Authors: Linda Leblanc
Ready for her this time, Dorje announced, “I’m taking three Norwegians to Gokyo and over the Cho La to Everest Base Camp. You must find someone else.”
“But you’re the only Sherpa in Namche who speaks good English. I’m willing to pay very well.”
Using a foreigner’s most powerful weapon, money, she was tempting him with visions of enough rupees for an early
dem-chang
with Shanti. “How much?”
“Three times what they’re paying if I come along too.”
“That is too far, too difficult, too high for you, and they will not want a woman along.”
Arms folded firmly across her chest, she said, “Ask them.”
So that’s what
tenacity
meant. Dorje calculated the pay and decided it was enough for a grand
dem-chang
, one that would heap honor upon his father in the eyes of the villagers. For that reason alone, he would do it if the men agreed.
Royd peered around Dorje at Beth. “Hmmm, I wouldn’t mind having a body like that to keep me warm going over the pass.”
“You’re always looking to get laid” grunted Hamar. “But I don’t want her slowing us down. I came to see Everest and won’t take the risk.”
“He’s right,” added Kirk with the toothpick slowly traveling across his mouth as if it were a permanent appendage. “A woman would be a liability.”
“What does
liability
mean?” Dorje asked.
“That she won’t be able to keep up and will endanger our trip.”
“And the three of you live at what elevation?” Beth interjected without being invited.
“Sea level,” Hamar mumbled.
“Well, I come from Denver, a mile higher than you, and have climbed 20 Colorado peaks above 14,000 feet. So tell me who’s better suited for high altitude?” A pit bull had them by the pant leg and they couldn’t shake her off. Fifteen minutes later, all three threw their hands in the air and surrendered. She was going.
At least removing Beth from camp would allow Nima to resume his duties. The added promise of money for an early
dem-chang
should lighten Mingma’s mood. Feeling less anxious now as he climbed the stairs, Dorje still paused on the landing to clear his throat and shake his arms out. He wanted to be casual and loose upon entering. Dawa’s absence was a relief, but Droma Sunjo rarely left the house because of the goiter. Seated on the window bench, Mingma’s intonations droned as usual.
Easing into the conversation, Dorje said, “Father, Nima was simply weary and regrets neglecting the herd. It will not happen again.” Now the hard part—telling him of yet another absence. Approaching with drooped shoulders and bowed head, an unfamiliar bearing for him, Dorje continued, “It is auspicious that I marry soon. I spoke too quickly after hearing of the
södene
and regret my harsh words. I’m happy you chose Shanti and want to celebrate the
dem-chang
within a few months.”
Mingma stiffened on the seat. “I can’t afford it for at least two years.”
Arching his shoulders back and raising his proud head, Dorje said, “But I can. In two weeks I will earn enough for a grand party that will bring honor to our family.”
“And what will you do to get this great fortune?”
Shifting his weight to the other foot, he avoided eye contact. “Take three Norwegians to Gokyo and over the Cho La to Everest Base Camp.”
Mingma rose and slowly circled Dorje, studying his face. “You’ve done that before for less money. What else?”
“I will also be a translator,” Dorje answered, trying to maintain a steady voice.
“For who?” Mingma was directly in front of him now with those dark eyes that tethered him as if he were a wayward yak.
Trying to quickly come up with another story, his brain failed him. “An American writing about Sherpas who will pay three times what the Norwegians do to come along.”
“Toe ye!” his father yelled and spit at Dorje’s feet. “This American is even more reckless with money than the rest of them . . . to pay for words from a boy who knows nothing and has abandoned his beliefs.” Mingma poured a cup of
chang
from the barrel on the far wall. “I will accept none of their rupees.” He touched the beer with his sacred ring finger and sprinkled upwards three times repeating, “
Che che
,” as an offering to the gods before taking his first drink of the day. Without another word, he simply exited the room and left Dorje reeling inside.
