Текст книги "Gia Tortladze Stories"

Автор книги: Gia Otari Tortladze

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“You don’t sound very content with your job,” the stranger said.

Antonio looked at him in amazement. He muttered something in return and headed to the exit.

“My name is Caesaro De Stephanie,” the stranger said. “You can find me here, in case you need a help.”

Antonio nodded and left. That night he dreamt of the workshop, his machine tool, and the Magliano crockery again. He woke up very early next day. He washed his face and hands, had his breakfast, and went to the port.

“Where were you yesterday?” the chief docker asked him as soon as he saw him. “Today we are expecting a fishing boat, so we’ll have to work till late in the evening.”

Antonio imagined the wet sacks full of the stinking fish. He put his gnarled hands into his pockets, showed his back to the chief docker and went home. On his way home, he was thinking about the stranger: “Caesaro De Stephanie... How can he help me, I wonder?’ He was well-dressed, with good manners... No, I cannot go back to the port,” Antonio decided.

He didn’t go home; he went straight to the restaurant. The hall was practically empty. He gave a rapid glance to it and didn’t see the stranger there.

“Where can I find Caesaro Die Stephanie?” he asked the waiter.

“He is sitting on the verandah, as always,” answered the waiter. Antonio looked in the direction of verandah and noticed a man sitting there. So he went up to him, said hello, and asked very politely if he could sit at his table.

The stranger smiled at him, drew up the chair, pointed at it, and offered Antonio an expensive cigarette. Antonio took one cigarette and gave the package back to the man.

“Leave it to you, you’ll need it,” the stranger said with a smile.

“Thank you,” Antonio murmured and sat down.

“Can I do anything for you?” the stranger inquired.

“I’ve been living here for a year already and I’m working as a docker. But I am not able to work there any more. I can’t get used to it. I’d rather die from hunger than go back to my work,” Antonio said and kept silent for a while. Then he inhaled and went on:

“Would you please help me to find some other job? I would agree to do any job but mine.”

“Would you go back to the port?” the stranger asked. Antonio looked at him in amazement.

“So you wouldn’t agree to do anything,” the stranger giggled.

“That was what I told you, I would do anything but...”

“It was a joke,” he stranger interrupted him laughing aloud. “I’ll find something for you. Where do you live?”

“Near here, in the next quarter,” Antonio answered pointing his finger to the neighborhood.

“Okay. Let’s meet here in two days. Take this till then,” the stranger said giving him some money.

“No, no! I’m not asking you for money, I...”

“Take it. It isn’t a charity, it’s a loan. You’ll pay me back later,” the stranger admitted and put the money into Antonio’s pocket almost by force.

“Thank you ever so much,” Antonio muttered in a broken voice.

“Two days. Don’t forget!” the stranger said and stood up. I’ll meet you here in two days.”

Antonio was sitting at table extremely amazed. Then he ordered grappa, drank it, and went out of the restaurant. He found his landlord, paid him the rent, packed his luggage in a small bag and left. He went straight to the store to buy some clothes. The shop-assistants were surprised to watch him choosing his clothes with a great care. He asked them to wrap it all well, took a taxi and went to the hotel “Volturno”.

Almost nothing had changed there during the previous year. Only the hall was decorated with new flowers. He took the best apartment in the penthouse from where he could get an excellent view of the whole city. He sat into the armchair of his spacious balcony, turning his back to the port the only sight of which got on his nerves. “How could I stand it all for such a long time?” he thought and lit a cigarette. He sat enjoying himself for quite a long time. Then he got up, took off his clothes, wrapped them into a paper, made a small parcel and put it in the corridor, by his door. Then he went into the bathroom and took a bath. He lay in the foamy tub for a long time, and nearly fell asleep. Then he dried himself well with a nice towel, went back into the master room, lay on his huge bed, and fell fast asleep. In his sleep he dreamt of Katanzaro again. He dreamt of the stunningly beautiful crockery, stamped with the Magliano brand label, and Francesco holding the stamp in his hands.

In the evening he had his supper at the restaurant. He didn’t feel at ease in his new clothes, he felt rather awkward. So he returned to his apartment, sat comfortably into his armchair, put his legs up on a low table, and smoked his cigarette.

***

Two days later, in the afternoon, Antonio went to the appointment. Caesaro De Stephanie was sitting on the verandah, smoking an expensive cigarette. Antonio came up to him and greeted him. Caesaro nodded an absent hello and only after that he recognized the young man. He scrutinized him with a smile.

