Twenty-Five

The old Sherpa is uncomfortable. It’s understandable: he is, by far, the oldest member of the expedition and yet he is also not the most experienced. The boy to his right now stretching his legs knows the mountain much better, has participated in more ascents and, as if that weren’t enough, has already summited twice. If everything were going well, there wouldn’t be an issue. But in a crisis, which of them gets the last word? The mountaineer with the most training or the one who’s spent the most time on this Earth? Do a few more years in the Himalayas give the young Sherpa superior authority to settle a quandary? For now, the old Sherpa listens to his colleague’s suggestion.

‘Yes,’ he says and stands up. His left knee creaks.

And now that he is seeing him at the same altitude, his circulatory system readjusting its flow to correspond to this new posture of the body, his perception changes. There are no more professional misgivings, nor is there any sense of competition. All he sees is a promising, responsible young man: a partner, a good kid. To say that he loves him like a son would be preposterous. The old Sherpa knows not the mysteries of fatherhood. But he recognises underneath the balaclava an affinity, an affection, even some degree of commitment. A connection, yes, a bond that might broaden or deepen, or both.