The Mountain
© Paul Malone

Wade loved Vienna since the day he arrived almost one year ago. But standing now in the fading December light, jostled about by the Christmas crowd as they surged with furious intent along the shopping street, he felt sorely out of place. It was as though the frosty air had sapped his spirit of adventure and longing for the unknown, and left him with a yearning for the warmth and familiarity, if not the drudgery, of the everyday back home

He dashed across the street, avoiding the cars, puddles and umbrella wielding shoppers, to his regular locale, Café Sperl. The internet corner was tucked away at the rear of the grand café, behind the ornately set mahogany tables, where finely dressed patrons enjoyed the luxurious ambience for which the Viennese are renowned. He hung up his wet coat, ordered a cappuccino and sat himself before one of the terminals.

His melancholy was not allayed when he opened his Yahoo account; his inbox was empty. So he sought solace from the online newspaper back home, The Advertiser. The headlines read: ‘Housing Crisis Acute’. No kidding. I’ll be sharing apartments the rest of my life. He read on: ‘Water Restrictions to Rise Again Prior to Christmas....Manual watering of gardens only.’ Well that’s a blow for my garden. World news: Iran was threatening nuclear proliferation again, Afghanistan was imploding despite the massive military presence, and Gaza was steadily being pummelled into bloody rubble.

Wade scrolled through the articles, feeling gloomier as he read. He found the local news: ‘Peaks of Mount Flinders blanketed in Fresh Summer Snow.... A low pressure system moved across Adelaide yesterday, dumping forty centimetres of fresh snow on Mount Flinders....’ Bizarre! There’s no mountain near Adelaide, just hills. And snow? It has to be a mistake -- or something. But Wade’s thoughts were interrupted; Sabine was calling. “Hello Schatzi,” Sabine said. “I finished work early. If you’re free we can meet at the Freyung Christmas Market and take a mulled wine together.”

It had only been one day since Wade had last seen Sabine but he missed her already.
“Yeah sure, I know the place. I can be there in fifteen minutes if you like.”

***

The Christmas market was set upon a cobbled bluestone square, in the heart of the old city. In the grey twilight a crowd milled about, drawn to the warm light that spilled from the vendors’ stalls. Like little fairytale cottages, the wooden stalls were decorated with strings of fairy lights, and within, rugged-up, pale-faced vendors sat amongst their wares of Christmas balls and scented candles, gingerbread and schnapps, along with their sweet smelling vats of hot, spicy red wine.

Rugged-up in a grey winter jacket, which skirted just below her knee-high black suede boots, along with her matching French beret, Sabine stood waiting for Wade. She turned and embraced him when he arrived. “So, my handsome man has decided to join me.”

“I had a break in my busy schedule and thought I’d drop past.”

They lingered for a while at the market, walking hand-in-hand past the ornate stalls. As the twilight turned to evening, snow fell, dusting the stalls in a sprinkle of white. “I’ve checked out ticket prices today, fourteen hundred Euros for a return flight, if we leave in mid January,” Wade said.

“You’re so organised. How romantic -- Australia. Come home with me and tell me all about it.”

***

The apartment was small. A short hallway lined with coats and scarves and an assortment of winter shoes, lead within. A compact living room, a narrow galley kitchen, and a pokey bedroom with a large bed, comprised the remainder of Sabine’s modest quarters. Wade kicked off his shoes in the hallway and made himself comfortable upon her sofa. He had been coming here for many months and it now felt like home. Upon the wall above the sofa hung a large watercolour titled ‘Winter in Aflenz’. The awkward brushstrokes and mismatch of colours revealed a girl walking along a snowy mountain track. Above her, brightly coloured skiers weaved a path through a thatch of pines. Below her lay a dark ravine.

Wade once asked Sabine about the painting. “The girl is me,” Sabine had explained. “We used to go skiing in Aflenz every year. I loved it there. But then one year everything changed. I met a boy.” She had paused, as if to consider how much to reveal to Wade, “He was my first love. The night before I was to leave for Aflenz, I caught him with my best friend. He didn’t even apologise -- acted as if we were never even together.” She had then lit some tea-lights that sat upon the coffee table. “That winter was the most miserable in my life.” She had looked at Wade then and smiled grimly “When I painted that I thought how strange that the village I once adored could become form into such a lonesome place. And how someone I loved and thought I knew so well could betray me. God, I thought I was going mad.”

