The Yeti: A Novel Page 3

  Like a running back reading the defense, he scrambled and stiff-armed his way back toward Francesca. When he reached her, he hurried her in the direction of the cab, past a policeman dragging a screaming young woman by her feet.

  The crowd finally began thinning out as they hurled themselves into the backseat.

  “Go,” Zack shouted, wiping blood from his lip.

  In the rearview, Zack could see the driver was frozen, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide with fear.

  Through the broken window, a black and grey arm suddenly appeared. It reached for Francesca and grabbed hold of her straight black hair. Her head snapped back.

  Zack beat at the arm with his fist, while Francesca shrieked into his ear. Then the arm began pulling back, dragging Francesca through the window.

  “Do something,” Dustin shouted.

  Zack reached for the policeman’s gloved fingers. He grasped two and bent them back until he heard a crack, followed by a man’s scream. Zack released the fingers and the arm slithered back through the window, vanishing into the smoky gas.

  Dustin shouted for the driver to move. The cabbie took one last look in the rearview, his lips quivering. Zack noticed the small man’s hands trembling at ten and two on the wheel.

  Zack pulled Francesca tightly to him, away from the broken window and the incoming haze.

  A moment of eerie silence ensued, and then the driver slammed on the accelerator, throwing them both back against the torn vinyl seat.

  Chapter 5

  Rum Doodle

  Zack leaned back on the barstool and took in the chatter of amateur climbers, all of them swapping stories and sharing predictions about the upcoming season on Everest. For the first time in weeks he didn’t feel like a drink, but he ordered a local brew anyway, just to be social. The bartender set it in front of him without a word. Zack lifted the frosty glass and held it against his swollen lip. It felt good. He waited until the flesh went numb, then he turned the bottom up and took a swig.

  Back at the hotel he’d barely had time to clean his cuts and check his bruises before the telephone rang in his room.

  “Hitchens? This is Ian Furst. Meet me at the bar at the Rum Doodle Restaurant in Thamel in half an hour.”

  Then the line went dead.

  Zack dialed the front desk and requested a taxi to Thamel. Twenty-five minutes later he was walking along Thamel’s narrow streets, dodging swarms of low-budget travelers, mostly backpackers looking for the experience-of-a-lifetime on the cheap.

  Thamel was the quintessential tourist district, packed with pushers and peddlers, hucksters, hustlers and harlots. As he made his way to Rum Doodle, Zack was offered everything from a hand job to a handgun, from a stolen Rolex to an eighth of an ounce of hashish.

  At the bar, Zack turned when he heard the commotion. Whoever had just entered the restaurant was the recipient of quite a greeting. Dozens of handshakes and hugs, shrill whistles and cheers. Someone in the throng even broke into song.

  Zack turned back to his beer.

  As he drank his eyes settled on a yellowing photo behind the bar. It was a picture of two men - one black, one white - standing on the summit of Mount Everest, their arms hung loosely around each other’s shoulders. Most of the black man’s visage was hidden behind an oxygen mask, his eyes screened behind a pair of goggles. The white man had a hard face but a warm smile.

  “You got the real thing standing right behind you, mate.”

  Zack recognized the gruff voice. It was the one he’d heard over the phone just forty-five minutes ago. He swiveled on his barstool and faced Ian Furst. Somehow the expedition leader was already holding a pint.

  “So, Hitchens,” Ian said with his slight British accent, “what’s this I hear about you not climbing with us?”

  Ian Furst looked at least two decades older than he appeared in the photo, but his eyes hadn’t changed. He may have had a warm smile, but he also had a damned cold stare. That and one hell of a reputation.

  “‘Scuse me, mate.” A middle-aged Brit stepped between them, introduced himself to Zack as Elliot Wyle. Then he turned to Ian. “Leaving for Base Camp tomorrow, Furst. Just wanna wish you and your team godspeed.”

  Zack gave them space. A legendary mountaineer, Ian Furst had been leading expeditions to the Himalayas for the past thirty years, and held an astounding number of climbing records. He was also CEO of the renowned expedition company Himalayan Skies, Ltd.

