Бесплатный фрагмент - White storm

Author’s Preface

Mountains do not kill. They simply let us die.

When I first read the story of the two climbers who survived for seven days in a snow trap on the slopes of Mont Blanc, it wasn’t the drama of their situation that struck me most, but the dialogues they held, recorded on a crackling dictaphone. In those recordings, fragmented and interrupted by the howling wind, there was something more than just a survival log. It was a confession. A confession of two people standing on the border between life and eternity.

For a long time, I hesitated to touch this story. Their conversation seemed too sacred, too personal. But the more I pored over those few preserved lines, the clearer I understood: this story must be told. Not as a dry report, but as a parable about man facing the infinite.

“Whiteout” is not a documentary reconstruction of events. It is an attempt to hear what was left beyond the frame of official reports. I changed the names, added fictional episodes, allowed myself to imagine what the blizzard had forever carried away. But the essence remains untouched — two people, trapped in an icy cave, holding the last dialogue of their lives.

Why do we go to the mountains? What do we seek on these dangerous slopes? Perhaps the answer is simple: we seek ourselves. And when we find it — it turns out this “self” is not at all what we imagined down below, in the world of hot coffee and warm blankets.

This book is about the truths revealed to a person when only white darkness remains around. About how all values change when your only interlocutor becomes your own death. About what it means to forgive. Yourself. Others. Even this merciless mountain.

I do not know what those two ultimately experienced in their snowy grave. But working on this book, I felt as if I had been there myself — in that kingdom of silence, where every breath echoes and thoughts become as pure and sharp as alpine ice.

May “Whiteout” be for you not just a reading, but an experience. An experience of ultimate sincerity. For it is only in the face of death that we finally dare to say what truly matters.

— Madina Fedosova

Winter 2023

Somewhere between memory and fiction

P.S. If after reading you feel the urge to step outside and breathe the frosty air deep into your lungs — then I have managed to convey at least a fraction of that sensation of life that opens to a person when they stare death in the eye.

Prologue
Cold

It came unexpectedly, like a thief, creeping through layers of clothing, through thermal underwear and down jackets, through skin and muscle, straight to the bones. Alejandro Gutiérrez felt it even before dawn, as he checked his gear by the tent. His fingers, usually so deft, struggled with the carabiners. His breath turned into white plumes that froze instantly in the air, sprinkling fine crystals onto his gloves.

“Minus twenty-five,” he muttered, glancing at the thermometer. “And that’s before sunrise.”

The sound of a tent unzipping came from behind him. Eivind Larsen stuck his head out; his fair hair stuck out in all directions, the marks of a sleeping bag imprinted on his cheeks.

“My calculations said it shouldn’t be colder than minus eighteen today,” he said, squinting at the thermometer.

“Your calculations can go to hell,” grumbled Alejandro, pulling his ice axe from the backpack.

The ice axe, old and trusted, with the engraving “María, 2005”, suddenly cracked in his hands. A sharp sound, like a gunshot, echoed through the gorge, bouncing off the cliffs. Alejandro froze, examining the break. The steel had snapped clean in the middle, as if sliced neatly by a knife.

“Damn it,” he whispered.

Eivind stepped closer, his breath quickening from the cold.

“That’s… a bad omen,” he said, picking up the broken piece.

“Omens are for superstitious old women,” Alejandro snapped, but uncertainty tinged his voice. He remembered how, ten years ago in the Pyrenees, his wife María’s ice axe had broken a day before the avalanche hit.

“According to data from the Polar Research Institute,” Eivind began in his usual lecturing tone, “83% of mountaineering fatalities occur due to ignoring minor equipment malfunctions.”

“Shut up,” Alejandro said sharply. “Just shut up.”

He threw the broken piece of the ice axe into the snow, where it instantly vanished as if it had never been.

Eivind sighed, pulling a GPS from his pocket.

“The wind is picking up. There will be a blizzard here in two hours.”

Alejandro looked at the sky. Clouds, low and heavy, crawled along the horizon like a herd of frightened sheep.

“When the wind blows from the west, and the clouds crawl like crabs — expect trouble,” he quoted the words of his first guide, an old Basque who had taught him to read the mountains like a book.

Eivind smirked:

“My grandfather, a fisherman from the Lofoten Islands, said: ‘Signs are what those who cannot read a barometer believe in.’”

They stood facing each other, two men, two worldviews, divided not only by nationality but by all their experience. Alejandro, who grew up in the shadow of the Pyrenees, knew from childhood that mountains are not just rocks and snow. They are living beings, capricious and dangerous. Eivind, raised among fjords and glaciers, believed only in numbers, charts, and scientific forecasts.

“Alright,” Alejandro said finally. “Let’s check your barometer.”

They continued their ascent, not knowing that in three hours an avalanche would engulf them with a roar heard for kilometers.

The Avalanche

It came without warning.

First, a faint whisper — a barely perceptible sound, like the rustle of wings. Then a rumble, growing like thunder, turning into a roar. Alejandro only had time to turn around before a white wall of snow crashed down upon them.

He only remembered the sensation of falling, the impact against rocks, snow filling his mouth, his nose, his eyes. Then — darkness.

The first thing he felt upon regaining consciousness was pain. Sharp, piercing, emanating from deep within his body. The second — silence. Not the peaceful silence of the mountains, but a thick, oppressive silence, as if his ears were stuffed with cotton.

