When the mountain rumbled, it was usually on Thursdays around noon. Living alone, you pick up patterns pretty quickly. At first I thought it might be a passing train. The tracks were a distance away, but when I hiked to the top of my mountain, a couple of hundred meters above my house, I could see the rail line that went all the way to the Amnok River. There were rarely trains on Thursday, but the rumbling went on anyway.
I wasn’t supposed to see anyone without permission, but it didn’t take long for the farmers in a nearby village to notice the smoke from my cooking fire and come up to find out what was going on. There were four of them. They watched from a distance until I waved them over.
“Welcome,” I said.
They nodded.
“May I offer you something to drink? You must be thirsty after the climb.”
They shuffled their feet and talked among themselves.
“Perhaps you could clear up something for me,” I said. “The rumbling, the way the mountain shakes-do you know what it is?”
The tallest of the four looked at a group of big pine trees that stood in front of my house. “It’s the blasting,” he said slowly. “They are building dams, supposed to stop the flooding we get in the summer, and maybe give us some electricity to run the pumps. The army boys are doing it.” He pointed vaguely to the north. “On a clear day, you might spot it from up here when trucks and whatnot aren’t raising a lot of dust. Take good care of those trees.” He leaned back in order to see all the way to the top. “If you don’t, someone will chop them down, sure as I’m standing here.”
The other three looked anxious to go.
“It was good of you to come,” I said. “But you’ll have to leave. This mountain is badly off-limits.”
One of the four laughed. He was short, red-brown from the sun, a little better dressed than the others, and quicker in his gestures. “I’m the manager of the farm at the foot of this mountain, and that means-in case you didn’t know-this mountain is technically my responsibility. I have to make sure no one is breaking regulations.” He looked at me with an expression so serious that anyone would have believed he was a serious man. “I can’t at this point say that you are; I can’t say that you aren’t.”
The others began to walk back toward the road, as if they had heard the speech before. “Also, we all know that this mountain has been here a lot longer than any of us, longer than any dynasty, longer than any king.”
I nodded. He nodded. And the four of them went away.
That first spring, before planting season, the manager returned by himself. “You made it through the winter,” he said. His face was still red-brown from the sun.
“I did.”
“The others thought you might not. I said you would.”
“You were right. That’s why you’re in charge, I guess.”
“You could be low on food about now.”
“I’m doing fine.”
“That old man in the truck won’t be able to get up the road for a few more weeks. If it gets bad enough, come down to the farm. We have a little extra this year. I hear there will be more coming from over there.” He nodded toward the south. “Next week, we’re having our spring music show. You like music?”
“What’s not to like?”
“It’s an accordion group. Six of them, very spirited. We won the county competition last year.”
“Is that so? They must be good.”
Accordion music was a Russian plot, the old men in our village used to say after a few drinks. It was something the Russians left behind to drive us crazy when it dawned on them that we weren’t going to be like Eastern Europeans and lick their boots. When I was in the army, headquarters sent down squads of accordionists. It lowered morale alarmingly, though no one would admit it. Even the Ministry had its own accordion troupe that performed overseas every other year. They told me they needed someone to stand on the stage with his hat pushed back and a big grin on his face while the troupe played. The sound of even a single accordion set my teeth on edge. I told them if I had to smile during that much noise I’d murder someone.
During my first year on the mountain, in the spring after the snow had melted and when the road was passable again for a fancy car, my brother drove up to see me. My brother was now very prominent in the party. His name was listed high in the ranks at important occasions; he sat solemnly on the podium among other old men, gave speeches on holidays to schoolchildren. Despite all this, he must have known he had failed; he was not and would never be part of the inner group. If he had done something wrong, I couldn’t figure out what it was. He seemed the perfect halberd. For someone like my brother, it was worse than nettlesome to face this knowledge every day. It ate away at him and boiled up the anger that he had carried inside ever since we were young.
When his car stopped in the clearing next to the pine trees, he said something to his driver and they both laughed. Then my brother came into the house. I could see that he was shocked.
“This is where you live? Is this a joke?”
“It’s pleasant,” I said.
“I thought they had provided you a place to live. I know dogs with better shelters than this. It doesn’t even deserve to be called a shack.”
“It is not a shack. It’s sturdy. I built it myself.”
My brother ran his hands along the walls; he reached up and touched the ceiling, which was barely two meters from the ground. “You built this?” He pulled himself together. “This is a disgrace. Why didn’t someone tell me things were so bad? Why didn’t that fool of a doctor put it in one of his chatty reports? I can help get you out of here. It will mean moving a few files and changing a few orders.” He pursed his lips. “This isn’t the best time for that, but it can be done.”
I said that things were fine as they were and I planned to stay.
“Really?” The shock in his voice gave way to sarcasm. “I forgot; you must be in ecstasy, just you and these trees.”
“I have my reasons for being here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. They were planning to send you to a camp. The only reason you’re here is because I convinced them to put you on this hill instead. They assured me you’d have a house.”
“Am I supposed to be grateful? I don’t need your help. I never did. We agreed we were not brothers anymore, or have you forgotten?”
He wasn’t listening. “The longer you stay, the more they will be convinced that you deserve what you got. Maybe they’ll be right.”
“The longer I stay, the more I realize I don’t want to go back to that madness.”
This stopped the conversation.
“Never wise with your words,” my brother said finally. “Lucky for you, no one heard it but me.”
“Are we done?” I went to the door. “Because if we are, I’m sure you have things to do, memos to write, all of those things that the Center has to have or the world will grind to a halt.”
“As always,” he said, “you are your own worst enemy. Have it your way; stay up here until you rot.” He never came back.