“It seems, you have a good taste,” he said. ”I could hardly recognize you.”

“Thank you,” Antonio replied and took a seat.

“I have spoken to several people about you, but nothing proper has turned up yet. What did you do in Katanzaro before you came here?”

“I was a potter, but I’ll never again take up this job.”

“Really? I could never think you were a potter.”

“It doesn’t matter now. I’m ready to do any odd job.”

“Any?” Caesaro smiled strangely. “Okay. I will need several more days, or rather a week.”

“A week?” Antonio was disappointed.

“Don’t worry. I’ll help you until something descent turns up. This will be enough, I think. You will pay back your debt later,” Caesaro added putting a roll of a considerable sum of money on the table. “Where are you staying now?”

“In Valturno,” Antonio answered in a harsh voice.

“Great. Stay where you are, I’ll visit you there in a week myself.” With these words Caesaro stood up, patted Antonio on his shoulder, and hastily left the restaurant.

Antonio looked at the money. “I couldn’t have earned this amount at the port even for three months’ work. What sort of a job is he going to offer me, I wonder?”

He put the money into the inner pocket of his jacket.

***

Some light music was playing in the foyer of the hotel. Antonio was sitting in an armchair, reading a newspaper, smoking a cigar and sipping some red wine when he heard a familiar voice from behind.

“Good evening, my friend.”

Antonio turned round and stood up. There was Caesaro standing there with a broad smile on his face.

“Please don’t get up,” he said and sat down into another armchair. “I’ve got good news for you. Now it’s up to you to decide. We’d better go upstairs and have a quiet talk there.

Antonio agreed.

Several minutes later the two were sitting on Antonio’s balcony. Caesaro was not in a hurry. He took out his cigarette and started to smoke. The smile had disappeared from his face which now looked inflexible.

“I’ve spoken to my friends about you. They are suggesting you a very serious business. You’ll be paid well. You will be able to pay me back and keep quite a considerable sum for yourself. If you do your job well, you’ll have a lot of orders.”

“I... I can’t go back to my craft, you know,” Antonio muttered. Caesaro gave him an evil giggle.

“Do you think anyone is going to pay you well for mixing clay?! I’m talking about something quite different.”

“Okay, okay! What shall I do?”

“Now listen to me very attentively and mind, if you can’t do your job properly, they’ll send us both to hell!”

“Yes, but... You haven’t told me yet what you want, and you are already threatening me...”

“You can refuse, of course. But in such a case, you’ll have to return your debt immediately.”

“It would be much better to tell me directly what I am expected to do.”

Caesaro took a big photo out of his pocket and put it on the table, in front of Antonio.

“Who’s this?” Antonio asked in a low voice.

“It doesn’t matter. The name and the address are written here. Read them, remember them and burn the photo. You’ll be given the gun tomorrow. I think everything is clear to you. You should do it within a week’s time.”

“We haven’t agreed on such a thing!” Antonio’s mouth went too dry to say more.

“You’ve assured me several times that you were ready to take up any business. But there is no use discussing the matter now. If you refuse, you’ll have to pay your debt right now.”

“I need some time. I’ll pay you back the whole sum.”

“Don’t interrupt me. There is another detail to be taken into consideration – you know everything about the target now. Do you think they will let you go alive? You are the witness! They will hire another killer and merely give him two orders.”

Antonio felt desperate. Everything mixed up in his head. The fragments of Katanzaro, his workshop, his father’s face, his crockery, the Magliano brand label, Naples, the docks and the stranger – everything speeded in front of his feverish eyes.

“Don’t you dare to think about going to police! Your time is up. They’ll visit you on my behalf tomorrow and bring you the gun. They’ll give you the instructions. It’s not so hard, believe me.

Caesaro stood up and, before Antonio could answer anything, left his apartment.

***

Antonio woke up early next morning. He went to the restaurant. The restaurant was closed. So he sat in the hall and waited. He drank three glasses of grappa and thought nobody was going to visit him. He checked the time. It was already nine. He bought a bottle of grappa and went back to his apartment. It was raining outside. So he didn’t go out onto the verandah. He drank some more wine but stayed sober. He lay on his bed. The time went on very slowly. It was about eleven when there came a knock at the door. He got up reluctantly and shuffled to the door. He opened the door and saw a tall, thin, elderly man. The man entered the room not even greeting him. He shut the door behind him calmly, and told Antonio:

“Sit down, we are short of time.”

Antonio sat on his bed.