Peeling potatoes at the hearth, Droma Sunjo whispered, “Control your anger and give him time. He’s a proud man.”
Proud of what?
Dorje felt like asking but didn’t want to open the way for words that might temper his indignation. Instead he focused on Droma Sunjo, pitying her isolation and loneliness. Remembering the red scarf from the bundle of clothes the old ladies had given him, Dorje carefully removed it from his pocket and draped it around her neck. “This is for you.”
She closed her eyes, fingers trembling as she touched it.
“It’s beautiful on you.” A tiny smile stole across her face. He liked the way her mouth turned up, creating little tucks in her cheeks, and the way her eyes wrinkled at the corners. “You look pretty when you smile.”
Giggling, she covered her mouth and peered at him over her hand. He figured no one had said that to her in a long while, if ever. Indeed, she did look pretty.
Droma Sunjo quietly slid a steaming cup of tea across the floor to him. Holding it, he warmed his fingers as he walked to the window. His resentment still simmering from the day he and Nima were forced to leave Namche 14 years ago, Dorje understood conflict with Mingma but not with his brother. They had never suffered a rift. Dorje had always taken care of Nima and his brother looked up to him. Making him cry yesterday was unforgivable and must be resolved.
Climbing to the meadow and finding the animals scattered over the hillside again disappointed him. “Nima,” he yelled. No answer. Dorje scrambled over rocks to bring those on the fringe closer to the herd before leaving to search for his errant brother.
Taking the stairs two at a time at Pemba’s, he asked out of breath, “Have you seen Nima?”
“He was here, looking for her and angry at you. I’ve never seen your brother so upset.” Pemba cleared the tourist table and set the cups behind a counter displaying beer and candy for sale. “Never thought anything could come between the two of you until she arrived.”
“I don’t need a lecture. Just tell me where he went.”
“Don’t know, but I suggest you find him soon.”
If not on the mountain, where would he go? Surely, his brother wasn’t foolish enough to return to the Solu or go to Kathmandu. Roaming through the village, Dorje finally ran into Nima coming out of the shop that sold used expedition gear with a sleeping bag draped over his shoulders and a thick pad under his arm. “What are you doing?” Dorje asked.
“Helping Beth get ready for her trip to Gokyo. I want to go too.”
Having come to mend their hurt, Dorje wasn’t prepared for this and knew he was reacting too quickly but couldn’t stop the words. “Don’t even think about it. You’re staying here to help father.”
“Not this time. You do it.”
When Beth exited the shop, Dorje shouted, “What have you been telling him?”
“Only that I’m going to Gokyo. He wouldn’t understand much more.”
“Does he know you’re going with me?”
“No.”
“And why does he think he can accompany you?”
Agitation creeping into her voice, Beth answered, “I have no idea. Don’t blame me for everything. Nima found me and I let him come along like a little brother.”
Dorje was still mad at her for teasing him with her eyes and smiles but would not tolerate her toying with his brother’s heart. “Can’t you see he doesn’t feel like your little brother? I told you to stay away from him.”
“I’ve done nothing but make friends with a young Sherpa. Why don’t you look at what your anger’s doing to him.”
The sweet, freckled face that had always adored and depended on Dorje now stared at him through glacier-cold eyes. Afraid of losing the one constant in his life, Dorje tried putting his arm around his brother’s shoulder the way he did when walking together, but Nima recoiled. With the same icy stare, he asked, “What are you arguing about?”
With Nima in such an emotional state, Dorje didn’t want to admit he was accompanying Beth so he lied knowing it was a sin he must atone for later. “I told her you want to go too, but she said it wouldn’t work. She’s traveling with three Norwegians. After Gokyo, they’re going over the Cho La to the Everest Base Camp and will be gone too long. Father needs you here.”
“So why can you walk away any time you please and I have to stay?”
Closing his eyes, Dorje let out a long, quavering breath and admitted a painful truth. “Because he already resents me, and I don’t want him to turn against you too.”