“Larsen?” His voice came back as an echo from the icy walls.

A groan answered him. In the flashlight’s beam, Eivind lay pinned against the cave wall, his face pale, almost translucent with pain. He clutched his side, blood seeping through his torn jacket.

“Break?” Alejandro asked, automatically reaching for the first aid kit, remembering how his partner in the Andes ten years ago had died from a similar impact against a rock.

“Ribs…” Eivind grimaced. “But the main thing is this.”

He held up the dictaphone. The tape was still spinning.

“The recording has been going for…” he glanced at his watch, “forty minutes. I started when you were unconscious.”

Alejandro took the device. His own hoarse breathing came from the speaker.

“17:34. This is… Eivind Larsen. If you can hear this — we are under an avalanche on the north slope…”

The Norwegian’s voice on the tape sounded strangely calm, as if he were giving a lecture to students.

“You were recording this while I was dying?” Alejandro felt a surge of rage.

“I was recording the truth,” Eivind corrected him. “In 1963, in the Dolomites, two climbers left a diary — they kept it for nine days until they froze. Read it — and you’ll understand that in the end, everyone writes the same thing.”

Alejandro turned off the recording.

“Then let’s write not like everyone else.”

Outside, the wind howled, but here, in the icy cocoon, a silence fell — the kind that comes before a confession.

Conversation in the Dark

“Do you believe in God?” Eivind asked unexpectedly.

Alejandro, busy bandaging his wound, stopped.

“Why?”

“Just curious. In situations like these, people usually start to believe.”

“I believe in mountains,” said Alejandro. “They are closer to God than any church.”

Eivind gave a weak smile:

“My grandfather said God is just the echo of our cry into the void.”

“Your grandfather seems to have had a lot to say.”

“He was a wise man.”

Alejandro sighed, leaning back against the icy wall.

“If we die here…”

“When,” Eivind corrected.

“If,” Alejandro insisted. “If we die here, what will be left of us?”

“This recording.”

“So what? Someone will find it a hundred years from now, listen to it, and say: ‘Ah, two more fools who climbed a mountain.’”

Eivind closed his eyes.

“Perhaps. But at least they will know our names.”

Silence filled the cave once more. Somewhere beyond the walls, a blizzard raged, but here, in this icy crypt, it was almost warm. Or was that the frostbite beginning to set in?

Alejandro picked up the dictaphone.

“Then let’s tell them the whole truth.”

And he pressed the record button.

Part One

The Edge
Chapter 1
Foreboding

Bilbao, Spain. Morning.

Bilbao greeted the dawn with the rumble of garbage trucks and the cries of seagulls. Alejandro woke to the sound of a cold sea wind slamming the shutters against the windowsill. He lay motionless, listening to Carmen filling the coffee pot in the next room — precise, economical movements honed over fifteen years of marriage. On the nightstand, next to a photo of Luisa in first grade, lay his old hiking watch with a cracked crystal — a gift from Javier before their last climb together.

He got up, and his bare feet touched the tiles, cold as glacial moraine. The bedroom smelled of naphthalene from the winter clothes Carmen had unpacked the day before, and the faint scent of lavender — her favorite sachets in the dresser. Through the open window drifted the aroma of roasted almonds from a street vendor and the salty breeze from the estuary.

“Couldn’t sleep again?” Carmen stood at the stove, stirring chorizo. Her voice sounded tired, without expectation of an answer. “At three o’clock, I heard you pacing the kitchen.”

Alejandro silently poured coffee into a tin mug — a gift from his daughter last birthday. The inscription “Best Dad” had faded from countless washings.

“Taking Luisa to school today?” Carmen asked, cracking an egg against the edge of the pan with one precise movement.

“At eight-thirty. Then I need to stop by the office.”

“The office again?” She turned sharply, and a drop of grease from the pan fell on her pink robe, leaving a stain. “Last time you ‘stopped by the office’ and disappeared for three days in the Pyrenees. We have a parent-teacher conference next week.”

He reached for a napkin, but Carmen had already turned away, wiping the stain with the edge of her robe. Outside, the bell of the San Nicolás church rang, marking seven o’clock. Down on the street, an old neighbor was walking her dachshund, which was barking furiously at a cat sunbathing on the roof of a 1992 Citroën.

“It’s an important client,” Alejandro said, though he knew Carmen had already figured it out. She always did.

“All your clients are important. Until the bills come due.” She set a plate of fried eggs in front of him, the yolk neatly separated from the white — as she always did, knowing he hated them mixed.

He wanted to answer, but at that moment Luisa burst into the room in her pajamas with climbing carabiner prints — a gift from her father last year.

“Dad, is it true there are mummies of climbers on Mont Blanc?” The girl jumped onto his lap, smelling of children’s shampoo and sleep.

“Not mummies, little one,” he said, fixing her braids, tousled from the night. “It’s just… very cold up there. So cold that people…”

“They turn into ice statues!” Luisa interrupted, her eyes shining. “Amina told me yesterday! She said they stand there like ghosts and move when the wind blows!”

Carmen slammed the refrigerator door shut.

“Enough of these scary stories at breakfast. Luisa, go get dressed.”

When the girl ran out, silence hung in the kitchen. Alejandro poked at his eggs with a fork, watching a sunbeam play in a puddle of coffee on the table. Carmen stood by the window, her back to him, watching the old neighbor vainly trying to drag her dachshund away from a tree.