“Now listen to me very attentively. I am from Caesaro. You know everything about the target. It’s better to shoot at him near his house. It’s in a peaceful street. Don’t go there in the morning; evening is better. People are already tired, you know. Some are even drunk. Throw away the gun immediately. Don’t wear the clothes you’ll be wearing at that moment either after or before you do your job. Put on a cap of a smaller size than usual. Take it off and throw it into the litter bin. Shoot at him twice, and when he falls down, shoot a control shot at his head. It’ll be enough. Then go away quietly, don’t run. In fifty meters from his house there is a narrow street. Study your route well in advance. From that street you must turn to the central one and take a taxi. Don’t get out of the car at the hotel; get out about three hundred meters away. Don’t leave the hotel that day. You should not go out for several days more. Stay here and wait till Caesaro visits you. And mind, you should stay sober! Have you ever shot a gun?”

“Only a rifle.”

“Take it,” the man handed him a revolver. “Unload it and practice shooting. Your hand should not tremble.”

Antonio took the revolver with a trembling hand.

“How do I unload it?”

The man took the gun and took six bullets out of it very swiftly.

“I can’t do it!” Antonio muttered.

“It’s your problem,” answered the man. I also advise you not to shoot at him right away. You just pass him by the very first day and come back to the hotel. It’s better that way. And yes, Caesaro sent it to you,” he added and threw a pack of money on the table. Having done so, he disappeared behind the door.

***

Six years passed. Antonio fulfilled fourteen orders in Rome, Pescara, Campobasso, Poja, and the majority in Naples. He frequently changed the hotels. For some time now he was staying at the “Fernandina”. He was too nervous before each order and full of regret afterwards. He couldn’t get used to his “job”. He dealt only with Caesaro and never met those who made the orders. Neither did they know Antonio in person. He never took interest in his victims. It was much easier that way. He was never short of money; on the contrary – they paid him more than enough. But he sometimes still missed Catanzaro, his family, and the Magliano brand label. He was free of the old insult and didn’t care who put the stamp on the crockery. All these turned into the sweet memories now, and he felt a bit nostalgic.

He met Caesaro rather rarely now, and their meetings were brief and businesslike. He led a solitary life. They knew him by name in a few restaurants where nobody ever asked how he got his money and simply treated him as a businessman. One day, on coming back from a walk, he met Caesaro.

‘I’ve been waiting for you,” Caesaro said. ‘I’ve got a serious matter to discuss with you.”

Antonio was familiar with such offers, so he answered in a low voice:

“Let’s go upstairs, to my room.”

“No. You’d better come to my place at nine in the evening. I’ll explain everything clearly to you there.”

“Okay,” Antonio answered and they parted.

***

It was nine sharp when Antonio knocked at Caesaro’s door. Caesaro opened the door himself and showed Antonio into the room. There was a stranger in the room, and Antonio got startled. They had never talked in anybody’s presence. Before he asked anything, Caesaro began to speak:

“Meet my friend, Alberto. Be sure, he’s the same as me.”

Antonio took his sit. He seemed a bit gloomy.

“Listen to Alberto. He will explain everything to you.”

“You will have to go to the south,” began the stranger, “to Catanzaro.”

Antonio was taken aback. He looked at Caesaro.

“You know I will never go there, don’t you?”

“It isn’t negotiable, it’s already decided,” Alberto interrupted him. “You’ll go there and find the man.” He took a photo out of his pocket and put it on the table. We don’t know his address, we only know his name. Caesaro told me that you know the town well.

Antonio glanced at the photo indifferently, but his blood curdled instantly – Francesco Magliano was smiling at him from the photo.

“Who ordered him?” he asked half whispering.

“None of your business,” Alberto answered. “You’ll do what you have to, and you will be paid well.”

“Whose order is it?” Antonio insisted. Alberto looked at Caesaro, then back at Antonio.

“Does it really matter to you?”

“Yes, it does,” answered Antonio.

“It’s my own order, there is nobody else’s interest,” answered Alberto.

Antonio stood up and started to walk in the room. The two men were sitting in the armchairs. At last Antonio stopped, looked at the picture again and addressed the two.

“I’ll make a good job of it. It’ll be done quite differently.”

“What do you mean,” smiled Alberto. “Explain yourself.”

Antonio thought for a moment. Then he took the gun out of his pocket quite unexpectedly, and shot first at Alberto and then at Caesaro. He shot them in the head, and then he sent a couple of bullets to their bodies, as he had been taught once, but in the reverse order.

