Naked in Dangerous Places - Cash Peters [64]
I hunted for several minutes, pacing the missing-statue area five times, like a small kid lost in a department store, traipsing disconsolately in rectangular circles, becoming more agitated with every circuit.
“There has to be a back way,” I thought. “There's always a back way.”
But King Suryavarman, when he built this thing, it appears, had no exit strategy. The tower was the home of the gods, and the gods, because they were invented by man as a means of holding a primitive society together by fear, never came down to mingle with their subjects. How could they? They weren't there in the first place.
Instantly, my body registers how high I am off the ground—which is really, really high—and freezes. A rush of vertigo sends chills fizzing beneath my flesh. My feet feel light. The hair on my neck is bristling. And, oh God, my scrotum is starting to tingle—like it's full of champagne bubbles. In my world that's a sure sign something is about to happen. Could be bad or good, I'm never sure—my scrotum doesn't differentiate.
All of a sudden, the wind renews its efforts to dislodge me, tossing fresh squalls of warm rain into my face. I'm quite a way from the edge, eight feet or so, yet convinced I'm about to be blown over. Wrapping both arms around a pillar, I hug it tight, helpless, wet, and paralyzed with terror, as streams of people—Martha and her friends among them—double back, threading their way through the deluge, down the steps to roof level again.
It's then I hear a familiar voice. “Cash, what happened?”
Oh, thank Vishnu!
“I …” I turn to find Jay standing behind me. “I …”
“We've been waiting for you. Are you okay?”
“I … can't get down.”
“Of course you can. Follow me.”
“Jay, I can't.”
“Yes you can.” Man, this guy doesn't brook any objections.
“It's too high. The steps are too thin.”
“Come on. I'll go first and I'll make sure you don't fall, okay?”
There's a rope. A flimsy, ever-shifting rope. You're meant to hold onto it the whole way, hugging the right-hand side of the steps to avoid colliding with those climbing up. The plan is to create order out of chaos, but as far as I can tell it actually halves the order and quadruples the chaos. Everyone's sliding and shouting. Arms flail, toes dangle, seeking something solid to grip onto and occasionally finding it, but just as often slipping right off the wet stones into the back of the person below them, knocking them forward into the next person in the chain. In my case that person would be Jay, who nonetheless soldiers on stoically like he always does.
Eventually, with his help, and also of course by the good graces of Vishnu—I don't care if he is fictional, Vishnu's the man, baby!—my feet land on solid ground once more and I'm free.
Gasping, unsteady, relieved.
“So how did it all look?” I ask afterwards, pausing to get my breath back.
Jay takes out the clock he always carries with him. We're behind schedule. Gotta go. At the same time he's shaking his head and glances up at me forlornly.
“What? Something's wrong? What happened?”
“We didn't get it,” he says. “That's what I came up to tell you. Kevin wasn't ready in time.”
He … there's … I'm … what??????
All that turmoil—the climbing, the danger, the sodden clothes, the panic—and he shot no footage at all of my resounding victory?
“I'm afraid so.”
Jay shrugs. Adding, “Oh,” as we push through the crowd, “and another thing: your microphone gave out halfway, so there's no sound either.”
It—but—how—I mean, I—
“Sorry.”
1 Which I still feel they should adopt as their promotional slogan. It's a winner. Call me, Vanuatu, we'll talk.
2 Funny how that works.
3 Rare for me to have any money on these shows, but back