“You promised,” she said finally, without turning around. “After what happened in the Andes. No more winter solo ascents.”

He put down his fork, leaving the eggs almost untouched.

“I’m not alone. There’s a Norwegian with me. A professional.”

“What Norwegian?” Carmen turned sharply, and he saw the same fear in her eyes as ten years ago in the hospital.

“From the University of Bergen. A glaciologist. We…” he reached for his backpack by the door, “…we’re studying glacier changes on the north face.”

Carmen silently picked up his passport from the table, where he had left it the night before. The page with the French visa was neatly tucked in so it wouldn’t be obvious.

“Three years ago,” she said quietly, “when you went to the Dolomites, you also talked about ‘research.’ And then I got a call from the hospital in Bolzano.”

Outside, an ambulance siren wailed — must be another one of the old folks in the neighboring building. Alejandro stood up, leaving his coffee undrunk.

“This is different. We have a satellite phone, a full set of gear…”

“Like Javier had?” Carmen threw the passport on the table. “Remember? The newest ice axes, a million-euro insurance policy… Didn’t help him much, did it?”

He took a sharp breath, feeling the old scar on his side — a souvenir from that very avalanche in the Andes — begin to ache, predicting a change in the weather.

“I have to do this,” he said simply. There were no other words she hadn’t heard before.

Carmen looked at him, then slowly pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her robe pocket — his train ticket to Barcelona. She knew. She always knew.

“At eight-thirty,” she said, putting the ticket back on the table. “Don’t be late for school. Luisa will be waiting for you at the gate.”

When she left, Alejandro remained alone in the kitchen, listening to Luisa humming a song about a yeti as she packed her schoolbag next door. Outside, the dachshund finally broke free from the tree and was now barking joyfully at pigeons. Somewhere in the port, a ship bound for England sounded its horn. Life went on, ordinary, mundane, warm. And in his backpack, he already had the tickets, his gear, and twenty-three letters — one for each day of his absence. In case the mountain decided to keep him forever.

Oslo, Norway. Evening.

The Fjord bar was located in the basement of Oslo Airport’s old terminal. The ceiling was so low that tall visitors instinctively stooped, and the ventilation system occasionally made sounds resembling the howl of a mountain wind. Eivind Larsen sat in his usual corner, where the wooden wall was adorned with a photo of his father against the backdrop of Everest. On the table in front of him stood a glass of traditional Norwegian potato liqueur, which this bar made according to an old recipe with cumin and anise.

Behind the counter, Torgeir, a former polar explorer with frostbitten fingers, slowly sorted bottles on the shelf. His massive figure cast a shadow on the wall, which held:

A yellowed map of Antarctica from the 1980s

A photo of the first Norwegian expedition to the South Pole

A collection of old ice axes from different eras

A clock with a frozen hand showing 17:34—the time when a group of climbers died on K2 in 2002

“Can’t sleep again?” Torgeir’s voice sounded hoarse, as always after his morning cigarette. He set a plate of smoked salmon and rye crisps in front of Eivind. “Third day in a row I see you here at this time.”

Eivind slowly unfolded a bright postcard sent from France. The paper smelled of expensive perfume and something else — perhaps snow from the alpine peaks. “An invitation to suicide,” he muttered, showing Torgeir the text: “Mont Blanc. 4810 m. Come if you dare. Les Aigles Blancs.”

“Ah, those Parisian snobs,” Torgeir wiped his hands on his apron, leaving traces of fish oil. “They still can’t forgive you for summiting Everest without oxygen when their star climber came back with frostbitten lungs.”

Eivind reached for the liqueur but suddenly froze, hearing a familiar sound — the screech of crampons on the tiled floor. In the doorway stood a young guy in a new climbing jacket, looking around uncertainly.

“See him?” Eivind nodded toward the newcomer. “I was like that twenty years ago. Full of ideas, ambitions… and a complete lack of understanding of what real mountains are.”

Torgeir grunted, pulling out an old photo from under the counter: “And here’s you on your first climb. The same look.” In the picture, a young Eivind stood next to a tall man — his exact copy, just twenty years older.

“Father said the mountains don’t forgive two things — overconfidence and fear,” Eivind took a sip of liqueur, feeling the warmth spread through his body. “But he didn’t say the most important thing — they also don’t forgive those who come to them with the wrong questions.”

Outside, a plane taking off rumbled, making the glasses on the shelves tremble. Torgeir poured himself a drink, the compass tattoo on his forearm shifting as he raised his glass: “So why are you even going to these Frenchmen? After all that happened…”

Eivind took a worn notebook from his pocket, opening it to a page marked “North Route. January 2013.” “See these numbers? This is data on the glacier’s movement over the last ten years. Something’s wrong here. Every January on this section…” He fell silent, noticing the newcomer at the bar pricking up his ears.

Torgeir lowered his voice: “And this Spaniard? Gutiérrez? Does he know what he’s signing up for?”

“He knows more than he says,” Eivind unfolded a map on the table where five points along the north face were marked in red. “Every year on January 15th, he hikes this route alone. Exactly ten years in a row. Like clockwork.”

The bar suddenly smelled of fried onions — a plate of hot snacks was brought out from the kitchen for a group of noisy tourists. Eivind wrinkled his nose — that smell always reminded him of cheap mountain huts in the Alps.

“Did you talk to his wife?” Torgeir wiped a glass so thoroughly, it was as if he were trying to erase the past from it.

