Twenty-One

‘Yes,’ answers the old Sherpa and looks down: the Englishman’s body is still there, still unmoving. How long has it been? How many minutes since the Englishman slipped, lost his balance, and, instead of obediently letting himself fall onto the ground, flapped his arms like a stork in heat, attempting to cling onto verticality until, lured in by the abyss, he fell three metres or seven metres or eleven metres onto a ledge. When did that happen? The old Sherpa estimates it was around ten minutes ago. He ought to have looked at his watch at the exact instant of the fall. But, in his confusion, time retreated to a supporting plane. Making this a solely spatial event, a Euclidian instant.

It’s good to be able to count on a physical manifold, as pogroms against otherness, against difference, are carried out in our vast silicon kingdom. The Sherpa gets up, his left knee protesting.