One More Time (12 page)

Mani stared intensely at his cards. I waited, content to be busy, my mind at ease once again.

‘I want—’ Mani paused and glanced over at Jess for encouragement—‘one hit!’

‘Very good, Mini!’ she exclaimed.

‘His name is Mani,’ corrected George.

‘Whatever! You’ve always got to bloody well correct me, don’t you?’ Jess threw her brother a dirty
look. I giggled to myself at the familiar bickering between siblings.

Mani examined the new card he’d been given. His face lit up.

‘Maybe I think, Mani want another hit!’

‘Alright, here goes!’ I threw him another card.

Mani could hardly sit down, he was so excited. ‘Maybe one more hit!’ he exclaimed. Looking at the fifth card, Mani calmed down—he was taking a moment to count the numbers in his head. Then his face lit up once again. ‘Mani, stick, me stick!’

Mani couldn’t contain his excitement. He gazed around the table at everybody as though he had some fantastic secret that he might soon share with us all.

I turned my cards over, revealing a king and a four.

‘Alright, I’ve got fourteen, I’ll take another card.’ Turning a fresh card over showed a five.

‘Okay, banker sticks, what have you both got?’

Eric was the first to turn over his cards; he too had nineteen.

‘Sorry, Eric, banker gets one extra, so my score’s twenty—you lose!’

‘That’s not right, is it?’

‘No, he’s right. Banker always gets to use an extra one if they want to,’ supported George.

‘What a load of rubbish,’ moaned Eric, as he pushed his cards away in disgust.

Mani interrupted, he couldn’t contain himself any longer. ‘Mani winner, Mani winner.’

‘What have you got?’ I asked him.

Like a veteran card shark, Mani produced his cards one by one, first a king, then an ace. He stopped for effect, then continued again. His third card was an eight.

‘That’s nineteen. I’m sorry, Mini, but unless you have two more aces up your sleeve, you’re not the winner!’ Jess had to get her twopence worth in.

Mani smiled back at her.

‘Mani is winner!’ Released from his grasp, the last two cards fell to the table triumphantly—an ace of clubs and an ace of diamonds.

‘Oh my God, that’s fantastic,’ I exclaimed, cheering Mani on. ‘What a brilliant hand!’ The other three, seeing how much it meant to Mani, cheered him on too.

We weren’t playing for money but still he looked like he’d just won the lottery. ‘Maybe now Mani’s not so unlucky any more!’

His words showed us a simple man who longed a stroke of good luck. It didn’t have to come in the form
of great wealth, or even as the wife that he was yet to marry; it just had to be something positive. On this day it was extraordinary ‘beginner’s luck’. In the next hour we played twenty hands, and to everyone’s amazement, Mani won each one of them.

When at last we had had enough and the coolness of the night air was becoming too much to bear, we broke for the night. I stayed a few minutes longer with Mani.

‘You were very lucky tonight!’ I cheered.

‘Ah, tonight was very good night for Mani…Maybe—’ he pointed at himself, ‘—maybe best night.’ But then his smile faded, replaced by a look of distant resignation.

‘Sometimes,’ he continued, ‘life not so kind, bring many sad days!’ And he smiled again, out of innate optimism, it seemed, more than anything else. ‘Thank you for this game. I will remember, maybe when I have children I will teach.’

‘No problem, Mani.’ I put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It was my pleasure. You take it easy, don’t stay up all night.’

I made a move towards the door and Mani’s voice halted me.

‘You remember lady in Ghorepani teahouse—Jagan?’ He spoke quietly, almost secretively.

I turned to face him once again and saw he had his head bowed; he seemed deep in thought. ‘Yes. I don’t think I’ll ever forget anything about that teahouse.’

‘She is not so young. Have children already.’

‘Yes,’ I said as he paused.

‘I like Jagan.’ Mani looked up to meet my gaze. His face was serious and his eyes seemed to be calling for my encouragement.

‘That’s great,’ I replied enthusiastically. She seemed like a lovely woman. Does she like you?’