“She refused to see me. But she sent a message through her daughter…” Eivind took out an envelope with a child’s drawing — a mountain and two figures at its base. “She knows he won’t come back this time. And she still lets him go.”

Outside, the runway lights came on, casting a bluish tint on Eivind’s face. He finished his liqueur, feeling the alcohol mix with the fatigue of recent sleepless nights.

“Flight at six a.m.,” he said, standing up and adjusting his backpack, from which crampons and an ice axe handle protruded. “If there’s no word in two weeks… you know where to look.”

Torgeir nodded silently, his gaze sliding over a photo on the wall — a group shot of the 1994 expedition, where among the smiling faces, one serious one stood out — young Eivind, standing next to his father on the last day before that fateful climb.

When the door closed behind Eivind, Torgeir took out an old map of Mont Blanc from under the counter, where someone had carefully circled that very north route in red pencil. In the margin was written: “The glacier doesn’t forgive twice. 17.01.2003.”

Sagrado Corazón School. 8:05 a.m.

An autumn morning in Bilbao began with the characteristic hum of garbage trucks and the shouts of fishermen returning from the night’s catch. The humid air was saturated with the aromas of freshly baked bread from the corner bakery, the salty breeze from the estuary, and the faint scent of pine — city workers had already started decorating the streets for the upcoming holidays.

The schoolyard of Sagrado Corazón was a bustling anthill. Children in blue uniforms with the school’s crest on their chests darted between old plane trees whose leaves had already begun to yellow. On the facade of the building, constructed in 1912 in the Neo-Gothic style, hung a sign with the school’s motto: “Cor scientiae, cor compassionis” — “A heart of knowledge, a heart of compassion.”

Luisa was jumping in puddles left by the night’s rain, her new yellow backpack bouncing on her back, her rubber boots with unicorn prints leaving clear impressions on the wet asphalt.

“Dad!” her ringing voice cut through the general hubbub. “Is it true there are frozen people on Mont Blanc? Amina said yesterday they stand there like statues, and their faces are perfectly preserved! She saw pictures online!”

Alejandro adjusted her crooked hood, feeling the rough fabric under his fingers. He bent down to tie the lace on her left shoe, which was always coming undone.

“You see, ma petite,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “tragedies sometimes happen in the mountains. The ice preserves the climbers’ bodies, but they’re not mummies in the usual sense. It’s more…” he hesitated, “…more like monuments to themselves.”

The tag from a new children’s backpack with a GPS tracker — a “just in case” gift — stuck out of his jacket pocket.

“So they really are standing there?” Luisa’s eyes widened. “Like in a museum? Can you touch them?”

At that moment, Amina ran up to them, the daughter of Moroccan immigrants who always squinted, refusing to wear glasses. Her blue headscarf — a mandatory part of the school uniform — was tied carelessly, revealing dark curls.

“Monsieur Gutiérrez!” the girl made an elegant curtsy, taught to her by her grandmother, a former dancer. “Is it true you’re going to that very mountain? But it’s dangerous! My aunt said people die there every year!”

“Amina!” Luisa frowned and stamped her foot, sending up a spray of water. “I asked you not to talk about it!”

Alejandro felt a shiver run down his spine. He looked at his watch — an old mechanical one, a gift from Javier before their last climb together. The hands showed 8:15—his train to Barcelona left in forty-five minutes.

“Girls,” he crouched down to be at their eye level, “mountains are like… very strict teachers. They demand respect, attention, and preparation. But if you do everything right…”

“Then you can find treasure!” Luisa interrupted, grabbing her father’s hand. “You said the most beautiful clouds hide on the peaks!”

The PE teacher came out of the school doors — a grey-haired woman in her sixties with a face resembling a relief map of the Pyrenees. Her voice, accustomed to commanding in the wind, easily cut through the noise of the children’s voices:

“Gutiérrez! Bensaid! Morning assembly! We have a rehearsal for the Christmas play today!”

Luisa suddenly looked seriously at her father and shoved her hand into her jacket pocket. She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

“Here,” she whispered. “It’s you and me on the summit. So you don’t forget what we look like.”

Alejandro unfolded the drawing — a blue mountain and two small figures on the summit. In the corner, a child’s hand had written: “For the best dad.”

“I…” his voice trembled. “I will definitely come back, ma petite. And we’ll together…”

“Monsieur Gutiérrez!” Amina suddenly shouted, interrupting him. “Is it true you can see five countries from the top? And that there’s a special book where everyone writes their names?”

The children around them giggled, and the PE teacher shook her head, probably remembering dozens of similar fathers who had gone to the mountains. Alejandro just waved his hand and quickly walked toward the exit, where a taxi driver was waiting — an old Basque with a face etched with wrinkles like a mountain trail.

As the car pulled away, he saw through the window Luisa and Amina standing hugged, discussing something animatedly. Then they both waved to him simultaneously — one energetically, like a metronome, the other gracefully, like a ballerina.

The taxi driver turned on the radio, which was broadcasting a weather forecast for the Alpine region. The announcer spoke of an approaching storm and dropping temperatures. Alejandro closed his eyes, inhaling the mixture of scents — the car seats’ leather, the sea air seeping through the slightly open window, and the faint smell of school chalk lingering on his fingers after saying goodbye to his daughter.

