Beyond the Summit (6 page)

With a lighter heart, Mingma resolved to travel soon to Sungdare’s home in Khumjung to present him with a flask of
chang
and propose a marriage between their children. The acceptance of the beer and proposal would conclude the
sodene.
Knowing that this relationship could be broken by either side with no legal liabilities, Mingma also decided to set a date for the
dem-chang
ceremony to give the betrothal a more solid basis. Crossing the open room to the wooden shelves by the door that contained gleaming brass and copper vessels, he checked the ones with barley and millet. Almost empty. The loss of his most valuable
nak
meant less milk and dung to trade.

Back on the window bench, he sat with his elbows on his knees. His fingers stiff and splayed, he touched and then spread them, trying to picture himself as he used to be—one of the wealthiest men in the Khumbu, a great trader who traveled to Tibet and India and then home again bearing riches. But in the darkest time of his life, the Chinese invasion of Tibet had destroyed everything by slaughtering thousands and making refugees of those he loved. Memories from long ago crept from their hiding places and spread through him like smoke from the hearth trapped within a room, enveloping him in such a dark, dense cloud that he could no longer see or breathe. Only prayer stilled the voices and muted the images into shadows. Opening the folio of Tibetan scripture on the table before him, he began the low, monotonous intonations that temporarily numbed his emotions as he once again sought forgiveness.

After leaving his father, Dorje leapt over a rock wall and almost ran into a yak loaded with tents and sleeping pads. When the large head swung around and grazed him with its curved horn, he smacked it on the rump and yelled, “Get out of here,” before heading to the pasture while massaging his sore arm. His father’s words,
Because everyone, including your brother, knows that Mingma’s son cares only about making money for himself,
nagged in Dorje’s head. Surely Nima didn’t believe this falsehood.

Trudging up the hill, Dorje yelled at his brother, “It’s not my fault the damn
nak
died or that you had to fend off wolves. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You weren’t here, never are during trekking season.” His gaze averted from Dorje, Nima sat peeling a long strip of bark from a branch and flicked it skyward.

“You don’t have to be here either.” Sitting beside him, Dorje picked up a rock and hurled it at one of the yaks straying from the herd. “Taking care of these brainless, unruly beasts. Come with me to Lukla. I’m the sirdar and can hire you as a guide. All you have to do is walk along with the
mikarus
and keep them happy.”

“Doing what? I don’t speak English the way you do.” Seventeen now with their mother’s gentle eyes and a dark brown spatter of freckles across his nose and cheeks, Nima was growing into a man and Dorje hadn’t noticed. “Just give them your smile and you’ll win their hearts.”

Nima stared straight into Dorje’s eyes the way he did before pronouncing one of his truths. It was frustrating the way he could see things clearer than his older brother and often felt the need to set him straight. “And who would watch the animals? Both of us can’t desert father.”

“Like he deserted us at three and six years old?”

“That was a long time ago. Forget it.” Nima shot him a reproving glance. “And another thing. You know that as the youngest son I’m obligated to stay and take care of him. So don’t talk to me of working for your
mikarus
.”

Already on his feet and scampering up the hill, Nima donned the hat with the brim turned upwards, and then sashayed behind a large, black yak. “Mine now.” On the opposite side of the beast, Dorje lunged for it but Nima jumped back inches out of reach. Circling the irritable, grunting animal as they bantered with one another, Dorje was surprised at how clever and quick his little brother had become.

“What’s so special about this hat?” Nima asked.

“I got it from the American I’m going to climb Everest with.”

“You . . . climb Everest! Then it belongs here.” Crouching over a pile of steaming yak dung, Nima threatened to smear the precious hat in it. “Have the
mikarus
blinded you so much that you no longer see?”

“I see what a fool you are thinking that you can get the better of me.” Dorje laughed and dived at him, hurling him to the ground. With Nima’s arms pinned over his head, Dorje snatched back the hat before rolling his brother over and using him as a pillow as they had lain together when very young, lazing away the afternoons in meadows where wildflowers mingled with marigolds and begonias had just begun to bloom. Things were better then.

“I don’t want you to climb,” Nima murmured after a long silence. “You’ve seen the bodies coming down from the mountain. Our own uncle died up there.”

Another of his irritating truths. After all the years of Dorje protecting his younger brother, Nima was now doing the same for him. “I have to go. You know that.”

“Yes, yes, the Tenzing of the future. You told me all about that. But it was just some villager shouting at a young boy riding on a man’s shoulders. It meant nothing.”

“It did to me and I promise not to do anything stupid or reckless.”

Nima plucked a handful of grass and tossed it in Dorje’s face. “You’re as stubborn as the yaks you hate so much.” Sauntering towards to the herd, he yelled over his shoulder, “Father will never let you go.”

“He has no say in my life. None at all.” He slapped the hat back on and marched down to Marty’s camp, mumbling to himself.

The American was in the dining tent with a book. “Have you read this
Tiger of the Snows
?” he asked. “One of our group lent it to me. It’s about Tenzing Norgay.”

Having never seen a picture of him, Dorje glanced at the cover and shook his head. “I don’t know how to read.”

“You’re kidding. How’d you learn to speak such good English?”

“From
mikarus
who talk too much like you,” Dorje answered with a grin.

“Well, it’s a great story about his climb with Hillary. You and I are going up there. Marty and Dorje to the top like Hillary and Tenzing. Give me five!”

“Five what?”

“Five fingers like this” Marty raised Dorje’s hand and slapped the open palm. He tossed the book on the table and stood up. “Here, you need to go to Marty school and learn the hand jive too. Just follow me. It’s sixteen counts.” He gave Dorje a questioning look.

