Free Rising Abruptly by Gisèle Villeneuve Page B

new natural products. A challenging climb, judging from the rock formations. As long as I shiver, my goal will have been attained. Although, in walking steadily uphill, and, according to the video, on Gunung Kinabalu the uphill goes on a long way, you work up a sweat. I’m willing to take my pahit medicine to touch the cold.
    And here she is! Sab’s face appearing through the foliage. Sab holding a plant by the stem as by the neck, its root system dangling in mid-air. Sab, tall and grinning among her fellow plant hunters. And, unless this is a trick of light, not even sweating. As the video ends and Sab vanishes before my eyes, I jump to my feet.
    When was this shot? I must know. Last year? This morning? I must know.
    Half of the audience laughs; the other half gathers its belongings, ready to flee the madman. Dr. Chu reaches for a paging device to call security, the army, the death squad. They’ll cart me away to the jungle loony bin where I’ll sweat, forever sweat, in the realm of relentless humidity. Better beat a discreet retreat. Go lounge about at the cabin. Get into the proper tropical mode of zero exertion. Or should I go ahead and climb Gunung K.? And run into Sab? During my fantasizing earlier, my instincts must have told me she was nearby. In the video, tall Sab is still wearing her hair too short. It accentuates her awkward features.
    Outside, as I’m weighing my options, the Australian catches up with me.
    G’day, mate. You here to climb?
    Haven’t decided yet. You?
    We gave this hill a burl more than once, the missus and me. Made it to the top too. Went everywhere with the missus. Those were the days. Nowadays, the old legs are a bit rooted. I better take it easy on shorter hikes. I can show you…
    I may never return here. Might as well go for the top. Sorry.
    No worries, mate. I’ll give you a blow-by-blow description of what to expect. Care to join me for a pint or two?
    Better turn in early.
    And I leave him standing in the rain. What a cad I am. The man drips with loneliness. He mentioned a missus. His dear departed? Could be a case of divorce. Either way, poor sod. What would be the harm in keeping him company for an hour? In the best tradition of mateship, two lone males in the jungle, swapping lies. As I’m reconsidering, it stops raining, and, he’s gone.
    Late afternoon, daylight dimming and a thick fog obscures hills and mountains. With nightfall begins the jungle symphony of birds and insects and mammals. I take a long shower. Go sit on the veranda. Watch the mist disperse.
    Gazing at the equatorial sky, I recall something Sab once wrote to me about the physical world and why she thrives on the difficult questions that it poses. No one can put a spin on physical laws. They won’t bend for anyone’s convenience or agenda. With that in mind, I eat the intoxicatingly scented pineapple, letting the sweet-tart, sticky juice run down my chin and along my arm, feeding on one of nature’s marvels. And how I marvel, this night, at the games we used to play without ever becoming a couple. And here I am, this night, perspiring with complicated pleasure. We were wise without knowing it. The sagacity of our youth preserved an enduring friendship.
    Truthfully, I could not begin to imagine Sab as the missus. How about celebrating our wisdom with the durian? Is splitting the fruit open a forbidden act in a national park? Is this act also subject to the death penalty? I struggle to cut the shell open with my inadequate penknife. One needs a machete or tiger’s fangs to get at the flesh. At the market, the vendor instructed me to discard the fleshy interior. You eat the heavy fibrous coating enveloping the several large seeds. I only managed to puncture the shell. If I keep at it, I risk impaling my wrist on the stiff stubby spikes that cover the devilish fruit. Better concentrate on the constellations.
    I slept, aware of tossing and turning. Skeins of dreams