“Five countries,” he thought, looking at the child’s drawing. Yes, from the summit of Mont Blanc, you could indeed see five countries. But the most important things always remained invisible to the eye — the unspoken words, the promises he had made to himself ten years ago, standing over the crevasse where Javier had remained forever.

And now, with a child’s drawing in his pocket and twenty-three letters in his backpack, he was going back to that mountain — not for triumph, but for forgiveness.

Barcelona El Prat Airport. Terminal 1. 9:30 p.m.

The departure lounge resembled a huge aquarium — the cold light of fluorescent lamps reflected off the polished granite floors, creating a sense of unreality. The air was thick with a mixture of aromas — pungent coffee from a nearby café, the sweet smell of freshly baked croissants, and the acrid note of disinfectant used to wipe the plastic chairs. Somewhere in the distance, a steady hum of voices could be heard — a blend of Spanish, Catalan, and a dozen other languages merging into a single background noise.

Alejandro walked slowly through the duty-free corridor, his hiking backpack with climbing gear softly tapping against his back. Shop windows gleamed with chrome surfaces, offering last-minute purchases before the flight. In one of them, filled with rows of perfume bottles, stood a young saleswoman. Her dark hair was gathered in a careless bun, and a compass tattoo — a meticulously detailed instrument with a needle pointing strictly northwest — adorned her wrist.

“Looking for a gift?” she asked before Alejandro could open his mouth. Her voice sounded tired, but laughter hid in the corners of her brown eyes. “For a woman or for yourself?”

Alejandro set his backpack on the floor, feeling his back muscles tense after a long wait in the check-in line. His gaze slid over the shelves of bottles, stopping at one — simple, unadorned, with a white label.

“Choosing a classic scent,” the saleswoman stated, taking out the bottle. “Interesting, why this one?” She turned the bottle in her hands, and the light from the lamps reflected in the glass. “That’s a rather rare choice for a man.”

“My wife…” Alejandro hesitated, adjusting his backpack strap, “…she has loved this scent since we met at university. The chemistry lab smelled exactly like this — jasmine and… something else.”

The saleswoman smiled, and the piercing in her eyebrow glinted:

“Did you know this fragrance has a note of alpine flowers? Edelweiss, to be precise.” She carefully wrapped the bottle in gift paper with a delicate pattern of flowering branches. “In Switzerland, they believe these flowers bring luck to travelers.”

Outside the terminal, a plane’s engine roared to life. Alejandro mechanically pulled a crumpled child’s drawing from his pocket — a blue mountain and two figures on the summit. The saleswoman noticed the movement.

“For your daughter?” she asked, tying the ribbon on the package.

“For my wife.” He put the package in the side pocket of his backpack, where a stack of letters in blue envelopes — one for each day of his absence — already lay. “Just in case.”

The girl froze for a moment, her fingers with chipped blue polish lingering on the bow.

“My father…” she began quietly, “…he was a fisherman. Every time he went to sea, he left us letters like that. Mom said it was his way of staying close, even when…” She didn’t finish, handing Alejandro a small sample. “Take it. A new fragrance — smells like rain and chestnuts. For… difficult days.”

The board flashed with a message about boarding for the flight to Lyon. Alejandro nodded in thanks and turned to leave, but the girl called out to him:

“Señor!” She pulled a small silver bell from under the counter. “In the Pyrenees, shepherds hang these on their sheep so they don’t get lost in the fog.” She handed him the bell. “Take it. For luck.”

Alejandro took the bell. With a slight movement, it produced a clear, high sound, strangely contrasting with the airport’s hum.

“Thank you,” he said. “But in the mountains, we have our own bells. They hang on alpine trails so you don’t lose your way during a blizzard.”

He left the store, heading for the gate. In his backpack pocket were twenty-three letters, a bottle of perfume, and a child’s drawing. His face — tired, with a shadow of unspoken thoughts in the corners of his eyes — was reflected in the glass door. Behind him, a soft chime sounded — the saleswoman had hung the bell above the cash register, where it would ring every time the shop door opened and closed, seeing off and greeting those who left and returned.

Oslo, Norway. Central Station. 7:17 p.m.

The winter evening enveloped the platform in thick, bluish fog mixed with plumes of diesel smoke from the arriving train from Bergen. Eivind Larsen walked slowly along the slippery platform, his heavy mountain boots with deep tread leaving clear prints in the thin layer of wet snow. The air was saturated with the characteristic smells of a major transport hub — acrid diesel exhaust, the sweetish smoke from a grill selling pork sausages at the east exit, and the sharp scent of pine garlands decorating the station columns for the approaching Christmas.

He stopped in front of a 24-hour newsstand, where the bright fluorescent light pulled the covers of glossy travel magazines and neat stacks of fresh newspapers, fanned out, from the semi-darkness. Inside, it smelled of fresh printer’s ink, overbrewed coffee from a machine in the corner, and the faint aroma of pine resin from Christmas cards featuring views of the fjords.

“Afterposten,” Eivind said to the cashier, a young guy with faded tattoos on his tanned arms — stylized Viking longships that had blurred over time into blue smudges more reminiscent of children’s scribbles than fearsome ships.

The cashier, chewing gum, looked up from his phone screen and appraised the tall man in a worn mountain jacket:

“Third one today,” he said, handing over a fresh issue with a headline about new oil fields in the North Sea on the cover. “You a collector? Or just really into economic news?” The guy was clearly looking for a reason to talk, bored at the empty register during the evening shift.