Mani considered the question for a moment. ‘I think yes. We very good friends. For long time now I come to her teahouse.’

I smiled. ‘The answer is simple. You should try to win her heart.’

‘Marry?’ Mani clearly liked the prospect.

I shrugged lightly. ‘Why not? Better to marry somebody you like than somebody you don’t even know.’

Mani nodded his head approvingly. ‘I think you right. Maybe next time I go to Ghorepani I talk to her about marry. Maybe she come with me to your country!’

‘Maybe,’ I chuckled.

With that, our discussion ended and I left Mani for the evening. On my way to bed I passed by the room
of the three Brits, a waft of hash smoke drifted out from within. I smiled to myself.

I don’t think I was more than five minutes in bed before I fell asleep. No thoughts came to mind, no rituals, my mind was relaxed. I think Mani’s happiness must have been the sedative I needed.

The morning arrived in blackness. Clouds hung like vultures over the countryside and from them pounded buckets of rain. I shook my head despairingly as I peered out through my door. Oh shit, this was going to be a bitch of a day.

Unenthusiastically, I headed downstairs for breakfast. There was no shelter so I walked speedily. The rain was icy cold as it hit my skin. Near the dining area, the wife and children of the owner were standing unsheltered in the rain, huddled together, heads buried deep into their chests. The woman raised her head only slightly to me.

‘You should get in out of the rain!’ I said. Confusingly, there was no response from the family.

I went on, keen to get out of the rain myself. But something was terribly wrong.

Three Nepalese men stood at the door of the dining area, staring inside, obstructing my view.

‘You should not go inside!’ said one of the men, seeing me coming. He raised a hand to stop me.

‘What’s going on? Is something wrong with the owner? Where is he? Let me inside!’ I tried all this—but still could see nothing past the three of them.

‘This is not a place for you now. It is best you do not come in.’

They were insistent, but I couldn’t walk away. What was the commotion about? I worried for the owner’s young family.

I pushed hard past the three men. They tugged on my clothing, dragging me back—but then, with a swift change in direction, I found an opening through their barricade. I shot from between them into the room. Inside, the owner was on his knees, crying. Lying before him, lifeless, was Mani.

Oh my God! Oh shit!

‘What did you do?’ I shouted and lunged towards the owner.

He turned to look at me. His stricken face was flushed and his eyes full with tears. Before I could reach him, the three other men grappled me back. Then, as they loosened their grip, realisation began to sink in.

Oh Mani. I just can’t believe this…

Mani’s eyes were open: the pain he’d experienced before he died was marked on his face. The poor man had passed away in sheer agony.

‘He was like my brother,’ the owner cried, as he rose to his feet. How many times had I heard about that about Mani? He came towards me, tears flowing freely from his eyes, his body trembling. I put my arms out, around him, and he accepted the embrace. The grief that came over me was extraordinary.

Mani’s small frame looked so helpless. A pool of blood surrounded the lower part of his body; he’d bled from the inside out. Oh the poor guy, he didn’t deserve this. Not Mani, he didn’t deserve this. Tears began to fall from my eyes and suddenly I released the owner from my embrace. Without thinking, I fell and grabbed hold of Mani’s shoulders and pulled him towards me.

‘I’m sorry Mani,’ I moaned as I hugged him. ‘I’m sorry this had to happen to you.’ From behind me I could hear the owner bawling, and behind him the quiet whispers of the three men as they watched.

How stupid I felt. How selfish and irresponsible.
You knew he was sick. You could have forced the issue and put a stop to the trek, but you were too interested in yourself and your own stupid prayers.

‘Dear Holy God, please protect Mam, Dad, John, Sarah and Sam, Benji and Rusty, all my friends and relatives and everybody who really needs God’s help, especially please help Mani now, look after him, look after him better than you did when he was alive!’

The last line left my mouth aggressively, with rage, and while my mind was demanding that I start again, I refused to until I was convinced the message was received loud and clear.

‘Did you hear me?’ I stared at the sky beyond the window. ‘Are you reading me loud and clear?’

