Adam's Peak (48 page)

The bluish haze and quiet expectation of the near-dawn gave the place an otherworldliness. Whether it was Shiva's or Buddha's or Adam's, the compound had a presence, which Rudy confronted with a sharp sense that he himself was crass and out of place. Legs plodding, feet chafing and sliding in his boots, he made his way to the enclosure that housed the footprint. The stone slab was barely discernible in its gloomy shelter, though the flower petals and coins strewn across it reflected speckles of light drawn from somewhere. He rubbed his arms and thought of Robinson Crusoe—spotting Friday's footmark in the sand, being blown away by the discovery that he was not alone on his island. Then he carried on to the stone wall over which the bell hung.

Where the day before he'd seen nothing but thick masses of cloud, he was now able to make out the broad contours of the hilly landscape that extended from the base of the peak. The sunrise would be spectacular—like the fated climax of some exotic quest-romance, Rudy thought. Only he didn't feel like much of a quest hero. More a tourist than anything. He rested his forearms on the wall and squinted into the murky distance. Then he looked back at the shed. According to his grandfather's diary, Uncle Ernie had missed the sunrise at least once as a young man. Surely he'd want to see it now. And so, from a sense of duty more than from any desire to share the spectacle, he hurried back across the compound.

Outside the shed door, he coughed loudly, but when he peered inside, he found the old man still asleep.

“Uncle,” he said, “the sun's coming up.”

Uncle Ernie was lying on his side, facing the wall. “What's that?” he mumbled.

“The sunrise. The sky's cleared up quite a bit. It should be good.”

“Alec?”

Rudy held his breath. Was it merely a slip-up, the kind that Aunty used to make all the time? Or was his uncle away in some unreachable place?

“It's Rudy.”

Uncle Ernie stirred but remained on his side. “Let me sleep, then we'll go,” he said, like a parent to a young child.

Rudy listened to the steady rhythm of his uncle's breathing. He studied the curled-up position, in which he himself had lasted no more than a few minutes.

“Where are we going?” he whispered.

Uncle Ernie grunted. “Nuwara Eliya.”

“Okay.”

He closed the door softly and stood outside the shed, scuffing his shoe into the pebbly dirt. Then he returned to his lookout.

Already the compound was losing its otherworldliness. Within minutes, in stark daylight, it would be an ordinary place, its surfaces marred by cracks and grime. Beyond the peak, however, the landscape was emerging from the darkness. Rudy leaned over the wall and witnessed the transformation: the symphonic eruption of chlorophyll greens, the sudden brilliance of streams and lakes and crystal waterfalls, the bold rising of the peak's own shadow, whose black form accented the surrounding radiance. The light was pure, and thin patches of mist hovered here and there, as if the wizard who'd zapped this miracle into existence had only just vanished with a poof. Rudy marvelled at his luck. The scene was far more beautiful than he'd expected, more magnificent than his grandfather or James Emerson Tennent had managed to convey—an Eden.

He looked about for a place to sit. Eyeing the chest-high wall, he thought of his brother. He knew what Adam would do. A young man with no qualms about climbing on the roof to hang Christmas lights or riding his motorcycle in spring slush wouldn't think twice.
What are you waiting for?
he would say if he were here.
Get up there!
Rudy peered over the edge. A fall would hurt him, but it wouldn't kill him. He took his journal from his knapsack and rested it on top of the wall. Then, with his pen braced between his teeth, he planted his hands, hoisted himself up, and manoeuvred his legs to the other side. The procedure was clumsy and painful, and for an instant, hanging headfirst over the menacing drop, he saw his sister teetering on the edge of Aunty's well. But he got himself up.

Heart still racing, he took in the splendour and again imagined himself at the climax of a quest, on the verge of an epiphany. For if such a thing were possible, then surely this was the place and the
moment for it to occur. Yet as he watched and waited, the scene, by imperceptible degrees, became familiar. It became the assortment of trees and lakes and rocks that happened to be in front of him. Like the compound that housed the footprint, his Eden lost its power, and he was left perched on a stone wall, looking out at a tropical hillscape, all his uncertainties still intact. He opened his diary to a back page and wrote “Dear Dad.”

