I’m so cold, Nick, he said. So cold . . .
Suppose it wasn’t delirium. And suppose the legend is true. Then the thing I tried to hoist up and out of the crevasse was no longer Augustin. After all, Augustin’s soul had already been set free. And yet it had been alive. In its own, frozen way, it had been alive.
Was it the Maudit itself? Or something completely different?
Because it knew my name.
(later, evening)
Had a fight with Sam. He suggested going back to the Netherlands! Said it’s getting too dangerous for us here. That there’s nothing much we could do around here anyway. I suggested he should maybe go back without me, because of the influence it has over him, but he didn’t want that. I saw through the lie. It’s the addiction talking. Sam doesn’t want me to be rid of it anymore. He wants it for himself. It made me furious.
My vision got all hazy, and after that, there’s a gap in my memory. Must have had a blackout. Just came to in pitch-blackness. Only when the moon broke through rushing clouds and dropped its light through the window did I realize that I was lying on the carpet in front of the fireplace. Ramses was staring at me over his bandaged paw, with sly, yellow eyes.
Face thumping. Unbearable. Before, the pressure was off for at least a while every time I let it out. Not anymore.
Sam. Don’t dare go downstairs. What have I done?
Fuck fuck fuck goddamn motherfuck . . .
Okay, get ahold of yourself. Have to go look.
(even later)
False alarm. Sam’s asleep. Naked though, so there’s that. But I can’t trust him anymore, that much is clear. Leaving is not an option. I can’t leave. My only hope is right here. And S. would never leave without me.
Plus, there are practical objections. We just extended our stay in the chalet till December 1, and in a couple of weeks I’m getting my scar correction here in Switzerland. A private clinic in Montreux. The AMC sent them my medical file, because if there’s one place where cosmetic surgery is top quality, it’s got to be CH. Dad said just go ahead and do it; you’re there anyway. He said he’d cover the costs.
They’ll have to remove the bandages. They’ll have to cut into my face.
Under anesthesia, it’s got to be safe. Right?
If I have doubts, I can always cancel.
4
November 3
Spent days searching. Websites, maps, newspaper reports, online photos, and not a single new lead. Total fucking zilch.
In daytime, I don’t dare show myself in the village anymore, so I only go out after dark. I drift through the streets of Grimentz like a ghost out of a Victorian novel: turned-up collar, face covered in bandages, and hat tilted forward. Only the choughs give my presence away. Every time they start screeching and their cages start to rock, somewhere a light goes on, and I rush away into an alley. I’m a scapegoat. A pariah.
What is it that I’m looking for? I don’t know anymore.
Sam’s dependence has reached new lows. I try convincing myself it will get better, but who am I fooling?
Sometimes I think I should let go and just let it all happen. Just so I won’t have to deal with it anymore.
(later)
Okay, great, stumbled onto something after all, though not sure how encouraging it is. Tonight, just before midnight, I slunk across the courtyard in front of the church and, hidden by the shadow of an old plum tree, sneaked into the cemetery at the back. It lies on a terrace looking out on to the mountains across the valley. The moon had risen, and in its pale light you could see that the snow line had crept to below 8,000 feet. The last few days, the sky has been cold and clear. Gloomily settled weather. But lenticular clouds cover the highest peaks, which means that there’s turbulence in the higher atmosphere.
All the graves are adorned by the same wooden cross, with two diagonal slats on top that make them look like little chalets. Frost, thaw, and blazing sunlight have apparently left them unaffected. Even the oldest graves, dating from the 1920s, are in perfect condition. In the moonlight, not all inscriptions were equally legible, but some gave out ominous messages, such as “Guide de Haute Montagne” or “Mort en Weisshorn.” These affected me more deeply than I was prepared for. They are the mountain’s dead.
Had they, like me, left the valley behind them without a single worry, death the farthest thing from their minds?
On some of the graves were flowers; others had birdcages. All empty . . . and that made me feel rather uneasy.
Someone cleared their throat, and I spun around.
It was the pastor. He raised his hands, and I was afraid he would burst into a tirade of French, but instead he said in calm and perfect English, “Please excuse me for startling you.”
I felt my face throbbing behind the bandages but managed to keep it under wraps—for now. Judging by Sam’s description, this was the same man who had come to our door with the other two, the morning we were chased out of the village by those stone-throwing boys. Black cassock, white clerical collar, and the gold cross the Catholics in Switzerland are still so proud of. His lantern’s flickering candlelight reflected in his glasses. The eyes behind them seemed tense, but the expression on his face wasn’t hostile. Rather, he seemed intrigued, and in some way, maybe even amicable. Yet he didn’t come close enough to shake my hand.
“Mr. Grevers”—he pronounced it Grévèrs—“you must leave Grimentz immediately.”
I was dumbfounded.
“I can no longer guarantee your or your companion’s safety. Your presence has deeply upset the villagers and there is talk of a revolt. There have been worrying omens. The birds have sensed a change in the air, the cattle have broken out, and strange sounds have been heard up the valley. Your presence is disturbing the natural course of things. I prayed to God, but I can’t help you. You must leave the valley!”
“And what exactly is the natural course around here?” I asked. “There is nothing natural or godly about your birds and that damn mountain. There is no God on the Maudit.”
Upon hearing the mountain’s name, the pastor literally shrank back and crossed himself. Turned deathly pale. But what was I supposed to do? He knew what was going on; there was no use in denying it.
He then went into an incoherent plea, which I could only partially make out. The days of doom were nigh. The change was palpable, as was the presence. He could feel it now, as he spoke to me. And the whole time, he kept staring at the bandages around my face.