Eventually I began over again, each new start a failure, each one facing the same difficulties. The men behind me had gone silent; were they listening to my recitals? Finally I lowered Mani’s body back to the ground and, taking one last look at him, I stormed out of the room, past the men, and across the unsheltered walkway. Rain and anger—a desperate day.

‘I’m sorry,’ I called to the huddled family. I raised my hands dejectedly. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Chomrung was a large village. I just kept walking.

I could feel my body tensing up, unable to respond to the finger rituals, the feet rituals, the ‘always looking up’ ritual. It was all coming at me at once and there was nothing I could do. I felt boxed in, suffocated.

Eventually I stopped under a tree half a kilometre from the guesthouse and about two hundred steps below. Mani’s place of death seemed to tower above, at the top of the hill. I thumped my fist against the hard wooden trunk of the tree and, almost as violently, grabbed at a leech that had settled on me and threw it off into the distance.

From India I had rung home for the first time since being away—it was long overdue. And now it seemed a very long time ago. Mam had answered.

‘Hello, Mam. It’s Sean!’

Silence had followed, and then I heard Mam break down. She wasn’t able to speak to me, her words falling short in the sobbing.

‘We thought you were—’ she cried—‘dead, and no one knew—why didn’t you call, why didn’t you—’

Dad took the phone. He was more composed, but I could hear emotion in his voice. ‘So where are you. I’ll come pick you up?’ he finally asked.

‘India.’

‘India! What the hell are you doing off over there?’

I tried to explain—it was something that I had to do, something I had no control over—but even I would have thought I was full of shit.

Mam had begun to cry louder when she heard where I was. She must have hoped I was just around the corner in a public phone box.

As we hung up that day Mam’s parting words were, ‘Please, just come home. We love you, Sean, please come home.’ But I hadn’t.

The rain in Chomrung was getting heavier; it roused me, made me a little more alert than before. I knew I couldn’t stay away from the guesthouse forever, but I was afraid.

Reluctantly I made my way back up the hill.

The oddest things came to mind as I walked. I found myself thinking about a hole in Mani’s shorts which I’d noticed on one of the climbs. It wasn’t a particularly big hole, probably the work of a moth some evening. The significance of it, though, was that Mani couldn’t afford another pair; more than likely he’d have to either mend them or just make do. In Mani’s life, a simple thing like a hole in his shorts was an issue. He never knew wealth, he never knew success, his life started and ended in hardship. Now it broke my heart to think about it.

Dear Holy God
…

No! The prayers had begun again—they hadn’t been halted for very long.

The dining area was filled with people when I arrived back: the three Brits, the owner and his family, the men who’d tried to prevent me from seeing what was inside. All of them stood in a quiet circle around Mani’s body. I remained outside, unseen.

I fidgeted with my hands, rubbing them irritably one over the other, my mind compelling me to wipe off whatever thoughts surfaced through them. Niggling reproach by niggling reproach they were emerging, and with them a mixture of anger, frustration and fear. I decided that I couldn’t stay in this place, I hadn’t the strength in me.

In my room I gathered my belongings. Throwing the backpack upon my shoulders I found the straps too tight for me. Mani must have altered them for his own comfort. I loosened the straps and then almost immediately tightened them again—I couldn’t do it! I knew I had to loosen them, but each time I tried it felt like I was disengaging from Mani—leaving him alone. It took eleven attempts before I finally succeeded.

As fast as I could, I left the room and walked away, out onto the track. I wanted to look back but I couldn’t. It was too hard. Instead I prayed aloud as I walked, maintaining continuous focus directly ahead.
But none of the prayers were working, so I repeated them at top speed, trying desperately to put an end to the torture.

The rain made walking a chore, but I maintained a steady, fast pace. It wasn’t long before Chomrung was hidden in the distance and I was suddenly quite alone, still headed towards Machhapuchhare Base camp.