“Yes, I can count,” Dorje answered a little insulted.

“Good. On one, slap your knees like this. Two. Repeat.” Dorje mimicked him. “That’s right,” said Marty. “Now clap your hands for three and four. On five, clap your right hand over your left one, palms down. Repeat for six. Seven and eight, do the same only change hands.” After reviewing the first eight counts, Marty continued through sixteen and repeated the whole routine wiggling his body and feet in a hilarious way that propelled Dorje into such a fit of laughter his stomach hurt. When he finally recovered, they did the hand jive over and over, each set progressively faster until it became a contest of coordination and giggling. Dorje lost but was determined to practice so he could beat this American when they reached Lukla.

Two days later, the tourists in Marty’s party plus another group of five waited all morning and afternoon at the airstrip. When no plane had arrived by 3:30 p.m., Dorje explained they didn’t fly if there was fog in Kathmandu. He instructed them to return to the teahouses. Fourteen grumbling
mikarus
shouldered their duffels and headed back into the small village. “Does this happen often, Buck buck?” Marty asked.

“Sometimes we wait for days,” Dorje whispered, not wanting to feed the simmering tempers of others.

The next morning, Marty and Dorje competed in twenty rounds of hand jive, the loser being the one who dropped his concentration or timing first. Their crazy body gyrations attracted an amused crowd of
mikarus
and Sherpas, each group rooting for its own. Dorje couldn’t bear to lose face, but Marty was just too good and too experienced so he finally conceded and changed the subject by pointing to several
zopkios
and
zhums
grazing on the airfield. “They keep the grass down so planes can land,” he explained.

Marty chuckled. “Four-legged lawn mowers.”

To pass the time, Dorje told Marty how Hillary had built the strip four years ago to fly in supplies for the hospital he planned to build in the future. “My brother and I lived south in the Solu for ten years,” he explained. “We passed through here on our way home and saw fifteen Sherpas running and dancing back and forth across the airstrip to pack down the dirt. Hillary paid them to do this for three days because dragging big, heavy logs did not work. Nima and I ran with them. It was fun.”

“I would have earned a fortune,” said Marty, “because I’m a great dancer. I do the jitterbug and swing to the great dismay of my father who wanted a football-playing son who would always bully his way through to make extra yards.”

“I think I do not like your father.”

Hearing the distant hum of an engine, Dorje glanced at the windsock flapping wildly—not an auspicious sign. After swatting the animals to drive them out of the way, he stood at the edge hoping the plane could land because his next
mikarus
were on board and these delays were costing him rupees. The impatient trekkers whistled when the plane came into view and then let out a group moan as it quickly rose and left.

“Dammit!” one of them yelled. “I’m going to miss my flight to the States. It leaves tomorrow.”

“Wait. It’s coming back,” his companion said waving at the pilot. Everyone watched it wobble and shake, rise and dip sharply as it neared.

“Ouch. Rough-ness,” Marty chirped in a comment that must have reflected everyone’s feelings because no universal moan sprang from the crowd when it turned and headed back down the valley.

Apathy and pessimism permeated the airstrip on the third day until a motor sounded in the distance and the windsock hung limp. Boisterous cheers and whistles drowned out the engine as the plane touched down. “Well, Buck, buck,” Marty said, “This is it until next spring.”

“Not yet. One more hand jive. I know I can beat you.” Locking his opponent in a Mingma stare, Dorje slapped his knees, clapped, put one hand over the other, thumped his fists, and bumped his elbows, wiggling his body and feet like a lovesick worm. Over and over, faster and faster, arms and hands flying, grinning, giggling out of control until Marty finally lost the beat and slapped when he should have clapped. “I did it,” Dorje shouted and threw his hand in the air for a final high five.

Watching the passengers disembark, Marty said, “Now that’s courage-ness,” when two old women dressed in baggy pants and silly hats stood boldly in the midst of intimidating confusion: Sherpas stuffing large duffels into
dokos,
strange-looking animals grazing on the field, porters weighed down with pots and pans, folding tables and chairs, baskets of food. Sunburned trekkers waiting to board paced impatiently, their faces gaunt and unshaven, hair grown long, and their clothes covered with trail dust.

“Maybe these ladies are your next
mikarus
,” Marty said snickering.

“Never. I take strong hikers like you. Men who yell
Geronimo
and ski down glaciers. Men who do high fives.” He thrust his hand in the air for a slap but Marty’s gaze was transfixed on something behind him.

“I’d give up my wild ways and finally grow up for a woman like that,” Marty murmured.

What was this crazy American talking about now? Turning, Dorje saw a nerve-tingling vision, long honey-golden hair long and eyes like wild blue poppies. Surely he was hallucinating, but could his mind really conjure up such an extraordinary goddess?

“If I didn’t have an important case at home, you’d never pull me away from her. I’ve got to meet this woman and get her number.” Marty combed his fingers through his hair, arched his shoulders back, put on a big smile, and casually strolled toward her.

When Dorje started after Marty, Ang Tharkay, the Sherpa in charge of assigning
mikarus
to the sirdars, intercepted him. “You will take the two ladies over there.”

Stunned, Dorje glowered at him. “They are not mine. Give them to a weak old man who deserves them, not me. I want the woman with hair the color of honey.”

“She and her partner already have a guide and porter. Besides, the office in Kathmandu promised you would take the ladies. You’re the only one I can trust to bring them back safely.”

Watching Marty take the woman’s hand to shake it the way
mikarus
do, Dorje yelled, “Get on the plane now.”

With a cocky stride, Marty returned holding a wad of rupees for a tip. He whispered, “Her name is Beth and she lives in Colorado just like me. By the time I come back next spring, she’ll be mine.”