He observed them for a while. Both were sitting quite stiff in their armchairs. Antonio picked up the photo, put it into his pocket, turned up the color of his coat, then pulled his cap down to his eyes, put his hands into his pockets and went into the street stooping a little. He observed the street, went it down till the corner, and turned round the corner to the dark, narrow street. On the left there was a lit up window of a restaurant with the inscription “Regio die Calambria”. He went up to it, shaded his eyes with his hand and looked inside. The restaurant was almost empty. He went in and took a seat at the bar. He ordered two glasses of grappa, drank the wine and ordered a portion of steak. Then he sat at the corner table and sank deep into his thoughts. The gun felt very cold in his pocket.

He rubbed his hands and ran them over his hair. He was terribly hungry. The waiter brought his order some twenty minutes later. Antonio looked at the roast beef for some time, and felt sick. He felt a sort of disgust and lost his appetite. He rose slowly, went up to the counter, threw the money on it and left. He didn’t know where to go. He was shivering. He felt a boundless freedom.

It was for the first time he had had such a sensation.

October 2, 2005

THOSE WERE BETTER TIMES

The old King was badly wounded,

and Prince David carried him away

from the battle-field almost by force.

Giorga was a tough guy. He was an excellent singer and dancer, and he was next to none in fisticuffs. Once, at a wedding party in a nearby village, he beat black and blue all the village men. Folks had been talking about the fight for quite a good while.

He looked very peaceful and calm at first sight though, smiling and talking modestly. But you could always trace sturdiness in his eyes.

He repaired the old house inherited from his father all on his own, cutting and carving shingles for the new roof with his own hands.

At the age of twenty, he was left quite alone and started to lead a solitary life. It was only his aunt Teo who visited him from time to time and did the washing and the cleaning for the young man.

But otherwise he was quite alone.

He owned a small plot of land which was enough for growing wheat and vine and keeping livestock.

In short, he was an independent man.

Giorga was twenty-two when the Russian-Turkish war broke out, and he was immediately recruited. He had been fighting for a year and a half, and came back home lame.

Though lame he was, Giorga still managed to work hard. Soon he made friends and partners with the local fellows and they moved to South Georgia where they mostly worked as lumberjacks.

Having saved a little money, he moved back. He couldn’t get used to the wet climate of the west where his wound would hurt him badly.

Now it was difficult for Giorga to stay all alone, with nobody around to say a word. He frequented his neighbors for a quiet talk, but it was not a real comfort for him.

He could never stay in one place for long.

* * *

The evening twilight was falling. It was the period of the day when crickets start chirping. Giorga was sitting on the balcony, smoking rough tobacco, spitting time to time and blowing away the ashes.

In short, he was sitting quite idly.

“Giorga!” a voice called him from behind the fence.

“Who’s there?” Giorga replied rising to his feet.

“It’s me, Tezika. Come down. Let me have a word with you,” was the answer.

“Come in, man. There is nobody here to interrupt with your word, you know”, Giorga called back rather reluctantly.

Tezika stepped over the garden fence, walked swiftly across the garden and up to the balcony.

“Listen here, how long are you going to live alone? You will go nuts pretty soon, buddy!”

“Boy! Is it why you came? You are not quite fresh there. Say something new.”

“My brother is having guests from the town. There is a girl among them, a real beauty!”

“So what?”

“So come with me and get acquainted with her. Who knows... Anyway, we could talk together and have a little drink”.

“Okay,” said Giorga and stood up.

* * *

“This is Giorga, and that’s my brother Tezika,” said the host, “Come in guys, and take your seats.

Both young men took their seats timidly, at the end of the table.

“My dear friends, let’s drink to the newcomers!” said a tall young man with a huge moustache. He seemed to be appointed toast-master. “I drink to your health, welfare and happiness, young men! Let our meeting be a lucky chance for us all!”

The rest of the feasters drank to the same.

Time and again Giorga glanced in the direction of the girl.

She proved to be a beauty indeed.

Soon somebody started to play the accordion, then the drums joined in and there started a real fun.

“I propose a toast to the Russian Tsar who put to rout the Turks!” the tall man said.

“Long live the Tsar!” the guests cried out unanimously.

“Were our Georgian Kings worse in any way?” said Giorga quite unexpectedly, as if somewhat offended. “Take the King Erekle, for instance”.

There fell a total silence.

“Cat got your tongues? Or am I wrong?”

