The Mountain Shadow

The dog scratched and pawed at the edge of the dream, trying to claw me back to that place, that sacred space.

‘Davis!’

I opened my eyes. There was a blanket over me. I was still sitting where I’d slept, but Ankit had put a pillow behind my head, and a blanket over my chest. My hand was in my jacket pocket, holding the small automatic. A deep breath told me that the golden vest was still in place.

Okay.

There was a stranger stooping over me.

Not okay.

‘Back off, friend.’

‘Sure, sure,’ the man said, straightening up and offering his hand. ‘I’m Horst.’

‘Do you often wake people up to meet them, Horst?’

He laughed. It was loud. Too loud.

‘Okay, Horst, do me a favour. Don’t laugh like that again, until I’ve had two coffees.’

He laughed again. A lot.

‘You’re kind of a slow learner, aren’t you?’

He laughed again. Then he offered me a cup of hot coffee.

It was excellent. You can’t dislike someone who brings you good, strong coffee, when you’ve been thirty-minute drunk only four hours before.

I looked up at him.

His eyes were sun-bleached blue. His head seemed unnaturally large, to me. I thought that Ankit’s coconut lime drinks were to blame until I stood, and saw that he had an unnaturally large head.

‘That’s a big head you’ve got on you,’ I said, as I shook hands with him. ‘Ever played rugby?’

‘No,’ he laughed. ‘You can’t imagine how hard it is to find a hat that fits.’

‘No,’ I agreed. ‘I can’t. Thanks for the coffee.’

I started to walk away. It was still in the half-light. I wanted to beat the dawn to my bedroom, and sleep a little more.

‘But you have to report, at the checkpoint,’ he said. ‘And believe me, it’s much safer for us just after dawn, than at any other time, ja.’

I was still wearing the flak vest marked PRESS. He was inviting me, as a fellow journalist. If I had to do it, it was better in company. Sleep no more.

‘Who are you with?’ I asked.

‘Der Spiegel,’ he replied. ‘Well, I’m freelancing for them. And you?’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Long enough to know the safest time to report to the checkpoint.’

‘Do I have time to wash up?’

‘Make it quick.’

I ran upstairs to my room, stripped off, had a cold shower, and was dried and re-vested in six minutes.

I came down the stairs in a jog, but found the lounge area empty. The windows of dawn light were at exactly the same intensity as the lights in the room: a light without shadows.

A soft, scraping sound stirred the stillness. Gardeners were working already.

I walked through to the long, wide veranda, directly above the open wound of lawns surrounding the hotel: a wound that the jungle ceaselessly sought to heal.

Seven servants were hard at work, hacking, chopping and spraying herbicide on the perimeter: the urban front line in the war with nature.

I watched them for a while, waiting for Horst. I could hear the jungle, speaking the wind.

Give us twenty-five years. Leave this place. Come back, after twenty-five years. You’ll see. We’ll heal it of all this pain.

‘I’d like to have a few of those fellows working for me,’ Horst said, as he came to stand beside me. ‘My girlfriend has a place in Normandy. It’s lovely, and all that, but it’s a lot of work. A couple of these guys would fix it up in no time.’

‘They’re Tamils,’ I said, watching them drift across lawns lit by hovering dew. ‘Tamils are like the Irish. They’re everywhere. You’ll find hard-working Tamils in Normandy, if you look hard enough.’

‘How do you know they’re Tamils?’ Horst asked suspiciously.

I turned to face him. I wanted another coffee.

‘They’re doing the dirty work,’ I said.

‘Oh, yeah, yeah,’ he laughed.

It wasn’t funny. I wasn’t laughing. He pinched his laugh to a frown.

‘Which agency did you say you’re with?’

‘I didn’t say.’

‘You’re a real secretive guy, aren’t you?’

‘The shooting is wallpaper. The real war is always between us, the journalists.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Horst asked nervously. ‘I just asked you who you’re with, that’s all.’

‘See, if I make friends with you, and I break a story, and then I find out you stole it from me, I’d have to hunt you down and beat you up. And that’s not good.’

He squinted at me. His eyes flared.

‘Reuters!’ he said. ‘Only you Reuters pricks are so stingy with a story.’

I wanted another coffee. Ankit appeared at my elbow. He was carrying a small glass of something.

‘I thought that a fortification might be required, sir, if you will forgive the impertinence,’ Ankit said. ‘The road you walk this morning is not kind.’

I drank the glass, discovering that it was sherry, and damn good.

‘Ankit,’ I said, ‘we just got related.’

‘Very good, sir,’ Ankit replied equably.

‘You there,’ Horst said to Ankit. ‘Can you find out, please, if any of these fellows have work permits for outside of Sri Lanka?’

I held Ankit’s response with a raised hand.

‘Are we gonna get going, Horst, before the bears wake up?’