Seventy

The young Sherpa has yet to fully define how to feel before the immobilised body of the Englishman. On the one hand, he does not feel even an iota of guilt. There is no way he can be blamed for this novice’s collapse. And yet, at some point deep down in his consciousness, almost inaccessible, he also perceives that manifesting an absolute indifference is also incorrect. Yet he feels no sadness, no dismay. He doesn’t even really know this tourist who lies there with his head pointing west. There is no emotional bond, there is no anxiety. His professionalism is beyond a shadow of a doubt. Astonishment would be improper here: it’s Everest; people fall all the time. So what? He doesn’t know. He can’t quite think.

If he were to ask the old Sherpa about all of this, the answer would be that in the face of other people’s misfortunes, the typical response is compassion. A dormant sentiment that contributes nothing other than a certain lukewarm identification with the person suffering. The zero degree of the gregarious spirit. Recognise one’s own limitations in the catastrophe of one’s neighbour and sympathise with the species. Another key word: commiseration. Another: pity. But none of these possibilities is considered by the young Sherpa. It is not that he puts them to one side: they don’t even occur to him. He has too pragmatic a temperament. And he’s young. He sits down again (he was previously standing), and again he indicates the precipice. Without looking at him, he asks the old Sherpa:

‘What if we go down?’

It’s a stupid idea. The young Sherpa knows it, the old Sherpa knows it, everyone knows it. An unnecessary risk. It would have been different if, instead of three, the expedition had had four members, or twelve, or fifteen, as usual. In the face of whatever reiteration of misfortune, there would still be two (or ten, or thirteen) men standing. One to stay, another to seek help. In any case, the old Sherpa doesn’t answer him right away. Not that he’s considering the possibility of attempting a rescue descent. That is absolutely not an option. He just takes a moment to think of the best way to tell his partner that his idea makes no sense. That’s why he delays several seconds, during which time the silence of the mountain recovers its protagonism. If the thunderous hum of hundreds of turbines from the underworld blowing icy air between the peaks of the Himalayas can be considered silence.

‘No,’ the old Sherpa finally responds. ‘Because if I stay here…’

‘True,’ interrupts the young Sherpa. ‘Better not.’