Landslide

Prologue

Five weeks have passed since Aunt Marie, the crotchety old bag, gave up the ghost. I’m all out of solid food and for the last few days I’ve been living off vitamins, stale candy, and powdered protein supplement.

There’s a drumroll in my chest as voices congregate outside the door. They’re about to come in. I’ve been expecting this moment, yearning for it almost as much as I’ve been dreading it, and still I’m unprepared.

The whirring of machinery follows me as I race back to my room. They’re drilling through the lock. Scratching, scraping, prodding. There’s a small grunt as something gives way and clatters to the floor. A squeak of the hinges sets my nerves on fire.

“Thank you. We’ll take it from here.”

The woman’s voice is coming from inside the apartment now. I scramble into the closet and cover myself with a blanket.

There are two of them. The woman gives curt instructions as they make their way from room to room, rifling through drawers, making an inventory, taking photographs.

My aunt’s legal documents are exactly where one would expect, in the top drawer of the writing desk. “Bingo,” the woman says as she shuffles the papers.

Maybe they’ll leave now, I tell myself. They’ve got what they came for—her last will and testament, the contact details of her attorney. The old crow was as rich as a Rockefeller, and there must be a lot of people eager to know where all that money’s going.

The creak of the wooden floor announces their arrival. I try to keep still, but every muscle in my body is twitching. I press myself further against the wall of the closet, knees against my chest. I pray they won’t find me, although I desperately need them to.

She’s standing right in front of me now, so close I can hear her breathing. Without warning, she yanks the blanket off.

I recoil, and the three of us scream.

Chapter One

My breath fogs up the window of the gondola carriage. The mountain slowly comes back into focus, then I exhale again.

Between breaths, I study the barren landscape. The horizon is slanted by sixty degrees or more. No wonder there aren’t any roads—asphalt would find no purchase here. The steep terrain is nothing but broken rock, pebbles, and shifting sand.

The gondola taking me up to Las Cumbres is suspended by cables, like those giant ski lifts in the Alps I’ve read about in the encyclopedia. The carriage groans, shudders, and scrapes its way over each support pylon.

It’s a long way up the mountain.

At the terminus, the cabin sways and I grasp the handrail to keep from falling. The carriage protests as it’s dragged onto the landing platform. The doors slide open with a hiss, expelling the balmy fog of the cabin into the thin atmosphere.

Gripping the handle of my old-fashioned suitcase—a relic from my aunt’s younger, wilder years—I step out onto the platform and take stock of my surroundings.

From here the residential complex looks nothing like what I’ve seen in the brochures. Is that normal?

I take a timid step toward the gates. The landing platform is made of corrugated iron, welded directly onto the pylon; despite the solidity of its structure, the floor thrums like a base drum, sending vibrations through my feet and legs.

What if I’m wrong about this? What if Las Cumbres isn’t the right place for me? What if—

Sara’s words come to me: One step at a time. I repeat the mantra as I will myself into motion. Locking my eyes on the gates, I let everything else fade into a colorless blur.

Which is why I nearly miss the large sign at the edge of the platform, which reads:

¡Atención!
Tenga cuidado con la separación
entre plataformas.

A pictograph of a foot stumbling into the void helps me decipher its meaning. The gap is at least ten inches wide—not enough to fall into, but enough to provoke an embarrassing spill. I cross this Rubicon with respect, the suitcase swinging like a pendulum as I stride through the gates.

My anxiety is overcome by a surge of triumph. The harrowing journey is over. I’ve arrived at Las Cumbres, my new home.

I’m standing before the terrace of a restaurant or coffee shop, with a long row of iron tables. The views from here are incredible—it’s the perfect setting for my morning ritual of caffeine and plotting.

My eyes are drawn to the woman at the first table, not two paces in front of me. She looks to be in her late sixties. Her red dress stands out like a signal fire against the drab background of cement, brick and metal.

She studies me through dark sunglasses, her painted face illuminated by the late morning sun. I consider asking for directions to the apartments. Does she speak English? Should I risk it?

A faint smile appears on her lips as she perceives my hesitation. Shifting position on the metal chair, she leans forward. My eyes wander, and through the front of her dress I catch a glimpse of her pendulous breasts.

Startled by my unintentional voyeurism, I tear my eyes away as heat rushes to my face. In the distance, I spy a pyramid-shaped construction: the apartment building. I press forward, hoping she hasn’t noticed.