I must have walked for two hours before I finally took a break. I had already passed through two small villages but the thought of being among people had pushed me on. My resting point now was on a large decaying tree trunk, deep beneath the welcoming umbrella of a huge forest. I was out of breath; the track had been almost all vertical, other than the brief downhill section within Chomrung village. Up ahead, it didn’t look as though the going would ease anytime soon. I sighed.

‘You told him that he’d be okay,’ I said to myself. ‘You told him that there was nothing wrong with him.’

Other thoughts started flooding in.

Can you imagine what the family would think if they knew the real reason why you left home?

‘This isn’t the same thing,’ I shouted aloud. ‘I never thought anything like that with Mani, for Godsake. Why do I always have to go through this?’

I looked around to see if there was anyone who could overhear me. Still there was nobody on the track.

You thought about killing people!

‘Go stuff yourself, I did not and I didn’t about Mani either.

‘I was worried for people, that’s why I left Ireland. Nothing else, worry, and that was all! People are allowed to be worried!’

Mam and Dad, family…sleeping…suffocating…stabbing…poisoning
…The words streamed, jumbled up, nothing concrete, just a combination of painful images. I pressed my hands tight against my forehead but the thoughts only continued to attack. Then I found myself blinking my eyes in intervals of seven, each burst requiring the same perfection as did the prayers that continued rattling away in my head. A recorder in my brain would have picked up at least seven voices all speaking at the same time, all competing with one another for my full attention. At the same time I fidgeted away with my hands.

My body needed this rest but it was better to keep moving—any distraction from the rituals. I rose to my feet once again, struggling under the load of the backpack. Something in this reminded me of a
camping trip Dad had taken us kids on when we were little. I remembered thinking at the time how strong he was.

‘Sanction, sanctuary, sanctimonious…’

The words left my mouth instinctively, a defensive mechanism against anything harmful. I hadn’t done this in years! The word ‘Satan’ had once surfaced in my head for no apparent reason, and so I had had to say other words that were similar but counteractive—otherwise people I loved would be harmed. But this ritual had long ago faded from my repertoire! Why had it, too, come back now? I shook my head irritably.

‘Come on, no more of this bullshit!’

Thoughts of my sister Sarah floated through my mind—

‘Rapture! Raison! Reason!’

It had happened again! This incantation came from a time I’d heard the word ‘rape’ in my mind. Yes, this was how it had always come in the past, I would think of somebody and then at the back of my mind I would hear some awful word. Sometimes it felt as though my mind had a vendetta against
me,
as though it couldn’t stand to have me feeling happy. If I were thinking something pleasant about somebody it would throw in some word like ‘cancer’, ‘rape’, ‘Satan’, ‘murder’,
‘stabbing’. In my twisted logic I believed that since I was thinking of loved ones at the same time as such words were circling about in my head, these people were no doubt going to be harmed in some manner and it would be all my fault, if I didn’t do something soon. The antidote, it seemed, was to replace the word or words with other ones that were similar—but positive. Back then, I was replacing words at least fifty times a day.

‘Okay,’ I began to speak to myself now, ‘what the hell is going on with me?’ The forest stayed silent.

‘Rapture, raison, reason,
what the hell is that? What does it mean? It means nothing, it means—fuck all!’ I was getting angrier by the moment. All I wanted to do was punch something, the voice inside my head if that was possible.

‘I’m not listening to you, you can go screw yourself because I’m on my way to the base camp and nothing’s stopping me. Not Mani’s death, not fucking Akio, and especially not my fucking head!’

The words echoed and quickly faded away, swallowed up by the dense overgrowth of greenery. I set out on the trek again, eyes ahead, mind concentrating hard on blocking out any thoughts, any rituals. But I was concentrating too hard.

‘Ah shit,’ I cried as I felt the ground below me give way. I hadn’t noticed that I was walking so close to the edge. Now it was too late.

My right leg slipped first and with it went my balance. Before I knew it I was rolling down a steep hillside, bashing into tree branches, frantically trying to grab hold of anything that might save me. Tumbling.

The sight of the sky was followed by the sound of a crack. Then there was nothing.