Afterwards Sabine sat upon the sofa and stared at the flickering tea-lights. The dancing flames reflected as bright orange cinders shimmering upon the watery blackness of her pupils. Behind her distant expression, Wade had caught a glimpse of the torment of her betrayed love, and the bitterness of disillusionment that left the scars of experience. In that moment Wade had felt Sabine’s pain and shuddered, for it was something he hoped he never would come to know.

***

Sabine put on a Kanye West album and poured them a straight nip from a chilled bottle of Smirnoff. They lounged upon Sabine’s sofa. Wade drew on his cigarette, exhaled and then swallowed a shot of vodka. He enjoyed the contradiction of fire and ice sliding down his throat. Sabine said, “I always wanted to visit Australia. It’s so far away, so big. It must be beautiful.”

Wade was amused at her perception; he had imagined the same about Europe. “Parts of it are nice enough, but the cities are great sprawls. And people only talk football. Still, we’ll have fun.”

Sabine drew herself against Wade, grasped his hands and pressed her lips hard upon his. The smell of her perfume was intoxicating. She giggled and then guided his hands down her waist. “Lets not wait till then.”
The passion of the evening spilled over onto her big soft bed, and as the hours of ecstasy slipped away, the two lovers took their fill from one another until they lay exhausted and content.

In the early hours Wade lay awake. The ghostly moonlight spilled through the window and upon Sabine’s sleeping form. He gazed at her peaceful face. With his forefinger he gently traced the contours of her eyes, the gentle curve of her nose, the soft rise and valley of her lips. All of her Wade tried to ingrain upon his memory. He wished that there would be no tomorrow, no inevitable farewell. He had ignored it but dreaded that he no more fitted in her world -- this old imperial city, where the weight of history, like a winter’s fog, drifts down every street and touches every soul, than she did in his world -- a far-flung, sun-bleached city of shopping malls and quarter-acre blocks, where a vast flotsam and jetsam of displaced souls had washed-up and camped-out as uninvited guests for the last two hundred years.

***

Wade returned to Café Sperl the following morning. He opened his email account: a message from his mother. ‘Hope you’re making the most of your last month abroad. Your father and I are staying at the shack on Mount Flinders for the weekend. I’ll have my mobile if you need me.’

Wade wondered what she meant by the shack; he had never heard of it. But Mount Flinders was familiar, from the article he read yesterday. He opened the Advertiser online. There under regional news he found it: ‘Mount Flinders Ski Resort blanketed in Summer Snow.... A low pressure system moved across Adelaide yesterday dumping another fifty centimetres of snow.... The highway was closed at Flinders Pass, stranding commuters for several hours.’ Wade read the article and grew perplexed. He knew there was no mountain behind Adelaide as well as the Austrians knew there were no kangaroos in Austria. Perhaps it was a prank. Bugger it, I’ll call mum.

There was an echo, “I hope you haven’t been taking drugs, dear. You’re not making sense.”

Was he going crazy? Was his mother joking? He suddenly felt short of breath “Ok -- the shack. The one I helped Dad build. How could I forget?! Listen, I haven’t time for this now, I’m due in the bar. I’ll call back tomorrow.”

***

The bar was crowded, obscuring Wade’s view of the lounge where Sabine and her friends stood. The music was loud, and it took all his concentration to get the orders right. But he was distracted. A young man who looked as though he would be equally comfortable walking the catwalk for an Armani swimwear show, as in the black suit that he now so smartly wore, stood with Sabine. He laughed at something Sabine said and leaned closer to her. The way Sabine stood, her head held like that while she smiled, gave it away -- she was attracted to him. Wade felt the sickening pang of jealousy. He hated his insecurity.

In the early morning the crowd waned. Sabine sat at a table alone with the man. She sipped her cocktail. The man held a glass of scotch. Wade had hardly seen Sabine that evening, except when she had come for another round of drinks. He felt sick seeing Sabine sitting there now with him.

The lights came on and the remaining stragglers began to leave. Between wiping down the bar and washing glasses, Wade saw Sabine reach into her handbag, pull out a pen and paper, handed them to the man, who then scribbled something down and returned them to her. Sabine and the man stood up. The man stepped closer to Sabine and kissed her on the cheek, his hand resting momentarily upon the bare skin of her hips. And then he was gone.

