I stayed there until the landscape had vanished in the purple shadows of twilight. Then I went back and joined Stanley, by which time it was so dark outside that it seemed as if the windows had been painted black.
The train thundered on into the night, and at last sleep overtook me.
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THE NEXT MORNING, after changing trains in Geneva, we passed through Lausanne and went on towards the Grand St. Bernard Pass.
At the sight of the Bernese and then the Pennine Alps, I felt a shudder in my chest. It was the trembling of energy stacked up inside me, ready for the long days ahead.
Passing through the Val d'Entremont, the train clattered along beside the river Drance, so close to the overhanging slopes that even if we craned our necks we could not see the tops. On the other side of the river, the sharply sloping fields were sown with wildflowersâcampion, monkshood, and goldenrod. Waterfalls and tiny streams which tumbled from the rocks above merged into fast-running, gray-silted rivers. These rivers roared beneath the railway bridges, spraying the windows and bending the sun into rainbows. As the ravines
emerged from shadow, I found myself returning to the old habit of plotting an imaginary path along each stony slope to reach the glacier fields that lay beyond.
Turning to look back inside the carriage, I could see others who had come to climb. Their eyes were focused on the world above, refusing to be overwhelmed by the vastness of the mountains. Instead, each crag and pinnacle of rock became a mental exercise in how it could be scaled.
Others stared with rounder eyes at the quaintness of the pastures, at the overwhelming cleanliness of the houses. From time to time, their eyes passed over the barrenness of the scree slopes and the overhanging cliffs, then quickly returned to the lower ground, where flowers smudged the hedgerows with more cheerful colors than the monochrome world of rock and ice above.
Stanley sat very still, hands balanced carefully in front of his face, fingertips touching, lost in thought.
I knew what was going on inside his brain. Until now, the mountains had remained a distant prospect, more of a concept than a reality. At last the truth was sinking in. We were both wondering if, each now at the age of forty, we might have grown too old for what lay ahead. In the past, it had always been a question of willpower and skill. But that was before Stanley's knees began to ache in damp weather and before the vision in my right eye became flecked with gray if I didn't get enough sleep.
Stanley gazed at the mountains rising up on either side of the train as if they were the jaws of a vast creature which had reared up out of the earth. “Bastard,” he whispered.
I knew without having to ask that he was not cursing me. He was cursing his uncle.
Stanley turned to me suddenly. “These guides we'll be hiring,” he said, giving voice to a conversation which had apparently been going on inside his head for some time already.
“Six porters and two guides,” I said. “They're meeting us in Palladino.”
He nodded and went back to staring out the window.
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WE CROSSED THE BORDER into Italy and changed trains at Aosta. From there, we had to go all the way south to Turin before catching another train north to the town of Domodossola, at the entrance to the Antigorio Valley.
There were no trains into the valley, so we spent the night in Domodossola and hired a cab early the next morning to take us the rest of the way.
With all of our gear crammed inside, and the coffin tied up on the roof, the cab took us about thirty kilometers up the valley. We reached Formazza late in the early afternoon. From there, we continued on to Palladino, which already lay in the shadows of the mountains above. At the southern edge of town, Lake Vannino glimmered in the half-light.
The cab, its once-black paint now coated with a shimmering layer of khaki dust, came to a stop in the village square, beside a fountain where a small statue of a rearing bronze horse spouted water from its mouth.
I recognized it from the photo back in Carton's apartment. This was where he had stood after coming down off the glacier.
My eyes were drawn beyond Palladino's clustered rooftops, no two of which appeared to stand at the same height, to the flower-strewn green of the fields above the town. From where I stood, I could make out the little wood, the Pineta di San Rafaele, and the meadow where I'd parachuted in. Above it,
etched like a lightning bolt into the rocky hillside, was the old customs house road. Beyond the ridge where the road leveled out, I could see only the eggshell whites of clouds.
The San Rafaele woods looked dark and cold. I was glad to know we would be spending our first few nights here in a hotel, while we bought provisions, acquired the most up-to-date maps, and squared away things with our guides.
But the San Rafaele woods were exactly where Stanley and I ended up, six hours later, having been rejected from the only lodging place in town.
Stanley and I sat exhausted outside our tent. Beside us, the Rocket's polished sides reflected the shadows of the trees. On the breeze, we could hear music coming from a café in Palladino. Then the wind changed direction and the music disappeared, leaving us with only the whisper of wind in the tops of the pines.
Both Stanley and I were still in shock at what had happened. We had not made reservations, partly because there had been so little time and also because it was so early in the summer that I was sure there would be places to stay. Arriving in this sleepy little village, I was still confident that I had made the right choice.
But when the manager of the Caffè Falterona told us there were no vacancies, despite the fact that he had two empty rooms above the bar, I felt I deserved an explanation.
The café owner seemed ill at ease. He pulled at his gray mustache and kept clearing his throat. “It is the coffin,” he said. “There is a law against it.”
“Against a coffin?” I asked, looking around the dimly lit space, at its walls patched with pictures of soccer teams torn out of magazines, and rickety-legged tables bearing heavy metal ashtrays.
“This is an old law,” said the man. “There is nothing I can do.”
“But the coffin is sealed,” I told him. “It can be kept in a storage room if you prefer.”
“Sir.” He held up one hand. “It is not possible. Perhaps you should speak to the police. There is a mortuary in Domodossola. You might be welcome there.”