Eivind silently took change from his pocket. The coins clinked onto the glass counter, covered in a thin layer of dust and fingerprints.

“Souvenirs,” he muttered, avoiding direct eye contact. “For friends abroad. They like… Norwegian newspapers. Especially the crime section.”

The cashier snorted, running his hand over his tattoos, where the once-proud ships were barely discernible:

“Yeah, especially the notes on page 24, right?” He deliberately turned the newspaper over, opening the crime section, and tapped a small article in the corner with a fingernail bitten to the quick. “All foreigners suddenly get interested in our ‘missing persons’ right before a trip to the mountains. Strange coincidence, don’t you think?”

Eivind jerked his head up. His fingers involuntarily clenched the newspaper, wrinkling the glossy paper. On the indicated page, there was indeed a tiny article: “Climber missing on Trollveggen. Search called off due to deteriorating weather.” A black-and-white photo showed a young man in climbing gear — if one didn’t know it was a five-year-old picture, one might mistake him for Eivind himself. The same square jaw, the same light eyebrows, slightly raised in surprise.

“You…” the cashier frowned, peering at the customer. “Wait a minute…” He grabbed his own copy of the paper from the counter, then looked at Eivind again. “Good God, you’re his brother! That Larsen, who…”

The station loudspeaker blared an announcement about the arrival of a train from Trondheim, giving Eivind a chance not to answer. He quickly shoved the newspapers into the side pocket of his backpack and rushed for the exit, leaving a few extra kroner on the counter.

Out in the cold air, he was enveloped again by the familiar smell of fried onions from the hot dog stand. Eivind stopped, inhaling this simple, mundane aroma, so distant from the clean, thin air of the high mountains, where his brother had remained five years ago. He took out the newspapers and, without looking, shoved them into an overflowing trash can by the metro entrance. The paper landed softly at the bottom, joining other fragments of everyday life — tickets, receipts, chocolate bar wrappers.

Somewhere in the distance, the bells of the city cathedral rang, striking seven times. Eivind adjusted the straps of his heavy backpack and strode toward the station exit, where an old blue bus to the suburbs was waiting — the very route he and his brother had taken every summer as children to their grandfather’s fishing village on the fjord. Now he was going there alone — to the old house where two photos in identical frames still stood on the mantelpiece: one of him and his father on the summit of Galdhøpiggen, the other of his brother on that last day before setting out for Trollveggen.

Fjell & Fjord Bar. 9:55 p.m.

The dim light of kerosene lamps barely pierced the dense veil of tobacco smoke shrouding the low-ceilinged room. The air was thick with a mixture of scents — juniper schnapps, cured reindeer meat, and the wet wool of jackets hung by the entrance. On the walls, covered in dark wood paneling, hung dozens of yellowed photographs: snow-capped peaks, frozen waterfalls, smiling faces against mountain ridges.

Eivind sat in his usual spot at the counter, where the wooden surface was carved with names and dates — a kind of chronicle of the establishment’s patrons. His fingers slowly traced the rim of a massive glass, leaving wet marks on the worn wood.

Torgeir, the bar owner, a former rescuer with frostbitten ears and a nose resembling a potato after a long winter, set a new glass of clear liquid in front of him.

“You look worse than my first sleeping bag after a polar expedition,” he rasped, wiping his hands on a greasy apron. “And you smell about the same. When was the last time you slept?”

Eivind looked up at a photo behind the counter — a group shot from 1993 where the “Bald Troll” team stood on the summit of Galdhøpiggen. Everyone was laughing, hugging, except for one man in the corner — his father, looking into the distance with the same expression Eivind now had on his face.

“Thanks for the concern,” he muttered, taking a sip of the strong drink. The alcohol’s sharpness burned his throat but couldn’t overpower the constant metallic taste that had haunted him since the day of that avalanche.

Torgeir leaned closer, and Eivind caught the familiar smell — a mix of cheap soap, heather smoke, and something else he always associated with childhood.

“You don’t drink before climbs,” the old man said quietly. “Never. Even when we celebrated your father’s conquest of Trolltinden, you refused a sip at sixteen. What’s changed?”

Eivind took a crumpled envelope, yellowed at the edges, from his inner pocket. Inside was a charred corner of a photograph — all that remained of the family album after that fire. On the surviving fragment, only a hand in a red glove was visible, gripping an ice axe with the engraving “M.L.” — Magnus Larsen.

“I’m not going on a climb,” he said, examining the burnt edges of the photo. “I’m going to retrieve what’s left. His gear. His notes. His…” his voice broke, “…his body, if I’m lucky.”

Torgeir slowly exhaled, and his breath, smelling of mint gum and alcohol, mixed with the smoke filling the bar.

“It’s been five years, boy. Do you really think that…” he fell silent, seeing the look on Eivind’s face.

Laughter came from a corner of the bar where a group of young climbers was celebrating a successful ascent. Someone started singing an old Norwegian mountain song but quickly fell silent under Torgeir’s heavy gaze.

“You know what they say about Trollveggen,” the old man whispered, pouring himself a drink. “Even rescuers don’t go there after October. The glacier there… it’s alive. It moves, it breathes. And it doesn’t like its dead being disturbed.”

Eivind unfolded a map in front of him — covered in notes, with areas circled in red and strange, almost mystical symbols in the margins.