Sabine waited for Wade to finish and then they left the bar and took a taxi back to her apartment. Sitting in the rear of the taxi, Wade asked Sabine how she enjoyed her evening. “Oh fine,” she said. Wade wanted to ask about the man, but he thought Sabine would find his prying intrusive.

When they collapsed into Sabine’s bed, the vision of the man, his lips upon Sabine’s soft cheek, pausing for just that moment too long, repeated itself relentlessly in Wade’s imagination until finally the golden light of the morning sun shone through Sabine’s window and dispersed the phantoms of the evening.

***

The following afternoon Wade logged in: his inbox was empty. He navigated to the Advertiser. The headlines read: ‘Mount Flinders World Heritage Listed’. He read the article in disbelief. ‘The pristine national park upon Mount Flinders was today officially given the World Heritage Listing....The national park is the last remaining refuge to many threatened species including the extremely rare Grey Tailed Bunyip....’
What the hell were they saying? There was no damned mountain, and the Bunyip was a mythological creature. He googled Mt Flinders National Park: over one hundred listings. He hit a link to the national park site: an image of a snow-capped mountain appeared. It looked like the Himalayas. He found a link to flora and fauna: an image of the grey tailed Bunyip appeared. It was preposterous: a large possum-like head, a bulbous squat body, the torso covered in rainbow-coloured scales; the lower half looked like the hind quarters of a kangaroo, only the tail was short and thin, like that of a dog.

Wade closed the page and leaned back. This was madness, if not dished-up from the world around him, then a searingly lucid psychosis. Perhaps he had a tumour, or was he being drugged? His stomach tightened, his hands clenched; the café suddenly seemed horribly surreal.

In that nightmarish moment when the threads of Wade’s reality unravelled, he longed to be home in the refuge of family. But he was far from there, and there was no-one here who cared for him, just Sabine. He desperately needed to see her. The Konditorei where she worked was a block away. Perhaps she might get a break.

***

Apart from an elderly lady who sat alone in one of the booths, the Konditorei was empty. Sabine fetched Wade a cappuccino and sat opposite him. “So, why the surprise visit?”

“I don’t know what is happening. Mum and Dad are on holidays on a mountain that doesn’t exist, or it shouldn’t exist, but it’s there. I just needed to see you.” Wade reached over and held Sabine’s hands, but she remained motionless. He sensed her distance and released her, reaching awkwardly for his cappuccino instead.

“You should call your parents,” Sabine said. “You’re homesick. Time makes you forget...” Suddenly Sabine looked over Wade’s shoulder. He turned to see what it was. It was the man from the bar. He smiled and waved at Sabine, who stood up and went to him. “Hi Markus....”

They spoke softly in German, just out of earshot. Wade tried not to stare when Markus leant against a balustrade and drew a cigarette to his lips, and then Sabine lit it.
Markus looked familiar, and when Wade realised it was a young Marlon Brando that shared the resemblance, he felt the salty burn of tears in his eyes. He thought of his own unremarkable features -- his rounded face and weak chin, his thin lips, and his bland, hazel-brown eyes. The universe was infinitely cruel
Markus noticed Wade’s stare and then leant forward and whispered something to Sabine. She turned and glanced at Wade, then spoke briefly to Markus, who gave her a saccharine smile, squeezed her arm gently and left.

Sabine returned. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Who was that guy?”

“Markus. He’s a good friend of mine,” Sabine said, taking Wade’s empty cup and then wiping down his table.

“Hey, haven’t you got time to sit for a few more minutes? We need to talk.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t. My break is over.”

As if on queue, the elderly lady waved her purse at Sabine. “I wish to pay please.”

***

Wade left the Konditorei and wandered along Herrengasse, past Café Central, and down to the old town hall. The square was mostly empty, aside from a handful of tourists taking photos. A couple carrying day-packs approached Wade and asked him to take a photo of them. He obliged, even managing to croak out “smile!” The couple embraced and beamed at the camera. They reminded Wade of when he first arrived here. He had though the old city was fascinating and majestic. Now it just seemed cold.