Balancing the book on his lap, he wrote about the weather in Montreal, and the garden, and even mentioned Uncle Ernie and Sri Pada before his ideas, and his will, dried up. He tapped his pen a few times then turned to a new page and wrote “Dear Adam.” He'd learned somewhere, or perhaps just imagined, that brain injury victims could benefit from being read to. It made sense. But there was so much to say to Adam that he got nowhere. He turned back to his unfinished entry to Clare. It ended with “I wish,” but he couldn't remember how he'd intended to complete the sentence.

“What the hell do I wish?” he muttered to the valley beneath him.

Peevishly he flipped through previous entries, snapping the pages, catching fragments of ideas and hints of old moods. Words whispered to an audience miles away. But to what purpose? Eyes fixed on the green hillscape, he took a thick wad of wordy pages in his hand. Slowly, raggedly, he tore them from the book. He wasn't convinced it was the thing to do; it wasn't an epiphany. He ruffled through the torn entries once more, noticing only the pen strokes and blots of ballpoint ink and the regular repetition of a woman's name. Then he flung the pages down the slope of the peak. Some got caught in the shrubs right below him; others dropped out of sight. He tore more pages and flung them away, until all that remained were the empty ones at the back. He felt sheepish about the mess, but not terribly so. The loss of his letters would take time to assess.

Overhead, clouds had begun to gather. Most of them were white; the more distant ones were thick and grey. Anchoring himself with one hand, he looked over his shoulder toward the gatekeeper's shed. His uncle had missed the best of the show, again. Turning back, he dated a fresh page.

Dear Susie,

It's been ages since I've written. Sorry. I heard the news about you and Mark, and I'm sorry about that too. I don't know what you'll think of this idea (feel free to turn me down), but I thought I'd run it by you anyway. I'm thinking of going back to Toronto after this term is over, and I'm wondering if you and Zoë would mind having me as a roommate (a paying one, of course). I could find a place of my own, but I was thinking that we could maybe help each other out by living together for a while. I could take on the cooking and the cleaning, and I'd be happy to look after Zoë while you go out, if she's comfortable with that. You can't have had much time to yourself, or with friends, these past few months. As for me, I'm still not altogether sure what I want to be doing with my life.

He paused here and reread the last sentence. The words suggested that his life hadn't yet started, that it wouldn't begin in earnest or have any meaning until he'd streamlined it into a governing design. That his year in Colombo had been a waste, a botched design. He reconsidered his proposal to Susie. He had no intention of living with his sister forever. Was he simply staving off commitment to the elusive something he was meant to be doing with his life? He stared at a meandering stream far below him and tapped his pen.

As for me
, he imagined writing,
I'm at the top of Adam's Peak with Uncle Ernie, who doesn't seem too bothered that he and Dad haven't seen each other in decades, and who thinks that the Tamils should have their own homeland ... and I haven't forgotten the look on your face when I pulled you down from the edge of Aunty's well ... or how you taught me to read, that awful week we spent at the Pereiras
' ... Just So Stories
or something like that ... and maybe I just want to pull you down again, feel like a hero again ... I don't know, but you're my sister, goddammit, and I think that having me around could be good for you and Zoë, and maybe for Dad and Adam too, but even though I want to help them, I just can't do it the right way ... or maybe I just don't want to
.

It was complicated. He left the sentence as it was and carried on writing.

Right now, though, I'd really like to help you out if I can. I'll go back to work in the dreaded 'burbs (and hope for something more central, eventually). I don't know if I'll be able to get a full-time gig for September, but I'm sure the board will take me back as a sub. I'll give you some time to

“Rudy!”

At the sound of his uncle's voice, Rudy closed his flimsy diary.

“Morning, Uncle. You missed the sunrise.”