* * *

My suite is exactly as pictured in the brochure. Cozy and well-furnished, with an open-concept living room and kitchen. Modern. Clean. Sparsely decorated. No television, but there’s a huge white sofa pressed against the wall, ideal for reading.

After months of uncertainty and several days of rough travel, my nerves are shattered. Ever since I decided to move into Las Cumbres, I can’t shake the feeling I’ve made a terrible mistake.

It’s not the money I’m worried about. Aunt Marie left me enough to live comfortably for the rest of my life. But this remote and isolated corner of humanity is my only viable option; there is no Plan B.

I stand in the middle of my living room and assure myself that Sara was right—this place is perfect for me. It’s going to work out. Then I hear the muffled voice, calling from afar.

“Hey, new guy!”

For the first time, I notice the wide glass door. I slide it open and step out onto the balcony.

The views are breathtaking. Clouds stretch out before me like an endless sea. Billowy waves crash against the deserted islands of distant mountain peaks. For a moment, I forget why I came out on the balcony in the first place.

“Hey, new guy!” the voice shouts again from directly above my head. “Can you get me a ladder?”

I crane my neck, squinting against the afternoon sun.

“What?”

“A ladder. You know, to climb up and down. My door’s locked, and I don’t have a key. I’m stuck here.”

I shield my eyes from the sun and try unsuccessfully to see the woman’s face. “Stuck? You mean you can’t get out?”

“Yes, exactly. Stuck, as in trapped here. Not stuck as in stabbed. Not stuck as in glued or cemented by adherent materials. Not stuck as in perplexed or baffled. Although all of the above would be applicable, I suppose.”

“Oh,” I say, unsure how to respond.

She waits patiently for me to process the information, then gives me a verbal nudge. “So…can you get me a ladder, or should I just jump down and get it myself?”

My shoulders sag under the weight of her request. I’ve only just arrived, and was hoping to get some rest. The prospect of leaving my apartment is daunting. But clearly she needs help—how can I refuse?

I sigh, and goad myself into a response. After all, I promised Sara I’d make an effort to mingle with my new neighbors. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll get you a ladder.”

Anxiety rises as I stumble back into my apartment. Temporarily blinded by the relative darkness of the interior, I trip over my suitcase and nearly fall. Cursing, I push it out of the way and fumble for the door.

I pause, hand on the doorknob. I have no idea where I’m going. Reluctantly, I shuffle back out and address the damsel in distress. “Uh…sorry. Where can I find a ladder?”

“Ask Manolo, the maintenance man. You do speak Spanish, don’t you?”

I give her a hopeless look.

“Just say escalera. That should be enough.” There’s a note of encouragement in her voice.

“Escalera,” I repeat. That doesn’t sound so hard. “Where can I find Manolo?”

“Could be anywhere, I guess. Just look around.”

“Escalera,” I say again. Repetition is the key to retention.

“You’ve got it.”

I take a deep breath. “I’m Richard, by the way.” It comes out as a confession. I wait for her reply, my hand blocking the sun’s glare.

“My name’s Mónica. But don’t tell Manolo the ladder’s for me.”

* * *

It takes me twenty minutes to find Manolo, the maintenance man. He’s working in a vegetable garden on the far side of the complex. A long hose is in his hands, one end of which is buried in the ground.

I’m pretty sure I’ve got the right guy, judging from the dirty blue overalls and the tool belt which hangs lopsided off his hips like a gunslinger’s holster. Still, it’s always best to make certain. “Manolo?” I ask.

“Sí. ¿Le puedo ayudar en algo?” comes the gruff reply.

My mind’s a blank—I’ve completely forgotten the word for “ladder” in Spanish. What occurs to me instead is “tharn”. That’s a made-up word coined by Richard Adams, the author of Watership Down. It describes the terrifying paralysis that a rabbit feels when trapped in the headlights of an oncoming car.

Manolo raises an eyebrow, stares, and waits for me to gather my wits. My mouth is dry. For the life of me, I can’t remember the damn word. Tharn is all that comes to mind.

I consider turning on my heels and running back to my apartment, but I know I’ll be unable to face Mónica, or anyone else, ever again. How can I be so pathetic?

“Necesito…un…ladder,” I finally get out. My voice barely rises above the furious drumbeat of my heart.

“¿Qué?” The weathered gardener furrows his brow.

