The Climbing Wall – Part 1: Belay

Jordi trusted Elias with the rope in his hands, which was more than he trusted himself with a conversation.

They had climbed together every Thursday at the Eixample gym for a year. Elias was thirty-one, lean and quiet, with a Swedish accent, a scar on his chin and chalk forever ghosting his fingers. He never talked on the wall. He simply watched the rope, calm as a lake.

That Thursday the gym shut early for a burst pipe. They stood outside in the evening heat, gear bags on their shoulders, and Jordi heard himself say, "There are cliffs at Garraf."

"At night?"

"There's a moon."

Elias looked at him, steady, grey-eyed. "Okay."

They took the train south, and walked the last stretch by torchlight, the sea breathing below, the air thick with pine and salt. The crag was a pale wall of limestone, its face silver under the moon.

"Lead it," said Elias, uncoiling the rope. "I've got you."

It was an easy route and Jordi climbed it as if floating, every hold sure beneath his fingers, the moon cool on his shoulders. At the top he turned and looked down. The sea stretched out below him in black glass, and Elias, tiny at the bottom, held the rope with both hands, looking up.

"Come down!" Elias called.

"I don't want to!"

He lowered Jordi slowly, hand over hand. At the bottom, the rope still in his fist, Elias said, quietly, "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Why did you bring me here?"

"Because," said Jordi, and his voice shook, "I trust you."

"With the rope?"

"With everything."

Elias dropped the rope very gently. "Green?" he said.

"Green," said Jordi. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Top Rope.