  With an ever-increasing number of amateur climbers attempting Everest, the mountain was now more dangerous than ever. In recent decades, the greed and inexperience of some Everest guides had been placing climbers--professionals and amateurs alike-- at even greater risk. But Himalayan Skies was the créme de la créme, offering what few expedition operators did: genuine expertise and a lifetime of experience in mountaineering. For a premium, clients were afforded superior equipment, the most qualified personnel on the mountain, and even some of the unexpected comforts of home, such as toilet tents and hot showers.

  When Nadia insisted on climbing Everest, Zack insisted on hiring Ian Furst.

  When Elliot moved off, Zack shrugged apologetically. During the taxi ride, he’d prepared what he was going to say, but Ian’s entrance had caught him off guard.

  “I’m sorry that I didn’t notify you sooner,” Zack said, “but–”

  Ian held up a hand. “No worries, mate.” He pulled over a stool. “Thing is, you’ll be missing out on a hell of an experience.” He took a long pull off his pint. “I mean, you’re already here. Why not give the mountain a run?”

  Zack had anticipated some resistance. There was a hell of a lot of money at stake.

  He tried to stick to the script. “You see, my wife–”

  “Heard all about that, and I’m sorry, mate, truly sorry. But you flew halfway round the world, for what? Your refund? We could’ve handled that through the mail.”

  “Actually,” Zack said, coming to the sentence he’d practiced over and over again, “I have a bit of a favor to ask, Mr. Furst.”

  Ian’s ears perked up like a collie’s. “Yeah? What’s that, Hitchens?”

  Zack took a deep breath. “I was hoping you’d have one of your Sherpas carry Nadia’s ashes to the summit.” Quickly, he added: “I’d pay for it, of course.”

  Ian sighed and glanced behind the bar, toward the square wooden boxes encased in glass. The boxes boasted the signatures of celebrity mountaineers like Sir Edmund Hillary and Reinhold Messner.

  “I don’t know, Hitchens. My Sherpas already have a hell of a lot to carry up.”

  Zack deflated. He hadn’t expected any resistance on this.

  “I understand, but this is just–”

  “Tell me, Hitchens,” Ian interrupted, “what will my Sherpa carrying your wife’s ashes to the summit accomplish?”

  Zack stared at him over his glass. “Nothing, I suppose. It’s merely symbolic.” He thought he saw where Ian was going with this. “But then, there’s nothing to be gained by me carrying them up to the summit either.”

  Ian arched his eyebrows. “You might be surprised.”

  Zack shook his head. Sure, Nadia had wanted him to summit. But she’d been climbing mountains long before he came around, had been reaching high peaks in Europe and Asia with her father Mikolaj ever since she was a teen. The dream of conquering Everest had been hers and hers alone.

  Zack said, “It would make no difference to her who takes the ashes up to the top.”

  “Her?” Ian looked genuinely surprised. “With due respect, Hitchens, who in the hell is talking about your wife? Your wife’s gone. Nothing can be done for her, nothing at all.” He pointed toward the door. “Mate, you could shag every harlot from here to New Delhi and it wouldn’t make a lick of difference to her. No, if you decide to climb Everest, you won’t be doing it for her, ashes or no ashes. What I’m saying, mate, is do it for yourself.”

  For himself? Zack had to chuckle. “I’m not a mountaineer.”

  “What’s a mo
untaineer, Hitchens, but someone who climbs mountains? I’ve reviewed your CV. You climbed Rainier, made it to high camp on Denali. You’re in top physical shape. You’ve been training for months. Seems to me you’ve got the stamina and mental toughness to make it to the summit.” Ian raised his pint. “If I thought you were unfit or lacking adequate experience, I never would’ve let you join the expedition in the first place.”

  Zack smirked. What did this guy think he was selling him? A two-month stay in an over-the-water thatched-roof bungalow in Bora Bora? No, he was selling him two months in the oxygen-starved air of the Himalayas. A round-trip ticket to the highest, most inhospitable point on earth.

  “And what exactly do you have once you summit?” Zack challenged him. “Besides a photo, I mean?”

  “You have a memory, mate. A life-affirming experience, more valuable than any top-of-the-line German-engineered automobile.”

