sooner had he slipped into a vertiginous sleep than the phone rang. “Go away,” he mumbled without picking up the receiver, but it rang on without mercy. He pulled it onto the bed and pawed around with his eyes clamped shut until he had located the receiver.

“Rise and shine, ol' buddy!”

“Ben—argh—” He cleared his throat. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Breakfast in ten minutes.”

“No.”

“You want me to send someone up there with a bucket of ice water?”

“He better be someone you're tired of having around.”

Ben laughed and hung up. Jonathan rolled out and groped his way around until he lucked into the bathroom where he let a cold shower drum consciousness into him until he felt the danger of accident by failing was remote.

Ben pushed two more eggs onto Jonathan's plate. “Put them down, ol' buddy. And finish that steak.”

They were alone in the lodge kitchen, surrounded by glowing, impersonal, stainless steel. Their voices had a cell-block bounce.

Jonathan looked at the eggs with nausea constricting his throat. “Ben, I've never lied to you, have I? Honest to God, I believe I'm dying. And I've always wanted to die in bed.”

“Sit back down and get at that chow!”

It was one thing to push food into his mouth, but another to swallow it.

Ben chatted on, impervious to the stares of hate. “I've been up half the night working out details of the Eiger climb. I'm buying the heavy equipment for the team and bringing it over with me. I'll order your climbing kit with the rest. You can go with jeans and soft shoes for the first few days here. We ain't going to do anything hard right at first. Come on! Drink the milk!” Ben finished his beer and opened another can. The beer for breakfast was more than Jonathan could stand to look at. “You still get your climbing boots in Spain?”

Jonathan nodded heavily and found the lower part of the motion so appealing that he let his head hang there and tried to return to sleep.

“All right. Leave me their name and your account number and I'll get a cable off today. Come on! Time's a-wasting! Eat!”

The one-mile, two-minute drive across open grassland in inky predawn dark brought Jonathan fully awake.

For three hours without a rest they climbed a rough, switch-back trail up one of the faces that ringed around the flat-bottomed depression in which Ben had established his lodge. Morning came while they were trudging upward, but Jonathan took no joy in the russet mantle. When the path was wide enough, Ben walked alongside and chatted. The slight limp from the missing toes was all but imperceptible, save that he pushed off more strongly from one foot. Jonathan spoke little; he puffed along concentrating on the pains in his thighs and calves. He was carrying a thirty-five pound training pack because Ben did not want him to get used to going light. That would not be the way of things on the Eiger.

About eight, Ben looked up the trail and waved. There was a figure sitting in the deep shadow of a rock, obviously waiting for them.

“Well, I'm going to turn back, ol' buddy.”

“Thank God.”

“No, not you. You need the work. George Hotfort yonder will take you on up.”

The figure was coming down to meet them.

Jonathan protested, “Hey, she's a girl!”

“Yeah, there's been a lot of people notice that. Now, George,” Ben said to the young Indian girl who had joined them, “this here's Jonathan Hemlock, my old climbing buddy. Jon, meet George Hotfort. Now listen, George, you bring him up another couple of hours, then get him back to the place in time for dinner.” The girl nodded and leveled a scornful and superior look at Jonathan.

“I'll see you, ol' buddy.” And Ben turned back down the trail.

Jonathan watched him go with genuine hate in his soul, then he turned to the girl. “You don't have to do everything he tells you, you know. Here's your chance to strike back at the white man.”

The girl gazed on him without the trace of an expression on her wide-cheekboned, oriental face.

“Georgette?” he ventured.

She made a curt motion with her head and started up the hill, her long strong legs effortlessly pulling the trail under her swinging bottom.

“How about Georgianna?” He huffed along after her.

Each time she got a distance ahead, she waited, her back against a rock, watching his exertions calmly. But as soon as he came close enough to appreciate the filled denim shirt, she would push off the rock and move on, her hips swinging metrically with the long regular strides. Even at the steep angle of the rise, her ankles were supple enough to allow her heels to touch the ground, as the heels of Alpine guides do. Jonathan's calves were tight and inelastic; he was walking mostly on his toes, and feeling every step.

The trail steepened, and his legs started to wobble, causing him to lose his footing occasionally. Whenever this happened, he would look up and find her gazing at him with distant disgust.

The sweat ran from his hair into his eyes, and he could feel the thump of his pulse against his eardrums. The web straps of his pack chafed his shoulders. He was breathing orally by now, and his lips were thick and coated.

He wiped the sweat out of his eyes and looked up after her. Directly in front of him was a vertical bank about thirty feet high with only little dents in the baked earth for foot and hand holds. She stood on top looking down at him. He shook his head definitely and sat down on the trail. “Oh, no. No-o, no, no.”

But after a couple of minutes of silence broken only by the distant whip of a lark, he turned to discover that she had not moved and was still regarding him placidly. Her face was smooth and powdery, not a trace of perspiration on it, and he hated her for that.

“All right, George. You win.”

With a catalogue of pain, he clawed his way up the bank. When he had scrambled to the top he grinned at her, expecting some kind of praise. Instead, she archly walked around him, getting no nearer than three feet, and started on the return trip to the lodge. He watched her glissade easily down the bank and take the downward trail.

“You are a savage, George Hotfort. I'm glad we took your land!”

