Free Rising Abruptly by Gisèle Villeneuve

clouds cap its summit. As the air cools, the anticipation is positively erotic. This mountain better deliver. For about twenty kilometres, we ascend almost continuously. As the boy promised, the highway is a relatively good road, but with hairpin turns and steep grades made the more entertaining each time the driver passes on blind curves. In fact, the runner withheld the small detail that the driver passes only on blind curves. Each time he performs that stunt, I concentrate on the mountain. Spirits of the dead, may you keep a kind eye on us.
    I rent a large unadorned cabin with twin beds, a toilet dug into the floor and a shower that consists of a black garden hose connected to a cistern full, I assume, of rainwater, and with a veranda overlooking the jungle and surrounding hills. Except for the vegetation and extreme humidity, this area of the national park reminds me of Banff in the 1970s before it became crowded and before hordes of Japanese and Chinese package tours caused the price of lodging to skyrocket. My cabin costs forty-two ringgits a night, about twenty bucks, and the place is not crowded. Most visitors are Malaysians and other Asians from neighbouring countries, along with a sprinkling of Europeans and Americans. I’m told the park is gaining in popularity and future expansion is planned. Banff in the seventies.
    Twin beds. The daily afternoon rain begins. Would be so fine if Sab showed up this instant. I fantasize that her plant collecting had brought her to this side of the mountain. And here she’d be. And we’d share this shelter as we did so many digs in our university days. Barefoot on the veranda, cool gin pahit in hand, passing a joint, surely, she could dig up some happiness-enhancing plant out of her Borneo cornucopia that would do the trick. And that wouldn’t be trafficking in illicit substances, exactly, an activity frowned upon in Malaysia. Those caught face the death penalty. A stern message prominently displayed at all ports of entry. Duly warned. Now, I am wondering if Sab didn’t duly warn the housekeeper not to worry me. Was it Sab who was gored by the babi? Or searching for the impossible plant, did she fall into the ravine and break all of her bones?
    A little of Sab’s simple logic helps me not to sweat it. If nothing has happened, you’ve worried needlessly, all the while putting your body chemistry out of whack. If something has happened, no matter how high your level of anxiety, it has no power to undo the event. There you have it. And so, I’m cooling my heels at higher altitude until Sab’s return. At least here, I’m breathing for the first time in days. Then what? I bas back down to that insufferable jungle? Would be so much better if she came up to my version of the Borneo paradise. As tropical rain falls in the shadow of the mountain, we would yak up a storm about the wild old days, about her wild current days.
    At The Canteen, from an eclectic and reasonably priced menu, I select a snack of chicken satay with a cucumber salad. Judging from the snippets of conversation I can understand, most visitors are here to climb the mountain. At the next table, five amiable Brits engage me in the usual conversation. As soon as I open my mouth, they peg me as German. Switch their demeanour to offhand.
    German? Hell no. Why German?
    Your accent.
    It’s French. I’m from Québec. Now a resident of Calgary. Western Canada.
    They look as if they have committed a diplomatic blunder.
    Don’t worry, it happens a lot. I can’t figure out why. Say, is it really cold at the top?
    They laugh, friendly again: There’s a true Canadian. Chasing blizzards in the tropics, eh?
    At another table, a lone pasty-white man in his sixties. Australian, judging from his accent. What do I know? He may very well be an Icelander forever mistaken for an Aussie. Brandishing an arsenal of anecdotes involving chopsticks, he is showing his prowess to youngsters