“I found his diary,” he said, pointing to one of the marks. “He didn’t just fall. He found something there. Something that…” Eivind’s fingers clenched the edge of the map, “…something that made him go back there alone.”

Torgeir studied the map carefully, then suddenly grabbed Eivind’s wrist. His fingers, despite his age, were strong as climbing carabiners.

“You want to repeat his route? Alone? In January?” There was something more than just concern in the old man’s voice.

The bar fell silent, broken only by the crackling of firewood in the fireplace. Torgeir looked long at the photo behind the counter where a young Eivind stood next to his father and brother, then slowly pulled a small silver bell from under the counter — the kind hung on sheep in the mountains.

“Take it,” he croaked. “On Trollveggen, the fogs are so thick you can’t see your own hands. If… if you ring it, maybe someone will hear.”

Eivind took the bell, and its chime mixed with the sound of the opening door — new visitors entered the bar, bringing with them the smell of snow and the promise of new stories. But his story was already written — on the charred mantelpiece.

Lyon – Saint-Exupéry Airport. Terminal 3. 11:40 p.m.

Alejandro was waiting for his luggage at the carousel when an announcement came over the loudspeaker:

“Mesdames et messieurs, en raison d’une alerte à la bombe…” (Ladies and gentlemen, due to a bomb threat…)

People began to fuss. Someone dropped a suitcase.

“¡Mierda!” (Shit!) He reached for his backpack — first aid kit, letters for Luisa, the perfume…

And then he saw him.

A tall blond in a black Helly Hansen windbreaker stood by the exit, not moving, as if the storm warning didn’t concern him. Their eyes met.

The Norwegian.

That one.

Chapter 2

Shadows of the Past

Bilbao, Spain. Deusto District. 6:30 a.m.

(The day before departure)

Morning in Bilbao began with a sea breeze that crept through the narrow streets of the Deusto district, rustled the curtains on the windows, and left a salty film on the lips. Alejandro Gutiérrez stood by the window, listening to the city waking up — a bakery door slammed downstairs, a garbage truck’s brakes screeched, bottles clinked in the bar across the street. He closed his eyes, inhaling this familiar chaos, and suddenly caught himself memorizing it — the sound, the smell, the feeling — as if afraid he might never hear it again.

“Mountains do not forgive those who come to them with a heavy heart,” he recalled the words of the old Basque guide who had taken him on his first hikes.

On the windowsill lay a notebook — worn, with a faded “Refugio de Góriz” sticker. He opened it to the last pages, where instead of the usual notes about routes and gear, there were neatly numbered letters.

“Dear Luisa…”

The first letter. For the first day of his absence.

“If you are reading this, it means I have been delayed in the mountains a little longer than planned. Don’t worry — mountains, like people, sometimes test our strength. But know this: even if I don’t return on time, I will return. You remember how we played ‘climbers’ on the sofa? You said you were afraid of heights, but you climbed after me anyway because ‘daddy won’t leave me.’ Well, I won’t leave you either. Never.”

His hand trembled, and an inkblot spread across the paper like a small, dark cloud.

“Your letters again?”

Carmen’s voice sounded sharp behind him, but there was no anger in it — only weariness.

“Just notes for Luisa,” he replied without looking up.

“In case of what?”

She opened the refrigerator sharply, taking out the milk. The bottle clinked against the glass shelf.

“In case I…”

“In case you what?”

He silently pulled a clipping from El Mundo from his pocket — yellowed with time. “Tragedy on Monte Perdido: Two Climbers Dead, One Missing.” In the corner of the newspaper was his own photograph, taken the day before his partner, Javier, fell into a crevasse.

“You think I don’t know why you write these letters?” Carmen’s voice trembled. “You’re preparing not to come back. Like then.”

“He who fears death is already half dead,” he whispered the old Basque saying.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He closed the notebook and stuffed it into his backpack, where twenty envelopes — one for each day of his absence — already lay.

Luisa dragged him by the hand across the schoolyard, which smelled of wet asphalt and frying oil from the cafeteria.

“Dad, look!” she poked her finger at a display of children’s drawings. Her work — a bright blue mountain with tiny figures on the summit — hung next to abstract scribbles.

“That’s you and me on Mont Blanc!” Luisa jumped with delight.

Alejandro felt something cold tighten around his throat.

“Ma petite,” he bent down, adjusting her bow, “remember our game? If I get delayed in the mountains…”

“…I have to open one letter a day!” the girl rolled her eyes. “Dad, you promised it was just an adventure.”

“Adventure is just danger we have agreed to,” he wanted to say but remained silent.

In his jacket pocket was a train ticket to Barcelona. There was no return ticket.

Oslo met Eivind Larsen with cold rain and the smell of fried sausages from street stalls. He walked along Thorvald Meyers gate, where laughter and music came from every other window. Everything here was the same as five years ago — the same signs, the same smells, the same people.

Only his brother was missing.

He stopped at house No. 45—an old brick building with peeling paint. A light was on on the third floor — as if someone was waiting for him.

The apartment smelled of mold and dust. Photographs hung on the wall in the hallway:

— 1998. Him and Magnus on the summit of Store Skagastølstind. Both laughing.

— 2005. The “Ice Ravens” team at the Trollstigen Pass.

— 2017. A clipping from Dagbladet: “Tragedy on Trollveggen: One Dead, Two Missing.”

Eivind walked over to the old oak table, where the only remaining item lay — a charred ice axe with the engraving “M.L. — Min bror” (M.L. — My brother).

