Peru

Walk Carefully / Narrow Path. The words were printed in English on a wooden board at the top of the steps, with Spanish translation underneath. They could have said: Damn Ye Who Enter Here. Past the board he could see the forest canopy steps finally ended and the path wormed round the open rock face. He stopped to take a breather. This marked the do or die moment.

So far the height had been hidden by the trees. Now his primal vertiginous fear returned with giddy nausea. Realisation hit he may not make it all the way up. Twenty five years of smoking marred by only brief interludes of exercise and a lot of broken bones made him the wreck he was.

Resting wasn’t making much difference to his breathing. He got up and walked round the corner. 

Out of the tree canopy shade the sun opened up above him. It was going to be a hot one. One step at a time, that was how you did. If the drop scared don’t look over it, just look at your feet. One step at a time.

He had spent the last hour in a game of leapfrog with another couple. When they stopped for a break, he passed them, when he rested, they overtook him. He approached them again, gasping as they sat on some rocks admiring a view. Sweating, he nodded to join them, they beckoned okay.

Maria was older than Jorge, although she looked ten years younger. They were Columbian, exploring their beautiful South American continent on the cheap, taking three months and stretching the budget to accomodate.

“The other walk was easier,” Jorge said, indicating the peak on the other side of Machu Picchu. “It’s steeper, but doesn’t take half as long as this.” The young Columbian had done it the previous day. Altitude was the great leveller and it gave him strength to know they were feeling it as much as he, youth no easy barrier to the exhaustion that enveloped them all.

They walked on and left him sipping his water bottle staring down at the ancient city below. He admired their courage, limited resources had not shackled them, they walked free anyway. Money was not a problem, caring about it was, spending it was. The beleaguered stomp of a passing hiker sounded like boots on concrete rather than the earth they ploughed and took him back again.

HE HAD BROUGHT HER DOWN TO HIS LEVEL RATHER THAN ALLOW HIMSELF TO BE RAISED TO HERS 

He could hear Thomas as he trudged up to the flat from work, the toddler’s cries carried down the stairwell. Turning the key in the lock provoked a spasm of fear. Please no, let him be okay.

Rosie had been decorating again. Post-It notes labelled the furniture. Their tired three seater was marked ‘Florence Knoll leather’, his holed leather armchair was now an ‘Eames lounger’, the coffee table was ‘Ercol’. The living room was dotted with the yellow markings of aspiration, even the defunct fireplace with cobwebs in the heater grill had ‘William Morris’ above as imaginary wallpaper.

Yesterday, the Eames had been a Balzac armchair. She had been playing the game of fantasy interiors for a couple of weeks now, enthusiastically cutting pictures out of the Sunday Times Style supplement to feed the dream. He didn’t think her so materialistic before, being of the set that never had to acknowledge possessions because they were always there.

Perhaps that old adage of appreciation only coming once lost was true after all. Rosie wasn’t rich anymore. He had brought her down to his level rather than allow himself to be raised to hers.

“He was asleep most of the day, guess he wanted to say hi to Daddy when he got home.” She was walking up and down the bedroom cradling their son in a blanket. Briefly, he wondered if that was true, if the delusional redecorating had caused her to ignore such cries.

“Hard day at the office?” She passed Thomas across to him. Her smile, so warm, so open, so loving, cast those doubts away. He felt foolish for thinking so. She stroked the side of his face gently. “Think a pie is in order.”

Smelt like Thomas had already made one. “That was good timing.” Her rich, deep, throaty laugh washed the last of his worries away. “Wouldn’t want you missing out.” Thomas was beautiful, she was beautiful, life was beautiful. Their son was life in all his dirty, honest glory.

As he changed his nappy, ran a bath, washed his son gently, stared into his mother’s blue eyes, the future glowed once more. They curled up on the sofa after dinner, her bare feet hanging lazily off the side, toes air tapping to Unfinished Sympathy. No matter what happened it would be good, filled with laughter, love, problems would resolve and fade with time. What could spoil that?