“You lie,” Nima yelled, wrestling the sleeping bag off his shoulder and throwing it to the ground. His eyes brimming with tears, he glanced at Beth once more before running away.
“Don’t, Nima,” Dorje cried after him, feeling as though his insides had just been ripped out, but his brother never looked back. Dorje was bleeding and needed someone to blame. He turned on Beth ready to accuse her of being the most vile witch.
Her compassionate eyes and gentle voice diffused his anger once again. “I’m sorry if I’m the cause of all this. I really didn’t understand but can see now how selfish I’ve been. I didn’t have much fun growing up, and with Nima I felt like a child again. We were just two kids playing.”
Remembering Pemba’s warnings, Dorje didn’t trust her words or the uneasiness he was experiencing standing this close to her. Needing to untangle the bits and pieces of emotion tied up inside so he could understand what he was feeling, he said, simply, “We leave after breakfast tomorrow. I will send a porter for your things.”
Not having the courage to go home that night and face the brother who had twice run away in tears, Dorje hoped time would take care of things. With Pemba’s lodge out of the question because of Beth, he threw his sleeping bag on the floor of the dining tent next to snoring porters. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t have slept anyway, thinking about how he and Nima had always lain shoulder to shoulder and rump to rump, feeling the connection all the way down their bodies and keeping each other warm. Through everything, they had been inseparable, jumping and laughing, running barefoot along dirt paths. When their mother and her new husband, Kushang, took them to the Solu, three year-old Nima was scared and crying. From that moment, Dorje vowed he would always care for his younger brother. He gave him piggyback rides, played in the stream, and made up stories about a yak and mouse that were friends. And in the afternoon, he gathered leaves to make a soft place for Nima to nap while he squatted, elbows on his knees, chin in hands, watching and waiting for their father to come.
Dorje flipped to his other side and pulled the bag over his head to drown out what had mushroomed into a cacophony of lip-smacking snorts and wheezes. Maybe he never should have brought Nima home to the Khumbu. He was too innocent to resist the temptations of the outside world. Dorje laughed at himself. Maybe he shouldn’t have come either, but there had been no other choice. It was here or Kathmandu and he’d heard too many stories of villagers moving to the capital with visions of great opulence and fortune only to end up starving on the streets. As a small boy, he had sensed there was something special inside him that couldn’t thrive in the Solu. Lying on the tent floor, Dorje remembered what had finally driven him away.
After an oppressive heat that had hung over the village for months, his mother and stepfather had rejoiced when the first big of drops of rain struck the ground and flattened into thin sheets of water pouring into every crack of the dry crust. Within a few days, the brown earth was transformed into softly waving fields of green. Later that week, the sky which had been a rich blue softly streaked by veins of mist all morning grew heavy with an ominous feel. Thick clouds scudded along the horizon, and suddenly lighting flicked its jagged tongue turning the backsides a pale gray. Then the torrent unleashed itself. Dorje, Nima, their mother, and her husband watched the land on which they had toiled all summer quickly turn to a quagmire of crops drowning in a sea of mud. Since their only hope was to save precious topsoil, they frantically created damns. But water cascaded over a hundred murky waterfalls causing the village terraces to lose their topsoil to the Hongu Khola that would ultimately carry it to India. Helplessly, Dorje stood watching months of backbreaking labor roll over his feet, ankle deep. There would be no fall harvest.
His mother picked up a tender rice shoot that hung lifeless across her finger. A rain swell struck her hand and washed the shoot away. “Must you take that too?” Dorje watched her trying to swallow the tears in her throat, but she couldn’t contain the exhaustion and despair any longer. She began to sob, her shoulders heaving and falling with each gasp. Realizing he hadn’t seen Nima for a while, Dorje found his little brother collapsed below a terrace with mud pouring over his face and his thin body shivering with cold. He lifted his brother in his arms and slowly slogged back to the house.