“Death takes the body, but not the memory,” he whispered.

When the evacuation was announced at Lyon airport, Alejandro looked up for the first time that day and saw him.

Tall. Fair-haired. With eyes the color of Norwegian ice.

The Norwegian stood motionless, as if all this chaos — shouts, running, sirens — was happening in another dimension.

Their eyes met.

“Gutiérrez?” the Norwegian’s voice sounded hoarse, as if he hadn’t used it in a long time.

Alejandro nodded.

“Larsen.” The man showed a charred piece of a photograph. “We’re going for the truth.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Chapter 3

The Road to the Clouds

Lyon’s Part-Dieu station greeted them with a gray dawn and the echoing sound of voices under high arched vaults. Alejandro squinted from the bright light of the schedule board, where red lines kept rearranging themselves like soldiers before inspection. “Chamonix Express — delay 42 minutes” — the electronic letters flashed with irritating regularity. Somewhere deep in the station, the wheels of luggage carts clattered loudly, and from the Paul bakery came the sweet aroma of freshly baked croissants, mixing with the acrid smell of bleach used to wash the floors in the morning.

He settled on a cold metal bench next to an elderly couple in matching bright red jackets — typical German pensioners, judging by their broken French and huge backpacks with “Deutscher Alpenverein” tags. Three benches away, a young mother in a worn-down puffer jacket was unsuccessfully trying to calm a crying baby, rhythmically rocking a stroller with a peeling Air France sticker.

“Did you know that seventeen people died building the Mont Blanc tunnel?” a familiar hoarse voice suddenly sounded. Eivind stood before him with two paper cups from which thick steam rose. His ice axe, leaning against his shoulder, gleamed in the artificial light of the station lamps. “The Italians and the French argued about the drilling direction for three years. They met with a deviation of only 13 centimeters.”

Alejandro automatically took the cup, feeling the heat through the thin cardboard. The coffee was strong, without sugar — exactly how he always drank it.

“How did you…”

“Guess?” the Norwegian sat down next to him, and the bench slightly sagged under his weight. “At the airport, you ordered a ‘doppio espresso, nothing else.’ A curious habit for a Spaniard.” He took a sip and winced. “Though after a night in this city, even your god-awful ‘borcha’ would taste like nectar.”

The loudspeakers suddenly crackled to life, making the German in the red jacket flinch. “Attention, mesdames et messieurs. En raison des conditions météorologiques défavorables…” — a female voice sounded unnaturally cheerful, announcing canceled flights to the Alps.

“Bad weather?” Alejandro raised an eyebrow, watching a conductor in a worn blue uniform methodically making his rounds, clicking his punch. “In June?”

Eivind silently pulled a smartphone from his pocket and showed the latest forecast: *"Storm warning. Avalanche risk — 65%. Wind up to 90 km/h.”*

“Perfect conditions to find what’s been hiding in the mountains for decades,” he whispered, adjusting the strap of his backpack with a faded Norsk Tindeklub patch.

When their train finally arrived, the third-class carriage greeted them with the smell of old wood paneling, oil paint, and someone’s cheap perfume. The conductor, with a face resembling a dried pear, muttered “Vos billets, s’il vous plaît” without even looking at the passengers.

Alejandro settled by the window, watching the first sun paint the alpine meadows golden. Down below, tiny houses with smoke from chimneys flashed by, herds of cows looking like insects, and suddenly — a sharp turn, and a panorama of snow-capped peaks opened before his eyes.

“First time seeing the Alps in summer?” Eivind didn’t look up from the map where several points were circled in red marker.

“Second. In 2018…”

“Javier Mendoza, thirty-four years old,” the Norwegian unexpectedly finished for him, running his finger over one of the marks. “Fell into a crevasse on the north face. The search was called off after three days due to a snowstorm.” He turned the page, showing a clipping from Le Dauphiné Libéré. “The body was never found.”

Alejandro clenched his fists, feeling his nails dig into his palms.

“How do you…”

“Guide bureau archives, police reports, notes in local newspapers,” Eivind pulled a worn folder labeled “Mont Blanc: Disparus” (Missing) from his backpack. “Over the past ten years, seven people have gone missing in this sector. All experienced climbers. All — in June. And all…”

The train braked sharply, making the passengers ahead cry out. Outside flashed a sign for “Saint-Gervais-les-Bains” — a tiny station with peeling paint on the railings.

“...all disappeared in clear weather,” the Norwegian finished, hiding the folder. “As if the mountain simply swallowed them.”

Chamonix greeted them with noise and bustle. The streets, smelling of roasted chestnuts and melted cheese, were packed with tourists in bright puffer jackets. Above the crowd swayed shop signs: “Snell Sports” with mannequins in expensive jackets, “La Petite Verte” with a window cluttered with cheap souvenirs, and finally — a modest door with a faded plaque: “Compagnie des Guides de Chamonix. Depuis 1821”.

Inside, it smelled of old wood, leather, and tobacco. Behind a desk cluttered with papers sat a gray-haired man with a face resembling a relief map — so covered it was in wrinkles and scars.

“Gutiérrez and Larsen?” he looked up, and Alejandro noticed his hand trembling with a pen. “You’re out of luck. Black ice on the north face. Two Germans from Munich got frostbite yesterday.”

“We don’t need a guide,” Eivind placed a photograph on the table. “We need information about this place.”