When the couple had wandered off, Wade called his mother. A stranger’s voice on the other end answered “Yeah?”

“Who is this? I want to speak with Mum, Doreen.”

“Wrong number, mate.” The line went dead.

Wrong number? He had used the saved number in his contacts list. He called again. The stranger answered. Wade hung up. He dialled his brother but it went to a message bank, a girl’s voice. Distraught he scrolled through his contacts, calling the saved numbers; all were wrong or did not exist.

He found an internet cafe and tried to log into his Yahoo mailbox, but a message kept appearing ‘This ID is not yet taken. Are you trying to register for a new account?’ He typed in ‘www.the advertiser.com.au’. The headlines read ‘Vulcanologists warn Mt Flinders may erupt at any time.’ A joke. A nightmare. Hell, I’m loosing it! He typed in the address for the White Pages, and entered his parent’s name: ‘Langdon’. There were seven hits, none with his parents address. He found the number for the police and called
“Adelaide police central,” the voice answered.

“Yes, I’m overseas and I’ve lost contact with my parents, actually with everyone. I’ve read the news about a mountain that might erupt...” Wade said, his voice starting to quaver.

“Sir, you need to contact the Mount Flinders emergency hotline. It’s been set-up for concerned families of residents believed to still be on Mount Flinders. The number is –-”

“No, you’re not following. There is no Mount Flinders, no volcano, it’s a joke.”
The voice on the other end replied angrily; the words Wade did not hear, did not want to hear, and moments later the line went dead.

Wade did not fight back the tears as he fled the café and ran out onto the sidewalk. A wintery evening had descended. The rain shimmered in the headlights of the peak-hour traffic. The sidewalk was empty, the shop windows dark, and the toxic smell of traffic hung heavily in the air. Wade boarded a red and white number six tram and rode the dozen stops to Sabine.
The large apartment block was only a short walk from the tram stop. Sabine lived on the third floor. Wade ascended the spiral staircase, his anxiety tightening with every step. He pushed the door bell, and after several moments he heard footsteps toward the door. The door opened. It was Markus. He wore a T-Shirt, and what appeared to be hastily put-on trousers. “Yes?”

“Where’s Sabine?”

“Who are you?”

“Her boyfriend, Wade.”

Markus frowned. “Wait here.” he said before closing the door. Wade’s fury was only tempered by the unnerving feeling that something was terribly wrong, not that Markus had something with Sabine; that was painfully evident. Wade feared he had lost his sanity.

Minutes later the door opened and Sabine appeared in a bathrobe. “Hello, what are you doing here?”

“I needed to see you. Something terrible is happening to me. Now I find you with him. You’re seeing him aren’t you?”

“I don’t understand, Wade.”

“I trusted you. I thought you loved me, that you were coming with me to Australia. Why have you been lying to me?”

Markus appeared behind Sabine “Is everything ok?”

“It’s ok, it’s Wade from the bar. Just give me a minute,” Sabine said. Markus scowled and then retreated down the hallway.

“I’m sorry Wade. Did I say that? I can’t seem to...” Sabine paused, as if something had suddenly occurred to her. She looked at Wade, searching his face. “How could I have said that? I live here with Markus.”

“Christ, Sabine! How can that be? I slept here last night.”

“Please, you’re frightening me. You’ve never been here.”

Wade could feel his face burning hotly “I love you. I don’t want to leave you,” he cried and then stepped forward to embrace her. She stepped back and cried out for Markus, who rushed down the hallway and stood before Sabine

“Leave or I will call the police,” he said and then pushed Wade backwards and slammed the door closed.
Wade stood in the stairwell, stared at the closed door and hugged himself as he shuddered. What madness had possessed him?

***

Several days later a Lufthansa 767 touched down at Adelaide Airport. Wade stepped out and inhaled the warm coastal air. The scent drew him back to the day he departed, and relief, as if it were the first breath he’d drawn all year, filled his chest and flowed through his limbs. He was home. He suddenly felt that he could bear the anguish of loosing Sabine. Perhaps the nightmare of the last week, like the shadows of winter that lurked in that old city, had been left behind.

