1) previous, 2) back to the first chapter.
Chapter One [continued]
How much shinola do you think we’re gonna be in, says Carter. He’s American, south of Atlanta, but right now his voice is rougher than the ice. Probably the scotch. Do you think Randolph’s gonna fire us?
I’m flying out in three hours, I say. And Randolph never hired me, anyway.
My flashlight crystallizes on the splinters of ice in Carter’s glass. We chiseled that ice out of the pack three kilometers north, me thinking there might not be anything but bare black volcanic around Shackleton’s hut. It’s my first visit.
I say, Listen, Scott would have insisted on drinking that with soda.
Shackleton’s the man for me, says Carter. Scott wanted to look good and that was that, he says. Scott deserved to freeze to death, he was an idiot.
He didn’t plan ahead, I say.
He didn’t bring enough whisky, says Carter.
Criminal.
Carter looks serious for a second, or he tries to look serious. He fails. The light bounces off the wooden wall behind him and halos the fur around his hood. His face is all black shadow. No, that would be us, he says. International, too, he says. This scotch is a thousand dollars a bottle if it’s a dime. Sotheby’s could probably reach for twice that. Not to mention the historical interest. And the treaties. Heritage is gonna have a baby.
Ari Mackenzie Carter is severely understating the case. The Antarctic Heritage Trust, together with the current holder of the Mackinlay & Co. label, is not under any possible present or future circumstance going to be pleased with us or with our drinking habits. They are in fact going to be furious. Stamp a capital F on that word. They are going to carve out and then fill a large hole at a lonely desk with the corpse of Carter’s career. And they are going to succeed. Me, I’m not going to be around to witness that funeral. Three more hours, and I’m on Cape Royds’ lone propeller out of here.
Like the dark side of the moon, this place. A flinty wedge of black stone stolidly hunches against the Antarctic Ocean. Whiskey can freeze at minus thirteen. Here the temperature often drops to minus fifty, and the wind drags it even lower, and so much lower than that, too. A few months out of every year, the fat chin-straps and the macaronis gather by quarreling thousands on the black piles and stay faithful to each other until eggs and offspring happen. Waiting for the penguins, under-water leopards twist through the icy shallows between the shore and the cold blackness. And, out to the sea of open ice, underneath the ships, if ships remain, enormous wide-mouth blackfish hang side-by-side for the leopards. Except for a lonely research team four kilometers away, and except for two asses drunk at midnight on hundred-year old bog scotch, the rest of the year is empty. If there’s one place on this planet that makes the rest of the earth look easy, makes the barren deserts look inviting, makes the stone city slums of Axum look palatial, the Antarctic is that place. Anywhere, everywhere, is better than here. Except one lone place. Better a live donkey than a dead lion, Shackleton told his wife after he abandoned his Nimrod expedition. I raise a glass to asses, mules and donkeys throughout history and decide I agree with the commander. Heritage can capital eff themselves. I’m out of this place. I’m leaving the Antarctic. Email came in a month ago today. They need me at the North Pole.
To: woodlock@mandc.uk>>>
Fr: makris@mandc.uk
Re: No subject
Woody, I don’t know how far along you’ve gotten with Shackleton’s booze but it’s not far enough. Dermick is furious. Randolph has been giving him the business about you, really sticking it in. What are you doing, old man? We’re all a bit surprised about you here. I know you’ll just set your jaw at that, of course. Whatever. Skarsgard has been on the RAMUNDSEN expedition up north here, and he’s got some interesting business he sent to Dermick. Details I’m not allowed to write down. Not even in an email. But people are dying, Woody, or disappearing, or gone missing, anyway. Nothing sinister is suspected, just puzzling. How can anyone die of the tropics up here? We need a chemist and this is probably your last chance. You are immediately recalled from Cape Royd’s. Dermick wants you up here ASAP. Whatever you’re doing, or, God help us, drinking, you’re to drop it and file a flight to Edmonton. The company will have someone meet you at the airport and you'll be given my car. It's winter here, so there should be roads. By the way,don't be boring, that’s Edmonton, Alberta, not Greater London. I know how you think and I don’t want you drinking tiny bottles of first class armagnac back to England. Save those bottles for Canada. I’ve stuffed the car with maps in case your phone breaks down or the net isn’t working. Drive as fast as you can and come and talk to me. I’ll be holed up in the hotel with a hundred stories. Talk to you in a few days, then.
Yours,
Asher
PS If you see Ari Carter down there, tell him I hate his guts for ever leaving the tribe and that his sister and I are getting engaged. He better take a leave of absence and hike himself back to Cotswold for June. Or Asya will never forgive him. Tell him she heard about his promotion and that their parents are especially proud.
PPS I saw Emily last night at The Coast, she looks great, had nothing good to say about you obviously.
No comments:
Post a Comment