The beauty sat smiling.

“Times are not what they were,” a young man in a military uniform answered.

“Hero is a hero. Heroism is the timeless notion!” Giorga raised his voice.

“Those were different times, my dear fellow. A good horse, a sharp sword and that’s all what it was. Now you need some brains too,” the officer insisted.

“Whatever next, your father be blessed! The young officer finds fault with King Erekle’s brains, ha?” Giorga raged again.

“What can a peasant like you know about the warfare? It’s not the same as plowing! You...” the officer wanted to add something, but he couldn’t for Giorga gave him a terrible blow on his jaw and knocked him (still sitting in his chair) down onto the floor.

Everything went upside down. Some were trying to sooth Giorga and some others were comforting the poor officer who had come back to himself by the time. The evening was spoiled.

Only the beauty kept smiling as before.

* * *

“Giorga, hey!” Tezika was standing on the balcony trying to get his friend’s attention. “Are you hitting the hay or what?”

Giorga raised his head from the pillow, looked through the window and went out onto the balcony in his underwear. His head was splitting with pain and his mind was not quite clear yet.

“What the hell is the matter with you? Why did you attack the poor man?” Tezika went on.

“He found fault with King Erekle. Son of a bitch!” Giorga got irritated again.

“Come on, buddy! Don’t scold me now. I do know who King Erekle was... You have frightened those townsmen to death, buddy!” giggled Tezika.

“Yeah... I must have offended your brother too seriously,” Giorga replied, “but they got on my nerves and I couldn’t help it, you know.” Giorga took a handful of water out of the barrel and poured it down on his face. He snorted and smiled at his friend.

“By the way, the girl was really beautiful,” he added casting his eyes down.

“Would not it be better then to get acquainted with her instead of starting a fight, you damned fool?”

“I’ll do it at a proper time,” Giorga answered. “Now let’s go to your brother’s. I want to apologize for the brawl. Joking aside, he is your elder brother and I have to respect him... What was the name of the...?”

“The officer?”

“No. What was hername?”

“Nutsiko.”

* * *

Giorga had been to the town several times before, but it was pretty difficult for him to orientate there. He found his destination stopping and asking people on the way. But he couldn’t find the very house she lived in, and spent the whole day walking round the neighborhood. He was ashamed to ask passers-by where the girl lived, because he thought it might ruin her reputation. It got dark but he still couldn’t find her house. So he decided to spend the night in a tavern.

Next day he went on searching for the girl’s house, wondering what to say on meeting her. How could he explain the reason of his hanging about in her neighborhood?

He walked the street up and down several times. In the end he stopped at one of the buildings.

A stout, elderly woman was watering flowers in the yard.

“Excuse me ma’am, could you please tell me where Nutsiko Mdivani lives?”

“Who are you, young man? I can’t recognize you,” the woman said.

“No wonder ma’am, you don’t know me... I am a guest here, “Giorga answered rather embarrassed.

“She lives in the next house, but she is not in at present,” the woman said.

“Never mind, I’ll call on her later,” Giorga replied.

“Who knows when they are going to come back,” the woman laughed. “You must be her relative, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not,” Giorga answered even more embarrassed and blushing.

“Nutsiko has run away to Petersburg with an officer. Her poor father is still looking for her”.

Giorga stood frozen for a while, his mouth pretty dry.

Then, without saying good-bye, he turned round and went down the street.

He went back to his village by train that very day.

It was pouring with rain all the way back.

There were a lot of people in the carriage and it was too stuffy there.

The wounded leg hurt badly.

In Gori a lot more people got on the train.

Giorga sank deep into his thoughts.

He recalled the battles near Kars.

Then he recalled the officer and got angry again.

“He didn’t like King Erekle, the cowardly bustard!” he thought.

Then he sank deep into his thoughts again.

Soon he fell asleep.

He dreamed a little dream about Nutsiko. In his dream he knew that he would never see her again. So he stared at her as hard as he could. A strong jerk woke him up.

“She must be really very beautiful,” he said aloud.

The thin old man sitting next to him gave him a frightened look and moved aside.

September 24, 2009.

ABDUL KARIM

I am in Pakistan. I’m making another affort, five years later, to climb Nanga-Parbat[9]. Now there are two of us – a mountaineer from Shimshal[10] and me. My companion’s name is Sarvar Paliungtar. We are going to join the rest of the expedition at the base camp. We are spending night in a village of Jell. We are surrounded by the local kids all day long. There is much ado and fuss around us. Some are speaking Urdu, others are speaking the tongue of Shinas. Only Abdul Karim can speak both languages and manages a bit of English.