  It certainly cost more, Zack thought, reflecting on the hundred and thirty grand he and Nadia shelled out for the expedition.

  Ian pointed around the bar, to the large white cutouts shaped like footprints. “After you summit, we can come back here and add your autograph to the wall. And word is, you summit Everest, you eat here for free for the rest of your bloody life. Can’t very well pass that up now, can you?”

  Zack gazed at the wall. Rum Doodle got its name from the side-splitting 1956 novel by W. E. Bowman, a parody of the nonfiction accounts of climbing expeditions that were popular in the Fifties, when many of the world’s highest peaks were reached for the first time. He’d read the novel in its entirety during the twenty-six hour flight and lengthy layovers in Chicago and Hong Kong.

  “Why are all the cutout prints of bare feet?” Zack said, still studying the wall. “You can’t exactly climb Everest without boots.”

  Ian laughed. “Those aren’t human footprints, Hitchens. They’re yeti prints.”

  Zack took a drink as he reexamined the prints. Best to keep the conversation away from the mountain, he thought.

  “You know,” Zack said, fingering his swollen lip, “I read in the Boston Globe that some billionaire back in Texas is offering ten million bucks to anyone who can prove the existence of a yeti.”

  Ian nodded. “Harvey Carmichael, I know. Bit of a nutter, he is.” He grinned. “But over the years, there have been some rather serious expeditions searching for the yeti. Led by some rather serious climbers.”

  “Really?” Zack said, hoping to prolong the detour. “Who?”

  “Sir Ed Hillary, for one. Led a ten-month search in 1960. And just within the past decade or so, Reinhold Messner conducted a quest in and around Eastern Tibet.”

  Zack continued to feign interest. “No luck, I presume.”

  “Well,” Ian said, lowering his voice, “there have been a few sightings. But no conclusive photos, of course. No bodies.” Ian drained the remainder of his pint. “Climbers have been discovering tracks in the snow for more than a century now. The most compelling, in fact, were photographed by a distinguished Brit back in ‘51.”

  It was painful when Zack smiled. “You think the tracks are real?”

  Ian shrugged. “Scientists say it’s possible in theory that a wild creature could’ve eluded man in the heights of the Himalayas. But, you ask me, the yeti’s no more real than America’s Sasquatch, or Scotland’s monster in the loch. You ask me, the yeti’s just another bloody myth.”

  Zack motioned to the walls with his chin. “And a money-maker.”

  “You got that right, mate.” Ian set his empty glass down and stood. “So, what do you say, Hitchens? You’ll at least make the trek to Base Camp with us? You do that, I’ll let one of my Sherpas carry your wife’s ashes to the summit.”

  Zack hesitated. He could probably find another climber in Kathmandu to do it without any strings at all. Of course, there was no guarantee whoever Zack gave the ashes to would actually be able to summit. Ian’s Sherpas were certainly his best bet.

  “Well, I’ve got a few days to think about it,” Zack said.

  Ian frowned. “No, mate. I’m afraid you don’t. Our Base Camp manager is notifying the other members as we speak. Our expedition leaves in the morning.”

  “In the morning? But, I thought the weather–”

  “Global warming, mate. Seems your country’s Republicans are good for something after all. The climate’s changed. The climbing season’s kicking off bloody early this year. I want our team to be first to the top.”

  Zack exhaled. The idea of a two-week trek to Base Camp was daunting in and of itself. The idea of leaving tomorrow seemed downright absurd.

  “I have to think about it,” he said finally. “I’ll let you know first thing in the morning.”

  Ian gripped Zack’s shoulder, looked him in the eye and winked.

  “Right then, Hitchens,” he said, shaking Zack firmly. “Morning it is.”

  Chapter 6

  Yak and Yeti

  Back at Hotel Yak and Yeti, Zack began unpacking. He’d decided to stay in Kathmandu a few days to see the sights, then head home. He hung his shirts, pressed a few pairs of pants, then dropped onto the plush sofa in the central living room of his suite, staring at the phone.

