I didn’t answer her right away. I heard what Claire said, but my own words kept echoing in my head: I’m not a violent person. I wouldn’t harm a fly.
“He was no match for it,” I finally said. “For the Maudit, I mean. No human is able to resist such a primal force. It opens doors in your head that are best kept shut. It awakens . . . urges.”
I expected that would elicit a reaction from her—it certainly did with me—but Claire remained impassive. “And still, here you are. Talking to me as yourself. I don’t see any mountain. Why are you able to control it now?”
“Thinking I can control it is the biggest mistake you could make. I made the same mistake when we reached the summit. Until then, the Maudit had complete power over me, but suddenly its spell was broken. That’s why Augustin turned against me. I wanted to get him away from there. I wanted to save his life. But I was naive.” I swallowed with difficulty. Talking with a semi-ruined mouth plays havoc with your salivation, I’ll tell you that. “That axe slammed a big, black hole in my face.”
“And that brought it back?”
I nodded. From across her desk, I looked at Claire with sadness. “Tell me the truth. You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
She smiled. “ ‘No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.’ That’s what Aristotle said. No, I don’t think you’re crazy. But I do think that right now these thoughts are dominating and disrupting your life, and we have to do something about that. So I’d like to propose a different way of looking at things. I read a case study about people who climb mountains. Don’t take this personally, but according to that study, on the whole, mountain climbers aren’t exactly the nicest of people.”
I didn’t say anything, didn’t have the zip for a snappy retort.
“They were characterized as egocentric and obsessive loners whose eyes are solely fixed on the summit and for whom nothing else matters. Something you just said made me think about that. You said the Maudit had lost its magic for you when you reached the summit. Don’t you take the summit of every mountain you climb back down with you for your collection?”
I nodded, again not fully sure where she was going with this.
“They’re the trophies of your conquests. They say: this mountain is mine; I rose above everything and everybody. The article typifies that experience of transcendence as a mutual mainspring for many climbers. But the inherent danger is it becomes like cocaine. You constantly want more. Each next summit has to be higher still, more beautiful, more challenging. Each successful climb enhances the illusion that you are becoming invincible. But that’s the thing. You’re not invincible in the mountains. In the mountains, you’re Icarus, flying closer and closer to the sun. And we all know how that ended.”
Her fingers fluttered downward, and out of the blue, I heard a voice in my head: And you will also find out what it’s like to fall. To fall . . . and fall . . . and fall . . . and fall.
The hair on my neck stood on end. What had gotten into me? Where did that come from?
In her office, everything was still the same. I looked at Freud’s framed words on the wall: “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” Yet everything felt different now. It was as if a sudden wind had come out of nowhere and gently, almost imperceptibly, rocked the building. I’d swear Claire felt it too, because I remember her looking up at precisely that moment, and a shadow coming over her face.
She immediately pulled herself together and resumed. “What I’m trying to say is that when we have such a deadly fascination with something and, at the same time, it makes us feel so powerful, we may start believing that we are what we aren’t. The article quoted an alpinist who claimed to literally change identities in the mountains. Normally, he wrapped butter in a factory, but while climbing he became a god. His words. Well, I don’t want to imply that you—”
“You are so off the mark,” I said.
Claire shut her mouth with an audible plop. A strange thing happened: I felt a painful stab behind my face and, alarmed, raised my hand toward the bandages. At the same time, I saw Claire flash an inquisitive look at me before lowering her eyes and picking up her Parker, which she started clicking absently in and out with her thumb.
Something was amiss.
“Are you okay, Dr. Stein?”
“I . . .” She hesitated. Click-clack, click-clack. “Sorry, I . . .” She put the pen back down, squeezed her shut eyes with her thumb and index finger, then looked up at me, smiling somewhat dazedly. “Sorry. I got dizzy there for a second.”
She took a sip of water. When she put the glass back down, it was with such a bang that water spattered over the rim, forming a ring on her notes.
I’m not a violent person, I thought. I wouldn’t harm a fly.
Yes, something was amiss. Definitely. I couldn’t figure out her expression, but it wasn’t her typical psychiatrist’s poker face anymore.
“Let’s leave the subject for now,” she said. “I think it’s time for you to confront yourself. I think it’s time for you to remove your bandages.”
“I can’t do that, Dr. Stein.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re not bandages. It’s a mask.” I leaned in and, with the middle and index fingers of both hands, touched the wrappings under which the shape of my face was strange and unrecognizable. “It’s hidden behind it. As long as I wear the mask, I can contain it. But if I take it off, it will come out. And it will come out with the force of an avalanche.”
5
(Italy, 2006)
It awakens urges.
What I didn’t tell Claire was that when I reached the summit of the Punta Rossa that day, the electrostatic energy I felt throbbing in my body during the climb was discharged in the form of explosive sexual release. I had just enough time to pry the button of my shorts open before climaxing so uncontrollably that my ears buzzed and I had to grab the sagging iron summit cross to keep from literally falling into the abyss.
Maybe I didn’t tell Claire because I reckon my adolescent escapades are none of my shrink’s business, but I’m pretty sure that’s not the reason.
Because I also didn’t tell her about the ibex.
I had stumbled on it during my descent through the boulder fields below the pass. Here, no longer on sacred ground, the trance of the climb had worn off. I felt exhausted, deflated like a balloon. If the ibex hadn’t bleated, I probably would have walked past her without ever knowing she was there. Now I jumped to a stop. It was a doe, judging by her small, ridged horns. She was wounded. She dragged herself across the boulders, almost impossible to see against the backdrop of gray and brown. When I got closer, she tried to limp away, but she wasn’t fast enough.