Three

The other Sherpa first trod the slopes of Everest five weeks after he turned thirty-three. He had arrived in Nepal six years before. With well-toned muscles but no advanced knowledge of mountaineering. Some previous experience, yes, but disjointed, lacking structure or specific training. Since his baptism as a Sherpa, he’s attempted to reach the summit four times. On none of those occasions has he made it to the top. Not necessarily through any fault of his own, or not always. But this recurring deferral explains to some extent why his next gesture goes a little further: beyond doubt and into irritation. Tourists… thinks the old Sherpa, who isn’t old or, properly speaking, a Sherpa. They always manage to do something, these people – these tourists, he thinks. Then says. With an ambiguous gesture, he indicates the void, the ledge where the body of an Englishman lies prone and immobile, and he says:

‘These people…’

And so he breaks the silence. If the deafening noise of the wind ravelling over the ridges of the Himalayas can be considered silence.