The Mountain Shadow

‘Oh, yeah. But not like before.’

‘Better?’

‘Better. And it’ll get better for you.’

She looked at Vinson, drying dishes.

‘My family, in Norway, they’re very strict Catholics. My boyfriend was everything they hated, so, you know, to show my independence I followed him to India.’

‘What was he doing in India?’

‘We were supposed to be going to an ashram, but when we got to Bombay, we never moved.’

‘He’d been here before?’

‘A few times, yes. Now, I know it was for drugs, each time.’

‘But it hurt, when he died. And it still hurts, right?’

‘I wasn’t in love with him, but I liked him a lot, and I really tried to care for him.’

‘And what about Vinson?’

‘I think I’m falling in love with Stuart. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt like this about anyone. But I’m not letting myself go to him. I can’t. I know he wants it, and I want it too, but I can’t.’

‘Well . . . ’

‘How are you coping with it?’ she demanded, her mouth wide with pleading. ‘How did you get connected again?’

How did I get connected again? It was a good question, for a man who was a mountain away from the woman he loves.

‘Stuart will be generous, I think,’ I said. ‘He’ll give you time. There’s no rush. From what I can see, he’s much happier than when I first met him.’

‘He could be happier,’ she sighed. ‘And so could I. Do you get stuck, sometimes, in memories?’

‘Sure.’

‘You do?’

‘Sure. It’s a natural thing. We’re emotional minds. And it’s okay, so long as it’s a ride, and not a way of life. Are you flashing back?’

‘Yeah. I see him in my mind, when I stop thinking. It’s like he’s still with me.’

‘You know, the guy you were talking to, the sage, Idriss, he told someone yesterday that they can release a departed spirit by offering food, on a plate, by a river, and leaving it there for the crows and the mice to eat.’

‘How . . . how does that work?’

‘I’m no expert, but apparently the appeased spirits are released, to the next part of the journey.’

‘I’d try anything, at the moment. Whenever I relax and stop thinking, he’s right beside me.’

I’d started the conversation about appeasing departed spirits as a distraction, to raise her own spirits, but the words opened a door in her eyes, showing how afraid she was inside. She was shaking. She hugged herself.

‘Listen, Rannveig, you know, there’s a river you have to cross, on the way back to the main road. I’ll prepare a plate for you, and you can leave it by the river, if you like. Did your boyfriend have a sweet tooth?’

‘He did.’

‘Good. There’s plenty of sweets prepared for tonight. Maybe your boyfriend will be so happy he’ll move on, and leave you alone.’

‘Thank you. I’ll definitely try it.’

‘It’s gonna be okay,’ I said. ‘It gets easier.’

‘Do you meditate?’

‘Only when I’m writing. Why?’

‘I’ve been thinking I should start meditating or something,’ she said absently, then quickly found my eyes again. ‘What do you think of him?’

‘Vinson?’

‘Yes, Stuart. I don’t have a brother or father here to ask about him. What do you think of him?’

I looked at Vinson, stacking the last of the pots and dishes on the shelves, and wiping down the long stainless steel sinks.

‘I like him,’ I said. ‘And I’m absolutely sure he’s nuts about you. If you’re not his soul mate, Rannveig, you should break it to him. Soon. This is it, for him.’

‘Do you ever get depressed? Stuart told me some things about you. About your life. Do you ever get days when you think of suicide?’

‘Never in captivity, and one way or another, most of my life has been spent in captivity.’

‘Seriously. Do you ever have days when you simply want it to end? All of it, at once?’

‘Look, suicide and I are nodding acquaintances. But I’m more your till-the-last-dying-breath kind of guy.’

‘But life can be so shit, sometimes,’ she said, looking at me again.

‘It’s all good, even the bad stuff. It’s all blood, flowing through the heart, and wonderful minutes, of wonderful things. I’m a writer. I have to believe in the power of love. Suicide isn’t an option.’

‘Not for you.’

‘And not for you. If you’re thinking about it, you can also put some thought into the fact that you don’t have the right to take your own life. Nobody does.’

‘Why not?’ Rannveig like the runway asked, her eyes wide, innocent of the cruel, broken question she’d just asked.

‘Think of it this way, Rannveig, does a deranged person have the right to kill a stranger?’

‘No.’

‘No. And when suicide is in your head, you’re the deranged person, and you’re also the stranger, in danger of the harm you might do to yourself. No matter how bad things get, you don’t have the right to kill the stranger that you might become, for a while, in your own life. The rest of your life would tell you, at that point, it’s not an option.’

‘But you don’t get the blues, ever?’ she asked.

She was so earnest that I wanted to put my arm around her.