The locals don’t leave us alone. Everything is new and amazing for them – the tents, our equipment and, of course, the camera they all try to peep in.

Abdul Karim talks non-stop. He follows me everywhere I go, and I am forced to make Sarvar interpret all the time.

Abdul Karim is about eight years old and is exceptionally bright and open-minded.

In the evening he suddenly approaches me and comes up with the strangest idea:

“Only we, Pakistanis and Arabs, are good folks. All the rest are bad and evil. I’ll kill them all when I grow up; especially Indians!”

I’m looking at the kid in amazement, trying to guess what has made him hate something he doesn’t know, something he has never seen before.

I do my best to assure him that he is talking nonsense, that it is unfair to hate the whole world around. I name a lot of countries and peoples that he has no idea about, trying at the same time to explain that there are good and bad folks everywhere.

But the kid turns a deaf ear to me. He insists on his idea, his eyes blazing with evil hatred.

In the end I ask him who has taught him such terrible things.

“My teacher”, the kid answers and looks aside.

I am at a loss. On the one hand, I don’t want to say anything wrong about the teacher; on the other hand, I can’t help saying something.

“You are misled, kid. You can read in Urdu, can’t you? And, I’m sure, you are taught Koran at school. So read it from beginning to end till I come back from the mountain. You will realize that it says nothing about hatred though you hate the whole world! If you see that I’m right, admit that you were wrong, Okay?”

Sarvar, pretty amazed himself, translates every little word I say.

In the morning we say good-bye to each other and I proceed my way to the camp.

* * *

We have been trying to climb the mountain for the whole month, but all in vain; neither I nor Sarvar can manage it.

On our way back we are totally exhausted. In the village of Jell I try to find Abdul Karim’s house and, before long, I find it with the help of the locals.

Abdul Karim is playing in the yard. He stops playing as soon as he spots me and sits down frowning, not uttering a single word.

I wait for a while, hoping the kid will say something to me. But he doesn’t and I set off, not even once looking back at him.

The cars are waiting for us near the Hallal Bridge. We put our luggage into the cars and I turn round. Abdul Karim is standing nearby. We take our seats and the cars take a speedy start.

Abdul Karim is running after my car waving his hands and trying to indicate something.

I ask the driver to stop.

The car stops and Sarvar follows me to interpret again.

Abdul Karim is standing still, his head drooping. Then suddenly he looks up at me and says:

“I’ve read the book. You were right.”

He keeps silent for a while. Then he again looks at me smiling and adds:

“I love the world!” and runs home at breakneck speed.

We stand still for a while, watching the kid. Then we get back into the car and go on with our journey.

We spend the night in Chilas.[11]

* * *

I’m leaving Pakistan.

I’m returning back home happy, realizing that somewhere in the remote village of Jell, in North Pakistan, there lives a little boy Abdul Karim who loves the world.

Pakistan, the Diamar Gorge

June 14, 2011.

A NEPALI STORY

In Katmandu, the capital city of Nepal, a huge expedition was getting ready to climb Mount Everest. There were about twenty people in the group.

All the mountaineers were mere acquaintances, but Gialtsen Nuru, Lakpa Sherpa and Fernando seemed to be close friends.

Three days later, the whole expedition was already in Katmandu, and one evening the group decided to go to the open-air restaurant. Gialtsen Nuru told everyone that he was engaged to Lakpa Sherpa, and that they would get married as soon as the expedition was over. “But at the moment, my main concern is to help Lakpa to climb Everest; she will be the first woman to climb it from Tibetan side,” he said.

Lakpa was sitting timidly, watching everyone around, but time and again she would look at Gialtsen Nuru, the famous Sherp mountaineer and her fiancé, with admiration.

Unlike the other Sherps, Lakpa was tall and had most delicate features. All the Sherps were fond of her, but the happiness of mutuality was all Gialtsen Nuru’s.

The evening was a real fun. Everyone told some interesting old stories, drank a lot of beer and laughed a lot.

Sherps are very special people, always cheerful and merry in the town, and with great stamina in the mountains.

* * *

Two days later, the expedition packed their equipment and left for the Tibetan border. The base camp was located pretty far. It might take them six days to get there. And then there would start the major event: The expedition would be trying to get to the pick of Everest for a month and a half. Some of the mountaineers would succeed, but some others wouldn’t.

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