Uncle Ernie shot a look over the wall then leaned back against it and fished for his pipe.

“To be honest, I always found it overrated. Not as interesting as all the goings-on on this side—during the season, that is. Pretty to look at, though.” He pointed with his pipe. “How's your hip?”

“Stiff, but I'll make it.” He glanced down at his uncle's bare feet. “Was the gatekeeper around when you got up?”

“I didn't see him, but I imagine so.” Uncle Ernie unzipped his tobacco pouch and set about filling the pipe. “If we're efficient, we should stay ahead of those rain clouds over there.”

Taking the hint, Rudy manoeuvred his legs to the other side of the wall and slid to the ground.

“There's some fruit on the table,” Uncle Ernie said. “I've had my fill; you're welcome to the rest.”

Rudy put his diary in his knapsack. He stepped out of his boots and wound the laces around his hand, then he hobbled across the cold, damp cement on the outsides of his feet. Back in the shed, he found that his uncle had eaten only one banana and left the rest for him. He picked up a rambutan and briefly admired its extravagant design before piercing the spiny skin with his thumbnail.

S
HE WAS AT ONE OF THE
airport book shops, flipping through an issue of
Marie Claire
, when she spotted Rudy Vantwest. He was in a coffee shop, sitting at a high, round table and writing. At first, it seemed to her a miracle that he should be there, an astonishing coincidence, and she stared, delighted and amazed, as each slight shift in his position confirmed that it was indeed him, made him more
him
, even. What were the chances? In a couple of hours she would be boarding a flight to his homeland, a trip that, for now, was embodied in a flimsy paper ticket and a gate number. And now here he was, across the concourse, scratching his head and squinting into the distance, perhaps at the massive, flashing departures board hanging from the ceiling. Chance meetings do happen, she told herself. There was the time she and Markus went to the symphony, and the woman in the seat next to Markus's turned out to be his grade two teacher. “You always had such a tidy desk,” the woman said, as if to confirm that she still knew him, had known all along what he would be. But this particular meeting was more striking than Markus's, for the Vantwests had been on her mind. She'd thought about Rudy Vantwest as recently as half an hour ago, when she checked in for the Colombo flight, so that
to have him right in front of her now was extraordinary—more extraordinary, surely, than the presence of any of the other people at the coffee shop, or the duty-free store, or walking up and down the gleaming concourse, trailing suitcases and children. Emma once said that airports were otherworldly, detached from place and time. They were exciting, she said, for you never knew who you might meet by chance. And it was true.

But then it occurred to her that the meeting might be fate. Not the nasty, vengeful fate that Alec Vantwest believed in, nor the fate to which Isobel deferred when she insisted that things happen for the best. No, the fate that had put Rudy Vantwest in that particular Heathrow coffee shop was, if it existed, a sort of inexorable energy that organized circumstances a certain way—not for the best, or for the worst, but simply in ways that made sense. Over the past few months, the Vantwests had woven themselves through her life, and she, perhaps, had woven herself into theirs. It was a pattern that had worked itself out, beginning with the evening she returned from Vancouver—maybe even earlier—such that now it was perfectly logical that she should find herself in exactly the same place as Rudy Vantwest. It was the energy, the momentum, of the pattern. They were meant to be there together.

She watched him write—a diary, it seemed, though it was hard to tell. Perhaps a letter. He was a little oddly dressed. Nobody wore shirts like that anymore, and the shorts reminded her of the ones he'd been wearing the day he stood on his front lawn, scrawny-legged, carrying two miniature suitcases. Still, he had pleasing qualities: the way he twirled his pen then held it in his mouth like a pipe, the curve of his calf muscle (no longer scrawny) as his foot perched on one of the crossbars of the stool, the tidiness of his hair and the strong line of his jaw. If he were indeed writing a letter, it was possible he had a partner, but Clare dismissed the possibility. She pinched the Celtic cross at the base of her throat—a souvenir from Stanwick—and slid it back and forth along its chain.