  He had promised his mother Eileen he’d ring her as soon as he’d arrived, but Ian Furst’s call had intervened. He checked his watch and calculated the ten-hour and forty-five-minute time difference. It was only six a.m. or so back in Providence. Might as well give her another hour to wake up and drink her first cup of joe.

  No rush, he thought, as he pushed himself up and walked to the window. He could wait an hour to hear how much she missed him, how silly it was to leave New England in the spring, when it was so damned beautiful there this time of year. He folded his arms and gazed down at the garden.

  Zack had never met his father. He’d perished in a blaze in northeast Boston several weeks before Zack was born. Soon after, his mother and he relocated to Rhode Island. She had no more children and never remarried. Whenever Zack left the house, she stayed home alone.

  That was largely why Zack never left the Ocean State. Why he attended college and graduate school at URI, then turned down opportunities across the country to take a position at his small university in Bristol.

  He turned and faced the room’s large oval-shaped mirror. Stared at the cut on the left side of his upper lip and wondered whether the wound required stitches, whether it would leave a significant scar.

  He decided to check in on Dustin. He quickly brushed his teeth, swirled some Listerine, then set off for Dustin’s room down the hall. He knocked but there was no answer. So he stepped into the lift and headed downstairs. He scouted Yak and Yeti’s restaurants. Checked the Chimney, the Pub, the Sunrise Café. Then he tried the Casino Royale in the ancient Lal Durbar Palace. But Dustin wasn’t around. He played a few slots—no luck-- then took the lift back upstairs.

  Before heading back to his room, he padded down the hall to Francesca’s. Maybe she knew where Dustin was. He hesitated when he reached her door, an unwelcome flutter taking hold of his stomach. Silly, he thought, and knocked.

  Dustin answered. Zack smiled awkwardly, trying to hide his surprise. His upper lip throbbed as it stretched.

  Dustin smiled back. “You were expecting Robert Redford?”

  Zack shook his head. He wasn’t sure what to say.

  “He stayed here, you know?” Dustin said, filling space. “Robert Redford, I mean.”

  “Really?”

  Dustin nodded. “Robert Redford, Goldie Hawn, Oliver Stone, Richard Gere. Even Jimmy Carter back in the day. It’s a fairly famous hotel.”

  “That’s, um...”

  “Actually,” Dustin said, reading the discomfort on Zack’s face, “I was just about to head down to the casino. Come on in.”

  “No, no,” Zack said, holding up his hands. “As a matter of fact, it was you I was looking for. Well, both of you. I heard you’re leaving for Lukla tomorrow, and I just wanted to say goodbye and wish you a saf
e trip.”

  Francesca appeared. Zack was relieved to see she was fully dressed, her long black hair shimmering and neat.

  “Ciao,” she said. “Please, Zack, do come in.”

  Zack crossed the threshold and slapped his hands together. His palms were sweaty. “So, tomorrow’s the big day.”

  Dustin closed the door behind him. “Unfortunately.” Tell you the truth, I don’t like Ian’s changing the rules in the middle of the game.”

  Francesca sighed as she rummaged through a suitcase. “It is not just the weather, Dustin. Ian is concerned about bottlenecks on the mountain. Bottlenecks put climbers’ lives at stake. If we have the opportunity to summit early, we have to take it.”

  Dustin tossed himself onto the couch. Zack thought he seemed a little too at home.

  “And there are other good reasons, as well,” she added. “Climbers get desperate on the mountain, particularly late in the season. They steal food, oxygen tanks. They even steal stoves and tents. It would be ideal for us to be gone before the madness truly starts, don’t you think?”

  Dustin didn’t respond.

  “Anyway,” she said, fussing with one of her shirts, “it is not our call.”

  Zack stood off to the side, near a desk. Francesca’s tone reminded him of Nadia’s on the night he proposed to her in Vermont.

  “You are sure?” Nadia had said to him in broken English. “You are absolutely certain you want to marry me?”

  Zack assured her.

  “Good,” she said, smiling. “Because once you put this ring on my finger, you will no longer have a choice.”

  “Zack,” Dustin said from the couch. “You can’t leave me alone with this woman. You have to trek with us, at least as far as Namche Bazaar.”