A faint tremor shook him from his thoughts, and he looked about in surprise. A group of passengers had stopped on the tarmac, and were pointing out toward the city. Wade looked across the city sky-line and saw it. Like a giant that swallowed the horizon, a vast shadow threatening to engulf the city below, stood the mountain. The peak was a shimmering spear-tip of white, and above it a dirty black cloud of smoke and ash lingered ominously. Wade held his breath. His madness was real.

***

In the terminal building the customs officer scrutinised Wade’s passport before stamping it and indicating he could pass. But Wade had hardly taken a dozen paces toward baggage claim, when a woman in uniform stopped him. “Mr Langdon, could you please accompany me.”

“Why, is there a problem?”

She did not answer; instead she led him into a small office and offered him a seat. “You’ve noticed there have been some changes while you were away,” she said as she sat down across from him and placed a folder upon the table.

“You mean the mountain, don’t you?”

“This drama is complex. A change of setting like this always creates ripples,” she said. “You slipped under the radar when the change occurred, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed.”
Wade stared at her. She smiled back. Her neatly tied-back blonde hair, the splash of red upon her lips, and the silk neck tie, reminded Wade of an airline hostess, but there was a disconcerting aura about her.

“How do you mean?”

She opened the folder and pulled out a spiral bound document. “Here’s your new script. I skimmed it while I waited. It’s most entertaining. You’ll lead a happy life.”

Wade laughed: it was absurd. “My script? I’m not an actor, but I’m beginning to think you are,” he said looking about the room for a hidden camera. “If that’s my script, you can tell me if there are any more scenes with a girl called Sabine?”

“After you take the part, Mr Langdon, you’ll no longer care.”

“I’ll no longer remember?”

“You cannot remember something if it never happened. Take the script!”

He hesitated. It was an odd sensation seeing his name printed in bold black ink upon the front cover. He felt an overwhelming desire to reach out and grasp it, but he resisted. It was outrageous to suggest that his life was just a part that could be rewritten, erased, as if it all had no meaning other than for the sake of entertainment.

“Who’s the director then?”

“No-one, Mr Langdon. The drama simply exists, a record of action in this physical universe. Your part is recorded upon it.”


“Maybe I don’t care about the record, and I’m not interested in playing the part.”

“You don’t have a choice, Mr Langdon. We are all bound by the drama. Free will is an illusion.”

Wade stood up. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m tired and I want to go home. I’m not taking that script and I don’t think there’s anything you can do about it.”

Her smile waned and her eyes lost their warmth. “Do you prefer your madness, Mr Langdon?”

“To hell with you, I’m out of here,” said Wade, turning for the door. But the way was blocked. A security guard stood before him.

“Sir, you are not supposed to be in here,” the guard said.

“Well, why was I bloody well led in here?”

The guard looked past Wade to the desk. “I believe you left something behind.”

Wade turned: The room was empty. The script lay on the desk. “The woman -- she’s gone...” Wade said. The guard looked blankly, and Wade’s instincts told him the guard knew nothing of her.

“Are you Wade Langdon?” the guard asked, picking up the script.

“Yeah, but that’s not mine,” said Wade, who lingered by the door and considered making a dash for the exit.

“A play is it?” the guard asked as he flicked through the pages.

“I told you, it’s not mine.”

“Funny.”

“What?”

“I swore I just saw some text change.”

“Can I go?”

The guard studied Wade for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders and dropped Wade’s script onto the table. “Certainly, Sir. Welcome home.”

***

Wade stood outside the terminal and wondered where he should go next. Logically he should return home and hope to find his father working in the garden or his mother returning from the golf links. But the smell of sulphur mixed now with the ocean air, and he knew that everything had changed. No-one would be waiting for him. No-one would know who he was, and if he told anyone what he knew they’d take him for mad.

The earth trembled again, a flake of ash drifted down like a fallen leaf and landed at Wade’s feet. He bent down and picked it up. It smeared black between his thumb and finger. He stared at the blackness and thought of the woman’s words: “Do you prefer your madness?” And then it occurred to him: if he is the only one who knows the truth, then he is alone and to the rest of the world, mad. And what good are his memories if they serve no other purpose than to torment him and hold him in perpetual mourning? If he took a new script and no longer knew better, then what of it? Perhaps these changes occur often. The woman did say he would lead a happy life.

He stood staring up at the mountain for several minutes and then turned and went back into the terminal.