I squeeze my brain and make a wild guess. “Espera,” I say, louder this time. I’m pretty sure it’s something like that.

Manolo seems doubtful. “¿Espera? ¿Espera a qué? ¿Dónde?”

I nod emphatically, but that doesn’t seem to help. There’s a sinking feeling in my gut now. “Sí,” I tell him. My voice is almost a whimper. “Dónde. Espera.”

The hose falls to the ground like a dead snake. Manolo wipes his hands on his overalls, looking uncomfortable. He’s realized now what he’s dealing with: a troublesome new arrival to Las Cumbres who doesn’t speak his language.

Confidence in my budding Spanish drops to an all-time low. I decide to try a different approach. Manolo stares at me in astonishment while I pantomime climbing a ladder. I feel like a chipmunk begging for acorns, but I don’t know how else to do it.

Surprisingly, he catches on right away. “¿Escalera?” he asks, face brightening. “¿Está buscando una escalera?”

“Yes! Escalera,” I exclaim. That’s the word. “Escalera.”

Manolo looks longingly at the irrigation system he’s been working on.

“Escalera,” I insist. I’m absolutely certain this is the right word.

The groundskeeper mutters something unintelligible under his breath, then addresses me with a resigned sigh. “Okey. Sígame.”

He leads me to a small utility shed nearby. Hanging on the wall, in plain sight, is a retractable aluminum ladder. If only I’d known, I could have just taken it myself and saved us both a lot of trouble.

The groundskeeper unhooks the ladder and takes it down.

“Muchas gracias,” I say as I stretch my hands out.

He’s frowning now, and seems to be having second thoughts. He’s probably wondering what I want it for, but he knows that any attempt at interrogation would be useless.

“Don’t worry,” I assure him as I wrench the ladder from his hands. “I’ll bring it back as soon as I’m done.”

“¿Qué?”

Feeling triumphant, I leave Manolo and make my way back to the apartment building at the center of the complex. I have to make a few detours through the bushes to avoid people along the way, but I reach the pyramid without further entanglements.

Climbing three flights of stairs while carrying a ladder is no easy feat. By the time I make it to the third floor—which is actually the fourth, if you count them by American standards—my muscles are aching and I’m out of breath.

Apparently I’ve left the door open. I would never do that back home, but in this case I’m grateful, as it makes my entrance that much easier. Carrying the ladder in horizontal position, I march straight through the living room and out the other side. Feeling every bit the hero, I extend the ladder to its utmost height and prop it firmly against the balcony wall.

I wait a minute or two for Mónica to lean out over the railing. When she doesn’t appear, I shout through cupped hands. “Mónica!”

“Yes?” she responds from inside my apartment.

I poke my head in. There she is, sitting on the sofa, feet on my coffee table.

Bewildered, I step inside. I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. She’s approximately my age, early twenties. Her long black hair is tousled and hangs carelessly over her shoulders. She’s extremely beautiful.

She blinks at me with almond-shaped eyes. “Did you find Manolo?”

“What—what are you doing here?” I sputter. I’m not sure if I should be pleasantly surprised or irate at her unexpected presence in my living room.

“I got tired of waiting for you up there, so I decided to wait here,” she says. She closes the magazine she’s been reading—one of my literary journals, which she must have taken from the outer pocket of my suitcase—and tosses it onto the coffee table.

“I thought you needed the ladder to get down,” I say.

“No. I only need it to get back up.”

That thought hadn’t occurred to me.

“Are you a professor or something? These magazines seem so… academic.” She throws a disapproving glance at the literary journal.

“Oh, um... I’m a writer, actually.” I cringe mentally and brace myself for the inevitable question.

“Really? What do you write?”

Don’t tell her about the hobbit porn, a stern voice in my head warns.

“My current project’s a novel,” I explain. “That’s why I’ve moved here to Las Cumbres. Solitude, peace and quiet, far from the hustle-bustle of the city—you know.”

She does know. “It’s boring as shit here,” she says, with startling emphasis. “If that’s what you’re looking for, you’ve certainly come to the right place.” She sounds disappointed.

She gets to her feet. “Nice to meet you, Richard. Welcome to Las Cumbres. I’ll see you around. Please hold on to that ladder, in case I need it again.”

Although it’s Mónica who’s leaving, it’s clear I’m the one being dismissed. In awe, I watch her climb up and disappear over the railing.