“But that's down at the other end of the valley!” I protested.
“It took us all day just to get here!” added Stanley.
The manager shrugged and turned away.
After this, Stanley and I stood outside, hands in pockets, trying to figure out what to do next.
The sounds of children's voices echoed from the narrow alleyway behind us. Above our heads, a woman was hanging up laundry on a line attached to the opposite building by a pulley. The woman's mouth bristled with wooden laundry legs. Expertly, she pulled the pegs from between her teeth, pinning socks and shirts to the line. As she completed each task, she gave the laundry line a tug, which caused the pulley at the other end to squeak. The shirts, with arms dangling, edged out jerkily across the alley, like a row of clumsy puppets.
Meanwhile the cabdriver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and steadily made his way through a pack of cigarettes. He no longer wore a look of cheerful efficiency. Instead, he had begun eyeing us suspiciously, no doubt wondering if we lacked the funds to pay him.
“Well?” asked Stanley.
I was looking up at the dark expanse of the San Rafaele woods, already sunk in the half-light of the evening.
Stanley followed my gaze. “Oh, no,” he said. “You can't be serious.”
“It won't be that bad,” I told him. “Remember those days
when we camped in the Erikawald above Zermatt? Once we get settled, it'll be cozy.”
Stanley gazed forlornly at a board posted outside the café, on which was scrawled a dinner menu of pasta carbonara, potatoes with rosemary and olive oil, and tiramisu. Then he turned and glared at me. “And what will we be having for dinner?” he demanded in a loud voice.
What we had for dinner was a mug of tea, the water heated over my smoky old camp stove, some bruised apples, and a bar of chocolate each, since the grocery store in town was already closed.
We persuaded the cabdriver to transport us up towards the San Rafaele woods. At the point where the paved road turned to dirt, the cabdriver jammed on the brakes and got out. At first, we thought he'd gotten stuck, but then he opened the door and stood waiting for us to join him on the muddy track, and indicated that he would go no farther.
His face showed undisguised relief when Stanley hauled out a fist-sized wad of Italian bills, which we had procured at a bank back in London. After that, his sunken shoulders straightened and he insisted on helping us unload the Rocket from his roof. “After all,” he said, “it is only a coffin. We will all be in one soon enough.” He shook our hands and wished us good luck, but even as he did this, he glanced over our shoulders at the gloom of crowding trees and could not hide a shudder.
The cab backed away down the muddy lane, since there was no place for it to turn around.
For a long time, Stanley and I listened to the whine of its engine in reverse. Then, having at last found a place to turn, the cabbie clanked through the gears, heading away down the valley.
“What that man said about the coffin ⦠,” said Stanley.
“Yes?”
“Was he trying to make us feel better or worse?”
I did not know, and so did not reply.
We looked at the Rocket. Tiny beads of rain were gathering on its smooth and angled sides.
Stanley gave it a kick. “He knew this would happen,” he said. Then he glared at me. “He
knew
!”
With our packs shouldered, we each took hold of a brass carrying handle and began to drag the coffin up towards the woods.
“I'll be glad when we get those guides sorted out,” said Stanley.
“We'll see them tomorrow,” I said. “I have an address in the village where we are supposed to meet them. As soon as we have bought provisions and divided up the gear, we'll head out.”
A rickety wooden gate separated the lane from the entrance to the woods. The gate was closed with a chain and padlock, but there was a turnstile over which we were able, with some difficulty, to haul the Rocket. Once we were through, we moved in under the canopy of trees down a path even more muddy than the lane.
The wood was empty and damp. Clusters of greasy-looking mushrooms patched the pine-needled ground. I thought about the coarse nobility of our encampments in the Erikawald, which had made life down in the town of Zermatt seem so soft and decadent by comparison. When we'd come into town, we'd look dismissively at the tourists at the outdoor cafés, sweating in their loden coats, moleskin trousers, and hobnailed hiking boots. Few of them would climb above the tree line, fewer still across the glaciers, and none of them looked as if they would survive an actual trek in the mountains. But now I was older than some of those I'd sneered at,
and the anticipated comfort of a hotel room in Palladino filled me alternately with longing and with guilt.
By the time Stanley and I pitched our tent at the edge of the wood, we were covered in sweat and had no prospects of a bath. But once the tent was up, the bedrolls laid out, and the water boiling for tea, I saw the first grudging smile on Stanley's face as he sat on the coffin, one leg crossed over the other, carefully munching the last of our English chocolate.
A sound of sheep bells reached us from pastures down in the valley.
I was just finishing up my tea when I noticed a solitary figure walking up the lane towards us.
Stanley saw him, too. “It's probably just some old codger out for an evening stroll,” he said hopefully.
“Unless he's come to turf us out of the wood,” I said.
“If he has come to move us along,” declared Stanley, “he can bloody well save his breath because I'm not going.”
Grimly we watched the old man. Now and then, we heard the metal tip of his cane click against a stone. There seemed to be something almost cruel in his leisurely pace. The man reached the turnstile and carefully climbed over it. Then he began to make his way down the main trail that ran through the woods.
I dreaded the thought of packing up the tent and trudging out to find another campsite, but as the old man turned off the main trail and began making his way towards us across the pine-needled ground, I resigned myself to the possibility.
Stanley and I both stood as the old man arrived at our camp.
“Good evening,” said Stanley.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he replied, his face hidden under the brim of his hat.