Back in the rock garden lounge, he consumed an enormous dinner with the concentration of a Zen neophyte. He had showered and changed clothes, and he felt a little more human, although his legs and shoulders still protested with dull, persistent aches. Ben sat across from him, eating with his usual vigor and drawing off great gulps of beer to wash the food down. Jonathan envied him the beer. George had left him a few hundred yards from the lodge and had returned up the trail without a word.

“What do you think of George?” Ben asked, stabbing at his face with a napkin.

“Lovely person. Warm and human. And a conversationalist of considerable accomplishment.”

“Yeah, but she's a climbing fool, ain't she?” Ben spoke with paternal pride.

Jonathan admitted that she was that.

“I use her to help break in the handful of climbers who still come for conditioning and training.”

“No wonder your trade has fallen off. What's her real name, anyway?”

“Georgeis her real name.”

“How did that happen?”

“She was named after her mother.”

“I see.”

Ben studied Jonathan's face for a moment, hoping to discover the discouragement that would make him give up the idea of climbing the Eiger. “Feeling a little bashed?”

“A little. I'll remember that workout the rest of my life. But I'll be ready to get back to work tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow's balls! That was just an appetizer. You go back up in an hour.”

Jonathan started to object.

“Hush up and listen to your ol' buddy.” Ben's broad face bunched up in folds around his eyes as he became serious for a moment. “Jon, you're no kid anymore. And the Eiger's one bitch-kitty of a face. Now, if I had my druthers, I'd have you give up this whole idea.”

“Can't.”

“Why not?”

“Just take my word for it.”

“All right. I think you're out of your head, but if you're set on going, then goddam my eyes if I don't make sure you're in top condition. Because if you ain't, you're pretty likely to end up a grease spot on those rocks. And it's not just for you either. I'm ground man for the team. I'm responsible for all of them. And I'm not going to let them be dragged off by a headstrong old man, you, who ain't ready for the climb.” Ben punctuated his uncommonly long tirade with a deep pull of beer. “Now you just take yourself a swim in the pool yonder and then lay around in the sun eye-balling the skin. I'll have them call you when it's time.”

Jonathan did as he was told. He had begun to enjoy the game of estimating the ballistic competence of the various young ladies around the pool when a waiter came to tell him his rest period was over.

Once again Ben took him partway up the trail, then he was turned over to George, who paced him even farther and faster than in the morning. Jonathan spoke to her several times, but he could not dent the expressionless facade, much less get a word from her. It was twilight when she left him as before, and he limped back to his suite. He showered and fell on the bed with a lust for sleep. But Ben arrived just in time to prevent him from finding that refuge.

“No you don't, ol' buddy. You still got a big meal to put away.”

Although he nodded off repeatedly over his plate, Jonathan consumed a big plank steak and a salad. And that night he found sleep without the usual soporific assistance of the Lautrec article.

The next morning (if three-thirty has any right to that title) found his joints filled with cement and pain. But he and Ben were on the trail by four-thirty. It was a different path and noticeably steeper, and again he was turned over to George Hotfort about halfway up. Again the easily swinging hips drew him upward as he muttered curses against his pain, the heat, his trembling legs, and all Indians. Again at each pause George's mocking, disdainful eyes observed his struggles without comment.

Dinner and a swim, and up again in the afternoon.

And the next day; and the next; and the next.

His climbing trim came back faster than he had dared to hope, and faster than Ben cared to admit. By the sixth day he was enjoying the training and keeping up with George all the way. They moved higher and steeper each day, always making more distance in the same amount of time, and sometimes now Jonathan led and George followed. On the seventh day he was scrambling up a shale drift when he looked back to see (oh, rewarding sight!) perspiration on George's brow. When she got to him she sat down and rested, breathing hard.

“Oh, come on George!” Jonathan pleaded. “We can't spend out lives sitting here. Upward, upward. Get thine swinging ass in gear.” Because she never spoke, he had fallen into the habit of talking to her as though she could not understand. George evaluated the hang of scruffy rock above them and shook her head. Her denim shirt was dark with sweat under the arms and at each pocket where her breasts pressed against the cloth. She smiled at him for the first time, then she started back down the trail.

Never before had she accompanied him all the way back to the lodge, but this time, while Jonathan showered, she and Ben had a long talk. That evening a champagne cooler with half a dozen bottles of beer buried in ice appeared with dinner, and Ben told Jonathan that the first phase of his conditioning was over. They were through with the soft shoe work. His kit had been assembled, and the next morning they would go to work on the stone faces.

A second six-pack was consumed in Ben's rooms where he outlined the next few days. They would begin on easy faces, no more than ten or fifteen feet above the scree, where Jonathan would get the feel of the rock again. Once Ben was satisfied with his progress, they would move up and put a little void under themselves.

Their plans made, the two men chatted and drank beer for an hour. Ben took vicarious pleasure in watching his comrade's delight in the cold brew he had been denied throughout the first phase of conditioning, although he admitted mistrusting any man who could go without beer for that many days.

For some time Jonathan had been aware that his hardening body was growing eager to make love, not as an affectionate expression, but as a biological eruption. It was for this reason that he asked Ben, more or less offhand, “Do you have anything going with George?”

“What? Oh! No.” He actually blushed. “For Christ's sake, I'm twenty-five years older than her. Why do you want to know?”